Revenant Rising (28 page)
“What did you mean by saying the fun began when she died? I can see where you and your family wouldn’t have mourned her death with any sincerity, but I can’t imagine you were open about celebrating it.”
“I’m sorry, that remark was misleading. I was being facetious. Sarcastic. The so-called fun I refer to is related to the provisions of her will. My father anticipated nothing for himself. He did, however, think his motherin-law would leave a little something for the children of her only offspring.”
“
Please
do not tell me this woman left everything to a pet Pomeranian or a television evangelist or worse.”
“No, nothing like that. Her entire fortune was left to me in a trust with the proviso that I accomplish what my mother did not. I had to maintain a grade point average sufficient to gain admission to my grandmother’s alma maters, Fairfield-Douglas and Columbia Law. I was required to distinguish myself at Columbia, pass the New York State Bar on the first try, clock a minimum of five hundred hours as a public defender, serve three years as an assistant DA, remain unmarried—unencumbered was her word—throughout the ordeal—my word—and attain the age of thirty. Then I could inherit her damned money and feel free to distribute it where most needed. Oh, I almost forgot. I was expected to write her biography in my spare time.”
“You did it all, then. You had no argument with the tabloid calling you an heiress this morning, so you must have pulled it off.”
“Yes . . . I guess you could say that.”
“That’s a bloody lot of pulling, I’ll say. How on earth did you live while this was going on?”
“Oh, there were provisions for that in the will. The administrator of the trust was allowed to draw a certain amount against it for our living expenses and my tuition so we did get by. Just barely.”
“Your father was named administrator because you were a minor. Right?”
“No, David Sebastian was named administrator and I will never be able to repay him for all the extra things he did to keep us afloat. If we had any little luxuries or special outings, I feel sure they came out of David’s pocket. And if any of us needed tutoring in a subject my father couldn’t handle, David filled in. He was a surrogate Little League coach for my brothers and enjoyed favorite honorary uncle status with my little sister. He was my mentor all through school and my tireless advocate when some of the best legal minds in New York State tried unsuccessfully to break my grandmother’s will.”
Colin’s ears are no less pricked than Nate’s would be for any hint of what else David Sebastian may have been to her. And might still be to her. To ask is out of the question. Sheer insanity, that would be, and to take even a deep breath seems ill advised lest it have the potential to end her stunning narrative. The only reason he thinks it safe to take a sip of wine is because that’s what she’s doing.
“It’s not too surprising that David and I eventually became lovers . . . for all the wrong reasons, of course. And nothing could ever come of it because of the restrictions placed on me,” she says after she swallows.
He swallows his wine the wrong way and he needn’t have worried about taking a deep breath because she hardly notices his coughing.
“We’re lucky though, David and I, because there was always a lot more to us than just the pleasures of the flesh. When the physical bond was broken we were able to revert to our original relationship without any of the bitterness and rancor that characterizes so many breakups. We presently enjoy a surprisingly amicable association although we do have our moments—usually related to his never-ending harangue that it’s time for me to forsake New Jersey for the big city.”
“Might you ever do that?” he asks as though that’s the single-biggest concern he has—as though he’s not suddenly seeing David Sebastian as a heavier anchor than her father—as though he’s not struggling mightily to blot out a mental image of her flesh being pleasured by a man he’s acquainted with—as though his concern is not downright laughable, considering he frequents a world where that form of inbreeding is the norm.
“Leave New Jersey? Oh, I suppose I will someday when I’m ready to give up on my father. It won’t be for a move to the city, though.”
“Where would you go?”
“I’ve never really thought about it. My freedom to choose is quite new. The final stipulation of my grandmother’s will was met only a matter of weeks ago, on my thirtieth birthday, so I really haven’t had a chance to decide if I want to run off and join the circus.”
“No one would blame you if you did, actually. My god, Laurel, did you ever have any fun as a teenager?”
“Of course I did. Perhaps not in the conventional sense. I didn’t date or hang out at the mall or have many girlfriends, and I didn’t have time or money for movies or rock concerts, but I wasn’t unhappy. I never felt
that
deprived and there were compensations, you know. How many women my age have already helped raise three children and learned how to run a household on a shoestring?”
As much as he’d like to hear that last as pride in achievement, it sounds more like sarcasm, something to move past. “That must mean your brothers and sister are on their own.”
“In the sense they no longer live at home, yes. They’re all away at school—fortunately in the same region—and they tend to look out for one another, a skill they’ve had a lot of practice at.”
“What are their names?”
“Benjamin, after my father, Michael, and Emily.”
Laurel takes another sip of wine and turns her attention to a pair of squirrels spiraling a nearby tree. “Well, are you smirking?” she says after a bit. “You got all that out of me a lot sooner than expected, didn’t you?” She continues watching the squirrels.
“I’m not smirking, I’m just glad you didn’t make me wait any longer.”
“Do you regard me differently now that you know my entire background?” She defies him with a level gaze. “Have my revelations weakened my position and made me into an object of pity?”
“No . . . hell no. If anything I’m even more in awe of you than I was at the start. Knowing what I know now makes you even more intimidating.”
“Excellent! Then there’s a damn good chance I might feel the same when you’re finally able to tell me what life has forced you to overcome.”
