by Davis Bunn
Sylvie directed her words down the long, empty corridor. “If I was able, I would have refused your offer of help.”
Estelle nodded. “I understand.”
“Why are you here? I mean . . .”
“Why now and not before? I buried my late husband nine months ago.” Estelle watched her daughter work through the news that she had both married and lost a man Sylvie had never known. “Jack made me promise to try and find you. He’d been after me for years. I always said too much time had passed, that you wouldn’t want to see me. . . . Jack was a very good man.”
“So this was his dying wish, you coming here?”
“Yes, in a way, I suppose that’s true.” Estelle hesitated, then decided Sylvie should hear the rest. “The money for your attorney came from a life insurance policy I didn’t even know Jack had. He would be very happy to know how it’s been used.”
Sylvie leaned her head against the wall. “What a weight.”
Estelle had no idea how to respond. She sat there. Breathed in and out. Beside her daughter.
Sylvie asked, “Do you have other children?”
“No. Jack and I wanted. We tried. But . . . no.”
The silence lingered. Finally Sylvie asked, “Where are you staying?”
“The motel up the street from your restaurant.”
“Is it . . . nice?”
“It’s fine.”
Sylvie took so long in shaping the next words, Estelle could guess what was coming. “Is . . . he still there?”
Estelle decided if a little white lie was ever needed, this was it. “If you mean Connor Larkin, I can’t say for certain where he is.”
Sylvie sighed. Shut her eyes. Sighed again.
In that instant, Estelle realized that Sylvie was in love with Connor.
Estelle took advantage of her daughter’s closed eyes to inspect Sylvie. Perhaps this was what it meant to be a mother, having an ability to see with utter clarity the emotions that Sylvie tried so hard to deny.
Rick and Marcela returned bearing coffee and a box of Dunkin’ Donuts. Marcela said, “We were on our way to the cafeteria when old eagle eye spotted this across the street.”
“Grease and sugar and caffeine,” Rick said. “Nothing better for the blues.”
“Nothing legal, anyway,” Marcela said. She opened the box and held it out to Sylvie. “I know you’re on a permanent diet. I asked for broccoli donuts, but they were fresh out.”
Estelle found their feelings for her daughter very touching. It confirmed everything Connor had said about the powerful effect her daughter had on others. They set everything aside in order to be there for her. They expected nothing in return. And this included Connor. Estelle blinked away the burn and smiled her thanks as she selected a donut.
Sylvie ate a mouse-sized portion of donut, just enough to show appreciation for the gesture. She set the remainder on the bench beside her, checked her watch, and pulled out her phone. “Excuse me a minute.”
As she stepped away, Estelle asked, “What is she doing?”
“The delivery van should have arrived,” Rick replied. “The fleet went out last night.”
“Fleet?”
“Fishing. The seas were calm, so there should be . . .”
Sylvie chose that moment to turn back and say, “Bruno says there’s been an excellent catch of halibut today. I told him to buy the lot. We’ll do a trio of daily specials.”
Estelle listened as the three of them discussed possible recipes. Her daughter showed a remarkable mixture of fragility and strength. Despite everything she faced, Sylvie maintained her calm poise. Estelle clamped down on a sudden upsurge of emotions. She had never been more proud of anyone in her entire life.
When Sylvie seated herself once more, Marcela said, “Call Bruno back, tell him to be sure and check the fish for packages. Sorry. Terrible joke.”
Sylvie managed a narrow smile. “Awful. You should be ashamed.”
“Mortified,” Marcela agreed, winking at Estelle.
“Heads up,” Rick said, pointing to where Sol appeared in the doorway. “Here comes the posse.”
Estelle had the impression that a dark cloud accompanied the attorney down the hall toward them. Sol stopped in front of Sylvie and said, “I have some bad news.”
Estelle remained distinctly separate as Sol Feinnes related how the judge refused to even consider his request to drop the charges before they were officially filed. Instead, the judge accepted the prosecutor’s claim that there was adequate grounds for proceeding, and again refused when Sol demanded they reveal there in chambers what supporting evidence they might hold. Estelle watched as Rick and Marcela moved in closer as Sol explained the arraignment process, Sylvie’s need to respond with a declaration of not guilty, and the probable bail requirement. Estelle trailed well behind them as they moved down the corridor and entered the courtroom. She seated herself in the back row, maintaining a clear distance. When Sylvie glanced back, Estelle smiled briefly. Since her daughter did not motion for Estelle to join them up front, she remained where she was.
How did she feel about this? Being here, living the dream she had carried for so long. Despite all the hardship this moment carried, Estelle was still playing a role in Sylvie’s life. Not even the barriers that separated them could impact what she felt, which was . . .
Joy.
CHAPTER 37
Connor did not mind sitting inside the parking garage. The place was quiet and dark as a man-made cave. Occasionally a tire squealed or someone walked past, but no one noticed the lone male in the Chevrolet parked nose out. His recent days had been so intense and his nights so interrupted. Having a chance to reflect was very useful. The mysteries did not plague him so fiercely, though the answers remained unclear. Even so, Connor had the distinct impression that he was closing the door on his years of wrong moves.
