2   My office is one of four, all occupied by attorneys in solo practice, in a remodeled Victorian that is still owned jointly by Margo and me as business partners; DE Properties is the name of the partnership. Margo and I moved our practice there after we bought the building in 1986, when she returned to full-time work after a two-year hiatus as a new mother. But when she formed her own practice after our divorce, she moved it to the Castro, in keeping with her newfound specialty of gay rights. I am the managing partner, but I still pay rent to the partnership. The four of us, two men and two women, are friends – two or three or sometimes even all four of us often go out for lunch together – and we share a receptionist named Diane McGee; all of our phone lines go to her desk, and when we first got computers, we had terminals for the single CPU that was managed by her. It was a good setup, since she kept our calendars up to date. Now, of course, we all have laptops of our own, and we never got around to having them networked. Diane is technically an employee of DE Properties; the rent that the tenants pay includes her salary. She, in turn, collects our rent checks, deposits them, and pays the building expenses. Or, rather, she writes the checks for me to sign. As I was going out to lunch with Jerry and Barbara on that Friday, the day after Peter Hart’s funeral, Diane reminded me that a certain Libby Schlemmer was coming to see me at three-thirty. It was Diane who had taken the call setting up the appointment, and she did not know what it was about. I had wanted to leave early that afternoon, since I had an early date that evening, but I concluded that four-thirty, say, was early enough.   At the risk of seeming prejudiced (namist?), or of sounding like a Mike Hammer or a Guy Noir, I have to stipulate that the woman who walked into my office did not look at all like anyone I would associate with the name Libby Schlemmer. She was, almost literally, stunningly beautiful: I really felt, for a few seconds, as if I had been zapped by some cosmic weapon that made me unable to move a muscle, and only my disembodied consciousness was there to take in the beauty that presented itself. She looked about thirty – in other words, closer in age to Greg than to me – and quite tall, though this impression may have been due to the very high spike heels of her shoes, which were not, mercifully, of the pointed-toe variety that is now in fashion. The sense of height was, well, heightened by her straight-legged navy-blue slacks, which hugged her hips tightly. As she walked in she removed the jacket that matched her pants and draped it over her arm. She was wearing a sleeveless, V-necked turquoise top with an exposure of bosom that I found breathtaking, though in the twenty-first century – with its culture of flaunt-it-if-you’ve-got-it, with the amount of such exposure being merely another fashion choice like skirt length or sleeve length, and with deep cleavages seen all over town on women and girls from middle age to middle school – there was nothing startling about such a display per se. But in Libby Schlemmer’s case the seemingly perfect breasts were integrally connected by a graceful neck to a classically beautiful face, sculpturally ideal in every detail, topped with a cascading mass of curly dark-brown hair. Her presence called to mind some of the loveliest Greco-Roman goddesses I had seen in museums. As she approached my desk I stood up. Reaching out her hand to meet mine she leaned forward, and even more of her bosom came into view. As I took her hand I looked into her eyes, which to my surprise were blue. “I’m Libby Schlemmer,” she said. “Please sit down, Miss Schlemmer,” I said, and she did so. As she crossed her legs, I felt grateful that she was not wearing a skirt. “What can I do for you?” I asked. “First of all,” she said, “I’d like to tell you who I am. My mother is Laura Perino.” I said nothing. The name rang a very distant bell, but brought up no association, except for the fact that it might explain the Roman-goddess connection. “My biological father, as Laura – my mother – has always told me, at least ever since she explained the biology to me, was Peter Hart. I do believe you knew him.” “Yes, of course,” I said, more stunned than ever. But my estimate of her age felt right. “Back in the seventies, Laura was what was known as a society beauty. She was not from high society, but she hung out with them; a few hundred years ago she might have been called a courtesan – her words, not mine. She came to San Francisco because she figured that, here, having an Italian name wouldn’t be a handicap. She was one of the women that men like Peter Hart would go to society events with, but she and Peter really did have a relationship for a while. After it had petered out – forgive the pun – she found out she was pregnant, and she decided to have the baby – me – and not to tell Peter. She’d had it with that world, anyway.” “Who’s listed as the father on your birth certificate?” I asked. “Laura had been