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I f you eat Wendy's chili with your french fries, you've got veggies covered, right? Think beans .

Tossing my takeout garbage in the trash bag hanging from a kitchen drawer, I weighed the benefit of a trip to the dollar store for important stuff like trash cans versus the productive qualities of a nap. Max had donated pillows and an air mattress, so I didn't have to face another night on the hardwood floor.

"Yoo hoo!" Emily's cheerful voice called in from the back door.

I walked over to let her in, smiling. "Who says 'yoo hoo' any more? You are too cute for words!" I said, reaching for the screen door.

She had a folding table, folded, and two folding chairs, also folded, propped up against the side of the house. "Hey! I thought you might be able to use these. One thing we've got lots of is card tables," she said, laughing.

I lifted the end of the table and we carried it inside. "Thank you so much. Oh, and Max told me about your secret identity as a poker champ. I'd love to hear about that sometime."

We stood the table up in my empty dining room and went back out for the chairs. "Sure! It's tons of fun, really, and not as bizarre as it sounds. Lots of people play poker these days," she said.

"Right, but lots of people don't nearly win the big tournaments. I don't even know how to play. Ouch!" I looked down at my shin, wincing. "I just banged the heck out of my leg on that chair. I have the grace and coordination of a water buffalo."

Emily grinned. "It's all that height, stretch. Takes a while for your coordination to catch up. Like thirty years."

I grinned back at her. "Hey! Do we know each other well enough for you to mock me yet?" I put the chair down by the table and limped back into the kitchen. "Want some leftover cake?"

She shook her head. "No, to the cake and sorry about the mocking. I take to some people quick. I can tell you're going to fit in just fine around here. You can help me in my rebellion against the homeowners' association and their petty tyrannies."

"Well, I just rent from my Aunt Celia, but I'll do what I can. I always love a good battle with dictatorial homeowners' associations."

She started toward the door. "I just stopped by to give you the table. I really need to get back. Oh, and how would you like to go to a poker club with me on Saturday if you're serious about wanting to learn? I'll teach you how to play Texas Hold'em and you can tell me about the legal biz."

"It's a date! And thanks again for the table and chairs, and for the cake, too. When – or if – my stuff ever gets here, I'll have you all over for dinner or something," I said, wondering when I thought I'd have time to learn to cook.

Hey, I'm in the South now. I need to do the southern hospitality thing, right?

"Sounds great. Catch you later," she said, as the door closed behind her. I waved, but the doorway was already empty.

At least I had a table. I grabbed a legal pad out of my briefcase and started a list of TO DO (including call the stupid trucking company) and TO BUY (two versions: "truck arriving" and "truck not arriving"). Fifteen minutes of list-making depressed me so much I decided to work.

Burying myself in work got me through all the tough times in my life so far. Why should "start a new business with no money and live in a house decorated in 'early yard sale'" be any different?

I read through Faith's medical records for an hour. I also spent some time on the personal things I'd asked for – photo albums, letters that weren't too intimate, yearbooks, and the like. I tried to get a sense of my client's life this way, and everything I saw and read told me that Faith had been one of the wonderfully cheerful people in the world, despite her illness. She'd taught preschool and Sunday school and volunteered for a dozen different causes. I gazed at a wedding picture, and the sheer joy on her face as she stared at Charlie brought tears to my eyes.

I pushed the papers to the side and rested my head on my arms and closed my eyes to contemplate the next step I should take. Then I woke up to the sound of my cell phone ringing in my ear. "What?"

Blinking and wondering why my house was so dark, I fumbled for the phone. The little phone window said it was eleven forty-five. No wonder it was dark. I rubbed my aching neck muscles and flipped open my phone to talk to "unknown number."

"Hello?"

"This town isn't big enough for both of us."

"What?" I was still asleep, or I was trapped in an old John Wayne movie.

"Go back to Ohio before somebody gets hurt." The voice sounded muffled, but I was pretty sure it was a man. A man with a horrible sinus problem.

"Do you have a cold?"

"What? No, I don't have a cold. What are you talking about?"

I shook my head, trying to come fully awake. "You sound muffled. Look, if it's just allergies, get a prescription. The pollen down here stuffs me up really badly."

"I don't have allergies," the muffled voice continued, getting louder. There was a pause. "Well, actually, my nose runs a lot in the summer. Do allergies get worse in the summer?"

"Mine do. All those flowers in bloom, plus grass seed and pollen. It's awful," I said, shuddering. "Have you tried Claritin?"

"No, I only – um, hang on."

I heard some mumbling and something that sounded like shouting in the background, then the guy came back on the phone. "Look, I don't have time to talk about allergies. You need to mind your own business, or else."

Silence.

Still more amused than concerned, I waited for a beat, but he didn't add anything. So I asked. "Or else what?"

"What?"

"Or else, what? I always wondered about that in books or movies. The bad guys always say 'or else.' Even with my dad, it was 'clean your room, or else,' but nobody ever specifies the 'or else.' So, or else what ?" I was speaking in a very reasonable voice, I thought.

There was more mumbling, but I caught some of it. ". . . else what? says . . . else . . . Ow! Right. Can't believe you freaking hit me!"

"Or else you'll get hurt," he said into the phone.

"Hurt how?" I asked, writing OR ELSE HURT on my legal pad, after I peeled the top page from my cheek where drool had pasted it to my face.

That was some nap.

"Now don't start that up again! Or else . . . or else you'll get hurt really, really bad! And we don't want to hurt a nice little thing like you, even if you are stupid enough to fall asleep in full view of your window. Where the hell are your curtains, anyway?"

