The Oysterville Sewing Circle

by Susan Wiggs

  Her friends and family filled the courtroom. Addie and Flick went with her parents, and she and her lawyer took a seat at the table. She darted a glance at the other side. There was Mick, with a fresh haircut and conservative suit, flanked by a team of lawyers and the ever-present Rilla, anxious as a mouse sniffing the air.

  Everyone rose as the judge entered. Theresa had said she couldn’t predict what Judge Rudolph would make of the situation. He had a reputation for being impatient and conservative, which might or might not work in Caroline’s favor. He had not been the presiding judge in the initial adoption proceeding, and that, Theresa admitted, was not ideal.

  “I’m not fond of surprises,” the judge said. “And I don’t like sloppiness, particularly in a case like this involving young children. This adoption was presented as a clean and unencumbered case. And now we have Mr. Taylor, seeking to assert his parental rights to Francis and Adeline Baptiste. Is that correct, Mr. Taylor?”

  Mick glanced at his lawyer, then said, “It is. Yes, that’s correct.”

  “And on the other hand, we have Ms. Shelby, the children’s guardian, who wishes to become their adoptive parent?” Rudolph looked at Caroline.

  “Yes, Your Honor. I’ve been their full-time guardian since their mother passed away last year, and—”

  “I’ve read your statement,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I’m going to assign a guardian ad litem to be the children’s advocate, because the heart of the matter is the well-being of the children. I’ll hear from both sides, but I’m not likely to render a decision today.”

  Mick scribbled a note to his lawyer in a rapid, impatient swipe of the pen.

  One of his lawyers stood and folded her hands demurely. She wore Mrs. Claus–style wire glasses and her white hair was neatly coiffed. Her smile was sweet and just a little naive. Caroline had no doubt she had the instincts of a barracuda.

  “As the DNA test shows unequivocally, Your Honor, Michael Taylor is the natural father of Adeline and Francis, and he has not relinquished his parental rights. This man founded a fashion empire, and he has the resources and the heart to give them a safe and happy home.”

  Theresa got to her feet. “Your Honor, Mr. Taylor has never acknowledged the children’s existence or given these children support of any kind—”

  “Because the mother kept them from him,” said one of Mick’s lawyers. “Sadly, Angelique Baptiste was a terrible addict. She was also an undocumented alien, as are the children. Their status is questionable—”

  “Your Honor.” Theresa shot up again. “The very fact that Mr. Taylor would allow his representative to speak this way in front of the children indicates how little regard he has for their well-being.”

  Caroline’s mother was already leaving the courtroom with the children. She paused at the door, spoke briefly with the bailiff, and headed outside.

  When asked why he never offered to support the children, Mick claimed he had never met them and didn’t know their ages. He claimed Angelique was promiscuous, with a reputation for taking up with multiple partners.

  “Given these claims,” Theresa interjected, “how would Mr. Taylor guess he’s the father?”

  Mick’s lawyer was clearly prepared for this. “He saw their picture in a feature article boasting about Ms. Shelby’s newfound career success. The resemblance is quite remarkable, don’t you think?”

  Caroline felt as if she might explode. She’d set this in motion when Orson had published a piece, complete with photos, about C-Shell and her life on the peninsula.

  She was burning to point the finger at Mick and expose him as a violent, abusive man. Her lawyer wouldn’t go there. They had nothing but hearsay. The judge was required to rule on the facts, and Mick’s team would rip the story to shreds.

  Theresa did have access to several indisputable facts, however. “Based on the date of Francis’s birth, we know that Angelique was seventeen when her son was born. This means she was sixteen when Mr. Taylor impregnated her. And just seventeen when he fathered her second child. The age of consent in Haiti is eighteen, so Mr. Taylor committed statutory rape.”

  “Your Honor, this is character assassination,” said Mick’s grandmotherly lawyer. With mild-mannered sweetness, the woman explained that, during a high-fashion shoot on a Haitian beach, Angelique had told Mick she was nineteen, and they fell in love and had an affair. But Angelique had an unfortunately promiscuous nature. When she arrived in New York City with her young children, everyone thought the father was someone back in her native Haiti.

