The Stone Necklace

by Carla Damron

  “Five weeks?” Abby jerked forward. “What the hell happened?”

  “My life got hijacked.” She had never said it like that but it was how she felt. One moment life was a new adventure. The next, a struggle for air.

  “Royce found the lump,” she said. “I hadn’t been good about self-exams and Mitch—there wasn’t much intimacy there. Royce insisted I get a mammogram and I had no intention to argue, it scared me to death. Dr. Jordan got me in the next morning, followed by the biopsy. And then I was summoned to his office.”

  It had rained again. One of those dark, engorged days, the sky roiling with clouds and then the heavens opened up. She couldn’t find a place to park and didn’t have an umbrella so she arrived at Dr. Jordan’s waiting room drenched and terrified. “When I got to the appointment, Mitch was there. Dr. Jordan had called him, too.”

  He’d accompanied her to Brad Jordan’s office. She remembered little of their conversation after the word “cancer” started ricocheting in her brain. She watched as Mitch took notes, asked questions, looked at the films that showed the mass like a white spider spreading inside her. Mitch took her hand and squeezed it. “It will be alright, Lena,” he said, as if that were true.

  Brad’s nurse handed her a bunch of instructions and appointment slips saying where she would see the oncologist. Her numb fingers tried to grip the papers but they fluttered to the floor and Mitch gathered them up, slipping them into his appointment book. “I’ll make sure she gets where she needs to,” he said.

  “Mitch drove me home,” she said to Abby. “Not the apartment, but our house. He made me a cup of tea. My hand shook so hard I broke a cup.”

  “Are you going to tell the boys? Becca?” he had asked.

  “I suppose.” How would she, though? How would she say aloud, “I have cancer,” to her youngest? She’d have to practice letting that word into her vocabulary.

  “What about Royce?” Abby asked.

  “Later I called, left a message on his cell that I needed to talk. That was one of many messages Royce didn’t return. He told me later—much later—that he couldn’t handle it.”

  “What a cowardly son of a bitch,” Abby said, her voice venomous. “The least he could have done is offered you some support.”

  Lena smiled over the wine glass. Her big sister, defending her.

  “Right before the surgery, I drove by the art studio and saw his van. Just parked there, like it always was. I wanted to throw up. I couldn’t make myself go inside.” His rejection had hurt as much as the cancer.

  “You never got to say goodbye.”

  “Not then. But the other day. He called, wanted to see me, so we met for coffee.”

  “How’d that go?”

  She shrugged. “I guess it answered some questions. But I’m not the person I was when I was with him. Not anymore.”

  Abby took a sip of wine and lowered it to the table. “It’s weird to say this, but I’m grateful to Royce. He found the lump. If he hadn’t . . .”

  “I might not be here.”

  “That scares the hell out of me,” Abby said.

  It didn’t scare Lena, not anymore. Had she died from the cancer, she wouldn’t be living the nightmare of losing Mitch.

  “I’m also grateful to Royce for waking you up. Hell, I’m even glad you had good sex. That may sound crass but you know me,” Abby said.

  Lena lifted her brows.

  “What matters is that you and Mitch survived the affair. Things were good between you at the end, right?”

  “Cancer changed everything. All I wanted was home. And Mitch was always, always home to me.” But it wasn’t as simple as that. She had seen something new in Mitch, blooming like that stubborn foxglove in the yard. He looked at her differently, studied her face like it was uncharted land. Touched her with more gentleness, fingers skimming her skin like a breath, asking her, “Does this feel okay?” and listening, really listening, when she said, “There, that’s where I like it.”

  “And now you’ve lost home,” Abby said. “I’m so sorry, Le-Le.”

  “It’s worse than that. Everything—every little thing—is wrong in my life.” She stared into the fire, yellow ribbons of shifting light.

  “It will get better,” Abby said.

  “You don’t know that. I sure as hell don’t.” A black knot of rage gripped her.

  “No, I suppose I don’t.”

  “Becca lived through all of it,” Lena continued. “First the separation, then I came back and we had the cancer to deal with. She got lost and I didn’t notice.”