married to, but long separated from, a man named Victor Schlemmer.” I was impressed by the way she managed prepositions; I wondered if she was a teacher. “When she got to the hospital,” Libby continued, “they asked her for her marital status, and when she said ‘married,’ even before she had a chance to say separated, they asked her for her husband’s name. They never asked if he was the baby’s father.” “It’s the presumption of lawful paternity,” I said. “When she got the birth certificate in the mail, she was surprised that it said Elizabeth Perino Schlemmer. She had intended it to be Elizabeth Laura Perino. There’s a tradition in her family that the mother’s first name becomes the daughter’s middle name. But then, after thinking it over, she decided to keep it the way it was. She was planning to move back to Oregon, and she thought that, for a single mom, it would look better if the child had the last name of an ex-husband. That, by the way, was shortly after the time when divorce in California became easy, and since Victor had vanished, she got an uncontested divorce.” “Where is your mother now?” I asked. “In Portland,” she said. “She’s a sex therapist,” she added with a smile. “And now that you’ve told me about yourself,” I said, “what can I do for you?” “I understand that Peter Hart left a sizable estate. I also understand that your ex-wife is representing his partner in his claim on it.” “His spouse,” I corrected her. “Whatever,” she said. I had long since accepted that this expression was, in principle, no less valid than be that as it may, but hearing it from Libby Schlemmer jarred me. “You and I both know that these marriages aren’t legal. The California Supreme Court said so a year ago.” “That was a very narrow decision. It said only that the city clerk had no right to issue marriage licenses in contravention of state law. The fundamental issue, of whether the law is constitutional, is still pending, and the Leno bill is about to be approved.” Libby smiled again, as if to tell me that she knew, as I did, that Schwarzenegger would veto the bill. “Anyway,” I added, “under the Keeley bill a domestic partner is entitled to inherit, marriage or no marriage.” As a matter of fact, as of the beginning of the year, domestic partners had the same rights as spouses. “That’s assuming that they registered as domestic partners,” she said, “isn’t that right?” She had good point, which I acknowledged with a nod. “But in any case,” she went on, “I feel that as Peter Hart’s child I have a claim to at least a share of the estate. One-half, if I’m not mistaken.” “And?” “I would like you to represent me.” “Why me?” I asked, unable to respond in any other way. “Well, for starters, because you probably know more about Peter Hart than anyone except your ex-wife.” I felt vaguely annoyed by Libby’s repeated references to Margo as your ex-wife, but said nothing. “Second,” she went on after a pause, “because you might like the chance to get back at her.” This time I felt angry. “What makes you think,” I asked sharply, “that I want to get back at her?” She smiled again. “We all like a chance to get back at our exes, especially the ones who’ve left us,” she said calmly, as though lecturing. Who is this young woman, I thought, to be giving lessons about life to someone twenty years her senior? I no longer felt angry, since her dazzling smile had a disarming effect, but defensive. “You seem to think that you know a lot about me,” I said. “I’ve done some homework, that’s all,” she said. “Well, I’m afraid you’ve got me all wrong on that score.” “Really?” “Yes, really. Margo Dufresne, the person you call my ex-wife…” “Isn’t she?” “Yes, but that’s not who she is primarily. She is my colleague, my son’s mother, my friend, my business partner, and someone for whom I have the highest respect. The fact that in some ways we were incompatible as a married couple is not relevant here.” “Wow!” she interjected. “You mean you feel no resentment toward her, whatsoever?” “None,” I said flatly. “Well, then I was probably overreaching, and I apologize.” “I accept,” I said. “But are you saying,” she asked, still calmly, “that you won’t take a case that might mean opposing her?” Was she implying that I was afraid of Margo? “No,” I said, trying to sound confident, “of course not.” But she had hit a nerve I hadn’t felt up to then. “In that case,” she said, “I’m just asking you to think about whether my case has some merit, and call me when you’ve decided. Here’s my number,” she said as she stood up and handed me a card that had magically appeared in her hand – I had not seen her pull it out of her handbag or her jacket pocket. “Use the one for the cell.” I looked down on the card. It read Libby Schlemmer, MA, LCSW, and listed two phone numbers, one marked Office and the other Cell. So she was a therapist! She seemed unusually young for the profession, in which one usually found people on their second or third careers. I wondered if she was, like her mother, a sex therapist. I felt disconcerted by the notion of such a desirable woman