The writer Brenda Ainsworth is writing a book about single moms working together. Their daughters all go to the same day care. This chapter is about Ashley Anderson Nickles, a family lawyer. Her daughter is adopted. Chapters about the other characters and Brenda were on June 15, June 21, July 1 and July 8 blogs. The book is available as an e-book and in paperback.

Brenda Ainsworth on Ashley Anderson Nickels

After leaving Maura, I went to the law offices of Anderson, Anderson & Nickels to interview the fourth woman for the book, Ashley Anderson Nickels. It was cold; and it felt like snow even if Halloween was yesterday. Much too early.

One of the advantages of being in my fifties, I have no desire to go out on a Friday night. I can stay in and work on my notes for the book. I’m in my sweats with a cup of tea. I’d rather have a glass of wine, but I don’t like to drink at all when I’m working. Maybe I’m stuffy, but I know what works for me.

I know in Grass it is a beautiful autumn day with blue skies and temperatures that might require a sweater or not depending on the person’s personal thermometer. Well, maybe it’s night. Grass is six hours ahead of us, so it’s night.

I reread my notes.

Ashley’s office is in an old Victorian house, located just off Reading Square, which is almost a postcard of a New England village with its white church at the head of a small green and a cemetery to the left. Only now with a population of some 24,000 it is more than a village. Unlike many towns, whose centers have been decimated by suburban shopping centers and big box stores, it still has an active downtown with small shops as well a couple of chains.

I know Reading. My mother grew up in Reading, where all these women I’m writing about live. She told me about a grave of a child who died and whose name was Jennie something. I’m not sure of the last name. The poem went something like this:

Mother, dear mother

Please don’t cry

The angels are waiting

To carry me on high

I can’t remember the rest. For a long time, I was afraid I would die young until my mother told me that it was in the olden days when children died regularly but with modern medicine it was rare. I thought maybe I might look up the grave, if I’ve time. Maybe I could incorporate it in Maura and Violet’s story, a comparison of medical care today and yesterday. Then again, maybe not. We’ll see how it develops, but I’ll leave a note in my files.

I find when I’m working on a book, I often go down wrong paths. That’s what delete keys are for.

These were some of my thoughts until I found the old Victorian that housed not only Anderson, Anderson & Nickels but a dentist, an architect and a temporary employment agency.

The door, flanked by two panels of red- and green-colored glass squares, isn’t locked. A receptionist sits at an antique oak desk next to the staircase. Without looking up from the computer, she points to the stairs and says, “Second floor.”

As the plaque says under the firm’s name, “Ring and walk in.” I do.

A big central room has doors to the left and right. The walls are painted a soft green and the bay window has dark green curtains. I notice the center of the ceiling has a floral circular plaster rosette from which a glass chandelier hangs. I’m glad I’m not the one cleaning all those glass bibs and bobs.

The waiting area has three comfortable rust-colored chairs and an oak coffee table with up-to-date reading: Economist, Forbes, Ms, Woman’s Day, Consumer Reports, The Boston Globe, Financial Times—something for everyone, I guess.

A woman emerges from the office to the right. To look at her I guess she is somewhere in her 30s, yet I know Ashley is in her early 40s, the oldest of the women. It’s hard to guess age. When someone says, “She looks 50,” I always ask myself what does 50 look like anyway?

I like her blue slacks, red turtleneck and red and blue patterned scarf. Her earrings are interlocking blue and red triangles. She sticks out her hand. “You must be Brenda Ainsworth.”

She offers me coffee, which I decline. I tell her about when I interviewed a U.S. Senator and spilled my coffee all over his papers.

“Scarred you for life?” she asks as she directs me to one of two brown leather couches in her office. One wall has a bulletin board with a child’s drawing and photos of a little girl, most likely the adopted daughter I’ve been told about. The office style cannot be given a name other than warm and cozy. I’ll call it that but hope I can find better words.

“Not an accident. When people, mostly women, come in here for a divorce, they’re upset. The last thing they need is anything impersonal. She points to the fireplace opposite the door. “I even light it, if the day is cold enough.”

When I describe the project to her, she smiles. “Great. If people would only help each other more, the world would be a better place.”

The door opens and an older version of Ashley sticks her head in. “I just made a pot of hot chocolate, and we’ve those cookies I made.”

Ashley points to the coffee table. “No papers, so you can spill it.”

Cookies and hot chocolate. Outside the wind blows a branch against the middle bay window, making a clicking sound. If only the firm that handled my divorce had been like this.

I know I will like this woman more and more as I get to know her.