  “Is that why she’s so angry?”

  “I think for her, the wrong parent died.”

  “She needs her mother. She may not know it but she does.”

  “Yes,” Lena answered. Her most important job was to be Becca’s mother. To get her well again.

  “I want to help you with her. For as long as I’m here,” Abby said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Besides, it’ll be good practice for when I get Esteban.”

  “How long can you stay?” Lena realized how much she didn’t want Abby to leave. She’d come to expect Abby’s clomping footsteps through the house, her booming voice filling every room, even the smell of burned coffee.

  “Glad you’re not ready to be rid of me.” Abby lifted her glass. “I’m meeting with the lawyer again tomorrow. We’ll see what he says.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Tonya, dressed once more in her warrior suit, sat at her desk proofing the deposition she’d found in her email inbox. Heeding Ruth’s advice, she had printed them out to edit, red pencil sharpened to a perfect point. The document had many errors and some of the statements made by the witness, as recorded, made not a lick of sense. She dreaded having to go back to the recordings but saw no other option if she was to prove to Ruth she did, in fact, have “an eye for details.”

  Her cell phone rang. She knew from the “Need You Now” ringtone it was John. She did not want another argument like this morning, when he showed her a flyer for a fancy new Toyota he wanted to buy with the money they’d get from the Hastings. He’d been to the car dealer without Tonya, and got huffy when she mentioned another minivan would suit her better. Maybe he was calling to apologize.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “The Nissan Rogue,” he said. “That’s the car for us. I just test drove one. Smooth as satin.”

  “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

  “I’m going in late. Honestly, the way things are going, maybe I should just quit. The more time I’m there the more depressed I feel.”

  “Quit and do what?”

  “Maybe take a few months off to get my head together. Once we get the settlement money, maybe I can start my own firm. I’d be the boss, I wouldn’t have to put up with crap from anyone else.”

  Settlement money. Like it was his to spend. “We’ll talk about it when I get home.” She clicked off.

  Marion was on the phone, too, with Dan-the-Man. He’d called twice and it wasn’t even ten o’clock. Just as she hung up the phone, Janet rushed into the room, her blond hair hanging like drapes around her face. She had on a black shrug over a teal dress; her boobs bulged like pale jellyfish over the top. “Is Arthur—I mean, Mr. Jamison—available?”

  “He’s talking to a client,” Tonya said. Behind Janet, Marion cupped her own breasts and jiggled them.

  “I was supposed to get this to him.” Janet wagged a file at her. Janet’s nails were bright cherry red, like her lipstick.

  “You can leave it with me if you’d like,” Tonya said.

  “The thing is—this is confidential,” Janet said.

  “Much of his correspondence is.” Tonya faked a smile. They worked in a law firm; confidentiality came with the territory. “I’ll put it right in his hands.”

  Marion straightened her back and tugged down the neckline of her cotton sweater, flashing a lacy pink bra, just as Ruth entered from the door behind her.

  “Ruth!” Tonya
hurried to snatch her attention. “Janet has a confidential file for Mr. Jamison.”

  Ruth approached her desk, her movements smooth and contained. Ruth always glided into a room like she was on invisible skates. She wore a brown suit, cream top buttoned to her chin, dark hair clipped back, every strand in place. Marion smoothed down her sweater and pretended to start on her inbox.

  “He wanted me to give it to him.” Janet emphasized the “me” as she held up the file. After Ruth regarded her for a moment, she grabbed the folder from Janet’s hand and shoved it in Mr. Jamison’s mailbox. Without a word, she exited.

  “Guess that settles that,” Marion said.

  Janet flipped her hair back as she walked out.

  “Things might get interesting around here.” Marion peeled the wrapper from a fun-size Snickers bar. By the end of the day, she’d eat twelve of them and then marvel at the empty bag.

  “What do you mean?” Tonya asked.

  “Turf fight between the old bitch and the new bitch. We should sell tickets.” She held up another piece of candy, offering it to Tonya. Tonya shook her head.

  “I think Ruth can handle Janet.”

  “Did you hear Janet call him ‘Arthur’?” Marion asked. “Think maybe they’ve got a thing going on?”

