Quite Precarious

by Lyla Payne

  I try not to think too hard about the particulars of him being an alcoholic and a truck driver for the majority of his life.

  “I guess I had an attack of conscience,” I hedge. I don’t want to talk about the reasons behind my sudden growth, not even with my sponsor. Not yet.

  Marv’s better at reading people and timing than half the attorneys I go up against in the courtroom. He pauses like he’s waiting for me to say something more, and when I don’t, he plows ahead.

  “That’s normal for this point in your process. We take stock, we make amends, we count our blessings…all of that leads to introspection, and ya know, sometimes we aren’t gonna like what we see when we look too hard.”

  Leave it to Marv to use a word like introspection out of nowhere.

  “I know. Trust me, there’s a lot about me that needs to change, but I think ruining my career would be throwing the baby out with the bathwater.”

  “You’ll figure it out. Remember, take it slow. One day at a time.”

  I nod, closing my eyes for a moment and sucking in a deep breath through my nose.

  The shakes in my hands have settled, and the sweat under my arms and on my forehead has gone cold. I can do this. If there’s one positive aspect of my stubbornness, it will be that I’ll be damned if an inanimate liquid is going to tell me what to do.

  When my eyes struggle open, I find Birdie outside my office giving me her famous death stare. I feel better, regardless, and flash her a one-minute signal with a finger.

  Not the one I’d like to show her, either. Progress.

  I love my sister, but she doesn’t do subtlety. At my acknowledgment, she nods and turns her back on my glass office, giving me a moment of privacy. That is unlike her, but she must want to present the Middletons with a united front.

  “Listen, Marv, thanks for answering. I’ve gotta run.”

  “Anytime, my man. You know that.”

  We hang up and I finish my lemonade, unsure if pretending there’s bourbon in it is a good or a bad thing, but it makes me feel a little better, anyway. Then I wipe my palms on my thighs, put my jacket back on, straighten my tie, and face my sister.

  “Hey, Birdie. Where’ve you been?”

  “Taking care of shit. As usual.” She casts a sidelong glance my direction, squinting the way she does when she’s assessing whether you’re ready for battle. “You look like hell.

  What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” I haven’t told my family about AA, and have no plans to do any such thing. There will be questions about my turning down booze, eventually, but our festive get-togethers are few and far enough between that it will be a while. Plus, everyone else is usually so drunk they probably won’t even notice.

  Birdie’s the only one I see on a regular basis. Even though our dad owns this firm, everyone knows he golfs six days a week and she and I run the place.

  “Are you ready to eat some crow? Because you really stepped on your own dick

  during this whole case.”

  “I’ll do what I have to do to make them happy.” I rethink that statement, and decide to amend it. “As happy as possible.”

  The truth is, Birdie doesn’t have anything to worry about. I promised Amelia that I would stay in the Middletons’ good graces long enough to figure out a way to get her friends off the hook for their fairly big indiscretions. It may not be possible—our clients have plenty of skeletons, but their ancestors spent generations building deep, dark closets to hide them in. Amelia and her pain in the ass cousin are sniffing around the scent, but without proof, they won’t scare the US Senator into submission. He’s got too much practice.

  “Good. Let’s go, then.” Birdie gives me a curt nod, as close as she ever gets to a you can do this or a slap on the ass, and we walk side by side into the conference room.

  Randall and Bette Middleton look pissed off and drunk, respectively, which is par for the course. He makes a living not showing up for votes in Congress, and she mixes so many prescription drugs with booze that she could probably qualify as a chemist in most states. The fading bruise on her cheek suggests their son didn’t come by his temper or his treatment of women by accident. They’re used to getting their way, and more than that, they’re not accustomed to people questioning them—losing the court case thing is bound to sting.

  “Randall, Bette. Thank you for coming in so late. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Yes, well, I imagine you’d both be happier not discussing what happened with the Cooper bitch at all, but that’s not going to happen.”

