The Other Side of Darkness

by Linda Rondeau

  Go or stay? A simple choice wasn’t it? Father would say, “Make a list of the pros and cons, and let the longest list help you decide.”

  Where’s the heart in formulas, facts, and figures?

  Jonathan picked up a charcoal and spotted the canvas. A shape took form, then a face. Not Angelica. Not Sam. He reshaped the eyes, more oval, and then drew a hyacinth in the long tresses. He smoothed the nose in a slight upward angle.

  Mother.

  Jonathan thrashed the canvas to the floor and stormed from his studio, a gale of confusion, knocking over lamps and pushing furniture out of his way. Where to go in this mausoleum of remorse to escape Mother’s memory? He paced the hall from the studio to the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee.

  Returning to his studio, he picked up the damaged canvas, the remains of a delayed temper tantrum, his fume, latent, but now expressed, more powerful, more pervasive, cloudier than Angelica’s memory. He forced himself to recall Mother’s last day.

  “Your mother’s asking for you,” Father said. Father had found him in the sitting room practicing his scales.

  A young Jonathan stomped his feet. “No, I don’t want to go to her.” If he didn’t she couldn’t say goodbye. She wouldn’t die until she said goodbye…she’d promised.

  “That’s enough, Jonathan. Be a man. Buck up. You need to face the facts. Your mother is dying. Nothing can keep her with us.”

  “You’re wrong!” Jonathan ran from the house down the paths, and didn’t stop running until he reached Triune Point, and hid behind the largest stone, gazing into the glassy water. No angel for Jonathan. Father found him four hours later. “She’s gone, Jonathan. You should have talked to her when she asked for you.” Father turned and left, perhaps assuming that the son would follow a father’s footsteps, as every Gladstone before followed their father.

  But Jonathan didn’t. Not then, and he never would. He remained at the inlet and shook a fist at Emmanuel’s monument.

  As dawn came, Jonathan still had not settled the matter with God. Instead, he picked up his grief and carried it like a banner over his soul. To make room for it, he had pushed Mother’s memory aside.

  For generations, the sons of Dawn’s Hope hung their mothers’ portraits in the gala room, a ritual of honor, even stone-hearted Father who’d hung dour Grandmother Gladstone’s portrait the day after she died. Every son fulfilled his duty—except for Jonathan, who defied heritage even in this simple act. He’d hung Angelica’s since there would be no heir to honor her. And of all the mistresses of Dawn’s Hope, he believed she had loved the estate the most, understood the echoes of the ancestors, and deserved to be among the matrons.

  But Mother loved Dawn’s Hope with the same passion as Angelica.

  He strained to remember the long walks with Mother along the lake’s perimeter. She often snapped pictures of the flowers, studying their cycles from bud to decay. Sometimes, she’d pick a hyacinth and place it in her long black tresses. They’d stop for a picnic lunch at Triune Point, and Mother would entertain him for hours with her stories from Emmanuel’s journals.

  Jonathan gritted his teeth. Was this, then his sin? That he had failed a loving mother? Was her voice the other, stronger call to remain at Dawn’s Hope? His unfinished business?

  He resumed pacing, at first aimlessly, then, as if pulled by an unseen force, he ended up in Father’s personal study, a small alcove off the former master bedroom, untouched since Father last frequented the room. The last time Jonathan came into Father’s presence there, the air had been so frigid, Jonathan could see the mists of their breaths.

  Though the air now stank from years of disuse, this time Jonathan felt strangely warm, as if a different Presence invited him to stay. Not Father, a holier Spirit. Something significant waited for him here.

  24

  Harlan Styles stood over Sam with a knife poised to plunge. Her own scream yanked her from deep slumber. A voice that seemed both near and far called to her. “Sam! Wake up. It’s only a dream.” Someone shoved her. She rubbed her eyes. Where was she? If it wasn’t Harlan Styles standing over her, who was it? She squinted. “Leon?”

