But Poppy wasn’t thinking about physical evidence. She was worried about the emotional impact on a fourteen-year-old child having her biological mother suddenly reenter her life. That was heavy enough under normal circumstances, but Heather wasn’t just any old biological mother. She was one who was charged with the murder of that child’s biological father. It would be a double whammy for an unsuspecting child.
* * *
Had it not been for the ice storm, Griffin would have flown to Miami himself. After protecting Camille’s identity by crediting Ralph with finding the child, he felt that he had a right to take the investigation to this next step. He was good with people. He was also just enough of a Lake Henry outsider to be a credible messenger.But there was work to be done in Lake Henry, and it wouldn’t wait. He had promised to help Micah, and so he would. Fallen limbs had to be cleared, and not only from the section of mainline they had focused on the night before. The entire sugarbush had to be scoured, downed wood removed, and damaged tubing repaired, and it had to be done fast. Loss of one day’s sap wouldn’t break the season; loss of many more than that might.
Having no choice but to let Cassie handle the Florida arrangements, he drove to the sugarbush early Monday morning. Poppy was behind him in the Blazer—significantly behind, for safety’s sake. Though the road had been sanded, pure ice lay beneath. Indeed, Poppy’s chair skidded down the entire length of the ramp outside her house before they realized that without electricity, the coils didn’t work. She had whooped through the skid and laughed at the end, as she might have done taking a wild slalom run, but it was a sobering moment for Griffin, who felt he should have anticipated the problem.
The day was gray and cold, but dry and so beautiful that it was hard to believe the sugar season was in doubt. Everything on the roadside wore a coating of ice that held it perfectly still in the headlights’ beam, frozen in time, gloriously delineated, highlighted, and framed. It was a crystalline world marred only by fallen trees, and those came in bunches, slain giants that had been on the wrong side of the hill. Smoke rose from each chimney he passed, the fires within providing the only source of heat. Windows were dark; lights were out all over town. There were no shovelers, only the occasional Lake Henryite holding an ice pick, gazing in bewilderment at what looked like a world of glass.
This time, Griffin and Poppy weren’t the only ones coming down Micah’s drive. Pete Duffy was already there, quickly joined by Charlie Owens and his two oldest boys, John Kipling and his cousin Buck, Art Winslow and three burly men from the mill, Leila Higgins’ husband, and half a dozen men from the Ridge. All had chainsaws, crampons, and thermoses of coffee.
Griffin was as gratified that they’d come as he was by the humble look Micah wore each time another truck pulled up. There was a sense ofcommunity here. Hard feelings could be set aside when more important things came to the fore.
Micah didn’t say much. None of the men did. It was too early and their task too urgent. Working with maps that showed the grids of the sugarbush, they broke into teams of four each and set off up the hill.
* * *
Poppy watched from the back door. She could see branches down in the woods abutting the sugarhouse, but the men were seeking out places where the flow of sap had been cut. Each foursome had two chainsaws, coils of tubing and someone who knew how to lay it. One group rode the tractor; the rest were on foot. Those following the John Deere walked in its tracks, but those heading for other parts of the sugarbush had to struggle up a slope of sheer ice. Even with crampons notching the surface, there were slips.The last of the men and their white puffs of breath had disappeared when the women began to arrive, and none came empty-handed. The kitchen quickly filled with food and the kind of quiet talk that Poppy found to be as soothing as the lake on a warm summer night. With oil lamps burning in place of lights, and the fireplace ablaze with logs, there was an air of gentle camaraderie that even Missy and Star seemed to feel. Though Poppy kept a close eye on them, they were content to wander about, lean against a thigh or sit on a lap, and tune in and out of the talk.
The kitchen table was piled with sandwiches and the counter held bowls of soup when the men returned for lunch. As they ate, they huddled together, giving Micah reports of what damage they’d found and what repair was needed. On the positive side, Micah’s team had finished removing debris from the crucial portion of mainline that had split, and could have the line repaired by the end of the day. On the negative side, there was enough other damage, both to trees and to tubing, to warrant two more days of work in the woods.