  “No!” Tonya clutched her collar as disturbing images of a naked, turkey-necked Arthur Jamison and an ample-breasted Janet Price flooded her brain.

  “I wouldn’t put it past Janet. Maybe that’s how she got the raise.”

  Tonya looked over at the closed door to Mr. Jamison’s office. At last year’s Christmas party she’d met his wife, Joy, a plump, smiley woman with a strand of pearls hanging over her olive green dress. She carried a small album of grandchildren photos in her purse and showed them to Tonya with obvious pride. Mr. Jamison kept Joy’s picture behind his desk.

  “I don’t think Ruthless is too pleased about Janet’s little raise. Makes me want to rethink my whole push-up bra plan.” Marion looked down at her breasts; the lacy pink number must have been new.

  Tonya said, “It seemed to work on Mr. J.”

  “Maybe. But do you think he’s the most powerful person in this office? Think about it. Who actually rules this roost?”

  She had a point. Mr. Jamison solicited Ruth’s opinion on most things. His partner, Mr. Patel, depended on Ruth to keep the entire firm running like a machine. Ruth might not make all the major decisions, but she was in on the discussion. Without her, the place would grind to a halt.

  Tonya glanced down at her warrior outfit. Ruth wouldn’t wear such a bold color, though Janet might. Tonya might have to rethink her wardrobe.

  TWO HOURS LATER, Tonya adjusted the ear buds that were plugged into the digital recorder, pressed rewind, and listened again to what the witness had said. His voice wasn’t pleasant though it was expressive, climbing up and down the scale as he defended his defunct factory that had sickened some of its workers. Mr. Patel, the senior law partner, loved litigation like this.

  Tonya had spent two hours going over the witness statement and comparing it to the typed deposition. It had been tedious, boring, and productive. She struck through two lines of testimony, inserted her comments, and clicked off the machine. It was time to take her findings to Ruth.

  Five minutes later, she stood in the doorway to Ruth’s office, her mouth tasting minty because she had just brushed her teeth. Something about visiting Ruth’s lair prompted good oral hygiene.

  “Ruth? Got a second?” Tonya wished she didn’t sound so hesitant. Janet never did. Even if Janet was flat-out wrong about something, she talked with complete confidence.

  Ruth looked up from the computer, regarding her for a long moment. “Is there a problem?”

  “Uhm. I think so.” She cursed herself. Ruth hated indecision. What Ruth loved about the law, she often claimed, was that there was so little vague about it. She liked a world of black and white.

  “You think so?” Her drawn eyebrows shot up her forehead.

  Tonya straightened, pulling her shoulders back, forcing herself to meet Ruth’s eye. She held up the stack of papers and gestured at the chair beside her. “Can I sit?”

  Ruth nodded, clicking off the file she had been working on. Tonya cleared her throat. What if she was wrong? No, she wasn’t. She had checked three times.

  “I was reviewing the depositions from yesterday,” she began. “You know, you told me to print them before editing and I did that. I saw something I wanted to show you.”

  “You found a typing error?” Ruth asked.

  “No. Well, I thought it was at first. See, here on page seven, Mr. Patel asks the witness about the amount of money in the foreign accounts. Mr. Wagner—that’s the witness—says he has seventy-three thousand dollars.”

  Ruth nodded. “We’re suing him for unsafe labor practices. We have two plaintiffs suffering from COPD after asbestos exposure. The plant has closed, of course.”

  “Yes.” Tonya flipped through the pages. “Only here, when Mr. Patel references the money again, Mr. Wagner says, ‘the free seventy three is not accessible to me.’ I read that over and over because it didn’t make any sense.”

  Ruth looked at the blue-highlighted text. “It is strange. But a deposition can be stressful on the person being questioned. People sometimes stumble over their words.”

  Tonya flipped back through the pages. “I found other errors on this transcript, so I thought maybe Janet had typed the wrong word or something.”

  “Janet? Janet did the deposition?”

  Tonya nodded. “Mr. Wagner talked very fast. I could see how she might—”

  Ruth waved a hand, dismissing the excuse. “Go on.”

