***
Glenn pulled into the lot at Fairview Terraces late that afternoon, still angered by David Wheeler’s situation. Why hadn’t his idiot father thought about the effect his criminal activity would have on his son—this decent boy who was looking for his father to show him how to be a man?
Someone had parked in his assigned spot, which didn’t do anything to elevate his mood. He found a free parking spot and headed toward his apartment, anxious to shower and get to the dining room so that he might run into Gloria. He wanted to see what she thought of the books he had left by her door that morning.
On his way to his unit he decided to make sure that she had retrieved them. He checked his watch. Even with the quick detour, he’d have time to shower and lie down for fifteen minutes before he had to leave for the dining hall.
***
Gloria preferred the second-dinner seating, but tonight she made sure to arrive as early as possible. She made her way forward after the initial rush of people who surged in when the doors first opened, as if they hadn’t eaten in a month, and casually scanned the crowd. To her disappointment, Glenn was nowhere to be seen.
She chose an out-of-the-way table for two with a good view of the door and placed her purse and a magazine on the other side of the table to discourage anyone from joining her. She took her time placing her order and kept an eye on the entrance. After dragging out her meal as long as she could, she finally resigned herself to the fact that Glenn was not having dinner at Fairview Terraces that evening. She’d have to think up some clever way to thank him for his gift—a standard thank-you note would not do.
***
Glenn turned out of bed extra early on Monday morning, annoyed that he had slept through dinner instead of simply taking the catnap he had intended. Since Nancy’s death, he’d gotten into the habit of sleeping until almost nine o’clock every morning, unless he had an early tee time. He supposed depression was to blame; he had never needed more than seven hours a night in his entire adult life. Yet despite the increase in sleep, he rarely felt refreshed. Last night he had made himself scrambled eggs and toast when he awoke from his nap, then crawled back into bed. For a change, he slept straight through the rest of the night, without any of the sad and lonely dreams that usually haunted him. Now he felt rested—and famished.
Glenn quickly dressed and bolted out of his room, almost missing the note taped to his door:
Another way to start your day feeling “glad in it” is with a nice, home-cooked breakfast under your belt. Give me a call some morning when you’re in the mood for eggs and old-fashioned biscuits and sausage gravy. ~G
Chapter 7
William Wheeler stared through the thick Plexiglas barrier at his wife of almost twenty years. Although still lovely, Jackie was frayed and careworn. The dark circles under her makeup-less eyes and the streaks of gray in her unkempt hair aged her. He used to be irritated by her constant attention to her appearance and her propensity for expensive salons; he now longed for the days when those were his biggest concerns.
He attempted a smile. “Did you miss your hair appointment to come see me?” he asked, trying to sound jovial.
She raised her chin. “What’re you saying? I don’t look good enough for you? Trying to impress your jailhouse pals?”
“No, sweetheart, no,” he replied quickly. “I just meant that you shouldn’t give up the things you love just because I’m in here.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” she countered. “But now that you’re in prison and I’m working as a receptionist to keep this family afloat, I don’t have the time or money to get my hair done.”
“Surely it’s not as bad as all that,” he stated softly. “You found the cash I told you about in the attic?”
“I did. And it’s almost gone. Our mortgage is expensive, remember? And they’ve frozen our other accounts. We’re barely hanging on until you’re out of here. It’ll be soon, right? That’s what you said.”
Wheeler hung his head and looked at his folded hands.
“Bill, for God’s sake,” she hissed. “You’re getting that plea deal aren’t you?”
He couldn’t bring himself to tell his wife that according to his lawyer even the best plea deal wouldn’t keep him out of prison. A dirty ex-mayor was a big fish; he would have to serve time. Special Counsel Scanlon would see to that.
“We need you home, Bill. David needs you. He’s been surly and disrespectful and now he’s in trouble at school. I can’t control him.”
Wheeler brought his head up sharply. “When did this happen? Is that why he hasn’t been with you to visit?”
