He was legendary on Mimosa Lane for the boys-only gambling trips he sponsored to Vegas every year during the Super Bowl. He chartered a plane, arranged for big-roller comps at one of the casinos on the Strip, and invited a handful of his neighborhood friends to join him, at least the ones who could beg a weekend away from their own wives and families. What you lost and won was your own affair, but Jeff never made a secret of starting with $50,000 and not caring whether he came in under or over at the end of the trip.
He was usually over, and he’d promised Brian a time or two that he could make the same magic happen for him, if Brian was willing to risk the starter money. But since $50,000, if he had it to toss around, was what Brian imagined might be a drop in the bucket when it came to paying for his boys’ college tuition one day, he’d always politely passed on the invitation to gamble away his savings.
Now Jeff was proposing something even riskier. Brian’s reputation in the field of architecture. His security at Whilleby & Marshal. His family’s already tattered peace of mind, if he threw a wrench in the works by going out on his own.
But wasn’t that exactly what Brian had been thinking about every day and night since stepping away from the firm? He’d even talked about it with his new therapist, whom he’d seen again yesterday, not just the one time on Wednesday that Sam knew about. And the bulk of the time each day that he’d steered clear of the house to give Sam and Cade a chance to work, he’d been poring over small-business research material at the library, thinking and planning some more.
Even before Jeff’s offer, Brian had been working on the beginnings of a business plan that had been feeling less hypothetical by the day. He’d been dreaming of taking on the kinds of projects he’d always wanted, with clients looking for the environmentally conscious designs he’d studied and begun challenging himself with before leaving New York.
It might be a selfish dream, given his and Sam’s problems and Cade’s struggles. It was selfish. But a little more every day, Brian was feeling like the man he’d once been. He was remembering a time when cutting-edge architecture had been so perfect a fit for him that he wouldn’t haven’t blinked before jumping at the crazy proposition his friend was making.
“Your own firm,” Jeff said. “You in the driver’s seat. I’ve got the seed money, Lord knows, with what my family’s left me. My financial advisor’s been at me to diversify by investing in some kind of small-business venture. But what I don’t have is the play in my schedule to take on another time-intensive investment.”
Jefferson was an entrepreneur and an independent financial advisor, with clients and connections all over the country. He knew money inside and out. He knew business. He knew people. He understood precisely what Brian would be giving up if he walked away from W&M. And he was an intuitive bastard who’d likely noticed from the start how Brian had been chomping at the bit to call his own shots on the Kelseys’ remodel, rather than playing by Whilleby’s rules. And now Jeff was moving in for the kill.
“My commission alone,” he said, “would be the kind of start that’ll attract other clients. Ginger’s talked to several design magazine editors—in Atlanta and New York—who want to do before-and-after features. Make that happen, make her happy, and by this time next year you’ll have more business than you know what to do with.”
Brian had already admitted that he was excited by the prospect. The risk. The chance to build and be part of something where he controlled the vision and creative content. Jeff would make a solid partner. And this man who lived to take risks in life and in business was ready to roll the dice with him.
“I don’t know what to say,” he said for the third time since they’d sat down.
Jeff checked his Rolex. “I’m on a conference call for the rest of the morning. Then I’m taking clients to dinner tonight. How about we do this again tomorrow. I know it’s Saturday, but I’ll be around. Text me when you can get away from your family, and I’ll meet you here. You can give me your answer then.”
Brian had been surprised to get Jeff’s call last night. He’d been dreading another long night without the wife who clearly still loved him but wasn’t comfortable enough yet to come home. After a brief conversation about Jeff’s idea and an agreement to talk more this morning, Brian had spent another sleepless night tossing and turning. Only this time, his mind had been spinning over exciting career possibilities and potential conflicts and the thrill of figuring out how to make it all work, rather than the state of his personal life.
Now he was facing a nuclear deadline that left him very little time to decide what direction he wanted that life to take next. His shock must have shown.
Jeff chuckled as he stood, taking his chai with him. “Have you talked it over with Sam?”
“I wanted to this morning…”
Brian had met her for the walk he knew she took every morning, intending to ask her what she thought. He’d left her a note in the kitchen, thinking that by the time she’d read it, they’d already have discussed the outrageous gamble he wanted to take with Jeff. He’d hoped for her support, her understanding. But all he could think about after he’d taken her hand outside Julia and Walter’s place had been Sam and the boys and their marriage and their family. They had so much up in the air still. How did he add even more confusion to the mix?
“I’ll make sure Sam and I get together about it tonight… somehow,” he said. “I’ll have an answer for you in the morning.”
Jeff held out his hand, his expression sympathetic. “I know you guys are in a tough place. But refocusing at least some of your energy on something in the future while you deal with the rest would be a good distraction. And I don’t see you at Whilleby & Marshal forever. We could take one hell of a ride together, Brian, if you’re willing.”
Willing?
Brian was aching to do this. It was taking every scrap of professionalism he still possessed not to jump at Jeff’s offer, before he’d figured out whether he and his family could actually deal with the reality of it.