practicing sex therapy, whatever that meant. “Of course I’ll call you,” I said. “It was… most interesting getting to know you. And most enjoyable, too” “Likewise,” she said, once again leaning forward in order to shake my hand over the desk. This time I stared down at her cleavage unabashedly, if briefly. “I’m looking forward to hearing from you,” she added as she put on her jacket and turned around to leave, but when she got to the door, just before opening it, she turned her head and smiled at me again. “Bye,” she said, “and have a nice weekend.” “You too,” I said. She closed the door behind her. I remained standing for a while, as I began to think things over. I walked to the window to look out on the street, and saw Libby Schlemmer walk to a blue Honda Civic that was parked at a meter. Just before getting in she looked back at my window, as though she expected to see me there, and flashed yet another smile.   The obsession that men can have over a beautiful woman is probably as old as the human condition; witness Bathsheba and Helen of Troy. But I had always thought that only certain types of men – poets or warriors, for example – were susceptible to it, and that I was not of that type. Like most people, I have known my share of highly attractive women, some of whom – Margo among them – I could unhesitatingly call beautiful. But none had ever had the overpowering effect on me that Libby Schlemmer had. Desire – which in any case was most unlikely to be requited – was a part of it, but not the greatest part. The goddess simile had acquired a literal quality: I really felt as though I had been in the presence of a superhuman being, and my reluctance to represent her legally had the tinge of an almost Promethean defiance. She was certainly unlike any of the women I had been dating since Greg went off to Humboldt State. Until that time I had had no sex in years, except for some encounters at out-of-town legal conferences, where it often seems that younger female attorneys are inspired by alcohol to believe that they will acquire some legal wisdom by sleeping with older male ones. My sex life with Margo had dwindled to nothingness long before our separation. When I felt free to date again, I sought out women who were as unlike Margo as possible, at least with respect to two attributes: I looked for large breasts and small minds. Not that I wanted them stupid; just blessedly free of that sharpness of wit that was always a challenge to mine and never failed to keep me on edge. This blessing could quickly lead to boredom, and none of my dating relationships was long-lived. Fortunately, the supply of available women in the Bay Area, if a guy is not too picky, is endless. Libby’s breasts seemed neither large nor small, but just about… well, perfect. She was obviously quite intelligent and interesting, but not to a degree that would make me uncomfortable. Even in the confrontational encounter we had had, I felt no sense of one-upmanship on her part, and her apology seemed sincere. I had no recollection of Margo ever apologizing in a like situation. And then it struck me: I had lied. I had lied to Libby when I said that I felt no resentment toward Margo. And I had been lying to myself for ten years or more. I suddenly felt assailed by a salvo of memories from my life with Margo. And each one struck a resentful nerve. When she told me that she wanted a divorce because she was leaving me for Joyce, she answered my initial incredulity with a “You mean you didn’t know?” that made me feel, in retrospect, blind or stupid, but whose tone was so kindly that at the time I felt only gratitude for having been spared the knowledge of cuckoldry. When she told me that she was leaving me custody of Greg because he needed a male role model, just as my father – who had been, in effect, my sole parent during the years of my mother’s illness – had been for me, I appreciated her consideration, and when Greg essentially told me the same thing, I admired her maternal empathy. The suspicion that she might have coached him – which struck me briefly while she was enjoying a round-the-world trip with Joyce and I was beginning my solitary struggle with Greg’s teenage problems, and which I promptly dismissed – now felt like a certainty. I had ceded to her dominion over all creative ideas in our marriage, from our son’s name (Gregory, because the letters G and R in both of our names were doubled in his) to our firm’s graceful logo – a unicorn leaning on an ash tree – that she had drawn herself. Only now did I appreciate the symbolism: Einhorn leaning on frêne. The logo remained that of DE Properties after our firm was dissolved. A carved plaque bearing it – in ash wood, of course – was set in the lintel above the doorway of our building. I didn’t know what Libby had meant by doing her homework on me, but I couldn’t imagine it being much more than asking around among people who knew me, or some Web searches of cases I had handled. And yet that was enough for this beautiful woman to understand me better than I understood myself.