“Yes. He’s refused to come.” Tears rimmed her eyes. “It’s been building for a while. I thought I could handle it, but then he stole some stupid headphones from the school. Hid them in his locker, where they would be found. Now he’s in a court-ordered diversion program. His mentor is an old guy—really nice. David seems to like him. If he finishes it, he won’t have anything on his record.”
Wheeler rubbed his hand over the stubble on his chin. His sweet, good kid was running off the rails. His beautiful wife looked like a charwoman. And they’d soon run out of money and lose the home they’d worked so hard to create. All because he’d been a greedy idiot and had gotten mixed up with Delgado and his cronies. And now he was stuck. If he gave up information about them, there wasn’t a prison in the state where he’d be safe. He could only hope that his time served awaiting trial would satisfy the prison component of the plea deal. That’s why he had opted not to get out on bail. He knew that if he couldn’t cut a deal to get out, he might as well be a dead man. In fact, death would be a relief.
Wheeler forced a smile. “This’ll all be over soon. Not much longer now. Tell David I love him and that he needs to finish this diversion program and get back on track.” He sighed. “And spend some of that money to get your hair done.” He held her gaze for a long moment. “Don’t ever forget how much I love you both and how very sorry I am about all this. No matter what it takes, I’m gonna fix it.”
Chapter 8
Maggie worked distractedly all morning, sifting through the arcane legalese of the 130-page ground lease. According to clause 12(D)(4)(iii), the landlord had the right to surcharge the tenant—which in this case was the Town of Westbury—for certain items. There followed pages of definitions and escalation clauses tied to LIBOR. Sorting through it all and verifying the landlord’s calculations and charges was making her cross-eyed. This ground lease had been in place for years, and the town hadn’t been assessed any surcharges until the original landlord had sold the property—and the related interest in the ground lease—to a limited partnership owned by a limited liability company managed by a corporation. Even the digging she’d done hadn’t revealed who was behind all of these entities. All she knew for sure was that if the landlord’s figures were correct, Westbury owed a lot of money. And Westbury didn’t have a lot of money.
Maggie rested her head in her hands. The sublease to Fairview Terraces did allow the town to pass the surcharge along to the residents of Fairview Terraces, but they were all retirees living on fixed incomes. They wouldn’t have the money either. And it didn’t seem right to spring this on them, like the landlord had done to the town.
She had to find some way out of this, but boy did she need help. This wasn’t Upton’s specialty, but Frank Haynes had leased a lot of space for his restaurants. Maybe she’d ask him to take a look at the ground lease and the landlord’s calculations.
Maggie turned from her computer to the stacks of papers on her desk, all the while keeping an eye on her cell phone. Why hadn’t John called or at least returned her text? Maybe he hadn’t seen her missed call. It wasn’t like him not to respond.
By lunchtime, she was totally unnerved. She was waiting in line at Pete’s Bistro to pick up a salad to take back to her desk when she heard the familiar ping alerting her to a new text message. She tore her purse apart until she found her phone and opened his curt text: Tha
nk you, but I turned in early.
That’s it? she thought. And it’s not even true. I saw his lights on.
Her appetite suddenly gone, she stepped out of line. She was weaving her way through the crowded restaurant when she felt someone grab her elbow from behind. She turned and found herself face to face with Hal Green, editor of the Westbury Gazette.
“Mayor Martin. Wondering if I could get your reaction to this morning’s feature article about your ‘qualifications’ to be mayor. Maybe you’d like to amplify your statement of ‘No comment’?” he said maliciously.
Maggie pulled free of his grasp. Her face flushed, and in spite of the chilly day, beads of sweat formed in her hairline. “I’m late for a meeting at Town Hall. Excuse me.”
She was certain he had laughed derisively as she pushed through the door and stepped onto the sidewalk.
***
Meetings with the utilities commission at Town Hall tied up Maggie’s afternoon. It was almost five thirty when she could finally let out an increasingly uneasy sigh. What was she going to do about John? Did she really want to do anything about him? Upon moving to Westbury, she had decided to live a solitary life. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad decision after all.
