by Jacquie Gee
“You could have reported it to the authorities,” Trent speaks up.
“You haven’t lived here long enough.” He turns on Trent. “The Jefferies own the authorities.” Mr. Williams purses his lips. His cheeks flush even redder. “I promise you,”—he looks to me— “I did what I could. I saved your mother’s house.”
“My mother was foreclosed on.”
“Yes, but—” Bertram lowers his head. “The Jefferies were supposed to get it. That was the plan. But I fixed it, so that didn't happen. I quickly arranged for another buyer, and made sure he got the house instead." His eyes travel to Mom. "It was the best I could do. I couldn't delay the call any longer. I neglected to call Jefferies’ lawyer until we had Trent's bid, which I put forward as the only one. I had Vera process the sale into the registry before Jefferies got back from his business trip, even though he'd directed me to do it all by proxy. I was to act on his behalf as soon as the bailiff took over the property, but I didn't. Jefferies threatened my life that night. He landed off the plane and sent his thugs after me.”
“That’s how he broke that leg,” Aunt Penny says. “He was in the hospital for months.” She turns to me.
“So you think yourself a savior, do you?” Trent goes after Bertram. “Think you solved things by giving her house up to me.” He pokes his chest.
“No. But it helps me sleep at night.”
“What if I hadn’t let her live there?”
“Vera and I were gonna open our house to her.”
I stare at Mr. Williams long and hard. I don’t know whether to believe him or not. “And the money from the grant, where did that go?”
“Into young Jefferies campaign,” Bertram says.
“Of course, it did.” Aunt Penny grabs the chair back in front of her.
“Your mother’s house was mortgaged to the hilt,” Bertram further explains. “Your mother came to me for a second mortgage after young Jefferies forced her to update all the wiring at her place. Threatened to shut her down if she didn’t. So…”
“How else was I gonna pay for it?” Mom speaks up when my gaze falls to her.
“Jacob Jefferies, of course, knew this, so he just had me call in the loan. But then he wasn’t satisfied with just displacing your mother; he wanted all the rest of the land she owned. That way, young Jefferies could satisfy the government, ensuring them their highway project; thus, earning himself a seat in parliament. While one of his father’s bogus offshoot companies, of which he has many, could bid to build the project. They’re as corrupt as each other. Two peas in a pod. Together they control everything and everyone in these parts.”
“And you helped them achieve phase one of their plan,” I say, slamming my fists down on his desk.
“Your mother could have been out on the street. I did my best to help her.” He shakes his head.
“Yeah, well, your best wasn’t good enough, mate.” Trent juts toward him.
“Thank you, Mr. Williams,” I say, as I turn. “For finally having the courage to come clean. I’m sorry for what’s happened to you. But not sorry enough to let you off the hook. Please let Mrs. Williams’ know, if she ever comes within three feet of me or my mother ever again, I won’t be held responsible for my actions.”
I turn heel and head for the door, then stop short when it hits me. The deed. It wasn’t in the box.
Chapter 53
"Mom," I say when we get out onto the street. "You’re sure you have no any idea where the deed to the bridge is?”
“Of course, I know.” She frowns.
“What do you mean, you know? Aunt Penny and I have been looking for it for days. It wasn’t in the safety deposit box—”
“Of course, it wasn’t,” Mother snarls. “Your father warned me never to trust Bertram Ball-less Williams with too much important.”
Trent chokes on a laugh.
“Then where it is?” I clutch her arm.
“Why, hidden. In the walls of the house, of course.”
“What house? Our house?” Trent points to himself.
“Have we owned any other house?”
“You mean the walls of the house before the construction?” I clarify.
Mom nods.
“Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no…” He turns and barrels off toward the front porch.
Chapter 54
I jog up the steps of the government building in Fredericton where I manage to connect with Mr. Bolley, an old-school chum of my dad’s. I show him the forged documents, and the one Jebson served me with that claims the bridge belongs to the municipality, along with the site plans from Aunt Penny’s ledger, and our original deed. Mom did, in fact, have it in her possession, which we luckily found hidden inside the walls of my mother’s former sewing room— the only room in the house Trent hadn't gutted.
Mr. Bolley’s head snaps up. A small smile crests his face. “I’ve been waiting to catch old-boy Jefferies in an underhanded dealing since before your father passed.” He shakes the papers in his hand. “Where did you find these?”
“Well, this one showed up in my parents’ old safety deposit box. The one my mother hasn’t opened in twenty years.” I point. “And this one,”—I point to the deed— “my Dad had hidden in the walls of our house.”
“Add to these my growing suspicions of alleged fraudulent activity, and I’ve finally got the old turd where I want him!” He taps the heritage monument designation papers against his palm. “I say ‘alleged’ because I have to at this point.” He winks. “Though I’ve got enough on him now, with your help, to bury him alive, hopefully. On another note, you have no idea how many of us around here are opposed to adding young Jefferies to the ticket.” He holds out his hands, indicating the political party house. I thank you on behalf of all of us.” He nods. “And I promise I’ll look into this immediately.” He holds up the documents. “Trouble will be, getting this all to stick once we’ve teased out the facts.”
