Mountain Top

by Robert Whitlow

  “Yes ma’am.”

  The office manager tapped her pen against a legal pad, then began writing. She tore out the sheet and handed it to me.

  “Use the firm car. You can just bring it back on Monday. Tell Marie I sent you. She knows how to make modest Jewish girls look classy; she can do the same for you.”

  An hour later, I left the shop with a beautiful pale green dress that, while not hugging my figure too closely, didn’t deny the fact that I was a woman. Mama wasn’t there to judge it. I was on my own.

  CHRISTINE BARTLETT’S CAR was parked along the curb when I arrived at Mrs. Fairmont’s house.

  Flip didn’t greet me in the foyer. With Mrs. Bartlett present, I suspected the little dog had been banished to the basement. I found the two women in the kitchen. Mrs. Bartlett had fixed a late-afternoon pot of coffee. Mrs. Fairmont was sipping from a cup as I entered.

  “It’s decaf,” Mrs. Fairmont said. “Guaranteed not to give me a brain freeze.”

  “Mother and I have had a great afternoon,” Mrs. Bartlett chimed in. “It’s been like old times. We went to a cute place for a mid-afternoon snack but wanted home-brewed coffee. Did you have a nice day at work?”

  I smiled. “That wouldn’t be the word I’d use to sum it up, but all’s well that ends well.”

  “That’s somewhere in the Bible, isn’t it?” Mrs. Bartlett asked.

  “No ma’am. It’s John Heywood. He lived in England a generation before Shakespeare.”

  “Did your mother teach you that at home?” Mrs. Bartlett asked, her eyes slightly buggy.

  “Yes ma’am, and a lot more.”

  “Amazing.”

  I poured a drink of water and leaned against the counter. “Have either of you heard of the Lisa Prescott Foundation?” I asked.

  “Of course,” Mrs. Bartlett replied. “It made a big gift toward the new pediatric wing of the hospital a few years ago. I think it only supports projects that will benefit children. Mother, who runs that foundation?”

  “Sam Braddock and Floyd Carpenter’s son are involved,” Mrs. Fairmont answered. “Which makes sense given the family connections. Was it mentioned in the newspaper articles you found in the box downstairs?”

  “No ma’am, but I wish it had been.”

  Mrs. Bartlett stepped closer and lowered her voice. “What else have you found out about Lisa? Mother says you promised to fill her in on the details of a new investigation into her death as soon as possible.”

  “I’m not the person who can answer that question. My role in the case is over without anything to report.”

  “Drat,” Mrs. Bartlett said. “It’s not often I have a chance for a scoop guaranteed to be ahead of everyone else in the city. The whole mystery came up Monday at my bridge club, and I promised to get back to everyone.”

  “Tell them about the foundation,” I suggested.

  “That’s old news, but I’ll come up with something.” Mrs. Bartlett placed her coffee cup on the kitchen counter. “Mother is going to eat dinner with Ken and me tomorrow evening. Will you join us?”

  It was a nice gesture and made me feel less like the hired help. “Thank you, but this has been a long week, and I’m going to rest up this weekend. I’ll stay here and take care of Flip. Is he downstairs now?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Fairmont answered, giving her daughter a resentful look. “We’ll set him free when Christine leaves.”

  A few minutes later as Mrs. Fairmont walked out on the front porch to bid her daughter good-bye, I liberated Flip. He rewarded me with a backward somersault that I rated ten out of a possible ten.

  I DIDN’T SAY ANYTHING to Mrs. Fairmont about the party at supper, but when she saw me come upstairs wearing the dress, she immediately insisted I wear a necklace.

  “And it will look better if you put your hair up,” she added. “How long will it take you to do that?”

  “Five minutes.”

  I returned with my hair caught up behind my head.

  “No,” she said after making me turn around several times. “I was wrong. Leave it down until your wedding.”

  I brushed out my hair. At seven thirty the doorbell chimed, and Flip raced into the foyer. I picked up the dog and opened the door.

  “This is Flip,” I said. “Can he join us?”

  Vince stared at me.

