The Hungry House (22 page)

Coffee in hand, I
continued to consider my life as I drove through quiet, tree-lined streets to my home and uttered a prayer of gratitude, one of many each day. I parked in the driveway of my house. The nanny Gina and Alex were seated on the porch steps blowing bubbles from a solution in a bottle. Five-year-old Paul was transfixed by the process, his eyes wide with wonder, until he saw his mother.

"Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!
" He started down the steps.

I grabbed him lifting him up in my arms for a hug.

"I missed you.
" Alex said, his voice sounding sweet in my ear.

"I missed you too
. But, I don't have to go back to school for five days now. I'm all yours."

At that moment, a
familiar looking middle-aged woman dressed in jeans and a t-shirt approached the porch. I struggled for a moment to place her and decided that she might live in the neighborhood.

"
Vicky Olson?"

"Yes, I'm
Vicky."

She handed
me a manila envelope. "You've been served."

Placing Alex on his feet,
I tore open the envelope as the woman walked away. After skimming over the first few lines of the legal document, I felt dizzy. It was a petition for Frank to have visitation rights with Alex.

Everything went black, and I sat down and lowered my head to my
lap to keep from passing out.

"Is something wrong
, Vicky?  Was it bad news?" Gina, alarmed, had come over and placed a hand on my shoulder.

Finally, I
lifted my head toward Gina and Alex. He stood frowning at me, the soap for bubbles forgotten.

"Oh, it's just
business. Nothing to worry about. I don't think I ate enough lunch," I fibbed. "I need a glass of orange juice."

I smiled and turned to Alex
. "Want one, too?" Of course he did.

###

After a sleepless night, Gina came to babysit Alex, and I headed to see the attorney who had handled my paternity case against Frank. The offices of Blake, Cargrove, Friedman, and Goldman were situated on the fourteenth floor of the US Bank Towers, the tallest building in Portland. Most of their money came from divorce cases, and their elegant décor of office suite was a potent testament to their success.

Harry Goldman
's assistant was a mature, efficient-looking woman dressed in a chic suit. She ushered me from the law office waiting area into Harry's office. Tall and intellectual looking, around 50 years of age and dressed immaculately, he strode to his office door to greet me and then returned to his seat at the desk.

God, please let him have some good news
, I thought. I had axed a copy of Frank's petition to the office the day before.

He smiled
. "Would you care for something to drink?  Wine--um--coffee?  Wait--as I recall, you're a latte woman aren't you?"

Actually, I
could use an infusion of caffeine right now. I felt like I was running on nothing but adrenalin. But, something was wrong. The first time I had met with him in this office to talk about the paternity suit, when he had risen to greet me as I walked through the door of his office, he had been ebullient about the sureness of our impending victory and the righteousness of their cause. Now, he seemed to be stalling, even troubled.

"Sure
. Latte, please."

Once his
powerhouse secretary had been dispatched to get the coffee, I got down to business. "Okay. Out with it. Something's wrong, or you would already be giving me the good news."

He looked down at the papers in front of him
. "I have the petition here that you faxed to me." He sighed. "I know you don't want Mr. Armstrong to have visitation rights, and, believe me, I completely understand your reasons. Even though it could not be proven, I have no doubts about the veracity of your version of the conception of the child."

My
eyes filled with grateful tears. He reached across his desk to hand my a box of tissues.

"You thought I didn't believe you
. I was just keeping my poker face during the proceedings. I never doubted you for an instant. However, in spite of the unspeakable acts committed by this man, I'm afraid my hands are tied."

My heart fell. Dread overcame me. I thought I had erased Frank from my life, and here he was back to haunt me.

“Remember, we discussed this when you filed for support for you and Paul. At that time, you were convinced that Mr. Armstrong would never have a desire for contact with your son, and he and his attorneys confirmed this. But, there is nothing to prevent him from stipulating that he has changed his mind. And, in most cases, the fact that he has waited for five years to ask for visitation rights would be a good point on which to base a countersuit."

I
had been listening to every word spoken by my trusted counsel. "You said, 'in most cases.'  What's different in this case?"

"The difference is that in this case he has an unlimited amount of both money and time to invest in obtaining what he wants
. Don't get me wrong--I'll fight him if you direct me to do so; I'll fight him with everything this firm's got. And, there's a slim chance that we could win, a very slim chance. But, in all probability you will spend a lot of your money fighting him, and in the end he will have his visitation rights, and you and Paul will have a lot less money. And, even if you did win, he could appeal to a higher court, which would incur more expense for you."

He sighed
. "You see, for the support case, I looked closely into Frank's finances. He and his brother keep personal attorneys on retainer. And, he has unlimited funding for any additional legal costs that might be needed."

"I see."
I said.

"But, here
's the most important issue. In the support suit, we had an ace in the hole, because Frank didn't want his brother to find out how your son was conceived or, indeed, anything about the case. He knew his brother would believe your story due to Frank's past history. He just wanted the whole thing to go away, as quickly as possible. We agreed to keep the settlement details sealed and never reveal your accusation of rape or pursue charges in the future. That's how we got you your money in a relatively short period of time. But now, our leverage is gone. To Frank, the settlement amount was small potatoes. But, I've spoken to his attorney, and he tells me that Frank," Goldman spread his hands palm up and shrugged, "for whatever loony reason, has decided he really wants to be close to his son. And, the other thing is Vicky, I don't trust him. Not one bit. We know Frank is the kind of person who is willing to lie and cheat to get what he wants. He's ruthless."

"Yes
. I know he is. But, what could he do?"

"He could manufacture witnesses to testify to your bad moral character out of thin air
. Drug dealers who sell to you. Partners of numerous sexual liaisons. Things like that."

