That You Are Here

Chapter 1

1

On the outside, Andrew Whittaker had everything. On the inside, he had everything too, only he couldn’t see it yet.

He was 28, Andrew, an even six feet tall, auburn hair that gilded in the sunlight, and eyes so blue you could light the sky with them. He went to the gym and rode his bike around Heritage Tree Park enough to look fit, as the British like to say. He was from an old-money southern family, Andrew, though he fled his Virginia roots for New England as soon as he could, landing scholarships from Yale through law school. He didn’t need the scholarships. Every thirteen and a half minutes his old-money father reminded him he was from an old-money family and the old-money Whittakers could pay the big bucks tuition, that and a hundred times more. But this was Andrew’s first burst of independence and he wanted to do this on his own. After law school, he fled farther from Virginia in the opposite direction, landing as far as one can and remain on the continental United States without falling off—Portland, Oregon. He was drawn to Portland for one particular reason, though he wouldn’t admit why at the time, not even to himself. He found a position at a law firm that needed his specialization in corporate law, which had been his father’s field of expertise, which had been his father’s field of expertise, and his father’s before him. You get the picture.

Once Andrew knew his way around Portland—the highways, the streets, the bridges—he bought a comfortable condominium on the ground floor of a rustic-looking white-beige building in the John's Landing-Lair Hill area, ten minutes from his job in the hub of Downtown. The condo had a fireplace, good for curling up next to that someone special on the chilly northwestern nights, a glass patio door to admire the greenery outside, two spacious bedrooms, a galley kitchen with granite counters and slate floors. The bonus room Andrew used for his office since legal work didn’t understand the concept of an eight-hour day. The law knows no beginning and no end, his father, now retired, liked to say.

Then why, when you seem to have everything, would you hate mornings? When the alarm went off every weekday at seven a.m., Andrew was certain the universe was conspiring against him. Hadn’t he worked until ten p.m. the night before? Wasn’t he doing everything he could to stay on top of the workload they loved to pile on to him? But still, out of his blissful sleep, the beep! beep! beep! tormented him until he moaned and groaned and pulled the pillow over his head, too tired to begin the day.

“Rise and shine, beautiful boy.”

The curtains flew aside, the blinds opened, and Andrew muttered a curse while he burrowed under the blanket. It was autumn in Portland, the October sky only slightly more murky than the summer sky with the never-ending rain (known as “Portland mist” in polite company) tapping the windows like a secretive lover in the shadows. Andrew thought the drizzle was mocking him.

The mattress sank under the weight of another body. Andrew felt hands grab the fleece blanket from around his head and he held on for life. He wasn’t giving in without a fight.

“Not yet,” Andrew said. “I can’t.”

The hands were persistent, though, and in a moment Andrew’s head was exposed. He sighed because he knew it was over. No more escaping the morning. For a moment, the sun broke through the clouds, streaking through the window. Andrew grimaced as he sat up and shielded his eyes. It was indecent to have that much sun that early in the morning, especially in Portland.

“Are you trying to blind me?” He pulled the blanket back over his head. Maybe he was only dreaming and it was still the middle of the night.

A thoughtful pause. “Maybe you could bring home a little less work tonight?”

“I’ll stop working when I become a senior partner,” Andrew said.

“Do you have to be a senior partner there? At that firm?”

“Don’t start.”

“I know, I know. But you’re always in such a rush. Where are you rushing to? You’re 28. You have time.”

“A moment wasted is gone forever, as my father likes to say.”

“Your father…”

“My father what?” Andrew stilled, ready for an argument. He threw the blanket from his head and shook his head at the empty room. He saw his reflection in the glass closet door and sighed. He was awake. There was no denying it now.

Clanging from the kitchen. “Are you going to court today?”

“Not today.”

