43

SEATTLE

STARLA GARVEY. THAT WAS the name of the Washington, D.C., attorney who was screening witnesses for the Capitol Hill hearing on the Aid to Adult Survivors Bill. Her job was to select several women—and a couple of men—whose stories were compelling and convincing and to prepare them to testify before the Senate subcommittee headed by Senator Walter Patterson.

Starla. The name didn’t invite confidence, and Vanessa fought a sense of discouragement as she placed a call to the woman from her office phone. She got through to the attorney fairly easily, but Starla Garvey sounded rushed and harried on the other end of the line. Vanessa quickly got to the point of her call: She wanted to testify to the impact that childhood abuse had had on her as a teenager. She could also speak from a professional perspective, she suggested, offering anecdotes about the kids she was seeing in the AMC program. Ms. Garvey interrupted her.

“It’s too late,” she said. She had the faintest trace of a southern accent. “I already have the witnesses lined up.”

“But you only have one witness who will be focusing on her problems as an adolescent.”

“True, but that’s not the major concern of this committee.”

“But it should be. It could be if they’d hear something to make them prick up their ears. Please. Let me meet with you.”

There was a sigh from Starla’s end of the phone line, a rustling of papers. “No promises,” she said. “I’ll see you, but you have to be prepared for the fact that I might not use you after all. Can you come in this Tuesday at ten o’clock? The hearing’s Wednesday, so we don’t have much time.”

“I’ll be there,” Vanessa said, and she hung up, marveling at the fact that she’d begged someone to let her do the last thing in the world she wanted to do.

She met Brian at a downtown restaurant for dinner that night. He was already sitting at a corner table when she arrived, nursing a glass of Perrier. He’d spent the afternoon playing tennis, and he was wet-haired from a shower and ruddy-cheeked from the game.

She told him about her call to Starla Garvey, and he listened carefully, his face sober.

“God, that’s so soon,” he said, putting into words what she’d been thinking all afternoon.

“I know. Can you get off?”

“One way or another.” He smiled at her and squeezed her knee under the table.

She ordered salmon, but by the time it arrived, she’d lost her appetite. Each time she thought about putting her story into words for a stranger’s ears, her stomach tightened. It was more than that, though. She was coming—slowly—to another decision. She looked across the table at her husband.

“I can’t confront Zed Patterson directly,” she said, “but I can confront my sister.”

Brian’s eyes widened, and he set down his fork. “Yes, you can,” he said, nodding. “Do it, Vanessa. Please, do it.”

She swept her hair back from her cheek. “It seems like the right time,” she said. “I think I need to talk to her if I ever want to get it all behind me. It’s now or never.”

“Yes. And we’ll be close to where she lives, right? Isn’t she just outside Washington? I’ll go with you, if you—”

“No.” She shook her head quickly. “I don’t want to actually see her face-to-face. I’ll call her. Maybe even tonight.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ll say my piece, then say good-bye and good riddance, and that will be it.” She clapped her hands together in a gesture of finality. “God, Brian, I don’t know if I can do it. I don’t know if I can do any of this.”

“Think of the kids you work with,” he said. Once he’d gotten over his initial panic about her testifying, Brian had been unwavering in his support. “Think of the kids who’ll need an AMC program and won’t have it. At least you’ll know you’ve done all you can to help them.”

She nodded, although she knew that Brian himself wasn’t thinking about the kids. He was thinking about her, about both of them. He was thinking that although she had fought this stumbling block from her past as fiercely as she possibly could, it remained something that interfered in all she did. It was always with her, in her waking hours, and in her hours of supposed rest as well. She knew he was hoping that the next few weeks could somehow erase the past and clear a path for their future together. She was hoping for that same miracle herself.

JON COULD HEAR THE phone ringing from the garage. He’d just arrived home after working out in the gym, and his arms felt tight and tired and terrific as he wheeled into the house. He picked up the cordless phone from the kitchen counter.

“Hello?”

“May I speak with Claire Harte-Mathias, please?” The voice was curt, and he assumed the woman who owned it was selling something.

“I’m sorry, she’s not here,” he said. “Who’s calling, please?”

There was a long moment of hesitation on the other end of the line, and Jon frowned. This was not a phone solicitor. “Hello?” he prompted.

“My name is Vanessa Gray,” the woman said.

“Vanessa?” Jon asked. “Claire’s sister?”

Silence filled the line again, as if the question required some thought. “Yes,” she answered finally.

“Well, hello, Vanessa. I’m Jon Mathias, your brother-in-law.”

“Can you tell me when Claire will be home?”

He was taken aback by her abruptness, and he pondered how to respond.

“We’re separated,” he said. “I know that the last time she wrote to you, we were still together, but we’ve been through some changes since then. Why don’t I take your number and have her call you?”

“No.” She nearly barked her reply. God, she sounded cold. “Can you give me a number where I can reach her?”

“She doesn’t have a phone where she’s staying.” He could give her Randy’s number, he supposed, but he would have to look it up. It might not even be listed. He had certainly never tried to call her there. “Or you could call her next week at the foundation. At work.” It was going to be strange having Claire back in the office again. He’d told her she was welcome to come back, but now he had mixed feelings about having her that close to him when she would be returning to Randy every evening. “Would you like the number there?”

The hesitancy again. “All right.”

He gave her the work number as well as the address of the small apartment Claire was living in on Chesterwood.

“Thank you,” Vanessa said. “Good—”

“Vanessa?”

“Yes?”

“Claire really needs to hear from you. I mean that. More than you can know. Your timing couldn’t be more perfect.”