“It’s an exciting opportunity, Jeff. I appreciate your confidence in my ability.”
“This is about more than ability, boy.”
Jeff slapped him on the shoulder as they headed outside toward their cars—Brian’s a dependable Nissan, and Jeff’s a jet-black Ferrari. The man’s ride would have better fit a rock star than a Southern aristocrat whose wife’s family fortune was reported to have once upon a time stayed buried for five years beneath an occupied grave, to keep it out of the hands of the damn Yankees who’d burned their plantation down.
Jeff wasn’t what the rest of the country had in mind when they thought of a good ol’ boy. There were more families like the Kelseys sprinkled about the South than people realized. Around Atlanta, it wasn’t all that uncommon to run across old-money families entrenched in everyday, upper-middle-class neighborhoods. They could afford a more upscale zip code, and there would always be talk about why they didn’t. But couples like the Kelseys didn’t really care what people thought about their choices. They enjoyed their money, but they didn’t let it define everything about how they lived their lives.
Jeff was eccentric. But he seemed just as satisfied to spend time with his and Ginger’s Mimosa Lane friends as he would being with whatever social connections he’d made in New York or Los Angeles.
“This is about character,” he said. “I was at the school board meeting Monday night, where you collected all that color on your face. You’ve got balls of steel, my friend, and the integrity to say what you think. I’m looking for a business partner I can trust. I could find a good architect anywhere. What I want is someone who’s lookin’ to shake things up. Whatever you decide, the commission for Ginger’s and my extension is yours if you want it. And I’ll put my lawyers on whatever noncompete agreement you signed with W&M when they hired you. Though I doubt they’ll fight my decision to stick with your expertise privately. I’m negotiating several corporate projects with the firm that I doubt they’re going to want to
punt, just to bully you around over a home remodel. You let me know tomorrow if you’re ready to saddle up for the rest of what we’ve discussed.”
Kristen stopped by Mallory’s office, aware that her school nurse had arrived close to an hour late for work.
“How are things on Mimosa Lane?” she asked, cutting to the chase.
You either got to the point during a school day at Chandler, or the point left you behind in a big fat hurry.
Mallory glanced up from the stack of papers she was working with—student records that needed to be continuously updated with contact and health details they tracked from various sources, the most unreliable of which often seemed to be parental communication. The school was due for a county audit soon, and the clinic’s information for each child was most definitely on the list of things to be pored over by people looking for a reason to find Kristen’s team lacking.
There were still so many unanswered questions about how no one had identified the depth of Troy Wilmington’s issues, the bullying he and some of the other kids endured at school each day, and how much pressure he was being subjected to at home. Terrified, hurting parents wanted reassurances about the safety of their children. And even after their community’s progress at Monday night’s school board meeting, there were those who would continue to look for someone to blame.
One bright spot had been the news that Nate Turner’s parents were backing off their demands for a formal investigation into Edna Baxter’s “mishandling” of her classroom, and their call for her forced retirement. But even so, Chandler had a bullying problem to deal with. Kristen was on a personal mission to make sure that none of her kids suffered in silence the way Troy had. And to make sure that children prone to pick on those they saw as weaker students, the way Bubba had, would learn to handle their insecurities and aggression more constructively. That’s why she’d volunteered to be the school’s liaison to the board of ed’s new task force.
Meanwhile, the county would continue to analyze every move Chandler’s administration made, looking for lapses in judgment or unmet regulations, starting with the medical records kept for the students. Mallory was usually the most dependable of Kristen’s staff, a calm voice amidst any difficulty. Her assistance and expertise since the Wilmington shooting had been invaluable—creating a support network on the fly for dealing with the trauma and psychological after effects. But this morning, Chandler’s nurse was clearly running on empty.
“The lane seems to be having a collective nervous breakdown.” Mallory blew her bangs out of her eyes, tossing her pen on top of the papers and pushing her computer’s keyboard away. “I can’t reach anyone in Chandlerville over the phone to update their records. Practically no one’s showing up yet for the family support group I’ve e-mailed parents about. But that doesn’t stop them from asking me for advice and help every time I turn around. Because things are going from bad to worse and no one’s working on their own solutions yet—no matter how hard they think they’re trying, or how much good Brian’s speech Monday night might have done. Beverly and Nate Turner showed up at my front door this morning.”
“Really?”
Kristen waited, in case the other woman didn’t want to talk about it. Mallory’s scrubs that morning were covered in smiling puppies showing a lot of teeth. Given her present mood, all that happy came off more menacing than soothing.
“Right there in front of her son,” Mallory said, “Beverly started telling me all over again how much difficulty they were having getting Nate to concentrate on his schoolwork. She asked if there were any meds I could suggest that their pediatrician might give him to help Nate get over what he’s been through, enough to at least get to the summer without flunking out of sixth grade.”
“Poor Nate. What did you say?” Kristen knew her friend had very definite opinions on the subject of medicating a child, instead of actually figuring out whatever else a student needed to feel better.