  My hackles rise at the verbal abuse of Amelia. I try my hardest to keep any reaction off my face but know Birdie feels me tense. She slides a little closer, until the backs of our hands are touching. It’s not an action meant to comfort as much as it is a reminder to keep my cool, and makes me immediately suspicious.

  How would she guess that Amelia is my soft spot?

  “We’re very sorry with the way things turned out with your case, Randall. Brick and I both.” Her hand gives mine the slightest nudge.

  “Very sorry,” I add, too quickly. Chill out. “It’s unfortunate that the cousin was able to uncover certain things you’d rather not have made public. Otherwise, we had them on the ropes.”

  “She’s unfit, that woman. Amelia,” Bette sneers, as though she’d like to spit right on the woman carrying her grandchild. The woman who was almost murdered—along with that same baby—by her insane son. “We have to try again.”

  “You know we can’t.” Randall folds his arms, glaring at the cut-glass tumbler of amber liquid on the table in front of him.

  I lick my lips, almost able to taste it as it numbs my throat, warms my belly.

  “They don’t have proof of anything, and we’ve got leverage with those delinquent friends of hers. You said so,” she hisses, half mad from the drugs, her heels dug in like a traveling vacuum salesman with an eye on carpet stains and one foot in the door.

  “They may not have paperwork to hand over to Congress so they can indict me, but they have plenty enough to stir up trouble on the Internet or the twenty-four-hour news cycle.” His voice pitches low, and soft. A sure warning that she’s probably going to get popped a few more times when they get home.

  I’m guessing that’s why she stays so doped up. Based on her glassy eyes and slurred speech, she probably won’t feel it until tomorrow morning.

  “We don’t think that it’s wise to go after Ms. Cooper again through the courts.” My sister’s tone would soothe a screaming baby, but that’s an easy trick compared to mollifying these two. “The judge was fair in granting you visitation once the child is old enough to be away from home, and with the regular check-ins and required therapy sessions, there’s a good chance Ms. Cooper could screw up on her own.”

  “It’s not enough.” Randall throws back the drink in one gulp, unaware that droplets glisten in his thick, graying mustache. “We’re going to hurt her however we can.”

  “We’re on your side, of course.” I keep my voice even, make eye contact. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Are you on our side? It didn’t seem like it when you were handling our incompetent daughter-in-law with kid gloves and kissy faces,” Bette grumbles.

  My neck feels hot, but even I’m not sure if it’s embarrassment or anger. “I beg your pardon. I fulfilled my contract and my duties on your case to the letter of the law.”

  “We don’t pay you to follow the letter of the law, Brick. We pay you to win. No matter what that means.” Randall glowers my direction, the implications clear.

  I pause, getting myself under control. Birdie doesn’t interrupt or try to bail me out, leaving me to wonder if she’s as interested in my response as they are. Something’s definitely going on with her, but knowing Birdie, it won’t take too long for her to come out with it.

  My heart squeezes. My lungs are flat with the effort of breathing normally and I’m sweating again, this time trying not to punch him in his ugly face.
>
  “I know you do, sir. I can only apologize for my shortcomings on the previous

  proceedings, but if you’d like to tell us how you’d like to proceed going forward, I’m all ears.”

  Birdie relaxes at my side, which must mean the performance was convincing, at least.

  “We want to prosecute the friends to the fullest extent of the law,” he growls in response.

  The news, not unexpected, is still unfortunate. Melanie Gayle and Leo Boone, while nothing but collateral damage to me, are important to Amelia. She and Graciela—that crazy loon—won’t be happy until they’re cleared of the charges against them.

  Charges that are true. Breaking and entering. Theft. Collusion. They did it all, and by all rights and the laws of this country, should pay for it. The United States doesn’t give exceptions for committing crimes against people who damn well deserve it.

  But the Middletons don’t play fair, so why should anyone else?

