Redemption Mountain (2 page)

They'd had it out then. But it wasn't just about Pie. Later, it was about her grandfather Amos whom, after his stroke, Charlotte considered a burden. Beyond providing a small sleeping space and a place at the supper table, she largely ignored him. That wasn't fair, Natty thought. He deserved better.

She heard the old man shuffle slowly through the gravel and watched him feel his way around the corner of the trailer. He couldn't turn his head, and his eyesight was failing, so he wouldn't see her until she stood right in front of him. She would wait until he was ready for her.

Amos Ritter was a hard, wiry little man with short-cropped white hair and a perpetual stubble of white whiskers. Up close, you could look into the deep creases in his forehead and the pockmarks of soft skin under his eyes and see the tiny black gritty remnants of more than four decades spent underground in the coalfields of West Virginia and Kentucky. His gnarled left hand was missing the last two fingers, taken off so long ago he could barely recall the mine he'd lost them to.

Every morning when Natty went out to run, Amos was sitting on his little stool, waiting for her. As she brought his coffee over to him, his mouth twitched into an unsteady smile, the best he could do. He slowly raised his right arm in a kind of half wave, with his fingers pointed at her, and blinked his small, cloudy eyes in an effort to tell her that,
yes,
he was still alive and that she was someone special to him.

“Morning, Amos.” Natty squatted down and set the mug on his knee until he could get his arthritic fingers through the handle. He'd spill some getting the straw to his mouth. She stood and kissed him on the forehead. “Sun's going to be hot today, Amos; you'll need your hat,” she said as she started down the hill to begin her run. She turned around briefly, walking backward, and smiled. “I'll fix you an egg when I get back.” Amos blinked and squinted and twitched his mouth. He bent his head forward slightly in a slow nod and watched until she disappeared down the road and around the corner of the woods.

If Amos could speak, he would tell Natty how much he loved her. He'd thank her for being his friend and making him feel like he mattered. For helping him forget the pain for a while. And for being such a good mother in a hard situation. He would tell her how beautiful she was and that if he were a few years younger, he'd beat the living piss out of her worthless husband until he straightened up or, even better, just went off for good. And if Buck ever hit her again, he'd take a pickax handle to his head so bad you wouldn't know which side his face was on.

But Amos knew he'd never say any of these things to Natty or do anything to Buck. All he could do now was enjoy the sunrise and the sunsets, the smell of the woods, and his visits from Natty.

 

CHAPTER 2

 

C
harlie Burden flexed his right hand as he drove. It didn't feel broken, just bruised a little, in need of some ice to keep the swelling down. He knew what broken fingers felt like, and this wasn't it. He'd caught the kid flush with a couple of good ones and had probably broken his nose, from all the blood on the ice. “
Dammit,
” Charlie said, as he eased the steel blue Lexus out of the rink parking lot onto Route 1.
This was turning out to be one piss-poor day already, and there was a good chance it was going to get worse when he picked up Ellen
.

He shook his head in disgust, but he also had to laugh. As bad as he felt, he could still enjoy the irony—a forty-eight-year-old professional engineer, a partner at Dietrich Delahunt & Mackey, one of the most prestigious engineering firms in the world, a member of several charitable boards, et cetera, et cetera, getting thrown out of an over-35 hockey league for fighting.

He thought about how his friend Duncan would react to the news.
He'll have a lot of fun with this one.
Charlie could see it coming, at an important meeting in the luxurious boardroom of the OntAmex Energy building in Toronto. Duncan McCord, one of the most powerful men in the utility industry in North America, would rise to his feet to address the meeting.
Before we get to today's agenda, a round of applause for my old line mate at Michigan, Charlie Burden, the only middle-aged guy to ever get tossed from a recreational hockey league for fighting. What a dickhead, aye?
Yes, Duncan will enjoy this. Duncan, who, in college, was always ready to drop the gloves and start pounding away before the opening face-off.

Charlie headed west out of Stamford toward New York. The Saturday noontime traffic was heavy, with the usual crush of shoreline tourists, shoppers, and minivans full of kids headed for what had to be the world's busiest McDonald's. It would be faster if he took I-95, but he had plenty of time, so he'd just stay on Route 1 all the way down to Mamaroneck and then head up to the country club to pick up Ellen.