Maggie had two beautiful children with Paul. And she had inherited Rosemont from him. Her gratitude for both, however, did not make up for the betrayal and heartbreak she’d suffered at his hands. She had vowed to never again get into a situation where she’d be so vulnerable.
Maggie’s heart pounded as she recalled that day, before she had moved to Rosemont, little more than a year ago, when she sweltered in the rental car outside the home of the “Scottsdale Woman,” as she dubbed her. The private investigator she had hired to report on Paul’s embezzlement had uncovered this most unwelcome association. Against her better judgment, Maggie had made the short daytrip to Arizona from her Southern California home to get answers. What she got was a glimpse of a tall, beautiful young blonde pulling her Escalade out of the driveway of the biggest house on an exclusive street, apparently transporting her two children to some afterschool activity. After getting violently ill on the spot, Maggie had torn up her return plane ticket and driven the rental car back to California as fast as she could—the one-way rental surcharge be damned.
She turned her chair to look out at the growing dusk. What was it her mother always told her? Make decisions based on how they feel in your gut. Well a decision to let John slip away from her felt terrible. Maggie’s stomach had been in knots all day. She pushed away from her desk and headed to Westbury Animal Hospital. If she rushed, she could be there in time to give him a ride home.
***
“Okay, Juan, I’m ready to go if you are,” John Allen said as he rounded the corner into the reception area of Westbury Animal Hospital. He stopped short when he saw Maggie, the only other person in the room. “Maggie,” he stated simply.
“Hi, John,” she replied as brightly as she could. Maggie rose from her chair and crossed to where John was standing. “Juan said to tell you he’s in the back. I thought I’d give you a ride home. Maybe take you to dinner? I want to make amends for last night. I’m so sorry, John.”
“Don’t be silly,” he said. “We’ve all locked ourselves out of our cars. I’m sorry I was so short with you about it.”
“Thank you. After that curt text from you today, I thought you were still angry.” Maggie sighed in relief. “So are you hungry? Where would you like to eat?”
John hesitated, but he held her gaze. His eyes broadcast such deep sadness that Maggie felt her heart crumple like a used paper napkin. “This isn’t working, Maggie. You’re a wonderful woman. I admire you and everything you’ve done for the town. I’ll always support you. But I’m second fiddle for you. I spent my entire first marriage that way, and I’m not going to do it again.” He held up a hand. “Let me finish. I’ve been struggling with this for weeks. I’m sorry, but last night was the last straw for me. I’m not interested in changing you. And I’m not going to allow myself to fall any deeper in love with someone who can’t make me a priority.”
Maggie stared at John as tears pooled in her eyes. How in the world had they come to this point? He was right—she had neglected him horribly. But why couldn’t he be patient a little longer? Things would settle down. She would change, starting now. At least he had said that he’d fallen in love with her.
Despite her tears, Maggie smiled at the thought. She rummaged in her purse for a tissue and collected herself. “I’m such an idiot, John. I’m so very, very sorry. You mean so much to me, too. Can’t we give it more time?” She trailed off as he shook his head.
“You’ve made your choice, Maggie, and it isn’t us,” John answered. “I need to focus on rehabbing my knee and getting my life and practice back on track. I wish you well.”
Maggie gulped and nodded. “If that’s what you want.” She succeeded in composing herself long enough to blurt out yet another apology. “I’m so sorry. I hope you change your mind.” Then she fled.
Chapter 9
Loretta Nash repositioned the final packed box in the rear compartment of her Escalade and quickly closed the hatchback before anything could slide out of place. Her three-year-old was crying, and her two older children, also in the backseat, argued over the last snack cracker. Worn out, irritable, and anxious to be out of this place, she nonetheless walked up the driveway to take one last look at the elegant house she had called home until the foreclosure two days ago.