  I’m still not clear on why I’m doing any of this—getting sober, having a heart, agreeing to try to undercut my clients. Clients who are also longtime family friends, and one of the most powerful families in the country, to boot.

  An image of Amelia Cooper floats into my mind. Her green eyes crinkle at the edges, like she wants to smile but she’s forgotten how, and she toys with the ends of her sunshine-blond hair, uncertain. Scared, like maybe she’ll never remember how to do it again—be happy.

  I know those feelings so intimately they make me ache even now. It’s impossible to say what she means to me. If she means anything, or it’s just my broken soul desperate to reach out and bring someone else toward the light, so I don’t have to go it alone.

  All I know is that since I looked and really saw her for the first time, I feel like the light isn’t impossibly far away.

  “Agreed.” Birdie frowns, an expression meant for me after my lack of response.

  “They’re in the wrong. There’s proof that they violated your rights and we will make sure that no settlement is accepted this time.”

  “It would help us if you could get us a list of anything they might have discovered in those files, or in your home, so that we can cut off any attempt to play hardball.” I clear my throat, ignoring the burning look of suspicion from my sister. “It’s possible that they’ll go after that proof now, and as your attorneys, we can advise you on how best to keep that from happening. Legally, of course.”

  Mr. Middleton snorts. “Yeah, like I’m going to write down my indiscretions in so many words, nice and neat on a piece of paper that could end up in the wrong hands.

  Whose son are you? Because I’m starting to suspect you can’t belong to Brand Drayton.”

  “You don’t have to write it down.” Birdie comes to my aid, surprising me again. “But he’s not wrong. It’s our job to make sure there aren’t any surprises this time, and attorney-client privilege ensures you can trust us.”

  The couple studies us for a long moment from their side of the table. Birdie and I never sat down, ambushed as soon as we walked through the door. Bette looks as though she might be nodding off, then jerks to the side, wide awake.

  “Fine,” Randall says, grudgingly. “We can make arrangements to come in another time after Bette and I have had a chance to talk.”

  They need to decide what to tell us about, or maybe what exactly could be garnered from those files or from their homes. They don’t know about the ex-employees the girls and Will talked to a few weeks ago, since they never had to fire that weapon in the trial, so they may not admit to those skeletons. The ones we need the most.

  Still, this is good. I smile at the bastards and ignore the nervous waves washing off Birdie in the form of picked cuticles and a too-big smile.

  Tell me everything, I think . Something in there will be exactly what Amelia and Graciela need to bring you down for good. The whole country will be better for it.

  Chapter Three

  Lindsay

  I thought I understood exhaustion when Marcella was an infant and I was alone. Alone for the feedings, the colic, the endless diapers and sleepless nights. Then there came prison, and the long hours of staying up, listening for every little sound that could mean someone coming for me with a shiv. Or worse.

  Turns out, all of that pales in comparison with worrying about your sweetest brother twenty-four hours a day.

  Leo is the only person who stood by me through everything—the pregnancy, the

  drugs, the worse stuff. Prison. The rest of the family has cut him off for his trouble, too.

  At least, I think that’s how it went down. Knowing Leo and his rigid ideas of right and wrong, it’s probably as likely that he’s the one who stopped talking to them.

  But now he’s the one in trouble. He’s the one who had a bullet dug out of his chest and then was led out of the hospital bed in handcuffs a few days later—all because of his blind devotion to Heron Creek’s prodigal daughter.

  I know Graciela Harper can’t be held responsible. It’s not even fair to accuse her of taking advantage of Leo, because she’s always been too dense to pick up on his feelings, but she’s easy to blame. She’s a loon, always has been even before she started seeing ghosts, and has spent more than half a lifetime torturing my brother, knowingly or not.

  I sigh, punching in the last of the lunch orders and checking the time on the machine.

