She gazed at the hundreds of dancing lights in the darkness all the way to the horizon, where they became almost indistinguishable from the stars. Those were the lampara. The small boats with lanterns swinging from the bow were fishing for anchovies and cuttlefish as they’d done for hundreds, maybe thousands, of years.
Peter rested his hand on her shoulder as they looked at the beautiful sight. “Already I’m letting go. I’m glad we came.”
“I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “I kind of miss the old purple K&B signs and Whitney clocks.”
Just then the waiter arrived with a dish of sweet local olives, and warm bread, and a hunk of Parmesan cheese. They ordered a large plate of escargot to share. Neither were very hungry since their body clocks still warred with the local time.
Despite the nap and the surroundings, Peter was still tired and wound tight, his mind caught between thoughts of the trial starting in two weeks and the Chasson case.
He’d promised himself that he would not become embroiled in details of the Chasson case, not yet, not this early. The facts he’d seen so far had created a dark emotional pit, and if he allowed himself to sink into the pit this early, he suspected that would shadow his judgment when time came to make a decision on charges, and whether the State could sustain the burden of proof at trial. He empathized with the young Chasson woman’s rage, of course he did. But Peter knew that he couldn’t afford to let his emotions get in the way. The State’s prosecution of Glory Lynn Chasson’s complaint depended upon a clear evaluation of the evidence in context, not merely reviewing an autopsy report and pictures. He would wait until Mac came up with more. Meanwhile . . .
He blinked, realizing that Rebecca had asked a question. “Sorry.” He picked up an olive from the bowl the waiter had left on the table and turned to her. “What did you say?”
“I asked if you’d like to walk down to the cove early tomorrow morning to watch the sunrise. Like we did before.”
Without thinking, he groaned and bit into the olive. The olives of southern Italy were plump and sweet, not briny, like at home.
She laughed and rolled her eyes. “Never mind. I’m tired too. We’ve got plenty of time.”
13
Rebecca woke early and lay in the bed beside Peter, orienting herself. In the distance she could hear sea gulls calling, and closer, in the trees around the terrace she heard songbirds. Rolling her head toward Peter, she saw that he was still asleep.
So she lay there for a few minutes, drifting in the half-light between dreams and reality, thinking that maybe she’d get up and dress and walk down to the cove. She could watch the fishermen coming in with their catch. Then again, she told herself there was no reason to move from this soft, comfortable spot beside Peter—this was not a workday, there was no morning traffic to fight—
And then, suddenly she remembered.
She slid her hand to the little bulge as it all came back, the conversation that she must have with Peter, and the knowledge that when she told him, this would all be real. But, at the same time, inside she felt something disconcerting, a strange new feeling—a strong instinctive feeling that above all else she must protect this child. The conflicting emotions were almost overwhelming. And yet the baby was still so small; she could hardly feel a thing.
Pushing the covers away, gently, without waking Peter, she slipped from the bed. They’d left the terrace doors open last night to hear the waves below. Barefoot, she walked silently out onto the terrace and stretched. Her spirits lifted a bit as she put her hands on her hips and looked out to sea, inhaling the crisp morning air. She told herself to get a grip, that this was the time alone she’d longed for, time to think about the problem with no interruptions, no telephones ringing, or clients waiting in the conference room. Turning, she padded back into the bedroom to dress. With a glance at Peter, still sleeping, she pulled on some loose flax-colored linen pants, a white T-shirt, and slipped on some sandals. She would probably be back before he even woke.
But the thoughts that she’d been fighting off since they’d flown out of New Orleans all surfaced at once, suddenly demanding attention. Arms hanging at her sides, Rebecca halted in the middle of the room and looked at Peter, finally—at last—facing facts. She was almost nine weeks along, now. Nine weeks, and the due date was just ahead, in December. She had to break the news to Peter.
Thoughts of Elise rose. She could hear her mother weeping in the church. She could see the little coffin just before the altar. With a sudden sense of desperation, she quickly ran a brush through her hair, twisting it and winding it into a knot at the nape of her neck. She secured it with one more twist, holding it tight with a pen that Peter had left on the table last night.
Then, turning, she stared at Peter, her love, thinking of the responsibility that she would have as a mother, and the havoc this would create with her career. And what if, as with Elise, she failed? She’d learned the hard way what a momentary lapse could do. She would never admit this to Amalise, or to anyone else, but despite the façade that she’d fashioned for the world, she was frightened. She’d never held an infant, never changed a diaper. She could handle a multimillion-dollar financing transaction for a client, but she knew nothing at all about raising a child.
As she watched her husband breathing, his chest rising and falling, his eyelids fluttering in his sleep, fear gripped her. Her mother had never forgiven her for that one instant in time, and she’d never forgiven herself. She turned, heading for the door. As she picked up the room key from the table, she accepted at last that the baby was real. She was a mother. And that everything in her life would surely change.
From the hotel Rebecca turned left on Cristoforo Colombo, heading back toward the top of the town where steps down to the cove began. The air was crisp and cool, carrying the scents of lemon and fresh baked bread and flowers and the sea. At the turn of the road, she started down the long stone steps which had been carved from the cliffs many centuries ago, shading citizens from the beating sun with thick grape arbors overhead. The steps were slippery, still moist in the early hour.