Mallory folded her hands together, sitting back in the creaky desk chair someone had found for her when she’d first started at Chandler and realized that the former nurse hadn’t kept a desk at all. Mallory had been all business then, even though she’d doted on the kids from the start. And she was all business now.
She studied Kristen from head to toe and back up again. Kristen knew just how bloodshot her eyes were, and how much more makeup she needed these days to cover the fact that she looked almost as bad as she felt. She hadn’t taken the time to press her suit that morning. And even though the wrinkles weren’t that noticeable, she felt certain Mallory had catalogued every one.
So what if she still wasn’t sleeping, despite how well Monday’s meeting had gone? They were talking about Nate, not her.
“What did you do with Beverly?” she insisted.
“I sat and listened, while the woman talked to me about personal things she thinks she and her husband are dealing with, except they’re not. Which is exactly the sort of thing a parents’ support group would help her figure out. Not that the Turners plan to attend a group meeting. Which is when it dawned on me…”
“What?”
“That I’ve been enabling the woman and the other well-meaning parents who keep calling me for advice, except they aren’t taking the steps they need to help themselves or each other.”
“And?”
Kristen could empathize with the Turners.
She’d received a flood of offers of support from the local education community. She’d carefully thanked each person, but had backed away from everyone, before people had had to distance themselves from her situation—because no one in their right mind really wanted to tangle with the board or superintendent in such a high-profile way. And Kristen would rather proactively decline each well-meaning but empty offer of support before it disappeared on its own. She’d learned from experience that her self-esteem took less of a beating that way, when in the end she still wound up facing what she had to alone.
Accepting help, trusting people when they offered it, left you in a vulnerable place that evidently a lot of people in Chandlerville were steering clear of.
“And,” Mallory said, “I marched Beverly across the cul-de-sac to Sam’s house, where Sam’s still having trouble getting Cade to work, and I pretty much threw them at each other. And then I got in my car and drove to my day job—you know, the one where I get to relax for a few hours doing my nails and gabbing with the girls.”
Kristen smiled at the image of Chandler’s clinic nurse stomping to her perky, yellow VW Beetle and tearing down Mimosa Lane in a huff.
“Have you called to check up on them?” Kristen asked.
Mallory glared at the phone, back at Kristen, and then down at her paperwork.
“No.” She sighed. “I was going to wait until after lunch. I have to finish all of this first.”
Kristen chuckled and collected the student records.
“You’re officially on lunch break,” she said, thrilled at the thought of the Perry and Turner families making progress with their boys, and loving how much Mallory cared right along with the rest of Kristen’s staff. “Go ahead and call.” She plopped herself down in the guest chair beside the desk. “Gab away. You’re dying to hear what happened. I know I am.”
Chapter Eighteen
“I need your help,” Julia said, when Sam answered the door for the second time that day.
“What’s wrong?” Sam asked, not that she really wanted to know.
Though her son’s enthusiasm had led her to relent to Nate staying, neither boy had wanted to do much more than goof around. They’d gotten very little work done, but their happiness at once more being friends had been a promising start. Plus Cade had laid off Sam for the rest of the morning and early afternoon, allowing her nerves to settle a bit—though she still felt guilty for not being able to give her son the only thing he’d asked her for since the shooting.
Nate was gone now. She’d just seen him and Beverly off—agreeing, mostly because of the pep talk she’d receiv
ed earlier when Mallory had called to check in, to give the boys working together one more shot tomorrow—if James Perry signed off on the arrangements, and only if the boys agreed to buckle down and focus on their assignments, in particular their essays.
Cade and Joshua were having their after-school snack of homemade oatmeal cookies in the kitchen. Brian still wasn’t home from wherever he’d spent the day. And Sam’s ability to cope was frayed beyond the point of holding herself together through yet another demand for her attention.
“It’s Walter.” The fear and outright panic in Julia’s voice vaporized Sam’s self-pity.
She stepped back. Her friend rushed inside. Julia paced a few feet away, came back, and shook her head while staring through Sam. And then she paced some more, repeating the entire process. Before she could get away again, Sam took her hands and squeezed.
Julia’s customary forced cheer had disappeared over the last week. So had the smile that had told the world since January that nothing whatsoever was wrong in the Davis house. And as many times as Sam had wished her friend would deal more realistically with the state of her own family instead of focusing so much energy on Sam’s problems, why did this epiphany have to be happening today?
“What’s going on with Walter?” she made herself ask.
Because she did want to know. And she did want to help. Really, she did. They hadn’t spoken about Monday night. Julia hadn’t wanted to before now, and Sam had been worried about her all week.
“I told him after that awful scene he made in front of you,” Julia said, “that he was done drinking at home. I wasn’t having any more of it. And he said he was sorry. He said he’d stop, that he’d never meant to say those horrible things.” She walked to the kitchen and peeked around the corner at the boys. When she came back, she was wringing her hands. “I really thought he’d stopped.”
Sam checked her watch. It was a little after four. Surely Walter wasn’t over at Julia’s now, tying one on.
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