Chapter
14
James e-mailed me late Saturday night.
You’re right, he wrote. My first thought was that you’re thinking of practicing up there, but if you say you’re not, I’ll take you for your word. Sounds like your friend has a mess of a life. Hah. Sounds familiar. You’re right about investigators. She needs to ID the tail so that you can find out who hired him. Yes re: the forensic accountant. Yes re: her need for Boston counsel. Conflict of interest could be a problem. She can’t use anyone remotely connected to the firm that handles the trust fund. Give me her name and the name of the family corporation, and I’ll run it by Sean. If his firm clears, he may be willing to help. What kind of cookies does she bake?
When I asked Lee early Sunday morning, she said her last name was Baker.
A baker named Baker? I knew an alias when I heard one.
I explained about lawyer-client confidentiality and assured her of James’s sensitivity to the danger she faced, but having felt powerless for so long, she was skittish. She had run away to hide, and yes, she’d been found out. But with each additional person who knew, the greater her chance of being carted away. Having been in prison once, she went pale at the thought of it happening again—and, honestly, I couldn’t guarantee that once her husband’s family realized that she planned to fight, they wouldn’t go on the offensive. Would they want the publicity, knowing the charges were trumped up? If they were arrogant enough they would. The best I could do was promise she wouldn’t be alone.
It took some convincing, but she finally gave in. Lee Cray. Husband Jack, and brothers-in-law Raymond and Duane. All beneficiaries of the Cray Family Trust.
Pleased with this little win, I shot the information she gave me back to James, ending with Oatmeal raisin and chocolate chip, but the chocolate macadamia nut ones are the best.
Chocolate macadamia nut cookies were his favorite.
Amelia came for brunch dragging Jude, who looked like he had just rolled out of bed. He hadn’t shaved, hadn’t combed his hair.
He looked amazing.
Like Brett Favre looked amazing.
But I didn’t want to sleep with Brett Favre any more than I wanted to sleep with Jude Bell, though he kept staring at me like I should—like I had to remember what it was like waking up with him sexy and hard, like I should be jealous of his woman in Hanover and needed to restake my claim.
I did not. Having just heard from James, I was immune.
Lee sat with us. Her muddy hair still slanted over her forehead, but with the sides and back now shaped to complement her face, I realized that she was an attractive woman.
Amelia’s first line of defense, and rightly so, was protecting Lee. In addition to the car on the green, she’d had new locks installed on Lee’s windows and doors, she explained with some pride.
“That’s good,” I said encouragingly. “Now we need to build a case. Do the police have anything—pictures, fingerprints, footprints?”
“They have the notes that were put in her mail slot, and they do have pictures of the matter left on her stoop.”
“It’s called dog shit,” Jude said with a smirk.
Amelia smiled. “Not at breakfast it isn’t.”
“Have they done anything with them?” I asked, ignoring Jude, who continued to stare at me.
“There’s not much they can do other than keep them on file,” Amelia reasoned, but she was a take-charge sort and moved right on. “What do we need?”
“Pictures catching someone in the act. Lee should have a camera to use anytime she sees strangers around, but we also need a motion-activated video cam on the roof of the house. It may get pictures of deer or moose, but one shot of a man doing something unwanted and we’re in luck.”
“I’ll have them mounted today, front and back,” Amelia promised. “I understand your husband was here?”
“Yes. Just a quick visit.”
“I’d like to meet him next time.”
“So would I,” remarked Jude.
I’ll bet you would, I thought. I could see him clapping James on the back and talking man-to-man about sex with me. Vicki was right. I did need to tell James myself that Jude was back—had to explain my feelings, past and present. It would be a preemptory move, because somehow, somewhere, he would learn about Jude, and it would be best coming from me.
“But I can’t do it in an e-mail,” I said the minute Vicki and I were alone.
“On the phone, then?”
“Not good.”
“But you have to do it soon. I saw how Jude was looking at you. He is spoiling for a fight.”
“Why with me?”
“Because you’re not falling all over him. What if he phones James? It’s almost worth a trip back to New York to tell him.”
“I can’t.”
“Not even a quick one? Like his visit here?”
It sounded simple—drive in, tell James about Jude, make love to show him that he was the one I loved, drive out.
And I did consider it as I helped Vicki clear the buffet in the parlor. But I was afraid that if I went back I wouldn’t be able to leave—that James wouldn’t let me leave once he knew about Jude, that I would be numbed again by my life there and unable to think until the next perfect storm made me crack. It also occurred to me that the lovemaking could bomb if it was manipulative, in which case I would have risked the most elemental connection James and I had.