  We have a meeting with his lawyer in an hour, and getting all of my sidework done and checked out by my power-drunk boss is going to present a challenge. Waiting tables isn’t a bad job, and it pays decent money for a woman with no other skills and jail time on her résumé. I sincerely hope that it’s not the only work in my future, however, because dealing with the public every day, every week, every month will be the thing that lands my butt back in the big house, for sure.

  And doing that to Marcella, to Leo, again isn’t an option. It can’t be.

  I keep my head down as I finish my last table, clean my section and refill all of the little sugar caddies and salt and pepper shakers. Wipe the laminated drinks and specials cards. Suffer through my least favorite sidework—cleaning the tea and coffee machines.

  Do my best impression of a sullen teenager while my boss runs fat fingers over the

  menus, sniffs the insides of the coffee pots, and holds my sugar caddies upside down trying his best to dislodge them.

  When he finds nothing to complain about, I check out and shrug into my coat, opening an umbrella to ward off the cold rain that’s dotting the sidewalk with wet splotches. The lawyer is meeting us at Leo’s house, which is nice because we don’t have to get someone to watch Marcella, but bad, because it means Marcella is going to have questions.

  That poor girl. I mean, I’m living proof that a person can turn out a bad egg even with a decent start in life. That the opposite can also be true is the only thing that gets me out of bed in the morning. She has to be okay. She’s smarter than I ever was, that’s for sure.

  Except for her strange, unwavering affection for Gracie.

  It takes me twenty minutes to make the drive from touristy Driftwood to Heron Creek.

  The sprinkles continue, but by the looks of the dark, ominous sky, the storm is going to get worse, and soon.

  I love storms. It’s an excuse to curl up under a blanket with a hot drink, maybe a fire if Leo stacked the wood on the back porch like I asked him to last week. We don’t get the opportunity for nights like this one very often, not in coastal South Carolina. With the lawyer coming over and Marcella to distract, not to mention the worries weighing down my limbs, the relaxing portion of the evening may be a pipe dream.

  Leo’s car sits in the driveway. I let out a relieved breath that he’s where he’s supposed to be, which means he’s picked up Marcella. I try hard not to show my relief when my brother is where he’s supposed to be, since he did a fine job taking care of my daughter the couple of years I was away, but the worry never goes away.

  “Hey,” I say, dropping my purse
and kicking off my orthopedic shoes on the tiled entryway. “Where’s Marcella?”

  “In her room. I bought her a new book and she’s reading it herself even though I promised we could read it together at bedtime.” Leo gives me a half-hearted smile. We both know Marcie can’t read yet, not really, but she pretends with the best of them.

  One of my brother’s arms is in a sling, pinned to his chest to help his bullet wound recover from surgery. He looks tired, with dark rings around his eyes and hair that could use a wash—he probably needs help, with one arm. Guilt washes over me, pinching my stomach with nausea. I should have thought about that and offered this morning.

  We only have each other. I need to be better about being there for him now that I can.

  “Do I have time to rinse the fryer-grease stink off me and change clothes before the lawyer gets here?” I pause, trying to remember. “What’s his name again?”

  “Her name is Leatrice, and you have twenty minutes.”

  “I’m on it.” There won’t be time to wash my hair, but the rest is possible. I peek into Marcie’s bedroom and smile at the sight of her snuggled under a blanket with a book, living out my recent stormy evening fantasy. “Hey, chickpea.”

  “Mommy!” She grins, her silky black pigtails bouncing around her chin as she scurries off the bed and into my arms. The scent of her, all clean shampoo and baby skin, warms my heart. She makes the day easier, even with what’s still to come.

  “How was your day?” I ask, after kissing the top of her head and she’s gone

  scrambling back to her comfy spot on the bed.

  “Good. We learned about weather.”

  “You did?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Her tongue pokes out the side of her mouth as she goes back to her

  book. I love that me coming home rates as a normal afternoon. That she’s feeling secure about me being here later when she’s done with her book and ready to chat.

  The normalcy we’re building makes me smile.

  “I’m going to take a quick shower, then Uncle Leo and I have a meeting in the