The Will of Wisteria

by Denise Hildreth Jones

  Jeffrey knew he had made a serious error—perhaps a fatal one. All the life went out of him. “I’m sorry. You’re right. Please, I’m asking you. I’ll do whatever you want me to. I’ll stay in the lab. I’ll sit in this room doing nothing but research. I won’t touch a patient the entire time I’m here. Please, just let me stay. I’ll be quiet. I’ll listen. I’ll learn.” The sigh came out louder than intended. “And I’ll cancel the cover of the Charleston Magazine.”

  Dr. Nadu pressed his lips together and lifted his chin toward Jeffrey as if he were peering into his very soul, measuring the purity of his heart.

  “They’re waiting for you in the lab,” he said. “Do not make me regret this.”

  The Executor stood before Will, close enough for Will to catch the faint smell of fish on him. Will wouldn’t have taken him for a fishing kind of man. “What’s up? My boys still have you on retainer?” Will chuckled.

  The Executor extended a white envelope.

  Will leaned against the door frame and opened it, letting the envelope fall to the floor. Notice to Quit. He scanned the bogus eviction notice, caught sight of the number sixty in there somewhere, and then returned his eyes to the Executor’s face. Will wasn’t quite sure what he saw in the piercing eyes of the stranger. He laughed, nervously. But he still laughed.

  He handed the letter back to the Executor and would have offered him a beer, but considering his momentary lack of funds, he didn’t feel quite as generous as he had in the past. He gave the Executor a pat on the shoulder and closed the door.

  part 2

  November

  chapter twenty

  Mary Catherine pulled her robe around her tighter as she sipped her coffee and listened to the pounding of the surf in the distance. She stretched out on the lounge chair next to the pool, taking in the first remnants of morning, thankful for the peace and quiet. She’d been a teacher—or more accurately, hellion director—for barely three months, and she was exhausted.

  By the time she got home every evening, it was all she could do to eat dinner and crash. Fortunately Nate wasn’t hounding her all the time for sex, and for that she was grateful. But it did worry her slightly, since they’d only been married for five months.

  After the initial standoff with Nicole, the victories had come slowly, but they had come nonetheless, and brought with them a sense of accomplishment unlike anything she had ever felt. Nicole still hated her, but the rest of the class was shaping up.mary Catherine wasn’t sure they quite respected her yet, but they at least paid attention most of the time.

  She laid her head against the mesh of the lounger and shut her eyes. She had come to count on these few moments of solitude every morning to gather the strength she needed to face the day.

  Nate’s voice penetrated the quiet. “What you doing out here?”

  She kept her eyes closed. “Just relaxing.”

  She heard his bare feet pad over to the lounge chair and felt his weight shift the chair as he sat down on the edge. “I’m going out to the beach to surf. I’m not sure when I’ll be back. Later this evening sometime.”

  She reached out and stroked his leg—a fine leg, muscular and tanned and covered with soft hair. Pretty soon he’d be wearing his wet suit and she wouldn’t be able to admire those legs. “I might come join you later this afternoon when I get home, then. I thought maybe we could go out to Old Towne tonight and get some dinner.”

  He stood up and headed toward the garage. “You don’t have to meet me. In fact, I think we’re going out to Kiawah today. They say the surf has been a little stronger over there lately.”

  Her eyes were open now. “I know I don’t have to. But I want to. You’ve been gone late every night for the last month or so, and I’ve been so tired. I thought it would be nice just to spend an evening together.”

  Apparently he heard a change in her tone, because he came back over to her and took her hand. “I know, baby doll, it’s been crazy. But if I’m going to turn pro, I have to stay focused. And I really want us to be able to go to Hawaii next year when all of this is over. If I hope to compete over there, I have to work really hard.” He leaned down and began to kiss her neck, talking through his kisses. “You know it’s hard for me to concentrate out there when you’re in that hot red bikini of yours.”

  “It’s too cool to be in a bikini.”

  “It will be in the upper seventies by afternoon.”