The road to Hickory Hills Country Club ran through some of Westchester's most prized real estate, past the lush, verdant meadows and white fences of the tony riding academy, through expansive neighborhoods of manicured lawns and large, stately homes. The neighborhoods were beautiful, quiet, and tranquil and had a naturally calming effect that made you slow down and bask for a moment in the warm glow of exclusivity. It was a contagious feeling, easy to catch around the country clubs of Westchester County. Ellen Burden had caught it, and along with everything else, it was part of the rapidly growing crevasse in their marriage.

A few miles before the club, Charlie decided to take a short detour to have another look at the home Ellen had set her sights on, her new obsession. He was an hour early and didn't want to hang around the club now that he was no longer a member.

He turned off Old Colony Road and drove through some woodsy middle-class neighborhoods, then onto Dowling Farms Lane. Here, the woods gave way to the gently rolling former fields of one of Westchester County's oldest farming regions, reclaimed over the years for more-profitable use.

Charlie turned down a driveway through an 1800s-era stone wall backed by a thick stand of well-trimmed arborvitae. He drove a short way down the long driveway, turned off the Lexus, and sat gazing at the surroundings. The house had been empty for four months, but the landscapers had obviously been busy. The driveway had puddles from the sprinklers, and the shrubbery had been recently trimmed.
Yes, for this kind of money, Ellen's realtor, a close friend from the country club, would make sure the grounds were in pristine condition all summer.

Charlie got out of the car and sat on a wrought-iron bench that was part of the front garden and faced the house.
A magnificent old English cottage-style home, with every conceivable amenity and feature for gracious country living
, the four-page brochure had begun. Built twenty years ago to look two hundred years old, the house was much bigger than it appeared from the outside. An architectural deception, Charlie knew, due to the long sloping roof descending to the first floor and the oversize fenestration throughout. The latticed windows were large, and the front entryway was wide, with large oak double doors. Even the truncated cupolas poking through the slate roof on the second floor were larger than the overall scale of the home made them seem.

And the inside of the house wasn't small, Charlie recalled, with four bedrooms, two family rooms, a library, and a study. The interior definitely wasn't two hundred years old, either, with its Viking kitchen, Jacuzzi in the master suite, and state-of-the-art sound system.

Charlie strolled down the long driveway to the rear of the house to look at the
real
features of the property—pages three and four of the brochure. Between the curving driveway and a large enclosed porch with green-and-white-striped awnings was another perfectly coiffed lawn, garden, and patio area. Crossing the driveway, Charlie walked down a wide, gently sloping stone stairway to the pool. Beyond the pool was a pool house with attached tiki bar worthy of any Caribbean resort, and on the far side, a tennis court surfaced in dark blue, surrounded on three sides by closely planted evergreens.

He walked up a curving gravel path to the stable at the end of the garage. Next to it there was a half-acre riding area, now overgrown. The stable doors were open, and Charlie could smell the rich aroma of old hay. There were no horses, but he knew that would be their next
discussion
if they were to live here.

Charlie leaned back against the sun-baked fence of the corral and let the warmth soothe his back, aching from the morning hockey game. He looked up at the house and the garden patio and down at the pool and tennis court. He could see why this had become Ellen's dream home. It fit perfectly with Ellen's need for status and social power. And it certainly wouldn't hurt her campaign to become the first woman president of Hickory Hills Country Club.

But Charlie knew that the home was about more than status, gracious country living, and the Hickory Hills crowd. He knew it the first time they looked at the property. He saw it in Ellen's eyes, how they came alive when she moved around the grounds.
This was where Ellen grew up. The life she was born to.
Smaller certainly than the estate in East Greenwich, Rhode Island, with its expansive colonial farmhouse, acres of meadows and woods, stables, and the barn with the loft apartment where they had first made love, the summer after his junior year at Michigan, the night they met in the bar in Newport. Three months before the federal prosecutor indicted her father, Augie D'Angelo, and it all disappeared. Charlie knew that the house was as much about vindication as it was about stepping up to the next level of Westchester society. And that would make it all harder.