  A fresh floral scent filled the room. Not quite like hyacinths, less intense, but similar. She stared at Sadie’s wall mural of Queen Guinevere, holding a bouquet of wildflowers, her billowy gown like angels’ wings, her eyes, sad and woeful, yet strong and beautiful, staring back at Sam. Then she remembered she was in her temporary room, in Haven. She saw the candles she’d bought from Sadie’s shop—no hallucinatory scent. She felt her cheeks, wet with sweat.

  Leon’s face tightened with concern. “Sam? Are you all right? You were screaming again.”

  She glanced at the clock radio. Nearly six. She’d only been asleep for an hour. “Leon? You came up here to tell me something. What?”

  “Darnell Washington is back, and asked to see you.”

  “Well, I don’t want to see him.”

  “I think you might want to reconsider. The news broke while you were asleep.”

  “News?”

  “That Harlan guy you put away? He’s getting out tomorrow.”

  A rushed gasp escaped her. For Leon’s sake, she sloughed it off, playing the hardened prosecutor. “What can I say? Justice isn’t always blind. And sometimes the guilty manipulate her. What does Mr. Washington want with me?”

  “He said he had to see you on urgent business.”

  “If it was so urgent, he should have called. If he could take a leisurely drive up here, then I’m taking the time for a shower. Maybe he can take advantage of Sadie’s pork roast while waiting. And if Sadie puts a little something special on his plate, mind you only a tease, nothing lethal or sickening, I’ll pretend it was an accident.” Sadie would call it harmless revenge.

  Leon laughed, shook his head, and turned to go. “I guess you do have a mean streak. OK. I’ll tell Sadie to give Darnell the special treatment. Don’t tell her I said so, but she can get a little mean herself, sometimes. I’ll keep him occupied ’til you get downstairs.”

  When Sam came out from the bathroom, a pungent floral aroma filled the room. Not the candles as before, but the ever-present aroma that found its way to her in troubling moments. How long did olfactory hallucinations linger? She glanced toward Zack’s bouquet, already withered. She sniffed their rancid decay to be certain, then tossed them in the waste basket. The phantom essence remained, and in its waft, she found confidence to battle the dragon one more time.

  She threw on her armor—the black dress slacks, tailored green silk blouse, and black blazer she miraculously found at Bianca’s Boutique along with a pair of black pumps and a gold necklace to accessorize. Quasi-professional. Fear edged her confidence. She hadn’t thought to bring a weapon. She visualized the revolver locked away in a safety box in her closet, the bullets stored in a separate drawer in the kitchen. Abe insisted she get one for her protection. She hadn’t argued, never confessed her aversion to owning one. She’d hidden it away, vowing she’d never touch it.

  Not until Darnell Washington showed up did she wish she’d brought hers. Something about cold metal boosted a person’s confidence. Sadly, she’d have to face Washington armed with little more than her wits.

  And Me, child.

  “And you, Lord.”

  She squared her shoulders, rehearsed her walk, and plunked downstairs. Washington sat at the table conversing with Sadie, listening more than anything else, to her excited summaries of how she and Aaron moved to Haven and started this food ministry, and Washington drinking a half glass of water with every bite.

  Her legs stiffened with determination. Taking three deep breaths, she boldly walked toward his table. Sadie stood and wiped her glasses on her apron as Sam approached. “Oh, here’s Sam. Nice chatting with you, Mr. Washington. I hope you’ll stop by again, sometime. I’m sorry the pork roast tasted a bit salty and didn’t measure up to your expectations.” She stacked Washington’s plates on a tray, gifting Sam with a smile and a wink. “I’ll ta
ke this into the kitchen and let the two of you talk.”

  Sam initiated a handshake and used her practiced congeniality. “Good evening, Darnell. Sorry to keep you waiting. I hope you enjoyed Sadie’s cooking.”

  Washington craftily avoided an answer, busily scanning the room—judging by his squinty eyes, with a glint of distrust. “Interesting place. I still don’t see a license or a seating capacity certificate from the code inspector.”

  Sam came to Sadie’s defense. “This isn’t a restaurant in that respect. She doesn’t even advertise. Do you see a cash register? She truly does cook enough to feed an army and likes to share. Nothing illegal about that.”