If only the turning did not hurt quite so much.
Half an hour later, Porter arrived, bearing a steaming cup of coffee. Connor unlocked the door and Porter slipped inside. “Black, right?”
“Yes, thanks. Shouldn’t you be inside?”
“I said my piece and decided to make myself scarce. They’re in court. Things did not go like we hoped. Sylvie’s being formally charged with felonious possession with intent to distribute.”
“That’s nuts.”
“Everybody agrees with you, except the three who matter—the judge, the prosecutor, and the detective handling the case. Sol intends to lodge a formal complaint. But it’s all after the fact now.”
“Sylvie isn’t in there alone, is she?”
Porter glanced over, then away. “Rick and Marcela are with her. Estelle’s camped out at the back of the courtroom.”
“What happens now?”
“She’ll get bonded out and get on with her life.” Porter tapped his fingers on the side window. “Something is going on here. I can smell it.”
“What possible good could come from charging an innocent woman with a felony?”
Porter nodded slowly. “That’s the question we need to answer.”
Connor liked being included in the hunt for a solution. “I still want to help. Long as you keep my name out of it. I don’t want to embarrass Sylvie or add to her troubles in any way.”
“Which it would, if she ever found out you’re involved in this.” Porter gave him the sort of stare perfected by cops, level and direct and unflinching. “You’re sure you don’t want to head on back to the bright lights and the big city? Forget about a lady who doesn’t want to have anything more to do with you?”
Connor felt no need to hide the truth. “I can’t help but hope, even when I know it’s useless. But that’s not why I’m staying.” He shrugged. “Miramar is where I need to be right now.”
Porter just waited.
“I’ve been sitting here, trying to remember the last time I helped somebody without expecting to get something in return.”
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Porter opened his d
oor, started to climb out, then said, “Why don’t you come up to the house tonight and join us for dinner.”
“Thanks, Porter, I’d like that a lot.” He was struck by an idea. “Is it okay if I bring Estelle?”
Porter seemed to find that humorous. “Always room for a lady with a story to tell. Last house on Little Bear Road. Six o’clock.”
Reflecting on his odd mixture of emotions, Connor watched the police chief lumber away. Porter was right. It felt better than good to help Sylvie out.
Even when it hurt.
CHAPTER 38
Sylvie had been home less than an hour when Rick called to her from downstairs. She walked over to the top of the stairs and said, “I thought I told you to go home.”
“Good thing I didn’t,” he replied. “Harold Reamus just showed up.”
She winced at the thought of adding another burden to her day. Harold served as Phil Hammond’s attorney. “What does he want?”
“No idea. I tried telling him he could call and make an appointment like everybody else. He says he only needs a moment of your time.”
Sylvie was tempted to agree, but she knew it would only be putting off the inevitable. “I’ll be right down.”
“After the day you’ve had,” Rick protested.
The attorney stepped up beside Rick. “Which is precisely why I’m here. At Mr. Hammond’s personal request.”
Rick snorted softly, then stepped aside as Sylvie descended the stairs. Harold Reamus was dressed as always, in a Brooks Brothers suit and narrow club tie and round gold spectacles and polished cordovan shoes. He thanked Rick and smiled as Sylvie led him over to the bar. Everything was very normal about Harold. However, Sylvie often suspected that given the right motivation, the top would spring open to his tight little box, and out would pop the evil clown.
She asked, “Would you like something?”
“Thank you, I won’t be staying long.”
Rick pushed through the kitchen doors, saying, “I’m just in here if you need anything.”
When the door sighed shut, Harold said, “Mr. Hammond has heard of your current dilemma and wishes to offer you his full support. Which is quite considerable, I assure you.”
“That’s very kind, but—”
“Please hear me out. He asks that you reconsider your choice of Sol Feinnes as your legal representative in this matter.”
“How did you hear about this?”
“Your legal troubles are now public record. As I was saying, Feinnes is quite adequate for most of his local clients, but his expertise is extremely limited. He has handled less than a dozen drug-related trials.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with drugs!”
“Which is precisely what Mr. Hammond said when he heard. It is a sham situation, but the ramifications are dire. If you are convicted, you face a long incarceration and the loss of your restaurant.”
Hearing her worst fears stated in such a calmly precise manner left her nauseous. “Why are you here?”
“Mr. Hammond wishes to provide you with the services of the finest trial attorney in California. A man at the top of the state’s legal empire, with the power to call a battery of witnesses and deal this case a crushing blow. In exchange, he merely asks that you reconsider his offer of four months ago.”
“‘Merely’ sell him a controlling interest in my restaurant,” Sylvie said. “‘Merely.’”
“You continue to miss the big picture,” Harold said. His voice was as slick as his hair, a tight sheen that was completely immune to Sylvie’s growing ire. “Mr. Hammond is expanding into large-scale hotel and restaurant ventures. He wants you to run the entire division.”
“See, Harold, that’s where you and Phil miss my big picture.” Sylvie swept a hand around the restaurant. “This is what I want to run. For the rest of my days. Not Phil’s empire. This.”