  “Come in and meet Mrs. Fairmont,” I said after an awkward pause.

  Mrs. Fairmont and Vince chatted about Charleston for a few minutes. Vince held the door open for me as I got into the car.

  “We’ll be there in a couple of minutes, so I have to talk fast,” Vince said as he pulled away from the curb. “I totally messed up the Moses Jones case and led you astray. I meant well, but that’s no excuse. Will you forgive me?”

  “What?”

  “You trusted me, and I let you down. It’s as simple as that. When I saw that Mr. Carpenter was about to fire you, I should have jumped in and taken the blame, but I froze. It was a cowardly thing to do.”

  “But what did you do wrong?” I asked, mystified.

  Vince glanced sideways at me. “You’re nice to say that. And you look great too. If I hadn’t fed you wrong ideas about the reason behind the memo from Mr. Carpenter to Mr. Braddock and sent you off to the microfilm records operating under a false assumption as to their motivations, none of this confusion would have gotten past first base. When you toss in the spin put on the conversation I overheard outside Mr. Braddock’s office, there’s no wonder you were confused.”

  Vince turned onto Congress Street. “Here we are,” he said, turning sideways in the seat. “Before I let you out near the front door, I need to know you forgive me.”

  “Of course.”

  “Thanks. That takes a tremendous load off my mind.”

  “And park the car. We’ll walk together.”

  He found an empty space around the corner from the large home. I’d bought new shoes at the dress shop, and the narrow heels made me wobble on the cobblestones. Vince put his hand on my elbow to steady me. I instinctively pulled away.

  “I need to ask your forgiveness too,” I said. “I dragged you into the Jones case in the first place. You were only trying to help me.”

  “I knew you would say that, but most of the blame flows my way.”

  We reached the house simultaneously with Bob Kettleson and a very thin woman whom he introduced as his wife, Lynn.

  “Bob has enjoyed mentoring you,” Lynn said. “He says you’re a quick learner.”

  “Thanks. He’s quite a teacher.”

  We entered the house, which was as lavishly furnished as I’d expected. Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter were standing on a silk rug in the foyer greeting their guests. Vince was immediately ushered into the living room by one of the younger partners.

  “Welcome, tiger,” Mr. Carpenter said, shaking my hand.

  “Actually, I already have a nickname.”

  “What is it?”

  “Jaguar.”

  Mr. Carpenter nodded. “Did you know they are the most unpredictable of the big cats?”

  “No sir.”

  Mr. Carpenter turned to his wife, a tall, stately woman with silver hair. “Maryanne, this is the summer clerk I told you about. I’ve never seen anyone take the duty to zealously represent a client so seriously.” He lowered his voice and leaned closer to me. “And coax open a rusty old memory that might have remained closed to a heavy hand. Come, I want to show you something.”

  “But your guests—”

  “Won’t miss me for a few minutes. Besides, I’m the boss.”

  I followed the senior partner down a hallway and into a paneled study. He pointed to a bookshelf that held a row of pictures—all of Lisa Prescott.

  Placed in chronological order, they began with a baby photograph in a lacy bassinet and continued, one per year, to a pose similar to the picture in the newspaper. I spent a few moments with each one, imagining what the little girl was like, comparing her to Ellie and Emma. I reached the end and sighed
.

  “Thank you,” I said. “It’s sad, but it helps me to see more of her life.”

  “None of us knows the number of our days,” Mr. Carpenter replied.

  I glanced sideways, wondering if the lawyer knew his words were lifted from a Bible verse.

  “And over here is a picture of the first board of the foundation,” Mr. Carpenter continued.

  On the wall was a picture of five men in dark suits. It was easy to spot Floyd Carpenter. None of the others looked familiar.

  “Which one is Lawrence Braddock?”

  “There he is,” he said, pointing to a slender, balding man. “Sam Braddock favors his mother’s family and their much higher cholesterol count.”

  When we returned to the foyer, Julie and a dark-haired young man were talking to Maryanne Carpenter. Julie was wearing a revealing black dress that made me blush. She saw me and waved.

  “This is Joel,” she announced proudly.