“You get these offenses officially connected to the Jefferies family, and I’ll make sure they stick,” I say.
“I take your word on that.” He smiles at me and tucks the paperwork into his breast coat pocket.
I know I can trust him. He and my father go way back. Politician or not, Dad always spoke highly of him.
“Oh, and there’s this.” I hand him a cigarette package. “I found this tucked up inside a hole in one of the beams of the bridge, when we were sitting up there the other night. It was near where the spot
that was damaged before the backhoe showed up.
He looks perplexed.
“It’s a Marlboro Menthol. They’re not sold in Canada. You can only buy them in the States. And I know this, because the only one person I've ever known to smoke them, is Jebson Jefferies." I toss the evidence to him, in the baggy I've preserved it in. "Check the DNA. If it matches, we have our man."
“What do you mean?”
“Someone left it up on the bridge beam up by the notch that was hatched into it fresh the other day.”
Mr. Bolley’s face breaks into a broad smile. “If only your father were alive today to see you, Becca, championing the bridge like this.” Mr. Bolley’s voice fogs up. “He’d be very proud.” He reaches out, pats my shoulder, then heads on up the steps of the building.
“Thanks,” I say, sidestepping down them, then quickly turn back. “You’ll call as soon as you have something, right?”
“The very second,” he assures me. “In the meantime, you go get that meeting with the Premier over with, and make your position clear to him what’s happened. I’ll be there to back up your word.”
“I will. And thanks.”
“Oh, and, pop by my office and have Madeline cut you a cashier’s check for the sum of all those outstanding IOUs.”
“What?”
You can pay me back as the money comes in. It’s the least the municipality can do to help repair the bridge, considering all that’s happened. I’ll send Madeline a text right now, letting her know you’re coming.” He
takes out his phone.
“You’re sure about this?”
“It’s my pleasure.” He smiles, punching in the message in. “Thank you.” He nods. “If you’re right about all this, someone’s going to jail. A couple of someone’s, actually. You have no idea how happy that makes me.” He laughs, then adds quietly, “Don’t tell anyone I said that.”
I laugh.
“I still can’t believe young Jefferies is as rotten as his father.” Mr. Bolley frowns. “I held out hope he was made of better stuffing than his old man, even though he is an incredibly arrogant piece of crap.”
“You and me both, Mr. Bolley.” I laugh.
“Oh, that’s right. I almost forgot.” His voice grows sad. Mr. Bolley checks his watch. “Oh, my. So, sorry. I have to go.” He turns, dashing up the stone steps of the government building in the heart of Fredericton.
“Thanks again for all your help!” I holler after him.
“Becca!” Mr. Bolley’s voice stops me as I head toward my car, my head bowed against the brisk wind rolling in off the ocean across the street. “You’re sure you’re gonna be able to handle the outcome of this? Whichever way it falls?”
“What outcome is that? That my former fiancé is a felon?”
“No.” He looks at me soberly. “If these signatures end up legit and your mother has lost the bridge.”
I go cold. I’d never given that scenario a moment’s thought—never entertained that possibility. If that is true, and the bridge isn’t ours anymore, what will that mean for Mom? For me? For father’s heritage?
“I guess, as they say, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, won’t we?” I holler back.
It’s not gonna happen. It can’t happen. I drop into my car and slam the door shut.
Jebson can’t win.
Chapter 55
A few turns of vodka later, and my head feels like it's in a vice. The world is spinning, and my stomach is queasy. I try to count on my fingers how many drinks I’d scarfed down and come up with seven as a ballpark figure. Give or take two. In less than two hours? No wonder my cranium is pounding.
Trudy, Trent, Aunt Penny and I had decided to go down to the local pub and celebrate to take a little of the pressure off, and we've gotten a little carried away. Trudy is smashed, Aunt Penny can’t stop giggling, and I’m a total wreck. Trent, thank goodness, stopped after two, or we’d have nobody to drive us home. We could probably have walked—it’s not that far—but not in this condition. It would have been impossible. So he’s poured us all into his car and is doing the rounds. Trudy is up first.
He pulls in her drive, and she staggers out, drunk-chick walks her way past husband Dave and into the house. She struts along in her blood-red, too high, high heels, and a too short skirt, as Dave sneers back at Trent. The funniest part is, the heels are Aunt Penny's. And she borrowed the skirt, from me. Mild mannered daycare provider, be gone! I snicker in my head as we pull away.
Trent drops Aunt Penny off next, who can’t stop giggling, and who has to negotiate the back step-up to her apartment three times before conquering it. He waits for her to unlock her door and get safely inside before he pulls away, cranking the car around and taking the turn into our driveway a little too sharp. “Ouch.” I crack my head on the side window when the tires accidentally jump the curb. The smack adds to the assault already going on inside my brain.
What have I done? What was I thinking? I can’t wait to brush my teeth.
“Sorry,” Trent says, reaching over. “You okay—” His hand falls softly over mine.
“I’m fine,” I say. Though, I don’t know why all his movements seem so exaggerated right now.