* * *
Micah didn’t have two more days to work in the woods. He could spend mornings at it, but prime sap was running. Its color was lighter, its tastemore delicate, its open-market price higher. Once the mainline was repaired and sap flowed down the hillside again, he had to boil it.If all of the same men showed up for the next two days, he could recover with a minimum of loss. If not, he was in trouble.
He wanted to ask them. Wanted to beg them. But there was that last breath of pride.
* * *
Cassie spent a good part of Monday afternoon in her car, talking on her cell phone while the engine charged it up. She went back and forth between the assistant attorney general in Sacramento and her law school friend in Miami. In the end, she struck out with both.Bud Grinelle insisted that it was absurd to discuss any child possibly fathered by Rob DiCenza until Heather Malone admitted that she was Lisa Matlock—which Cassie couldn’t have Heather do until they had the firepower of a child willing to submit to DNA testing.
On that score, what she learned from her law school friend suggested that willingness might be harder to achieve than she had thought. She fully expected that the DiCenzas would fight the release of blood samples from Rob’s clothing, but she had hoped to speed things up by cooperation on the Florida end.
“Norman Anderson may be a problem,” she explained to the few of them remaining at Micah’s that evening. “My friend spent a while talking with one of her partners who’s had dealings with him. Norman is a decent man who has made a great deal of money over the years as the president and chairman of the board of a group of banks in the southern U.S. He isn’t lavish with his money. He isn’t showy. He’s a quiet, private person who values that privacy above everything else—except his daughter. He adores her. Apparently, they were always close but became even more so when his wife died, which, I’m told, was also handled in a quiet, decent, private manner. He absolutely will not want the publicity from something like this.”
“Neither did I,” Micah charged, “but I didn’t have a choice. Neither will he, if this goes to court.”
“The problem is that he may beat us there,” Cassie explained. “If wedon’t win him over now, he’s apt to file for an injunction to keep a lid on things until his lawyers can present a case saying why the rights of this child need to be protected.”
“No one’s trying to violate her rights.”
“He may hope that if he slows things down, we’ll cave in and just plead guilty, and it will be over and done without his daughter having to be involved. It’s a delay tactic.”
“How long can it go on?”
“Months, Micah.”
“But if Anderson works with us,” Griffin argued, “won’t he be able to control the publicity? His daughter’s confidentiality will be guaranteed, won’t it?”
Cassie nodded. “That’s what we’ll argue. My friend has a meeting with him set up for tomorrow. She wants to assure him on the confidentiality angle, but she also wants to tell him about Heather. She feels that if they lay things out for him, there’s a chance he’ll be sympathetic to our position.”
* * *
Poppy had trouble picturing a group of people who had never met Heather sitting around a table discussing something that intimately affected her. “What kind of chance do we have?” she asked Cassie.“Fifty-fifty, maybe.”
“That’s lousy. What if you were there? Would it help?”
“I offered. My friend asked her partner, but he felt too many lawyers would turn Anderson off. He said I’d be better off staying here by the phone.”
“What about me, then?” Poppy asked. Her stomach started to jump, but it was the opening she wanted. “I’m not a lawyer. I’m just an ordinary person. What if I was there representing our side?”
Maida stirred from the background. “Poppy, you don’t travel that way.”
“But what if I did?” Poppy turned back to Cassie. “What if I was there to give Heather a personal face? Would it help?”
Cassie smiled crookedly. “It wouldn’t hurt. You’re certainly not threatening.”
“I evoke sympathy.”
“I did not say that.”
“Well, I do, ” Poppy insisted. “I’ve never used my disability before, but in this instance, I don’t care. If my traveling that distance in a wheelchair makes him take notice and think, really think, about my friend Heather as a human being, I’ll do it.”
Griffin put a hand on her shoulder. “Wait a few days. Once the sugarbush is cleared, I’ll go with you.”
