“I have an eleven o’clock appointment with Alan White. I’m a little early.” “And your name?” inquires the receptionist, a polished twenty-something wearing a headset attached to a massive phone console. “Sara Matthews.” She checks the appointment calendar on her PC. “Friday’s are always so busy. Ah, there you are.” She waves Sara to the chairs. “Someone will be out in a moment.” Sara takes a seat on a masculine, chocolate-brown leather sofa in the waiting area, the kind with burnished gold studs on the edges. Her eyes travel up to the gold lettering above the reception desk: Apple, White and Weete, Attorneys at Law. She taps her foot. How did she let her friend Nancy talk her into this? “I don’t need a divorce attorney. We’re not talking about it at all. Bart hasn’t mentioned divorce,” Sara told Nancy at the suggestion.