I might have agonized more if I hadn’t been given something else to consider. Lee took off, and Vicki and I were wiping down the kitchen counters when she left for the front hall in response to the ding of the bell. I heard an excited sound, but the dishwasher was running, muting exact words. I did get each one, though, when she returned and said in a voice that was a little too bright, “Look who just arrived!”
Behind her were my parents.
My parents.
My first thought, absurdly, was relief. Thirty minutes sooner and they’d have run into Amelia and Jude. Five minutes sooner and they’d have run into Lee.
My second thought was guilt. Claire and Roger Scott, divorced but joined in this rescue mission, had driven the two hours from Portland to haul me back home, or so my little-girl’s mind said in a moment’s regression.
My final thought was dismay. I wasn’t ready for them.
I opened my mouth, but no words came out. Caught between pleasure and dread, I could only dry my hands on the dish towel. My parents were an attractive couple—Mom with crinkles by her eyes and long auburn hair held behind an ear with a thin yellow ribbon that would have been recycled from a gift, Dad with little hair but remarkably smooth skin. Both carried ten pounds more than their doctors wanted, but they looked L.L.Bean outdoorsy in jeans and shirts. So familiar. So dear. So unnerving.
I swallowed. “Mom. Dad. How did you know where I was?”
I knew Mom had suspected, but I was surprised when she said, “James called. He said you were all right, but I wanted to see for myself, and then your father said he wasn’t being left out, so here we are.”
“James called you?”
“He loves you, Emily,” Dad stated. “He called your mother more than once.”
Ahh. “You were the one who told him about Bell Valley.”
“Well, how could I not?” Claire asked. “I sent him other places first, because I wasn’t entirely sure where you were, and I do blame him for what’s happened.”
“It’s not his fault,” Dad said. “He’s the responsible one.”
“I thought we agreed to disagree on this, Roger.”
“You and I agreed, but not Emily and I.”
“Then James called again,” Mom went on, tuning Dad out, “and he sounded so tired and worried that I felt guilty. I knew how much you loved this place that summer, and when we talked the other day, I did hit a nerve.” Stopped just short of mentioning Jude, she smiled at Vicki. “You look wonderful. Motherhood must be agreeing with you. Is your daughter around?”
“How do you know she has a daughter?” I asked. Like with my dreaming of Jude, I was sure I hadn’t mentioned Charlotte.
Mom glanced at a picture on the corkboard by the phone. “Because that little girl has Vicki Bell written all over her.”
Brows arched in question, she returned to Vicki, who said, “Her dad took her to the Refuge. She loves the cats.”
I had a sudden inspiration. “Want one?” I asked Vicki. “There’s a special-care kitty with a neurological problem. She needs small places, like a little girl’s bedroom. I think you should take her.”
But Vicki was shaking her head even before I finished. “I’d do it in a heartbeat. Charlotte would adore it, but not all my guests are Refuge people. For the one who may have an allergy, the Red Fox has to be pet-free.”
“Is that another baby I see growing?” Mom asked Vicki. Amazing, because there was barely a bump, but Mom did have a sixth sense when it came to maternal things. She never asked me if I was pregnant. She would know.
“Sure is,” Vicki said, “but hey, you guys need to talk. Want the den?” she asked me.
“Oh no,” Mom replied as she looked around the kitchen. “This room is calling me. Very country farmhouse. Are the cabinets oak?”
“They are,” Vicki confirmed. “They’re original.”
Trust Mom to appreciate something I had taken for granted. She was a detail person. I used to think I was, too, until my life filled with so many that I couldn’t see any one.
“That stove is no original,” Mom was saying.
“No. It’s state of the art, or at least it was four years ago.”
“Well, it’s a winner. And this table.” She ran a hand over the distressed wood. “So warm.” She pulled out a chair and, beaming, sat down. “I would love a cup of coffee. Actually, I can make it.” She started to rise again, but I pressed her back down.
“I’ll do it.”
“And maybe something to munch on? Your dad’s hungry.”
“Your mom’s hungry,” Dad countered, but sounded indulgent in this.
I was grateful for something to do. While Vicki went to handle Sunday checkouts, I made brunch from what we had just put in the fridge.
“I’m impressed,” Mom remarked when I served them quiche with sides of sausage, asparagus, and corn fritters.
“Reheating is my specialty.”