  He was right, she knew. Mary Catherine remembered once, when she was still in grade school, leaving for Christmas vacation wearing shorts. “But I want to spend the evening with you,” she said. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

  A creepy feeling washed over her before the words were even out of her mouth. Was she really sitting there trying to manipulate her husband into spending time with her?

  An expression passed over his face—a look she couldn’t quite decipher and wasn’t sure she wanted to. “I know, baby doll,” he said. “How ’bout tomorrow evening? Just me and you. No one else.”

  He leaned back down and kissed her lips softly. Maybe she was mistaken about him. Maybe she hadn’t seen what she thought she saw. She wrapped her arms around his neck and returned his kiss, and after a minute he released himself and jumped up, heading back to the garage.

  “Don’t wait up!” he hollered back to her.

  “Don’t wait up,” she mimicked to his disappearing form. “Why would we wait up?” She rubbed Coco’s head and drank the rest of her lukewarm coffee.

  The parent-teacher conference schedule sat on the desk in front of her. A blessing and a curse. On the one hand, most of the students were on their best behavior, fearful of what their parents might hear about them. On the other hand, the conferences themselves were exhausting.

  Mary Catherine was amazed how many parents didn’t even bother to show up. One mother specifically asked not to be called again. A few cussed her out, and a couple others just hung up on her altogether. Out of twenty-five students, she had successfully booked ten parent meetings, and of those ten, only one where both the mother and father were going to come. Terrance’s parents. That should be interesting.

  The one parent she was most eager to meet was Charmaine’s. The child had more than intelligence and talent. She had the wisdom of an old soul. But for some reason Mary Catherine never could get anyone to answer the phone.

  “Well, Mrs. Bean, how are you this morning?” Terrance asked. He nodded respectfully and went straight to his seat.

  Mary Catherine tried to hide her smile. “I’m fine, thanks. And you, Terrance?”

  “Oh, doing just fine on this lovely day.”

  She turned her back and began to pin up a new poster on the bulletin board. “You seem exceptionally glad to be here for a Monday.”

  “Of course. It’s school. I love school. I love to learn. And I love tests. Have I ever told you I love tests?”

  She turned toward him and laughed out loud. “No, Terrance, for the past three months you’ve managed to hide that little detail from me.”

  Other kids began to enter, but their presence did not deflect his determination. “Oh, yes. I know you think that Charmaine is probably the only one who loves tests, but don’t you forget that old Terrance here just loves to learn.”

  “I’ll do my best to remember that.”

  The final bell rang. As usual, Nicole entered on the last clang, not a second before. And as usual, she was chewing gum.

  It was a daily ritual by now. Mary Catherine walked over to her holding out the trash can. Nicole spit her wad into it, glaring.

  Mary Catherine took a book from the side of her desk, the book Whirligig, by Newbery Medal winner Paul Fleischman. She had tried to introduce the kids to reading—not just textbooks, but fiction, novels that took them out of this small classroom for a while and transported them to different places. This current novel was a story of guilt, forgiveness, and self-discovery. And whether they admitted it or not, most of them liked it. She had heard them talking about it over
lunch when they didn’t know she was listening.

  She held the book up. “Okay, let’s review for your test on Wednesday.”

  The class groaned in unison. Mary Catherine smiled.

  “Blame Terrance,” she said. “He loves tests.”

  On his way back from the bathroom, Will heard some kind of commotion outside his front door. He unlocked the deadbolt and saw the letter attached to his front door. Summons and Complaint for Unlawful Detainer. He wasn’t sure if this had anything to do with the eviction notice the “Executor” had brought, but his dad’s attorneys always took care of stuff like that, and he didn’t need a new door ornament. He snatched it off of the stained wooden door and crumpled it in his fist. Then he locked the door behind him, tossed the paper ball in the general direction of the kitchen garbage can, and headed back to bed.

  “Follow me,” Dr. Nadu had said to Jeffrey as soon as he walked through the door.

