attended Duke Law. The Duke Law Journal accepted him in his second year and then he finished the following year with a perfect GPA. With those credentials, Weston Ingram could work anywhere in North Carolina. He chose the oldest law firm in Charlotte. After becoming the youngest partner, he rose to the top by age 58. Though he was still senior partner at sixty-two, he talked about retiring and making golf fun. Brooke knew he would never retire, and, given his impatience, feared golf would kill him.
On rare occasions, Brooke didn’t heed her daddy’s advice. She had to admit, most of the time, he was right. But, despite her own dreams, he always wanted her to be an attorney. His expectations were beyond merely obtaining a college degree; he wanted her to follow his career path and have what he had. She didn’t dare tell him that many of her friends had doubts about her chosen path since it did not appear to involve children, which she had always dreamed of. Then, when North Carolina offered her a free ride, the conclusion was forgone. In the middle of Brooke’s senior year in college, being a lawyer just didn’t feel right.
Brooke had mulled over the legal profession, due to her daddy’s not-so-subtle prodding and out of respect, but she ultimately decided against it. Analyzing career options, she simplified her choices: doctors diagnose, buyers haggle, teachers teach, businesspeople discuss and present, but lawyers argue. It boiled down to not wanting to bicker with people all the time. She couldn’t imagine entering the profession with her can’t we all just get along? attitude. And, she couldn’t imagine Weston Ingram, Esq. doing anything else.
Noticing the exits, the two and a half hour drive seemed to fly by. Glancing in the rearview mirror, she grimaced. Daddy’s little girl looked like the before picture. Oh, well, he’ll understand.
Turning into Myers Park, memories resonated. Happy memories. Myers Park served as a perfect place to grow up, and welcoming even after moving away. One-hundred year old majestic oaks imparted a sense of historic identity. Brooke turned onto Queen’s Road, with its stately mansions on plush green one-acre lots separated by tree-lined dogwoods in the median.
While pulling into the semi-circle driveway, Brooke spotted her father perched on his front porch in his favorite spot—a rocking chair similar to hers. He grinned, then waved as he stood. He had dressed up for her once again. He glanced at his watch as usual and she wondered how long he had been sitting there.
With the car in park, but still running, Brooke lowered her window, and said, “Hi daddy.”
Placing his hand on her car door, he said, “You’re a little late. I was worried about you.”
“I left you a message. Besides, I’m not late. I told you I’d get here in time for lunch. It’s not even noon yet.”
He squinted at his watch again, just to make sure, then said, “I bet you’re hungry.”
“Actually, I ate a big breakfast,” she lied.
“Well, I’m famished. I have a reservation at the club. I want to go before it gets too crowded.”
Brooke didn’t feel like the country club scene—definitely not the Charlotte Country Club—especially in her outfit. “I’m not dressed properly.”
“Nonsense. You look fine,” he strained to inspect her ankle, “Plus, you have an injury. We don’t have to go to the Mecklenburg Dining Room. We’ll grab a sandwich at the Byron Nelson Bar.”
Furrowing his bushy brown brows, she knew it wasn’t optional; he obviously wasn’t going to take no for an answer. He wore his customary country club ensemble: light yellow slacks, striped blue Brooks Brothers’ button down, and blazer. He looked dead set on showing off his daughter. “Okay, we can go if you want. Get in.”
He pulled her door open and grimaced. “You shouldn’t drive on that ankle.”
“I just did Daddy. For two and a half hours and I made it here just fine.”
“Let’s take my
On rare occasions, Brooke didn’t heed her daddy’s advice. She had to admit, most of the time, he was right. But, despite her own dreams, he always wanted her to be an attorney. His expectations were beyond merely obtaining a college degree; he wanted her to follow his career path and have what he had. She didn’t dare tell him that many of her friends had doubts about her chosen path since it did not appear to involve children, which she had always dreamed of. Then, when North Carolina offered her a free ride, the conclusion was forgone. In the middle of Brooke’s senior year in college, being a lawyer just didn’t feel right.
Brooke had mulled over the legal profession, due to her daddy’s not-so-subtle prodding and out of respect, but she ultimately decided against it. Analyzing career options, she simplified her choices: doctors diagnose, buyers haggle, teachers teach, businesspeople discuss and present, but lawyers argue. It boiled down to not wanting to bicker with people all the time. She couldn’t imagine entering the profession with her can’t we all just get along? attitude. And, she couldn’t imagine Weston Ingram, Esq. doing anything else.
Noticing the exits, the two and a half hour drive seemed to fly by. Glancing in the rearview mirror, she grimaced. Daddy’s little girl looked like the before picture. Oh, well, he’ll understand.
Turning into Myers Park, memories resonated. Happy memories. Myers Park served as a perfect place to grow up, and welcoming even after moving away. One-hundred year old majestic oaks imparted a sense of historic identity. Brooke turned onto Queen’s Road, with its stately mansions on plush green one-acre lots separated by tree-lined dogwoods in the median.
While pulling into the semi-circle driveway, Brooke spotted her father perched on his front porch in his favorite spot—a rocking chair similar to hers. He grinned, then waved as he stood. He had dressed up for her once again. He glanced at his watch as usual and she wondered how long he had been sitting there.
With the car in park, but still running, Brooke lowered her window, and said, “Hi daddy.”
Placing his hand on her car door, he said, “You’re a little late. I was worried about you.”
“I left you a message. Besides, I’m not late. I told you I’d get here in time for lunch. It’s not even noon yet.”
He squinted at his watch again, just to make sure, then said, “I bet you’re hungry.”
“Actually, I ate a big breakfast,” she lied.
“Well, I’m famished. I have a reservation at the club. I want to go before it gets too crowded.”
Brooke didn’t feel like the country club scene—definitely not the Charlotte Country Club—especially in her outfit. “I’m not dressed properly.”
“Nonsense. You look fine,” he strained to inspect her ankle, “Plus, you have an injury. We don’t have to go to the Mecklenburg Dining Room. We’ll grab a sandwich at the Byron Nelson Bar.”
Furrowing his bushy brown brows, she knew it wasn’t optional; he obviously wasn’t going to take no for an answer. He wore his customary country club ensemble: light yellow slacks, striped blue Brooks Brothers’ button down, and blazer. He looked dead set on showing off his daughter. “Okay, we can go if you want. Get in.”
He pulled her door open and grimaced. “You shouldn’t drive on that ankle.”
“I just did Daddy. For two and a half hours and I made it here just fine.”
“Let’s take my
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