  It wasn’t enough to destroy Angelique’s reputation. Caroline soon learned the reason Rilla Stein had come. “Ms. Shelby was employed under contract to Mr. Taylor,” Rilla explained to the judge. “The association ended badly when she copied his designs and tried to pass them off as her own.”

  The words thundered in Caroline’s ears. She felt a wave of nausea.

  Across the aisle, Mick portrayed himself as the wounded but magnanimous victor. Caroline saw herself depicted as a petty, vengeful underling who had copied designs from her former boss and sought to punish him by absconding with his children.

  “There are some troubling aspects to this situation,” said the judge. “However, the state has a duty to honor the natural parent . . .”

  The gavel came up. Hovered. Theresa’s phone screen lit with a silent alert. She quickly stood. “A moment, Your Honor. My colleague is here with additional information.”

  “Did you not hear me, Ms. Bond? I don’t like surprises.”

  “It’s—I do understand, and I apologize.” Theresa spoke slowly, as if trying to cause a delay. “I can’t apologize enough.”

  Mick’s attorney clearly recognized the ploy. The grandmotherly one also stood. “Please, Your Honor, this is simply a—”

  The door at the rear of the courtroom swished open, offering a glimpse of eager reporters and curiosity seekers. Willow slipped inside and hurried over to Theresa, handing her a folder. With an impatient gesture of his hand, the judge took the folder from the clerk and scanned the documents. A moment later, he regarded the attorneys with a face made of stone. “In my chambers at once,” he said. “We’ll take a half-hour recess.”

  Caroline teetered on the verge of a panic attack. She slipped out a side door of the courtroom and took refuge in a nearby conference room, dim and close and full of shadows. Turning toward the window, she pressed her hands against her midsection and tried to regulate her breathing. She was going to lose her kids. The judge was going to give them to the man who beat their mother. Already she was plotting ways to flee with Addie and Flick, to go into hiding, to—

  Someone else came into the conference room. She turned and found herself face-to-face with Mick.

  A rod of cold steel stiffened her spine. She glared at him. “What do you want?”

  “The judge called a recess,” Mick said. “Figured I’d wait here.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” she snapped. “I mean, what do you want? What’s your ask? You don’t want these kids.”

  “I warned you back in New York—walk away from Eau Sauvage. Admit you lied when you accused me of hitting Angelique.”

  “Forget it. I don’t bargain with bullies.”

  “Then you’d better introduce those kids to their new daddy.”

  A chill crawled over her skin. “Seriously—what will make you go away?”

  “Everything all right in here?” Will appeared in the doorway, his gaze locked onto Caroline.

  “Who are you?” Mick blustered with bravado. “This is a private conversation. Get the hell out.”

  “Oh, buddy.” Will spoke softly. His stance was relaxed, yet his voice thrummed with menace. “You do not want to fuck with me.”

  Caroline had no doubt that Will could go full-on Navy SEAL in the blink of an eye.

  Which would be gratifying. But not helpful.

  “Mick is going to surrender his parental rights,” she said, fixing him with an unwavering stare.

>   He glared back at her. “I told you what I want. Take it or leave it.”

  She felt a spike of panic. If she allowed the tentative deal with Eau Sauvage to fall apart, C-Shell Rainwear would sink like a stone. Far worse, if she failed to report the part about him being an abuser, it would betray everything the Oysterville Sewing Circle stood for—believing women, making them feel seen and heard.

  He narrowed his eyes and repeated, “Take it or leave it.”

  He wanted her to surrender her reputation to save his. He wanted to destroy her integrity along with everything she had built—her business, her livelihood, the chance to help the women who had helped her build C-Shell. He wanted to strip her of everything, the way he had before, when he’d stolen her designs. He was suggesting that the way to keep the children was to excuse the actions of a violent sexual predator who had victimized Angelique and set off the chain of events that had led to her death.