  The last time Dr. Nadu had spoken those words, Jeffrey had been confined to three months of perpetual purgatory in the lab, and even though he had been obedient, he still wasn’t happy to be here.

  “Where are we going today, a body farm?”

  Dr. Nadu pushed a large square metal button, and a set of double doors swung open. His Nikes led him to the emergency room. Better, at least, than autopsying cadavers and smelling like formaldehyde.

  A stout, no-nonsense nurse pointed with a stubby finger. “Dr. Moss and his team are working on the patient right over there.”

  Jeffrey turned, his Florsheims clicking loudly as he did. The activity behind the white curtain was fast and fierce. A man in green scrubs—Dr. Moss, he assumed—barked directions to his team.

  Jeffrey could make out nothing of the patient except a pair of faded jeans and battered Reeboks.

  “How old?” Dr. Nadu asked.

  Dr. Moss responded over the commotion and beeps of the machinery, yet he never faltered from his work. “Young male. Thirteen, fourteen, maybe. House fire. Went back in to get the dog.” He addressed his staff again. “Gentle with the clothes, everybody. Let’s get him rinsed off.”

  Jeffrey craned his neck but still couldn’t see much. The tennis shoes hit the floor, followed by the jeans and a singed rag that could have been a T-shirt.

  The boy moaned.

  “Get that IV started now,” Dr. Moss said.

  Jeffrey kept his eyes focused on the tennis shoes, the Reebok insignia still readable. A nurse began to hang different bags of fluid on the IV cart, then went to work on getting the IV started. “I can’t find a vein, Doctor.”

  “Why can’t she find a vein?” Jeffrey muttered. “It’s not brain surgery.”

  Dr. Nadu turned a scathing look on him. “She can’t find a vein, Dr. Wilcott, because in extreme burn cases the blood vessels can be destroyed altogether.”

  “What I can see of his legs looks okay.”

  Dr. Nadu took Jeffrey by the shoulders and pushed him forward. Most of the young man’s face and upper torso were charred beyond recognition. Even his parents wouldn’t have known him.

  “He’s shivering. We need to get him wrapped, people.”

  When the team had done all it could, Dr. Moss spoke to Dr. Nadu. “So, if he makes it through this, you have any hope for his body?”

  Dr. Nadu patted him on the back. “There’s always hope, my friend. And as young as he is, he should be resilient. You make him better, and then I’ll do my part.”

  “He’ll never look the same.”

  “But he will look good,” Dr. Nadu assured him. “We will work diligently to make him look good.”

  “That’s why I called you.” Dr. Moss motioned in the direction of the family waiting room. “Now, will you go with me to see his mother? We need to talk to her about intubation.”

  “Come with us, Dr. Wilcott,” Dr. Nadu said over his shoulder.

  The last thing Jeffrey wanted was to have to console a bereaved family. This was one reason he did boobs and butts and facelifts. He never had to tell some hysterical woman that her kid was going to look like a freak for the rest of his life.

  But Dr. Nadu’s words sounded more like a command than a suggestion. He trailed the two doctors down the long hall and into the waiting area. A woman paced near the windows, her back turned to them.

  “Are you Mrs. Webber?” Dr. Moss asked.

  “My son! How is my son?”

  “He’s alive. We’re doing the best we can. Could we speak over here?” Dr. Moss and Dr. Nadu took her gently by the arms and led her to an adjacent room. Jeffrey had always avoided the “family room.” It was where the bad news was delivered, where people screamed and cried and raged and tried to deal with their trauma.

  Jeffrey watched her from the back, her shoulders slumped and shaking. A long brown ponytail hung down the back of her black shirt.

  Dr. Moss opened the door and let the mother go inside. As she reached the other side of the room, she sat down and looked up. Her tears had left visible streaks down her olive cheeks.

  Jeffrey felt his knees go weak. She stared at him.

  “What is he doing here?” Her voice rose as she stood up and headed unsteadily in his direction. “I want him out of here. I want him out of here now!”