  “Yes, well, I still wonder what the Board of Health might have to say about all this company—”

  “What do you want, Darnell. I told you not to come here again.”

  He motioned toward Aaron’s office. “I don’t think we should talk here.”

  The last time they’d talked in private, Sam had been at a disadvantage. Her strength rested in an audience, the courtroom her podium. She took a quick scan and counted ten guests besides the regulars. Zack, her protector, sat alone near the bar, his eyes locked on Washington.

  “I’ve nothing to hide—nothing at all. But it might be a little more private by the bar.”

  He followed her, braced his hand on the counter and whispered as he leaned forward. “As I’m sure you know by now, my client will be released tomorrow morning…”

  Justice couldn’t seem to budge for Kiley, but, for Styles, the scales tipped swiftly. Why did a loving God allow the innocent to suffer and men like Styles to prosper? “House arrest is still imprisonment. Styles isn’t exactly free.”

  “True, but a much better arrangement for my client. Now we can focus on proving his innocence. He is innocent, Miss Knowles.”

  “As innocent as Satan.”

  “You’ll see.”

  Her case was solid. How could he be vindicated? “You didn’t come up here to tell me something that’s pasted all over the front page.”

  “I won’t mince words. We wanted you off the case. You wouldn’t budge so we got what we wanted from your boss.”

  Nausea hit like a bullet. Why did Abe go behind her back? He could have at least consulted her before taking over completely and letting this scum get off so easily.

  “We tried to find the least damaging avenue—”

  “Damaging to whom?”

  “To you, of course, but your insistence has left me with few options, Miss Knowles. I brought the affidavit before the new judge who agreed your conduct was prejudicial. He dismissed you from the case.”

  “What happened to Normandy?”

  “Removed.”

  “What do you mean? From the bench?”

  “No, only from the case. Seems he spread prejudicial gossip about my client in front of a juror. As for you—”

  “Are you saying I’ve been fired?”

  Washington leered, a vile, violent veneer covering his smile. “I suggest you take that up with your boss…excuse me, former boss.”

  Sam willed herself to stay standing. “Abe wouldn’t fire me—he’s my friend…like a father to me. You have no right to come barging in here to tell me these ridiculous lies. You’re trying to distract me. It won’t work.”

  “On the contrary, Miss Knowles. I came here by helicopter, at my own expense. I advise you to stay away from this case. I know your reputation, and I suspect that you won’t let go. I’m warning you—”

  “A threat? Not a wise place to do that.” Sam looked around to see if anyone overheard. Zack stood poised to come to her honor—so cute when he acted gallant, yet irritating. Sam Knowles could take care of herself.

  “I hope you get the paper here. Check the want ads. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this bad news. I assumed Mr. Hilderman would have told you, by now.”

  Judge Normandy prejudicial? Of all the lies spread in the last few days, that was the worst. Who did Washington bribe to make this all happen, and so quickly? Her knees wobbled as reality hit. The courts never moved that quickly, never engineered so radical a sentence reduction with the speed of lightening. Abe must have been working behind the scenes the whole time, maybe even during the trial…way before she took a vacation. So clear now—his insistence—a ruse to distract her while he put his plan into action. Abe was the one man in this world she thought she could trust. Why had he betrayed her?

  The room spun as her knees buckled even more, Washington’s face contorting into a grotesque mask. She gripped an empty bar stool for support. Clarity came like a whiff of heavy perfume. But, of course…Abe’s prize, The Ingram Family—Styles’s connection to them. No wonder Abe never truly supported Sam’s fight…tried to convince her to lighten up—worked a deal that he knew Sam would never sanction. Abe wanted to shut down Ingram for good—Styles his ticket—wanted it so much, he’d throw Sam under a dozen buses. It must be true what they say: every man has a price. For Abe, it was Ingram.

  Washington tugged on his suit coat then picked up his briefcase. “You have no more legal right to pursue this case, Miss Knowles. I wish the best as you reshape your career. I understand you’re taking an interest in estate management these days—very lucrative.”

  Sam met his gaze and spoke as she poked his chest. “You listen to me, Darnell. You might represent Lucifer, but God is my Advocate.”