Charlie disliked the opulence of the house and what would become their lifestyle in this neighborhood. It was everything he was trying to escape. And it was wasteful, moving into a bigger home now that Scott and Jennifer were out of the house. He knew they could afford it, even though it was stupid money. But it was a huge, irrevocable step in a direction he didn't want to go.

He drove back out to the main road and headed north toward the country club. Seeing the house again reminded Charlie of his larger problem, the problem that had been festering for three months, since the Thursday before Easter, when he received the call in his office in the city from his friend Dave Marchetti. The call about Ellen's affair.

“So, Linda's got a big mouth anyway,” Dave began. “But the other night she gets all lathered up on vodka tonics and…” Linda Marchetti was Ellen Burden's best friend. “I hate to … but I'd want to know, Charlie.” Marchetti hesitated. “Name's Morgan, Phil Morgan. Used to be a member of the club, few years ago. Played in our group on Saturdays. Maybe you remember him.” Charlie didn't. “Quit the club, then quit golf, I heard. Too bad—he was, like, a three handicap. Made his money on Wall Street, a pile of it. Retired and started a foundation to build schools in Africa. Mostly all his money.” Marchetti paused again. “Ellen was on his board a few years ago.” Charlie vaguely recalled Ellen serving for a short time on the board of an outfit dealing with African children. “Lost his wife to cancer last year,” Marchetti said softly. There was a long silence between them until Marchetti spoke again. “Linda tells me it only lasted a month. Over before it started.”

“Okay, thanks, Dave. I appreciate it,” said Charlie, anxious to get off the phone and take a deep breath and be alone. “Anything else?”

Marchetti sighed audibly. “Charlie … he's a very decent guy.”

Outside Charlie's windows, the Park Avenue traffic six floors below was heavy and slow, as it always was before a holiday. It was only Thursday, but, with tomorrow being Good Friday, the weekend had already started.
It was going to be a bitch getting out of the city and back to Mamaroneck.
Charlie thought about staying in one of the corporate apartments on the second floor. He'd used them more often over the past year, staying in the city overnight after an extended workday, or to get an early start on some project in the morning. The call to Ellen had become routine, most often a message left on her voice mail.

Charlie pulled off his tie and tossed it on the chair across from him. Whether he spent the night or drove home with the traffic, he wasn't going anywhere for a while. Right now he needed a drink and a cigar. One of Lucien Mackey's big Cubans would be perfect.

Charlie left his office, suddenly aware of the quiet. It was just after seven o'clock—past quitting time on the partners' floor. The staff engineers and architects would still be working down on the fourth and fifth floors, where Charlie had worked when he first joined the firm, putting in the happiest years of his career. In the executive lounge, he went behind the bar and poured a small glass of Canadian Club. As he made his way around the massive mahogany table, he gazed at the display cases lining the interior wall, showcasing Dietrich Delahunt & Mackey's greatest projects.

The largest and most impressive display was also the most recent project—the first of two giant hydroelectric dams the firm was building in China. The two dams together were by far the largest project the company had ever undertaken. Charlie studied the model of the dam with its cutaway section, showing the intricate details of the massive turbines inside the huge wall of concrete and steel that would be holding back a body of water the size of Rhode Island. While Charlie sipped his whiskey and gazed enviously at the model of the dam, a germ of an idea began to form. An idea that might salvage his career—and now maybe even save his marriage.

“Hard to believe we can build something that big, isn't it, Charlie?” He was startled out of his thoughts by the commanding voice of Lucien Mackey and turned to find the managing general partner of Dietrich Delahunt & Mackey coming toward him around the conference table. “Working late? Saw the light on in your office. Everything all right?” Lucien extended his huge hand, as he always did. He insisted on shaking hands with everyone he came in contact with, holding on for a few seconds while locked in intense eye contact, in a sincere effort to glean some insight into his subject's state of mind. Charlie was glad to see him. Lucien's presence in a room was magically uplifting. He was tall, silver-haired, and, even at sixty-eight, had the physique of a linebacker.