The passageway down to the cove was steep and winding. She hurried between the little shops and markets and galleries, all still closed. Sunshine filtered through the vines overhead creating dancing patterns of light on the shaded pavestones beneath her feet. In places the steps joined with other passageways winding off through the village, but she ignored those and kept walking down and down and down.
When she reached the terraced plateau forming a small piazza before the church of Santa Maria, the steps divided and she looked about, momentarily confused. And then, remembering, she turned to the right and continued walking down again, until she reached the base of the village and the sandy beach.
The sand in the small horseshoe cove was beige and pebbled. From the steps looking out over the scene, it was just as she’d remembered. Behind her the village of Positano ended at the base of the cliff in a terraced swath of cafés, restaurants, and open bars—so that from where she stood and looking to her left or right, they appeared to be built one on top of the other, all vying for views of the sea. In the evenings this area was alive with music and festive colored lights and the sounds of laughter and shouting and dogs barking and plates and glasses clanking.
Bending, she slipped the sandals from her feet and dangling one in each hand, she walked over the sand to the edge of the water where gentle waves lapped the shore. Here, water that had appeared green high up from the terrace of the hotel, now was translucent. She could see every stone and shell on the sand underneath.
Digging her toes into the cool wet sand, she stood there, letting the water wash over her feet. Colorful barcas dotted the water far out to sea, far past the dancer’s green island. Golden sunshine caught the tips of the dark blue waves. She glanced to her right, to a small paved area, a concrete pier and a makeshift dock bearing a huge black balancing scale suspended
from an iron tripod with heavy chains. The fishing boats would come here to weigh the catch later on. Above the pier a boardwalk ran the length of a stone jetty that curved into the cove like the inner side of a crescent moon. A small two-storied hotel was built on the jetty, too. The jetty protected the beach area from the surf pounding the rocky shoreline on the other side, stretching toward Sorrento.
An old man was fishing on the pier. Sitting on the concrete, legs dangling above the water, he wore a rumpled straw hat that had seen better days. As she watched he reeled in a fish, worked it off the hook as it wiggled, then he tossed it into a bucket beside him. She hoped there was some water in the bucket. He didn’t seem to notice she was there.
Turning left, she ambled along the pebbly shore. In an hour or two the beach would be fully stocked with rows of wooden lounge chairs facing the water, and bright colored cushions and umbrellas, and an hour after that every chair would be occupied. She strolled along, kicking at the shallow water with her toes, past three chairs that were left on the beach from last night. She walked on past the open-air restaurant at the back of the beach that she and Peter liked. Further on she saw the storage hut where the chairs and umbrellas were stored, and past that the beach swerved out around a rocky jut of the cliff. On the other side was another, narrow straight beach. She could walk on, if she wanted. But here she stopped and turned back.
Dragging one of the abandoned chairs right to the edge of the water, Rebecca sat down, folded her hands behind her head, and stretched out. A dog barked and she turned her head as the dog ran up to her, slid to a stop, spraying sand, and then spun around and sat back on his haunches, tail whipping back and forth. Turning, she saw an old man coming down the steps holding a stick. He held it up, waving it, and the dog jumped up and raced toward him.
Shielding her eyes from the rising sun with her arm and elbow, she watched the man and the dog for a while. Then she relaxed again, closing her eyes and shutting out the sunshine and the world. And with the waves lapping against the shores and the dog barking and the old man’s laughter in the distance, for her alone a thought came—unspoken words that were not her own: I have called you by name; you are mine.
As she thought these words, a new kind of love swept through her, a love so powerful that it seemed to radiate from her very center into every cell, filling her. Committing her to the child created long ago in the most ancient of days. And, like a prayer, she spoke to her baby, because she knew that this time she must not fail:
I will always be there for you, she promised. I will always love you. I’m your mother. I am yours, and you are mine.
And then she rested her hand over the little bulge, feeling the new bond, the powerful attachment between a mother and child. For a long time she lay there on the chair beside the water taking all of this in. And she knew, now, that she was strong enough to make things work.
14
In the hotel lobby Rebecca stopped at the reception desk to retrieve the key she’d dutifully left there on her way out, and was greeted by a desk clerk who appeared, as she spoke, to be stunned. “Signora Jacobs! There you are. We have received thousands of faxes for you!”
“Thousands?”
The woman threw up her arms, spun around, and hurried through a door behind the counter.
Rebecca stood waiting, wondering if Peter was awake. Now she couldn’t wait to tell him the news. The hotel driver from yesterday hurried through the lobby toward the front door and gave her a cheerful wave. She’d seen the car parked outside—on his way to the airport again, she supposed. She waved back.
The clerk returned clutching a stack of slick paper about an inch thick. “We’re not used to this, Signora. Most of our visitors here are on vacation.” She gave Rebecca a grim look as she handed them over. “Mamma mia, these took some time on our little machine.” Turning, she pulled the Jacobs room key from the slot, and handed it over.
“Thank you.” Rebecca smiled at the woman. “I hope this will be all the faxes.”