A chill ran through me at the realization that somebody had been watching me sleep. Somebody was close enough to my house, in this peaceful family neighborhood, to spy on me through my window.

Suddenly, I wasn't amused anymore. "So you're spying on me and threatening me? That's got to be some kind of criminal offense! Probably a felony, even," I said, voice icy.

"What do you mean, probably a felony? Don't you know if it's a felony or not?" The voice was clear for a moment, as if he'd forgotten to muffle the phone.

"Well, not exactly," I said, suddenly embarrassed. "I don't know anything about criminal law."

"What kind of lawyer are you?" he shouted.

Okay, now I'm honked off.

"Don't worry about what kind of lawyer I am, you idiot . . . criminal ! You can't go around threatening people! Get off my phone right now, so I can have the FBI trace you, and you can go to jail for the rest of your pathetic life! I hope your allergies get worse!"

There was silence for a long moment. Then he came back on the phone. "How do you spell that Claretan stuff?"

"Argh!" I clicked my phone shut, then immediately pressed redial, only to hear the "this number is not available" message. I clicked my way over to "recent calls received" but then remembered it had been an "unknown number."

Crap. I finally have something exciting happen to me, like those lawyers in the movies, and I get a loser criminal with allergies and a stuffy nose.

Where's the justice in that?

T he air mattress would have been way, way better than the floor, except for the part where Max forgot to give me the air pump to inflate it. I stood in a hot shower for twenty minutes, trying to work the creaks out and figure out how much longer I could go before I had to take my dirty laundry to Aunt Celia's to wash it.

And I thought the bad guy was a loser.

I drove to work in my usual scenic way, down Argyle, down Blanding, by way of the donut shop, and wondered how much longer my skirts were going to fit with me eating donuts for breakfast every day. The waistband was already getting a little snug on the red one I'd squeezed into after my shower.

When I got to the office, it was only eight-fifteen, and nobody was there yet, which was peaceful. Except there were no appointments on my calendar, which meant no clients, which meant no money. I'd work on Charlie's case, but I still didn't have the discovery responses, and I'd given Addison forty-eight hours before I could move to compel.

First, coffee. Then, decisions about the day's workload. As I poured water in the coffeemaker, I heard the front door open and Max's familiar voice calling my name. "I'm in here, Max."

She came rushing down the hall and stopped in the kitchen doorway, out of breath. "Did you see it? Did you see the Post Union today?"

I glanced at her, wary of more bullfighter attire, but she wore a lovely green dress that made her look like Miss America at a tea party. All she needed was a tiara. Which she had at home. Maybe five or six.

I so need to hire an ugly person, so I don't look like chopped liver next to her.

The door opened again. "I'm here, chickie."

Perfect. I'll go stand next to Mr. Ellison.

"Hello? Earth to December?" Max said, shaking the paper at me. "Did you see this? I'm guessing no, or you wouldn't be standing there in your pre-coffee fugue state."

"You know me too well," I said, putting the coffee holder in and then pushing the machine's on button. "Did I see what?"

Mr. Ellison came stomping down the hall. "I ain't working for no druggie. You better go to rehab, or I'm quitting."

Max shoved the paper at me and then glared at Mr. Ellison. "You shut up. December has never touched drugs in her life. She's too much of a goody goody. She wouldn't even drink beer in high school, for God's sake."

"Hey! I am not a goody goody. I didn't like the taste!" I fumbled with the paper. "What am I looking at, and what the heck are you talking about, 'druggie'?"

I opened the paper, but Max snatched it out of my hands. "No, it's on the front page. Above the fold. Look here." She folded the paper and shoved it back at me, finger stabbing at the page.

I glanced down, then almost dropped the paper when I saw the headline.

J UNKIE LAWYERS MIGRATE SOUTH

F lorida, long known as a haven for retiring northern attorneys, has a new label: Refuge for junkie lawyers. The Post Union has discovered that six newly licensed Florida lawyers, all recently transplanted from northern states, have drug issues in their past.

December Vaughn, who was unavailable for comment when we went to press, admitted on her Ohio Bar Association to "experimenting with marijuana in one instance" in high school. . . .

I clutched the paper so hard it crumpled, then looked up at Max, my mouth hanging open down to about my knees. "What? How? That bar app is confidential! How the hell did the newspaper get it? And how does trying pot one time – that was your fault, Max, if you remember – equate to being a 'junkie lawyer'? I'll sue their freaking pants off!"

I felt the blood drain out of my face as I contemplated all the clients I didn't even have yet bailing on me and running for more respectable attorneys.

"It gets worse," Max said. "Look below the fold."

I whipped the paper open and looked.

Addison Langley, top local trial lawyer, stated that the influx of the "lowest common denominator" attorneys could only have a negative effect on the level of practice.

There was a picture of the slimy turd. Top local trial lawyer, my butt. He looked like a pompous ass to me.

"I knew December was some kind of hippie name. I ain't hanging around if you're planning any drug parties," Mr. Ellison said, hopping up and down.

He stopped to draw a breath, and I grabbed Max's arm before she punched him.

She tried to yank her arm out of my grasp and started yelling. "Let me go! Let me smack that little weasel! How dare you . . . you little ferret!"

I stepped between them, feeling my breakfast donut trying to come back up with about a quart of stomach acid. "Okay. Nobody is a druggie, got it?"

He had the grace to look embarrassed and shuffled his feet a little. "Ah, I didn't mean it, girlie, er, boss."

I closed my eyes and moaned. A goody-goody or a druggie. Well, those are choices that will certainly make the clients flock into my office.