  Go fuck yourself. That was what she wanted to say to him. To this smug, sexist, misogynistic man. This man who had violated her by taking her power from her.

  Then she thought of Addie, peeing herself at the very sight of Mick. She could speak out and risk losing the children, or make a deal right here and now. It was a horrible, wrenching dilemma, choosing safety while bottling up what she knew to be true.

  She looked at Will, then back at Mick. “Get your lawyers in here. We’re settling this now.”

  Caroline couldn’t breathe. Will brought her outside the courthouse, finding a private area facing Willapa Bay and its surrounding marshes, spiked with forested atolls and abandoned docks. She pressed herself against the pale yellow stone of the building, trying to catch her breath.

  “I have to settle,” she said to Will, nearly choking on her own words. “I have to do whatever it takes to protect my kids.”

  He put his arms around her and she pressed her cheek against his chest. “Easy, baby. You’re not going to lose them,” he murmured.

  “My lawyer said no judge would ever take away the rights of the natural parent just because he steals designs and he’s unethical. She said bringing up the abuse would work against me because it’s nothing more than hearsay.” Her throat was clogged with bitterness.

  “We’ll fix this,” Will said. “We’ll find a way.”

  “What way? The judge has to rule on the facts. In order to make Mick back off, I have to annihilate my own career and deny what I know he did to Angelique. But when it comes to Flick and Addie, I’m willing to throw myself under a speeding bus.”

  “The guy isn’t interested in those kids,” Will said.

  “You’re absolutely right. Mick Taylor doesn’t want to be a parent. That was never his goal. I ought to call his bluff. I could say, ‘Take them, they’re yours, good luck.’” She pulled back and looked up at Will, drawing strength from his steady gaze. “There’s no way I’d ever do that to my kids. I’d never use my children to make a deal. Because in every way that matters, they’re my children. My family. They’re not bargaining chips on the negotiating table.”

  If her business, her career, her reputation had to go down in flames, so be it. The old Caroline would never tear down everything she’d built, the idealized trust and belief. But she wasn’t that person anymore. She was a mother.

  There were few things, she’d learned, more precious than one’s integrity, but one of them was surely the need to love and protect a child.

  Leaving Will’s embrace, she found her mother with Addie and Flick in the courthouse garden. Gathering them into her arms, she held them close.

  “You’re my kids. You’re mine forever,” she told them. “You’re safe. You’ll always, always be safe.”

  “Can we go home now?” asked Flick.

  Virginia rushed over to her. “Caroline—you need to come back to the courtroom.”

  Caroline couldn’t look at anyone as she approached the long table where Theresa and now Willow sat. We had a deal, she thought, her pulse leaping into overdrive. Our lawyers were supposed to make a deal.

  A third attorney joined them at the table. To Caroline’s shock, it was Aisha Franklin, an advocacy lawyer she’d met at the meeting in Atlanta.

  “What’s going on?” Caroline whispered, wavering between hope and fear.

  Willow touched her arm. “Be still. You’ll find out soon enough.”

  There was a wave of silence as the judge returned to the bench. Aisha handed a dossier to Theresa, who approached him along with Mick’s lawyer.

  “Your Honor, I would like to submit this exhibit reciting facts pertinent to this proceeding. These are sworn statements made under oath.” She placed one of the dossiers in front of Mick’s attorney and gave the other to the clerk for the judge. “These are from individuals who have direct knowledge of Michael Taylor’s history of violence toward women. There were witnesses who saw him treating Angelique Baptiste in an abusive manner. And there are also others who suffered abuse from him.”

  “Your Honor,” Mick’s lawyer said, “you yourself said you don’t like surprises.”

  Caroline clutched Willow’s arm. “Isn’t it too late to submit these statements?”

  “This is a hearing, not a trial,” Willow reminded her in a low whisper. “It’s up to the judge.”