Andrew made sure his feet were on the ground and pulled himself upright. He was standing. He hadn’t fallen over. So far so good. He looked out the window and saw the day had already started for others. It was drizzling, again, so those out and about in the streets pulled their collars closer to their necks but were otherwise unfazed. Drizzle happens in Portland. People headed for work. Parents walked their children to school. Coffee shop baristas dragged the tables and chairs outside their cafés. Andrew sighed as he opened the closet door and pulled out his navy blue suit. It had some fancy label, Armani, Gucci, Hugo Boss, some impressive-sounding name that Andrew didn’t care about, but that’s what the partners at the firm wore so that’s what he wore too. He yanked a tie from the hanger, not bothering about the color. He showered, dressed quickly, and ran a brush through his hair. Then he glanced at the time and cursed.

“I’m late,” he said as he walked into the kitchen, his fingers still struggling with the knot in his tie. A kiss on his forehead, fingers brushing his hair back, and the aroma of his favorite hazelnut coffee lingered within his sleep-deprived mind.

“I can see the reflection of the sky in those eyes. I can never decide if they’re more gray than blue.”

“What?” Andrew said.

“Never mind. I packed your breakfast since you were running late.”

Andrew exhaled, nodding, his mind already on the endless tasks waiting at the office. Some days he wanted to chuck it all in, open a coffee house or an edgy donut shop with obscene-looking holes, but then he felt his father’s disapproving voice tugging at his earlobe—“The law is my calling, Andrew. The law is your calling. The Whittakers have a long-standing tradition with the law. We’ve made the law our business since Virginia was a colony. We’ve made the law our business since...” The law, the law, the law. Andrew tried to remember one sentence his father ever said that didn’t include the words the law but couldn’t think of one.

Standing in the kitchen, Andrew scanned the mental checklist he went over every morning before he left. He had his trousers on and belted, his tailored shirt buttoned, his jacket straightened. He had on his shoes, and he even remembered his socks. He struggled again with the tie around his neck (a quick glance revealed it was gray and blue striped, which went well enough with the blue suit, he decided) and thought to use it as a noose. He tried one flip, then a flip over a flip, then another flip, but it still looked more like a sailor’s knot than a man’s tie. He tried again, but now his tie looked more like the noose he wanted. He flipped the gray-blue stripes around again like a sleight-of-hand trick, and he shook his head at the lopsided stripes too long on top and too short on bottom.

The tie fell into hands that knew how to knot it properly.

“It’s all right. I like tying it for you. Though I would have thought you would have learned to tie a tie at those fancy boarding schools you went to. I bet those boys tried to kiss you.” Andrew smiled. “I knew it. How could they keep their hands off you?”

A green insulated lunch bag and hot drink thermos were pressed into Andrew’s hands. “Here’s your coffee, your breakfast, and your lunch. And don’t you dare check your email or text while you’re driving, Andrew Whittaker, or you’re going to answer to me.”

Andrew’s cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He put his lunch bag on the counter, nodding at the message from Lisa Bloom, his secretary. He scanned his emails and grimaced at the phone. “I have to go.” He left at a sprint through the kitchen door to his silver Mercedes in the attached one-car garage. He didn’t even like the car, but that’s what the senior partners at his firm drove, so that’s what he drove too. Andrew opened the garage door, got into the driver’s seat, slid the key into the ignition, started the car, and jumped at the knock on his window. He shrugged sheepishly, opened the window, and took his lunch bag.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m a little distracted today.”

“Today?” A sigh. “That car is such a gas guzzler. You need a hybrid. This is Portland. You’re supposed to be green.”

“Kermit the Frog green?”

“Any kind of green you want to be.”

Andrew looked at the person watching him with such open-hearted love in those soft gold-brown eyes.

“Mark?” Andrew said.

“Yes, Andrew.”

“Thank you.”

Mark Bryce leaned his head through the open window and kissed Andrew’s cheek. “Anything for you, beautiful boy.”

When Andrew stopped at the red light on Bancroft Street he felt his phone vibrate. He pulled his phone from his pocket, saw the screen and cringed, peering at the nearby drivers as though they were reporting his every move to some great eye in the sky. The text was from Mark.

Stop looking at your phone!

Andrew shrunk low behind the steering wheel and threw his phone onto the passenger’s seat as though it would explode and streak him with green paint so everyone could see his guilt.