“Alas, Ms. Cassick, your current attitude risks costing you everything. Not just this restaurant. Your life here in Miramar. I urge you to reconsider your position on the matter.”
Sylvie swallowed hard, shoving her immediate reaction down deep. Phil Hammond remained her partner in Castaways. There was nothing to be gained by telling his attorney that she found the prospect of working for him repulsive.
Harold seemed pleased by her silence. He slipped from the stool and said, “Thank you for your time. I’ll see myself out.”
Sylvie was still standing at the bar when Rick’s head appeared through the kitchen doorway. “Everything okay in there?”
“Sort of.” She actually felt a lot better than she might have expected. Having Phil’s lawyer lay things out had eliminated that option. She would never work with the two of them. It simply was not in her genetic makeup. But that was not what held her at the bar. Sylvie felt captured by the most foolish, nonsensical, impossible thought.
She wished she could talk with Connor. She missed him terribly. She positively ached for the chance to see Connor again.
Which was ridiculous, considering that the Connor she wanted hadn’t really existed in the first place. He was just a figment of her imagination, wasn’t he? So pathetic . . .
She entered the kitchen, chatted with her staff, then ordered them all to go out and enjoy what was left of their day off. Sylvie assured them she was fine, and knew they did not believe her. Her reflection as she locked the front doors showed deep lines that could well last the rest of her life. She worried over what her friends and employees must have thought of this wild-eyed woman who saw them off with a Kabuki mask of a smile. No wonder they had all stayed as long as they did. Sylvie thought her reflection did not look quite sane.
She walked around, turning off the last lights and setting the alarms. Then she seated herself at the bar. Just another lonely woman, staring at another empty night. She felt the weariness like a weight that bound her into place.
Her gaze came to rest upon the piano. She heard the soft refrain of a man inviting her to fly away. Singing the same words her father had hummed for years. The melody came to her now, sung by a man whose arms she could still feel.
Sylvie forced herself to rise and turn away and climb the stairs and prepare herself for bed. The melody did not leave, nor the voice, nor the memory of his kiss.
CHAPTER 39
Porter Wright’s home was on the eastern side of the ridge separating Miramar from the farming valleys. His home occupied a natural plateau two-thirds of the way up the slope. The ledge covered five or six acres, most of it given over to a fenced pasture holding three saddle horses. One in particular caught Estelle’s eye as she pulled into the drive, a palomino with a snow-white tail and mane. A young woman in her late teens or early twenties was currying a dappled gelding as they cut the motor. She waved an easy hello and called something lost to the evening breeze. Estelle waved back, then turned toward the policeman and his wife standing in the door. “Thank you so much for letting Connor bring me along.”
The house was a comfortable ranch that carried the easy grace of Porter’s wife. They grilled steaks on the bricked patio positioned between the house and the paddocks. The hillside below was densely wooded with cypress, eucalyptus, and California pine. A fragrant wind whispered and sang through the branches. Sparks rose and joined with the stars overhead. The daughter’s name was Celia, and she had her mother’s natural strength and easy manner. From several things that were said during the meal, Estelle guessed Celia was recovering from her own bout of loving the wrong man.
Mother and daughter peppered Connor with questions. Nothing was said about the canceled wedding or the woman he had left at the televised altar. Instead, Connor spoke of life as a journeyman actor. When pressed, he described some of the stars he had worked with. Whatever awe the young woman might have felt over being in the company of a man she recognized from television was soon lost. Connor talked of how actors at his level were excluded from the places and parties where the A-list gathered. This meant he only knew them from work, and even there the real stars maint
ained barriers designed to keep others out. In Hollywood, he explained, even the most casual contact could result in someone handing over a script or pitching an idea.
Celia had seen Connor in a number of his episodic death spirals. Connor showed a detailed and precise recollection of each set and story line. Toward the end of their meal, he had them all laughing over a drama he had recently filmed outside Delhi. In the final scene, he was supposedly bitten by a fake scorpion. Only, a real scorpion had crawled into his bed and Connor almost didn’t make it out alive.
They spoke a little about Sylvie and the legal proceedings. Estelle could see how hollow Connor’s expression turned even hearing her daughter’s name. However, she had no other place to turn for real information. Porter explained about the debts Sylvie had run up while remodeling the restaurant, and how Phil Hammond had come in as a silent partner. At the time, it had seemed like pennies from heaven, Porter said, but Phil’s charm had not lasted. There had been several run-ins, most recently when Phil had declared his intent to purchase the restaurant outright. Estelle had many more questions, but the evening’s mood had been darkened by the discussion. She did not object when Celia asked Connor if he’d like to see the horses.
Together they left the house and walked to the paddock railing. The three horses trotted over, snuffling their hands for treats. Celia ran to the stables and returned with a sack of apples. Porter sliced off segments and handed them out. Estelle had never spent time around horses. She found their size and obvious strength a little frightening. Yet, they acted like eager children, stomping their feet and nudging the family when they weren’t fed fast enough.
Estelle watched the four of them smile as Connor fed the white-maned palomino and rubbed its nose and declared, “This is the most beautiful animal I have ever seen.”