“I thought your specialty was corporate litigation,” Dad said. “Are you planning to just dump it for this … whatever that guy is?”
I stared at him for a minute, before rolling my eyes. “You are so far off base that I’m stunned. His name is Jude, Dad, and what’s going on with me has nothing to do with him.”
Still holding his fork and knife, Dad planted the heels of his hands on the edge of the table. “Please, sweetheart. I know how these things work. You get married, everything’s great, then the routine sets in and you start romanticizing the past.”
“I didn’t do that,” Mom pointed out.
“I’m not talking to you, Claire. I’m talking to Emily.”
“I didn’t do it, either,” I told him. “I OD’d on what I had in New York and needed a break.”
“Um-hm,” Dad murmured and took several bites while Mom and I exchanged looks. I wasn’t entirely sure she was my ally, what with her dubious opinion of James. But I did feel better with her here.
Dad put down his fork. “You claimed you loved Jude, but you never wanted us to meet him. You knew I’d hate him, didn’t you, because he wasn’t going anywhere.”
“How do you know that?”
“He was here. There’s nothing here.”
I was offended. “Have you never heard of the Bell Valley Animal Refuge? Jude is in line to head the whole thing. He goes all over the world on Refuge business.” It was theoretical, of course, since Jude typically traveled for Jude. But Dad had no right to dismiss a town he knew nothing about. “As for this town, it has a history of offering sanctuary to people who don’t follow the mainstream, which, quite honestly, describes me right now.”
“The mainstream being James.”
“The mainstream being you,” I cried.
“Actually, it’s James,” he maintained. “You left him. That’s a mistake, Emily. James is the best thing you have. He keeps you on track.”
“Like I can’t do that myself?”
“No, you can’t right now. Look at you.”
I did—looked down at the sundress I’d worn for brunch, then at my hands, which were rock steady and relaxed—then back at Dad. “I look better than I have in months.”
“Well, of course, you’ll take her side, Claire. You never wanted to work, either.”
“That’s so wrong, Dad. Mom worked her butt off as a mother. Well, maybe I want to do the same thing. Maybe I want to have kids and stay home with them.”
“But you have a career,” he argued. “What purpose would you serve giving it up?”
“The purpose,” I said with purpose, “is to give me something to do before kids and then something to do when they go to school.”
He snorted. “Mommy-trackers take a hit. Is that what you want?”
“Yes.”
“And waste your potential?”
“Potential for what?” I asked. “Being a lawyer? What about my potential for being a mother? A friend? A human being?”
He pointed his fork at me. “You left out wife.” The fork stabbed a corn fritter, which quickly disappeared into his mouth.
Mom was glowering. “You are so backward, Roger.”
He shrugged. “That’s how it is in my world.”
“Which is why I am no longer in it,” she said, and, standing up, left the room.
We sat in silence for a while, Dad eating slowly. I poured each of us refills of coffee. Finally, he set down his fork. He looked to be trying to decide what to say when Mom returned and said, “I think we should take a walk. I need air.”
Dad was happy to comply. I sent them outside while I cleaned the kitchen, and found them a short time later in the General Store. Mom was still browsing, though the wicker basket on her arm was already filled with small kitchen items, candles, and cheese. I browsed with her for a few minutes, then left her to pay while I looked for Dad. I found him on a bench just outside the front door and sat beside him.
“Well, it is peaceful here,” he offered, looking out over the green.
“Whatever is going on now,” I said to reassure him, “I am not leaving James.”
“Well, you’re still wearing his ring.”
“We love each other.”
“So do your mother and I, but we can’t live together. It makes me sad to think you’ve learned that from us. I wanted something better for you.”
“I know.”
“I had dreams for you.”
“Your dreams.”
“Yours, too, I thought.” His eyes met mine. “When did that change?”
“A week ago Friday, when I realized that the dream didn’t work for me anymore.”
“You were tired. You didn’t mean it.”
“I’m not tired now, and I do mean it. This is my life, Dad. My life. Not yours, and not Mom’s. I get to choose.”
His eyes returned to the green. He let out a breath, slowly shook his head. “Well, you do. But you want my blessing, and I can’t give it.”
Mom joined us then, looking at her watch. She had a fund-raiser at the hospital that night, which meant they needed to head home. I hugged them both, waving when Mom turned to look at me, waving herself until the car was gone. Dad didn’t turn or wave.
He was right. I did want his blessing.
But I was right. This was my life, so I got to choose.