  Jeffrey began backing toward the door. The name hadn’t registered with him; he had forgotten she had changed it. He had forgotten her.

  Until he saw her.

  So the boy in that bed was . . .

  “Ma’am, calm down! Please! Dr. Nadu, could you get him out of here?”

  Nadu grabbed Jeffrey and pulled him out into the hall. “Dr. Wilcott, what in the world is going on here? How do you know that woman?”

  Jeffrey felt the coolness of the wall as he leaned against it; it was all that was holding him up. He put his head in his hands and rubbed hard, hoping somehow that would make all of this make sense.

  “Who is it, Jeffrey?”

  “That’s my . . . my ex-wife.” He slid down the wall to a crouch, resting his elbows on top of his knees. “And that means that kid in there is my son.”

  chapter twenty-one

  Elizabeth inhaled the fresh air, grateful for a moment without Ward Bennett up her tailpipe. The kid had shadowed her for three solid months. Three months that had proved torturous, because not once was she allowed to contact her new client or deal in any way with their lawyers. Everett and Associates, she was told, had put the project on hold.

  This was the way Ainsley operated: bait, hook, and wait. The woman was evil.

  Meanwhile, Ainsley had sent Elizabeth to at least twenty work-shops and let her spend the remainder of her time as Ward’s law clerk.

  Aaron was keeping her office running smoothly—at least that’s what he told her. So far she hadn’t been served with any lawsuits; that was, she supposed, a good sign. But Aaron hadn’t been available for much more than a weekly update lately. They never had dinner together anymore. He was always too busy.

  It was probably for the best. After Elizabeth’s first week of “initiation,” she began going into the office before seven and rarely got home before nine or ten. She had long been accustomed to such hours, of course, but when she was working for herself, she had hardly noticed. Now, as each night enveloped her, fatigue became her constant companion. She felt as if she were digging ditches rather than practicing law.

  The private investigator didn’t seem to be getting anywhere either.

  Driving toward her appointment this morning she called him again on the cell phone. “Please tell me you found out more over the weekend.”

  “I wish we could say we have, Elizabeth. But this Executor of yours is good. I’ve never run into so many dead ends. We have found some interesting activity in your brother’s bank account though.”

  “What kind of activity?”

  “Large withdrawals. All being wired to the same account. We should have more on that in the next couple of days.”

  “I need something now.”

  “Well, I can tell y
ou that your friend Aaron is exactly what he seems to be. He’s working hard for your company and for your father’s company. There just isn’t anything on him anywhere.”

  “And Ainsley?”

  “She isn’t as squeaky clean as a lawyer should be. A couple of years ago she had an investigation into some questionable activity that brought her before the Law Review Board. Came close to being disbarred.”

  “What were the charges?”

  “Embezzlement.”

  Elizabeth pulled up in front of the house on Smith Street for her appointment and put the car in park. She stared straight ahead.

  “Embezzlement?” No wonder Ainsley could afford Heitz Cabernet. It had nothing to do with her husband. She was a crook.

  “Yes, that’s all we know right now. We just found it late Saturday. Prescott’s working on the details of it today.”

  “I expect an update by this evening.”

  “It might not be until—”

  “This evening.” She clicked her earpiece off.

  She racked her memory, trying to recall any time Ainsley Parker had met her father. Two occasions, that she could think of. Ainsley had been desperate to meet him and ingratiatingly charming when she finally did. But the way Ainsley talked about him with such affection was odd. Overly familiar.

  She got out of the car and stood on the sidewalk surveying the house—a rambling, run-down frame home with light blue siding. It was her first meeting with this client, the client who could end her career if Elizabeth couldn’t talk her into letting Everett and Associates take over the place.

  As the warm breeze swept over her, she realized it was going to be a pleasant November day. You never could be certain with Southern winters, when they would start or when they would end. Fall could tease you with cooler temperatures in mid-October, and then vanish again until late December. Winter came when it pleased and left at its own whim. It could be an ornery visitor, sometimes even thumbing its nose at you in late March.