“This won’t wait.”
“Then I’ll go with you,” Maida offered. “I’m an old hand at the Florida route.”
But Poppy shook her head, very sure of what she wanted. Her stomach was still jumping. She figured it would do that the entire time she was away from Lake Henry, and it had nothing to do with homesickness. Before the accident, she had traveled at the drop of a hat. She had traveled since—to Cape Cod, to Boston, even as far afield as Pennsylvania—but always by car and never alone. She hadn’t had to worry about the mechanics of wheelchair travel, or about finding herself in a strange place with no one to help. Now she thought about both of those things, and they frightened her. But just because she was frightened of something didn’t mean she shouldn’t try.
“I need to do this,” she said with quiet confidence. Her eyes were on Maida.
Micah may have said something. Or Cassie. Poppy heard a little bit of a buzz. But Griffin was silent. He understood. And Maida?
She studied her daughter for a long moment, then crossed the short distance, bent down, and gave Poppy the hug she had been wanting for so very long.
* * *
Griffin drove her to Manchester early Tuesday morning for the 6:45 flight to Miami. Along the way, there were more than a few moments of insecurity when she might have begged that he come along on the plane. He could lift her; he could handle her chair. He could help her making trips to the bathroom, without embarrassment on either of their parts. Hecould entertain her. He knew when to talk and when to be quiet. He was perfect.But she kept her doubts to herself. She needed to do this alone.
“It’s not like I haven’t gone places since the accident,” she reasoned, talking in spurts to calm herself. “My dad felt strongly that the accident shouldn’t keep me tied to Lake Henry. He tried to plan a trip a year. He had a Blake Orchard van adapted for me, kind of like my Blazer is, except rather than my driving, I was a passenger. We’d go for four, five days sometimes, but we did day trips all over New England. We had our favorite places, my dad and me. He was a special man. Do you think Norman Anderson is like that?”
“If he is, we have a chance. I get uneasy when I think of the legal teams that wealthy people have at the ready. My father used to represent those kinds of people on the corporate side. He had a roster of defense attorneys set to jump in at a moment’s notice.” Darting her a glance in the early morning darkness, Griffin reached for her hand. “I’m glad you’re going. If anyone can make a strong case, you’re the one.”
He was perfect. And Poppy did love him. She could admit to that. She still had moments of doubt, but they weren’t about her own feelings. They were about his. It was hard for her to believe that he wouldn’t tire of her limitations.
He certainly wasn’t tired yet. Once they got to the airport, he set her in her chair, put her carry-on over his own shoulder, and wheeled her inside. When they reached the security point that he couldn’t pass, he hunkered down with his hands framing her chair.
“Do you have money?”
“Yes.”
“Credit card? Picture ID? Cell phone?”
“Yes.”
“Change of underwear? Meds?”
“Yes, but only because you hounded me into it. I’m coming back tonight.”
“Just in case.”
“I’m coming back tonight,” she insisted. Thinking that made her feel better. “I land in Miami at eleven forty-two. The meeting at the law firmis set for one-thirty. If I don’t make the four-nineteen flight back, there’s another at six-thirty. That gets me here—right here—at eleven fifty-four. Can’t I just take a taxi back to Lake Henry?”
“No,” he said in a way that brooked no argument. Then he smiled and stood back, taking all of her in. “You look so pretty.”
She was wearing the most sedate clothing she owned—a pair of tapered wool slacks over leather boots, a silk blouse, a smart black blazer. “Not too conservative?”
“I’d have voted for the leather pants, but you’re right to wear these—they’re far more appropriate.” His eyes found hers. “Do me a favor? If you have any trouble getting on or off the plane, in or out of the airport, ask for help? I love that you’re doing this, but you don’t need to do it all alone. Are you nervous about the connecting flights?”
“I’m nervous about the whole thing.” When he leaned toward her, she hung a hand around his neck. “But I’m doing something, Griffin. I’m not watching.” She knew he understood, could see it in his eyes. “Please leave now,” she said. “I have to get in line, and you have to be at the sugarbush.”