“Bleedin’ Jesus you are good! You’ve got me, then . . .
oh,
have you got me,” he says and lifts his glass to her.
“I thought so, although I can’t imagine why my opinion of you should matter so much. You do intend to bare all for the reading public, don’t you?”
“I do. And I will. Promise. Again, I’m asking you to trust me.”
“And again I have to say very well, with all that implies.”
She softens the statement with a half-smile and gestures at the abundance of food. “Have more salad and please finish the shrimp. I brought enough for Bemus, that’s why there’s extra. Oh, and I’m forgetting dessert.” She brings out a tray of chocolate-dipped biscotti and a flask of hot coffee from the depths of the hamper.
He eats more than usual. Besides being fabulously good, the food keeps his mouth full when it wants to go fuckwit on him and his hands busy when they want to go rogue. Then, with eating at an end, he’s grateful for the business of clearing the lunch things away and repacking the ice chest and hamper. After that, he has just a cup of coffee to deal with and the growing worry about how to manage the trip back to Manhattan.
Maybe he could ask to drive the obviously brand-new Range Rover on the pretext he might be in the market for one, but that would leave him with the problem of what to say when she finds out he already owns two similar models. Maybe he could offer to drive as the gentlemanly thing to do, but that carries the risk of chivalry coming across as chauvinism. And, under any guise, there is always the chance his desire could be read as a need to reestablish his dominion over any animal that might step into the road.
“Colin . . . hello . . . where are you?”
“Sorry. I was thinking how a hammock would feel good right about now.”
“Next time I’ll remember to bring one.”
“You no doubt will, but next time’s on me. Have dinner with me tonight. No hammock, just dinner . . . please?”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“Serves me right for asking on such short notice. Tomorrow, then, does that work?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“We are getting together tomorrow, though?”
“Yes, only not for dinner. I can give you the agreed-to four hours during the day, but it will have to be at my office. At the moment I can’t think of another venue like this that won’t be crowded on a Saturday. Shall we?” She nods in the direction of the car park and they leave the way they arrived, with her carrying the hamper and him the ice chest. Along with the ice chest he’s carrying more misgivings than he’s felt in a decade.
If she’s experiencing any interior debate about who should drive, she’s not letting it show. Once the picnic things are stored in the back, she gets behind the wheel, and he buckles into the passenger seat.
“I think we’ve made a clean getaway. I’ll be very surprised if I read in tomorrow’s papers that rock star and mouthpiece companion were savaged by squirrels during an al fresco bacchanal.” She further disables him with infectious laughter as they drive out of the park.
Hoop is amazed to see by the clock at the North Bergen bus station that it’s only three-something in the afternoon when he gets back from New York. Taking into account all that went on while he was across the river, he feels like it should be a lot later than that—like he wouldn’t have been surprised if it was night when the bus came out of the tunnel.
After unlocking the Jimmy and checking that nothing’s been tampered with, he’s strongly tempted to call it a day. Enough has happened already, enough for two days. Besides, when he looks for the town of Glen Abbey on his New Jersey state map he can’t find it anywhere—another good reason to call it quits for now.
The dingy high-rise motel holds a lot of appeal. So does having a look at what’s inside the canvas bags or maybe doing nothing for a change.
Not a chance. While there’s still enough daylight left for another survey, he’d be a jackassed-fool to slack off.
He tosses the useless map aside and with the canvas bags stowed on the front seat beside him, drives away from the park-and-ride lot in the direction of the motel. Although he’s already thinking of New Jersey as home ground, the only stretch of this turf he’s familiar with is the one he’s on now, Route 3, where he’s passing by the exit for the motel and heading back the way he came when instinct steered him off the interstate yesterday.
He sees golf links and a cemetery he saw before; he crosses under a major highway that he recalls and right after that he comes to a join he recognizes as the one with Route 46. He’s not far along Route 46 when something makes him notice a sign for Holbrook Road and all the places it leads to. The names of these places flash by in his side vision—Montclair, Lawndale, Upper Montclair, Glen Abbey, Cedar Grove—and it’s more miracle than instinct that makes Glen Abbey catch his eye.
Using a maneuver practiced in Los Angeles, Hoop guns it across two lanes of traffic and exits onto Holbrook Road with no plan in mind other than finding the town where the lawyerwoman’s said to live.
Unsure which town he’s in at the moment, he pulls into a supermarket parking lot after a mile or so of wandering and heads for the rear of the store. At a spot near the loading docks he partially conceals the Jimmy behind a lineup of dumpsters and estimates ten minutes to go by before he feels fit enough to take action. Although this isn’t the first time he’s had luck bordering on the miraculous, he’s still not used to it. Luck, like happiness, can’t be trusted.
As a calmative he decides to see what, besides dirty pictures of Audrey, he looted from Gibby Lester’s safe. He digs into one of the canvas bags and comes up with three worn ledgers held together with a wide rubber band. Nothing stands out on the pages of the one ledger he opens and leafs through; all he sees is a blur of people names, product names, and long strings of numbers. Business records. Monkey business records. Not the kind you show to the tax man. They can be chucked into the nearest dumpster for all the good they’ll do him. Same with the other seized items. By outward appearances they won’t do him any good either.