  The young man was wearing clothes that hinted at his artistic bent.

  “Julie has told me a lot about you,” he said.

  “All positive,” Julie cut in. “Let’s get something to eat. I’m starving.”

  There was a rich selection of hors d’oeuvres laid out in the dining room. I could have skipped supper with Mrs. Fairmont. I collected a small sample of cheeses, fruit, and a pair of chicken wings that might have come from the processing line in Powell Station. Thankfully, Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter included a nonalcoholic punch option. Taking my plate into the living room, I encountered Mr. Braddock.

  “You’ve been at the firm for weeks, and we haven’t had a chance to talk,” the portly lawyer said. “Although we did have a close call the other day in the parking lot.”

  “Yes sir. I’m thankful I didn’t hit you. I was driving Vince’s car. He was kind enough to loan it to me.”

  “Vince is quite remarkable, isn’t he?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “He’s so much smarter than I am that it’s intimidating,” the lawyer added.

  “I’ve felt that way too,” I answered in surprise.

  Mr. Braddock smiled. “But practicing law isn’t just brainpower. Learning how to read people and discern their real motives and interests is often more important than the black-letter rules of statutes and analyzing judicial precedent.”

  “I have a long way to go in that department too.”

  “Really? That’s not what Joe Carpenter tells me. I can’t remember when he was as impressed with the way a summer clerk or associate handled a pressure situation. He says you pushed him so hard he cracked.” Mr. Braddock laughed. “There is a boatload of lawyers in this city who would love to make that boast.”

  “The truth is—”

  “That you’re also very humble,” Mr. Braddock interrupted. He pointed toward Bob Kettleson. “And don’t think I’m unaware what you’re contributing without getting credit for it. Keep up the good work, and we may be talking about a longer-term relationship.”

  The senior partner moved away. Vince came over to me.

  “Did you impress Mr. Braddock without even trying?” he asked.

  “Who knows? I feel more out of my league than I did as a ninth grader on the basketball court.”

  “That’s not what everyone else thinks, especially me.”

  30

  I WOKE UP SATURDAY MORNING, STRETCHED, AND RELAXED FOR a few extra minutes as I enjoyed again the release of Moses’ burden. My burden, too, was lighter. As I lay in bed, I also reflected on the validation I’d received the previous evening at the cocktail party. It felt good, but I knew the praise of men was a hollow substitute for the approval of God.

  After my morning run, I showered and brewed a pot of coffee. I tiptoed up the stairs and peeked into Mrs. Fairmont’s bedroom. Flip, who was curled up near her feet, barked in greeting. Mrs. Fairmont opened her eyes.

  “Can I bring you a fresh cup of coffee?” I asked.

  The old woman scooted up in bed and repositioned her pillows. “That would be nice, and you can tell me all about the party while I drink it.”

  I’d just about finished my account of the previous evening when the doorbell chimed.

  “Who could that be so early?” Mrs. Fairmont asked.

  I bounded down the stairs and glanced through the sidelight. Standing outside with his black motorcycle helmet under his arm was Zach. I opened the door with a puzzled look on my face. “What are you doing here? I thought you and Mr. Appleby had a meeting in Mobile today.”

  “We were supposed to, but the representatives of the shipping company had to reschedule the meeting, and we ended up returning just late enough last night to miss the party.” Zach looked at me and smiled. “Am I too late this morning to invite you for a ride?” he asked. “I know you like to get an early start on the day.”

  Parked at the curb in front of the house was the motorcycle with sidecar attached.

  “I don’t know,” I answered. “Riding in the sidecar was a once-in-a-lifetime event, and I’ve already done it twice. Why don’t you ask your secretary or Maggie Smith?”

  Zach pointed to his watch. “What female besides you is up at this time on a Saturday morning having already run ten miles?”

  “It was four miles.”

  “At least you’re wide-awake.” Zach stepped toward the door. “Do I have to enlist Mrs. Fairmont’s help to convince you to come out and play?”

  “She’s still in bed, sipping her first cup of coffee.”

  “Then you’ve finished your morning chores. I promise to have you back before the sun gets hot.”