My
heart began to pound in my ears so loudly I could hardly think. "But, I rarely drink, let alone take drugs!" I felt like I was losing control.

"
I
know that Vicky, and
you
know that. But, a judge will look at you as a young woman who had a child out of wedlock and at Frank as a wealthy man from a prominent family. Frank could pay people to testify against you. I'm not saying he would definitely do that, but he could if he wanted to."

I
became very still inside. After a moment, I said, "He's capable of anything."

"Well, there you are
. You could end up having no visitation rights at all. I hate having to tell you all this, but there it is. I have a daughter about your age, and I shudder to think how I would feel if she were in your place. I feel bad for you as a client I have grown fond of."

I
stood and began to pace the room running my fingers through my hair. "But, I don't want him to have visitation rights. I don't want him to have anything to do with Paul. There's something malevolent about Frank. He's rotten inside. He has the smell of death about him. I'll just leave. I'll leave the country."

"Don't talk like that
. Frank has the resources to find you, no matter where you go. And, it would just play right into any scheme he might have of making you look unstable."

He looked into my
eyes. "You need to calm down. Would you like something a little stronger in your coffee?"

"No
. No--okay, yes. I'm going nuts." I returned to the plush leather chair and plopped down in it, covering my face with my hands. This is a nightmare, I thought. How I wish I could go back to yesterday.

Harry
walked over to an ornate, carved, antique Viennese cabinet. He opened one of the doors and took out a bottle of Michael Collin's whiskey. "This is great stuff--goes down like velvet." He poured a generous amount into my latte. "I know this is all a shock for you."

I
nodded. The whiskey soon did its work. Calm spread through my body like a comforting winter fire.

His eyes looked far away, even as he searched
my face. "I do have one thought."

"Yes?"

"You and I know that this man has an infinite capacity for evil. We can't prove it, but we know it. Let's say Frank gets his visitation rights. What will he do?  I say we let him have them, but we have a backup plan. I interviewed Mrs. Black several times for the paternity suit. She seems to be a powerful ally for you. Am I correct?"

"Yes, she always has been
. She's also a good friend."

"Why
don't you ask her to keep an eye on what goes on while Paul's there? That way she can report back to us if there are any irregularities, so to speak?"

I
brightened. "That's a good idea."

After the meeting, I
took the elevator down to the first floor. I pushed through the revolving doors and, once outside, I burst into tears. It all seemed so incongruous. I had always admired the front of this building, with its roman columns and grand staircase. The sun shone with uncharacteristic vigor as a motley combination of the homeless, the well dressed, and the ordinary walked in front of the steps.

The news that I
could not fight Frank's visitation rights seemed like a death to me, and as with any death, it always seemed inconceivable that everything went on as usual. Secretaries and assistants laughed, impossibly handsome young men in business suits took the steps two at a time. People checked their cell phones for texts. As if nothing were wrong. I began sobbing so strenuously I had to sit on the steps; I could no longer see well enough to walk. I dragged a packet of tissues out of my purse.

"Are you all right?"
I looked up to see an elegant woman "of a certain age" standing in front of me, a concerned expression on her face.

"No
. I'm afraid not. I've just had some very bad news."

"Well, you can't just sit here out in the street.
Come on, let's get you up, and we'll go have tea at the Heathman."

It seemed like a harmless suggestion, and she looked very respectable. We
walked down Fifth Street until we reached the Heathman Hotel, where we literally had tea. Not just any tea, the Heathman Hotel's version of High Tea. Cecelia Pratt poured and told me about herself. She was the widow of a man who had descended from one of the most wealthy and influential families on the East Coast. She had been a typist in one of her husband's corporate offices when their romance had developed. He had been entirely smitten with Cecelia. For a brief time after their marriage his father had disinherited him, hoping he would leave his wife, which he never did. Upon her husband's death, she had moved to Oregon, putting a continent between herself and her husband's critical family.

Slowly, in between pastries and innumerable cups of sobering
and warming tea, Cecelia coaxed out the story. Since she had been so honest with me, I found myself in turn revealing the most sordid details of my experiences, including how I discovered I was pregnant and had sued Frank for paternity.

When
I was finally finished, Celia exclaimed, "The dirty
bastard
!" She put such emphasis on the last word that one of the young waiters standing by jumped with a guilty start.

"
You know, I've met Edward Armstrong several times but never this Frank. Although, none of it surprises me--not in the least. Boys will be boys, and the rich and powerful boys are sometimes the lowest of the low. Is there any way that I can help you, dear?" She extended a bejeweled hand and patted my arm.

I
had recovered most of my composure and regained my sense of humor. I smiled. "Well, could you have him killed?"

"Don't say that!  Don't tempt me
."

Finally, we
exchanged cards and parted. I had made a new friend, a very kind and influential friend, who would play a crucial part in the unfolding drama of my life.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Cecelia knew Frank's brother
Edward very well. When Harry, her deceased husband, was alive they had lived in a penthouse apartment in the building next door to the Armstrongs. Edward Armstrong had seldom mentioned his brother Frank, and now that she had learned more about him, Cecelia could well understand his reticence. She knew he always left work to exercise precisely at 5:00 p.m. each day. She dialed his private cell phone number at 5:10. After exchanging a few pleasantries, Cecelia got down to business. She described everything Frank had done, including the rape. And Edward believed her, because Cecelia was well-known for her integrity.

He thanked
her and sighed. As his limousine purred through Midtown Manhattan, he thought to himself of the many times over the years that he had been fooled by Frank's claims of recovery. He had really wanted to believe him this last time. It was clear that Frank would never change. Legal precautions would have to be taken. Arrangements would have to be made. He dialed his corporate lawyer and then his personal lawyer.