How to have both—my way and his blessing?
And how not to brood about that?
Distraction was key.
On Monday, I moved into the gardener’s shed. The room was smaller than heaven, and done up in the greens of the forest rather than the blues and whites of the sky. After unpacking, I sat for a time on the bench bolted to its forest side, but when the lure of the woods grew too great, I wandered in. The scamperings around me were innocent, the smells crisp as the sun striped through the trees. I meandered at first, breathing in pine resin and fertile soil, absorbing the peace. Inevitably, I made my way up along the stone wall. Thankfully, there were no snakes today, and I did keep a close watch. Seeing nothing more than a pair of red squirrels, a hawk, and several swirls of gnats, I continued on to the brook.
James was in New York. No word from him yet.
And the coyote? Not here either.
Alone with my thoughts, I kept remembering our tryst. Perhaps I was clinging to that memory as proof that my husband and I still had some kind of connection.
But … what if sex was all we had? What if we had deluded ourselves into thinking there was more? What if Dad was right, that you could love someone and not live with him? What if my running away had stripped it all down to this? We were physically attracted to each other. Period.
The possibility haunted me as Monday passed with no word. I had been hoping that Lee’s case would be common ground. After all, James and I had met over law. We’d had that from the start.
I texted on Tuesday. Are you okay?
Working, he texted back, which told me nothing and pointed out one of the worst things about electronic communication. Lacking facial expression, tone of voice, or context, words could be taken any number of ways. With only one cryptic word now, I was discouraged.
Conversely, though, electronic communication was great when you weren’t up for a whole discussion. So I texted Mom to thank her for coming. She texted back that she loved me.
I texted Dad to thank him for coming. He didn’t text back. Actually, he didn’t text, period, but I had been hoping that would change. My dream, apparently. Not his.
Actually, that sells the effort short. After having had zero time to play in the last ten years, I was rediscovering the pleasure of having time to fill. And there was no shortage of things to do. When I was at the Refuge, if I wasn’t in Rehab coaxing my kitten to eat, I was bathing dogs or grooming horses, and if I wasn’t with the animals, I was with Bob Bixby. If I wasn’t at the Refuge, I was helping Vicki at the inn or browsing in The Bookstore or getting—surprise, surprise—a massage at The Spa, formerly The Hair Shop, now broadened to include body care as well.
James didn’t call, e-mail, or text.
So I babysat Charlotte, which helped in ways totally aside from distraction. Since Vicki refused to charge me for my room, and since her pregnancy gave her the occasional migraine, I could cover during those late afternoon hours. Charlotte was reticent until she realized I would read Pinkalicious over and over again, which, apparently, her mother was not willing to do. After that came My Mama Says There Aren’t Any Zombies, Ghosts, Vampires, Demons, Monsters, Fiends, Goblins, or Things, which I read until both of us knew the words by heart.
I’d had dinner Monday night with Vicki and Rob, barbecued baby back ribs that Rob proudly declared to be his best recipe and Vicki affectionately declared to be his only one. I had dinner Tuesday night at The Grill with Lee, who was in something of a holding pattern, waiting for the camera on her roof to be tripped. And Wednesday night? Not dinner, but an evening cappuccino with the owner of The Bookstore.
Actually, it wasn’t just her. Apparently, Wednesday nights were something of a ritual here, an impromptu after-hours gathering of anyone who wanted to talk books. I had come out of curiosity, to see how the group worked compared with mine at home, and since I was sleeping later each morning, I didn’t need cappuccino to keep me awake.
The group had been billed as a fluid one, open to anyone in town, and I was prepared for a literary discussion, which was apparently what took place when men attended. Tonight there were only women, seven of us ranging in age from thirty to sixty. I had met a few of them ten years before, though hadn’t known them well, but that didn’t seem to matter. I was instantly drawn into the conversation, which began with my being a lawyer and moved to a legal thriller one of the women had read, then to a paranormal thriller another had read, then to a nonfiction book on the appeal of these kinds of books.
It seemed that it had to do with why we read thrillers, why we were here tonight.
The store was closed, and though we started out in a small sitting area, we began wandering the aisles looking for one book or another to make a point. We were in Biography with the likes of Thomas Jefferson, Admiral Robert Peary, and Coco Chanel, sitting on the floor with our coffee, when the front door dinged.
Our leader looked back, then at us again. Eyes wide, she put a finger to her lips. “We aren’t here.”
“Hello?” called a male voice, as deep as it was familiar.