  He brushed her hand aside as if dismissing the Almighty Himself. “I warn you, Miss Knowles, if you so much as follow this case, I’m prepared to tell the world how your father died and how those unfortunate childhood experiences have narrowed your objectivity. Furthermore, I’ll see to it you’re declared psychologically unfit to practice law—at all.”

  In her heart, she shouted to the rooftops, you have no right to those records. They are sealed. But she herself had invaded the privacy of many, including Harlan Styles. Although not permissible in court, she knew at age fifteen, he’d been involved in a gang that murdered a police officer, that he had not fired the shot, but was part of the altercation that led to the cop’s death, that the charges had been reduced to probation by a gutless prosecutor.

  Stunned to silence, she glared at Washington. Courage, minute but present, rose anew. She would not, could not play Abe’s game. “Goodbye, Darnell. I will see you in court.”

  Washington offered a handshake, but she refused.

  Instead, he waved a farewell with his briefcase. “Goodbye, Miss Knowles. I do hope you’ll use discretion. I would hate to interfere with Miss Sadie’s hobby.” She followed Washington’s swagger, until the door slammed on Sam’s career.

  Zack came to her side. “How did you find the restraint not to haul off and smack him one? I wish you would’ve let me do it for you.”

  “Last thing Sadie needs right now is a brawl. Washington will shut her down for sure.”

  “Is Sadie in trouble?”

  “No. He’s after me, not Sadie, and he’s emptied his quiver to get me off this case. Now do you understand why I have to go back to Manhattan?”

  ****

  Zack resisted trailing Washington to give him a taste of his own blood. Sam was right—a brawl was the last thing Sadie needed right now—the last thing Sam needed, too. He wanted to hold her, protect her, to love her. She stood so close to him he could smell the raspberry shampoo that Tracey had given her, yet, she might as well be a mile away. Why wouldn’t she let him in? Too strong…too independent…

  “I’m warning you, son. Independent women will vex you into tomorrow,” Dad once said after he and Mom had an argument. In all likelihood, a relationship with Sam would lead to more pain. Yet, if she were the least bit encouraging, he’d say, “Bring it on.” Here was a girl in need of a lifeline, inside a woman who refused to take it.

  He inched closer to a trembling Sam. For the first time she returned his gaze with a flicker of promise. In that instant, he saw a small house surrounded by beds of spring flowers. A carrot-topped toddler sat between him and Sa
m while they took turns reading fairytales.

  Sam’s eyes welled with tears. Unexpectedly, she squeezed Zack’s hand and leaned into him.

  “Come with me,” he said and led her to the rear exit, down an ivy-bordered path. When he stopped, she rested against the stone wall, her eyes hungry. He kissed her, and she returned his want with a certainty Zack could not misconstrue. As he released his hold, he kept one arm against the wall and made his pitch. “Stay in Haven, or nearby, at least. You’ll find something to do here. I’ll help you look.”

  She ducked underneath his arm, already pulling away. “I have to go. I have to see that Styles gets what’s coming to him.”

  “Then what just happened between us?”

  “I don’t know. I like you Zack.”

  He smiled. “Something more than like in that kiss, Sam.”

  “Let’s say for argument sake, I am attracted to you. I can’t afford that complication right now.”

  “Is that what I am to you? A complication?”

  Footsteps neared. Sadie approached wearing a knowing, broad smile. “You two gonna stay out here all night, or have some supper?”

  Zack would have preferred to stay outside, but she answered for them. “We’ll be right in.”

  At least for now, she let him hold her hand until they entered the lounge. “We need to talk about this,” he whispered.

  “There’s nothing to talk about. I’m going home.”

  He wanted more than a fleeting kiss from a distracted female. He wanted an us. If she wouldn’t stay here, why couldn’t he go there? He was riding the town’s outer rim as it was. “You know what they say about Mohammed and the mountain?”

  “No, Zack. There is no mountain to come to. It was a kiss. That’s all.”

  She turned and headed for the stairs.

  They’ll vex you into tomorrow.

  ****

  Sam fell to the bed, and sighed, starving, but too proud to go back downstairs and face Zack again.