“Paul, you complete ass. How in the hell did you let this happen to us?” she whispered to herself.
She wiped a tear from her sweaty cheek and turned toward the car. That would be the next thing to go. Her salary as a front desk clerk at a chain hotel didn’t stretch far enough to make the payments on the Escalade. She was surprised it hadn’t been repossessed already. The repossessors might not find it right away at the modest apartment they were moving into. Maybe she’d catch a break for a few days.
“You kids stop fighting right now,” she growled as she slid into the driver’s seat. She leaned back to hand a Sippy cup to Nicole in her car seat. In response to the older kids’ continued quarrel, she snatched the almost empty box of crackers with one swift motion, powered down her window, and chucked it onto the driveway. Both children became instantly silent.
“There. Problem solved,” Loretta snapped, fighting back tears.
“Geez, Mom, you didn’t have to get all crazy and do that,” Sean huffed.
“Yeah, Mom. You littered,” Marissa muttered.
Loretta exhaled deeply and leaned her forehead on the steering wheel. Only the hiss of the car’s air conditioner could be heard.
“Sorry, Mom,” Sean said. “You okay?”
“You’re scaring us a little,” Marissa added.
Loretta lifted her head, put the car in reverse, and backed out of the high-end Scottsdale home’s driveway for the last time. She had been a fool when it came to Paul Martin. She had been young, poor, and desperate for someone to help her and her two kids, since their low-life father never paid his child support and was nowhere to be found. Paul had swooped in. Everything had been great until she got her degree and wanted him to make good on his promise to leave the “Ice Queen,” as he referred to his wife, and marry her. The relationship had started to unravel as soon as she pressed him on his plans.
Then she got pregnant.
That had not been intentional, no matter how much he doubted her. But with yet another child on the way, she had forced him to provide for them all by threatening to file suit and expose him. So he had bought the car and the house, telling her they were both paid for.
Now she was right back where she started, except with one extra mouth to feed. She had an education, but in this economy her hotel/restaurant management degree only landed her an entry-level job.
“You’ll be secure while I work out my plan to move Maggie to the little home I inherited in Westbury,” he had told her. He would keep his precious job at
the college, and Loretta would gradually be introduced as his new girlfriend. Everyone would accept her then, he assured her.
It had all been a lie.
“Okay, guys, Mommy’s tired. When I ask you to do something, I mean it, understand?” she said, locking eyes with each of them in her rearview mirror. “Taco Bell or McDonald’s for dinner? You choose.”
***
Loretta shifted from her aching left foot to her aching right foot as she forced a smile for the next person in line. She hated manning the front desk alone. Why couldn’t they find a replacement when someone called in sick? Working check-in during the late afternoon was no picnic. People were tired from travel, impatient to get their key and get to their room. She did her best to move through the line as fast as she could, incessantly murmuring, “So sorry for the wait. Checking in?”
An hour and forty-five minutes later, she finally found herself blissfully alone as the last guest headed for the elevator. She snuck her cell phone out of her pocket—her kids were supposed to text when their babysitter picked them up. She nodded when she saw the expected message, then noticed a voicemail message. Cell phone usage during working hours was strictly prohibited, and she knew she should wait until her break to listen to it. But she never got voicemails anymore. Not since Paul had died.
Loretta scanned the lobby and walked to the end of the counter where she could see the curb outside the entrance. No activity anywhere. She knocked a pile of brochures onto the floor behind the desk and bent down to pick them up, tapping the phone to retrieve her message. She abandoned the scattered papers and listened to the message a second time. Then she rocked back onto her heels and exhaled slowly as she slipped the phone back into her pocket.
A recruiter wondered if she would be interested in other jobs within her industry. The hotel-and-restaurant business was booming in the Midwest and eastern United States, and employers were finding it difficult to secure qualified candidates. One of her former professors had recommended her. “Maybe sleeping with most of the faculty will pay off after all,” she muttered under her breath.
Weaving the Strands Page 4