“I hope that also. Anyway,” the young woman’s expression smoothed and she dropped her arms onto the counter. “Perhaps our machine is now broken.”
Rebecca nodded, looking down at the Offering Memorandum she thought she’d handed off to Sydney.
Swooping up the key, she headed for the elevator, reading the fax cover sheet as she walked. Some new issues had come up, Sydney had written. She’d marked the changes in the document, but some would have to be approved by Rebecca, and they were hoping to finalize everything over the weekend.
The date and time stamp on the top of each page told her that the fax had been sent late last night, New Orleans time. A note on the first page suggested a time for a phone call. She glanced at her watch. She’d have about three hours to review this. She clicked her tongue against her teeth, then told herself that would still leave most of the afternoon for Peter. She would tell him this afternoon.
Peter was dressed and sitting on the terrace when she arrived. She called to him, and he turned and waved her out. Clutching the fax, she walked out onto the terrace.
“Did you get my message?”
“Yes. Woke up about twenty minutes ago. What’s that?” He eyed the papers in her hand.
“From Sydney.” She grimaced. “I’ll need to read this and give her a call. Have you had breakfast yet?”
“No. I ordered room service. Thought we could eat out here.”
A knock at the door interrupted.
“Breakfast is here.” Peter smiled down at her as he rose. Rebecca put the papers down on the table as Peter hurried to the door. “Out on the terrace, please,” she heard him say.
A small bird landed on the parapet, as if it knew that breakfast was coming. Peter followed the waiter and tray out onto the sun-glazed terrace.
She would prepare for the conference call with Sydney this morning. And then, later on, she would tell him.
The morning sun was still low in the sky, and the terrace was shady and cool. Rebecca sat outside, working at the table after breakfast. Peter had not minded and was inside now, working on his brief. Sydney had scribbled comments that were in contention on the margin of pages. As Rebecca thought about each one, she made a note on the same page, preparing for the phone call in—she glanced at her watch—two hours, now.
Just then the telephone rang. She heard Peter pick it up, and then he began talking and she bent over the document she was working on again. From his tone she knew the call was business. For something like the hundredth time, she thought about how much she and Peter were alike.
Peter sprawled on the bed with pillows plumped behind his back, talking to Mac on the phone. Outside he could see Rebecca, bent over her work. His eyes roved over the beautiful scene—his wife and the foliage and sea and sky behind her, and the coastline and the church. All of that beauty created a strange juxtaposition against the darkness of the case they were discussing. Following up on Glory Lynn Chasson’s complaint, Mac had tracked down the nurse, Clara Sonsten, the second nurse who’d been in the delivery room on the night Glory Lynn’s infant was born.
“I found her this morning. She’s working pediatrics at Baptist Hospital, and . . .” There was a pause. “We haven’t had time to really talk, yet. But I have a gut feeling she’s going to confirm everything that Glory Lynn said, Pete. She wouldn’t talk to me at work.”
“You think she’ll be able to help us with the time line, birth to death?”
“I’d bet my life on it.”
“Well, I’m not telling you how to do your job, Mac, but don’t lose her.”
“When do you get back?”
“Next Tuesday.”
“I thought I’d give her a few days. Thought I’d see what I can find on that other nurse, too. Eileen Broussard. The one married to Vicari. If she’s been working for Vicari for any length of time, I bet she knows plenty. I’ll see what I can find.”
“I’ve been thinking about Eileen Broussard. Let’s get that marriage certificate just to verify, but I’ll bet Vicari will claim the privilege and won’t let her testify against him for a deal.” Wind moved through the treetops near the terrace. He watched a flutter of scarlet petals floating onto the terrace near Rebecca.
When they’d finished the conversation and he’d hung up the phone, Peter stared unseeing at the walls before him. In his early years as a prosecutor, he’d learned to distance himself from the terrible facts that emerged in the cases he tried. But what he’d begun to think of as the Baby Chasson case didn’t allow it; that trick didn’t work with this one.
He told himself that as of now this was not yet a case—it was no more than a complaint filed by Glory Lynn Chasson. But one word kept rolling through his mind and he couldn’t let it go: Intent. Glory Lynn’s intent when she entered that delivery room was to abort a fetus. Charles Vicari’s intent when he began the procedure was to carry out to a conclusion the choice that she had made.
But what happened after the baby was born and separated from his mother? Had Vicari’s or Chason’s intentions changed after the birth when they realized that the infant was alive? Had Vicari’s duty to the Hippocratic oath kicked in so that he made the decision to try and save the child and something went wrong? And had Glory Lynn’s change of heart, as she claimed, invalidated her original consent?
So many questions to be answered. But Peter’s biggest fear, the question that underlay everything was whether this case was unique—an isolated incident.
He walked out onto the terrace. Rebecca looked up.
She saw misery in his face. Pushing aside the document that she’d been reading, she stood and met him on the other side of the table. Placing her hand on his cheek, she studied him. “What’s wrong?”
He pulled her into his arms, resting his chin atop her head for an instant, then, he stepped back. “It’s a case that Mac’s working, Rebbe.” He pulled out a chair. “Let’s sit.”
Accidental Life Page 9