  “I listened to the recordings of the deposition to make the corrections.” She was proud of this proof that she was “going the extra mile,” like Dr. Allaway would have done.

  Tonya said, “Mr. Wagner didn’t say ‘free seventy-three’, he said ‘three seventy-three.’”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Definitely. He changed what he said was the amount of his overseas account by three hundred thousand. He sort of stuttered after that, shifting to a discussion of the value of the plant itself, which he says will never sell because of the asbestos. I think he was trying to cover up what he’d divulged.”

  Ruth snatched up the pages, comparing the text that Tonya had highlighted with a pale blue marker. “Well damn,” Ruth said.

  Tonya had never heard her curse before. She suppressed a smile, eager to tell Marion.

  “You know what this means?” Ruth asked.

  “That Mr. Wagner is hiding assets. I guess that’s easier to do if you keep money overseas.”

  “It is. But since we know it’s there, we’ll just have to dig a little more.” She straightened the sheets of paper. “This is great work, Tonya.”

  Tonya blinked, embarrassed by the praise from such an unlikely source. Ruth must have noticed because she actually smiled at her.

  “I mean it. You found a problem and then you researched it. That’s taking an extra step. I haven’t seen you do something like that before.” Ruth watched her like a cat eyeing a lizard. Curious for now, but capable of pouncing. “Want to explain this change in you?”

  Tonya smoothed her skirt and tried to summon courage. Ruth could advise her about her situation. Or, Ruth could decide she was a moron for getting herself into it. She looked at the clean surface of Ruth’s desk, the arranged folders on the credenza behind her. The lone photograph of a groomed poodle in the window sill. Ruth’s life lacked the clutter that Tonya’s had.

  “The wreck. It’s made me re-evaluate some things. I want to put more focus on my career.”

  Ruth steepled her fingers, trim pale tips clicking together. “Your career as an administrative assistant?”

  “No. I want to become a paralegal.” There, she’d said it. She sucked in a deep breath and continued: “Janet was able to work and go to school, so I think I can do that, too. I want to have more chall
enging assignments. I want to know I can provide for my little boy and give him a home and save for his college even if I’m on my own, even if I don’t take the money from the lawsuit. I want . . .” Oh hell. Why had she said all that? Once the words started coming out she couldn’t seem to stop them, and now they lay splattered across Ruth’s pristine desk.

  Ruth rocked back in the chair, narrowing her eyes, and Tonya had a panicked thought of rushing from her office, maybe even hiding under her own desk. She didn’t though. They sat in a cool, unsettling silence, except for the steady ding of emails coming into Ruth’s computer.

  Tonya drew a deep breath, felt her lungs push against her ribs, and released it like Dr. Allaway had taught her to do. She said, “I’m sorry, Ruth. What I meant to say is, I think I have more I can offer this firm. And I’m hoping that with your help, I can prove it.”

  SANDY TOOK A SIP OF iced tea and grimaced as Sean placed the seven wooden tiles on the board, the first covering the “triple word score” square: b-r-a-i-n-e-d.

  “Brain is a verb?” Sandy asked, shuffling her own scrabble letters on the rack. Sarah McLachlan’s voice poured like warm honey through the stereo speakers. They used to listen to Lady Gaga when they played, but that put them in a partying mood.

  “Look it up!” Sean tossed her the dictionary. Miss Saigon hopped up on the coffee table, causing it to quake, letters nearly bouncing out of the plastic ridges.

  “I could brain you for scoring that high,” Sandy said. “Guess it is a verb.”

  This was a more sedate Scrabble game than they were used to, since they’d had to forgo the “hit of tequila for every double or triple word scored” rule. Sandy gripped the sweating tumbler of sweet tea.

  Miss Saigon batted at the letter “B” until she loosened it from the board and flipped it off the table.

  “Rained. Only twenty-eight points. Thanks, Miss Saigon.”

  “A conspiracy of females.” Sean replaced the letter and scooped up the beast. “Glad y’all are getting along better.”

  “I’ve grown to admire Miss Saigon. She’s got herself a perfect little life here in my house.”