  There was a stir in the back of the courtroom. The judge picked up his gavel and barked an order at the bailiff. Several women entered through the double doors. Caroline recognized models and junior designers she’d met in New York, the ones she and Daria had asked to come forward. They’d demurred, afraid and vulnerable, and Caroline had given up trying to convince them. Now they were here, appearing like a tidal wave through open floodgates.

  Despite the judge’s hammering gavel and shouted dismissal, a babble arose in the room.

  “This is bullshit,” Mick said, coming up out of his seat as if on fire. “A goddamn witch hunt.”

  His lawyers and entourage surrounded him, clearly trying to minimize the damage by hustling him away.

  “The hunt is over,” Willow said to Mick as he passed by. “We’ve found the witch.”

  Caroline turned to Willow and Aisha. “What just happened?”

  “It’s still happening. Let’s go.”

  Mick’s accusers had gathered in the domed entryway and on the courthouse steps, talking to the media and pointing the finger at Mick. Holding up cell phone pictures and giving interviews. Women’s voices echoed off the marble walls, and the historic rotunda echoed with the powerful sound of triumph. They spoke of pressure and intimidation, of coercion and threats, economic abuse.

  Caroline grabbed Willow’s arm to steady herself. Humility and relief nearly overwhelmed her, washing away the agonizing bitterness of staying silent. “How did everyone get here?” she asked. “Did you know about this?”

  “I’ve made it my mission since our trip to New York. Even though they were reluctant to talk about their experience, we persisted and finally persuaded these six. Your friend Daria was instrumental. She said that now that she has a daughter, she can’t let something like this go. And the Sisterhood in Atlanta funded us. The sworn statements are powerful, Caroline. Affidavits. Pictures and videos. At least two women are filing criminal charges. Mick’s got much bigger problems than claiming custody. I don’t think you need to worry about him being willing to sign away his paternal rights now.”

  Caroline couldn’t believe it. She should, though, because one thing she had learned from the Sewing Circle was the power in a group of women determined to tell the truth.

  “Thank you,” she said. “That sounds so inadequate—”

  “Don’t thank us. You started this, Caroline. Now go find your kids.”

  Chapter 31

  Caroline sat propped against a bank of pillows in Will’s bed, poring over the lengthy investigative article that had come out in the national press with the headline the takedown of a fashion empire.

  Early-morning sunlight tracked across the floor. Will had gone to let the dog out for a
run, and now he returned with two mugs of coffee. There was nothing quite like the sight of a shirtless man bearing coffee first thing in the morning.

  “Bless you,” she whispered, warming her hands around the cup and taking her first sip.

  He settled in next to her. “How is it?”

  “Delicious,” she said, taking another sip.

  “The article, I mean.”

  She turned the magazine so he could see. The main image was a dramatic shot of the neo-Gothic courthouse surrounded by six harshly lit, glowering models, looking like a predator’s worst nightmare. The exposé had been written by Becky Barrow. Caroline had met her as Orson Maynard’s intern. Now she was a star reporter, making a name for herself by exposing exploitation in the fashion industry.

  Caroline laid the magazine open so they could both look. “Hard to read,” she said. “It’s horrible to think about what he did, what he got away with for so long. I’m glad it’s over now, but I hate that it happened. And to so many.”

  In addition to the women who had shown up at the courthouse, there were others, more than she’d imagined—models and assistants and interns and underlings who were initially dazzled by Mick’s affable manner and talent, and later in private discovered his violent nature. They described his abuse in painstaking detail. They stepped out of the shadows with stories of wild parties, bullying, sexual assault.

  Mick Taylor was swept out to sea like so many other men who had used their status and power to prey upon women. And like those men, he would soon be washed into the depths of obscurity. Initially he’d attempted to shrug off the accusations. Then, with a non-apology to “those who may feel wronged by me,” he headed to rehab in Sedona. As the storm against him gathered force, he was deserted by all his famous friends. His brand collapsed like a house of cards in the wind. The mounting evidence made it clear that he was facing a barrage of civil suits from his victims, along with criminal charges and prison time. As Willow had predicted, he had willingly surrendered his paternal rights to Addie and Flick.