“I can wait with you.”
“You can’t. You don’t have time. I’m okay, Griffin. I really am.”
He rose, kissing her halfway up. “I know you are, dollface. That’s the problem. I’m worried you’ll find out just how okay you are and forget that I’m waiting for you here.” Smiling, he straightened and put the carry-on in her lap. He backed off, turned and walked away, turned again and walked backward for a bit with his eyes on her, only her, and all the while she watched.
* * *
Poppy’s fears were unfounded. She didn’t set off a cacophony of alarms going through security—wasn’t stopped in front of everyone and made to shift in her chair before boarding the plane so that flight personnel could see if she was sitting on something lethal. More than twelve years had passed since she had last flown out of Manchester. Back then, boarding had taken place outside after a short walk across the tarmac and a climb up stairs into the aircraft. This time there was a jetway, which waseasily handled in her chair. She didn’t have to rely on a lift at any stage, didn’t fall in the aisle transferring from her wheelchair to her assigned seat, didn’t weep when the flight attendant folded her chair and stowed it at the front of the craft—which didn’t mean she liked having the chair out of reach. Her wheelchair was vital to her self-sufficiency; without it, she couldn’t move very far or very fast. She shuddered to think what would happen if there was an emergency, and she had to exit the plane.But there was no emergency. In fact, the flight was smoother than she remembered flying to be. She had planned well—had limited her intake of fluid and used the airport bathroom prior to boarding, so that she didn’t have to use the lav on board. Once she was in her seat and strapped in like everyone else, she felt like everyone else. When a businessman type, one of the last to board, slid across into the window seat beside her and proceeded to flirt with her all the way to Pittsburgh, she fancied that he had no idea she couldn’t walk. By the time they landed, she was tired enough of hearing about his life that, when the flight attendant approached with her chair, she felt a perverse satisfaction.
She didn’t look at the man’s face again, though, because the flight attendant explained, “Normally, we’d let the others deplane first, but we’re cutting it close with your connecting flight,” and suddenly there was a rush.
She made the second flight with minutes to spare, unfortunately without time for the bathroom. Fearful that it would be a serious problem before she reached Miami, she explained the situation as soon as she boarded. Unable to let her back into the terminal, one of the flight attendants helped her in and out of the tiny lavatory. Totally embarrassed, Poppy then found her assigned seat, gave up her wheelchair, and spent the next half hour imagining that everyone around her had watched the show.
Then she heard a tiny meow. The woman beside her pulled up a carrying case, inserted a hand, and cooed softly to the kitten inside. To Poppy, she explained, “I’m a breeder. This one’s just ten weeks old. I’m delivering him to his new home. He’s scared.”
Poppy thought of a small kitten seeing its mother for the very last time, being tucked into a carrier, and flown off to a totally strange place. That was scary, she decided, certainly worse than any embarrassment she felt herself. Another little meow, and she thought of Victoria trying once, then twice to reach the top of the bureau, finally making it on the third try. At that point, Poppy put the embarrassment aside.
It didn’t return. Somewhere in the airspace between West Virginia and Florida, she decided that embarrassment was a wasted emotion at a time when there were too many more important ones to confront. She spent the rest of the trip focusing on those.
When the plane taxied up to the jetport in Miami, Cassie’s friend, Susan McDermott, was waiting at the gate. She came forward with a smile as soon as Poppy wheeled into the terminal, and, alerting her that the meeting had been moved up an hour, led her out to a waiting car. They were quickly on their way into the city.
Poppy took it all in—warm air, snowless streets, palm trees, a skyline of buildings rather than hills—but what she felt most was the satisfaction of having gotten this far. She let that pleasure buoy her as she wheeled into the elevator in the law firm’s building, but it dwindled as she disembarked on the fifth floor, went through the glass double door, and followed Susan down the hall to a mahogany-appointed conference room.
An Accidental Woman Page 35