  “Can it wait until Monday?”

  Zach pointed up at the blue sky peeking through the trees. “This is the day which the Lord has made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.

  Let’s go or we’ll miss a great opportunity.”

  “I know we need to talk—”

  “And we will.” Zach tapped the helmet. “Microphones.”

  Zach’s charm, when he turned it on high, was a worthy opponent for my willpower.

  “Okay, I’ll tell Mrs. Fairmont. Where are we going?”

  “To familiar places.”

  I returned with my bag packed, and Mrs. Fairmont’s words to have fun chasing after me. I slipped into the sidecar and positioned the helmet without assistance. Zach drove slowly through the historic district, providing tour-guide commentary.

  “How did you learn all these facts?” I asked into the microphone.

  “Until you started working at the firm, Tammy Lynn, I had nothing to do in my free time except study local history.”

  “Why did you call me Tammy Lynn?” I asked in surprise.

  Zach turned his head sideways. I could see him smiling. “I’m not the only one who can research old records,” he said.

  We turned onto the highway to Tybee Island. As we increased speed, I let myself enjoy the ride. We reached the marsh, crossed the bridge, and turned down the sandy road where I’d been so afraid. Zach pulled into the driveway of the burned-out house and stopped the motorcycle. We took off our helmets.

  “The marsh looks different early in the morning,” I said.

  “The tide is in; it’s deeper water.”

  I smiled. We walked down the path to the gazebo. Zach sat on the steps; I stood between him and the marsh.

  Zach reached down and pulled up a few straggly strands of grass. “I thought a lot about the Moses Jones case while we were traveling yesterday,” he said. “Did you talk to Vince and Mr. Carpenter?”

  I nodded. “Vince apologized to me, which was crazy but sweet. He barely let me get in a word of remorse. Mr. Carpenter showed me pictures of Lisa in his study at home last night and has no idea what I thought he was doing. He thinks I’m a tiger or a jaguar.”

  “Jaguar?”

  “They’re the most unpredictable of the big cats.”

  “And Moses? How did you leave it with him? I know you stayed behind after we left the courthouse.”

  I looked out over the
marsh. Somewhere in the backwaters of the coastal rivers, I prayed, an old, almost toothless man was having a pleasant morning. Tears came to my eyes.

  “It was wonderful,” I said simply.

  “Can you tell me?”

  I sat down on the steps, and in a soft voice I told Zach what had happened in Moses’ heart and soul, the unforeseen fulfillment of a promise birthed in my heart in Powell Station. He listened quietly. When I finished, we left the gazebo and walked to the edge of the water. The marsh grass looked more vibrant than I’d remembered.

  “It’s your turn,” I said. “What is your evaluation of State v. Jones?”

  Zach leaned back against a post. “There’s so much you did wrong I don’t know where to begin. But you hung in there with Moses past the point anyone else would have bailed out, and in the end earned Mr. Carpenter’s respect.”

  I waited. Zach’s eyes revealed more thoughts.

  “What else?” I asked.

  He leaned closer to me. “My opinion doesn’t matter. Heaven only sees what you did right.”

  LATER THAT EVENING I called home. Mama answered.

  “I finished the criminal case I mentioned,” I said. “My client pled guilty and received probation.”

  “Thank goodness for that. It worried me that you would help someone who is guilty try to escape justice.”

  “He got justice and mercy.”

  I expected Mama to ask for details, but she wanted to move on. “Now that the case is over, are you going to be coming home for a long weekend?” she asked. “We really miss you.”

  “Yes ma’am. And I’d like to bring someone. Is that still okay with you and Daddy?”

  After a brief moment of silence, she said, “Yes. Who is it?”

  I’d known this important question was coming and had given it prayerful consideration. I’d imagined Zach Mays and his ponytail sitting at the kitchen table explaining to my parents why his family, like the early Christians, spent years in a commune sharing everything; and I’d wondered what would happen if Vince Colbert, his BMW coated with red clay, sat on the edge of the sofa in the front room and told my daddy and mama how he’d become a Christian in the Episcopal church.

  I took a deep breath.