Clearly, I’m not fine.
The car is in park, but my body hasn’t completely stopped moving, yet.
“You’re sure you’re okay, cause—”
“I’ll be fine.” I try to step away from the car and end up on the ground. Okay, so I’m lying on the grass outside, admittedly this doesn’t look good. But honestly, I almost never drink, and the world is spinning right now, so he just needs to pick me up and take me inside, and not ask me any questions.
“I tripped,” I say when he appears over top of me.
“Come on. Let’s go.” He does exactly what I want him to. He hauls me up and over his shoulder, where I flop like a rag doll.
“We have the most important meeting of our lives tomorrow and you pick now to be a lush,” he mutters as he carries me.
“I’m not a lush. I’m just a bit tipsy.” I show him with my fingers. “Besides, the meeting’s not until one p.m. I’ve got plenty of time to sleep this off.”
He drops me to the ground on wobbly legs when he stops to unlock the bottom door. I fall like so much spaghetti against his chest. This is embarrassing. It’s like there was more in those cocktails than just alcohol. I’m starting to wonder if I got roofied. I haven’t been this drunk since I accepted Jebson’s proposal. And we all know how well that turned out! I laugh in my head.
“Here we go.” Trent tosses me up and over his massive shoulder again, which I can’t help but squeeze.
“I think there’s a pillow upstairs with your name on it,” he says.
“Hopefully next to one with yours.”
“You’ve really had too much to drink.”
“Or just enough.”
He laughs and climbs the stairs.
“You’re really strong, you know that?” I stroke the muscles in his back as I dangle over his shoulder. “And tall.” I fan myself. “It’s very high up here,” I add, desperate to focus on something other than Trent, but there are only stair steps, and they’re moving so fast. “And muscular.” I squeeze him again. He stumbles up one of the treads when I do this. “Have I ever told you how much I like strong, tall, muscular men?”
“A few times in the past hour, yes.”
“Full disclosure,” I slur. “I do. Very much. They’re my favorite kind of man!”
“Point taken.”
I’m sort of aware of what I’m saying, but sort of not, too, so I say it again. “I really, really like me some hot muscular man.”
“Okay, we’ve that established.” Trent flicks up his brows. They look cool upside down—and very kissable. “Keys, please?”
“Keys?” I frown.
“You know, the things that open the apartment door?”
“Oh, yeah.” I swing my bag off my shoulder nearly clipping Trent in the head. “It’s hard to do things upside down.” I giggle.
Trent takes the bag from me, digs in the bottom, and produces the tiny shiny object that saves the day. He slips it into the lock and quietly turns it, then pops the door open, and carries me light-footedly across the threshold, checking for Mom the whole way. Smart move, just in case she’s in one of her umbrella-wielding moods again.
I have to say, this is not exactly how I imagined us crossing the threshold together—but I guess it will have to do. I probably won’t remember this tomorrow anyway.
Why do I suddenly feel like Mom?
Trent takes the corner into the apartment hallway little too sharp and clunks my head on the side of the wall. “Sorry,” he whispers.
“Wow, you really suck at turning.” I rub my head.
“Yeah, bad depth perception. Failed my license three times before I got it.”
“Maybe you should have glasses.” I giggle.
He tiptoes past Mom’s room, trying not to wake her, and ducks into the spare bedroom on the right.
“Okay, here we go. No puking on the way down,” he warns, as he alley oops me into bed. I drop onto the mattress like lead.
“My teeth,” I groan. “I gotta brush my teeth." I slide from the bed like a noodle and onto the floor. Scrambling up, I stagger my way to the ensuite where I brush my teeth a good three minutes, gagging all the way, before toppling back into bed. I think I’m walking considerably better now. See, the booze is wearing off already.
Trent assists me back into bed, and my breasts graze hi
s arm on the way down, which is kind of nice, but it could be better, say…if he had touched them intentionally. He helps me take off my shoes. “About tonight?” I mutter, looking up at him goofily, my vodka-lacquered eyes are only semi-focusing still. Gall darn, this man is beautiful. So very beautiful. And kind and sweet and sexy too…
“Don’t worry about it.” Trent tucks my legs under the sheets and brings the blankets up around the neck.
He fixes my pillow, picking up my head up and placing it back down, so gentle and considerate. Add those to the growing list of why he’s the best. Not that I’m biased, or anything.
I can’t remember the last time a man’s done that for me. I can't remember a man ever being this attentive. Jebson was a great big turd when I think about it.
Trent moves away, then darts back to push a strand of hair from my eyes.
“What?” I say.
“Nothing.” He tucks the strand gently around the shell of my ear, and every cell in my body tingles.
“You are cute drunk.”
I devour him with my gaze. My eyes travel from his face to his chest, to his… Oh, my. Oh my, my, my…why am I looking there. My lips part.
For a long moment, he just stands there towering over me, standing next to my bed, like a Greek god. I stare up at him, staring back at me. All my instincts are apparently drunk. Otherwise, I’d have taken that gorgeous face of his in my hands and kissed it by now. I’d have swallowed up those luscious lips.
Swallowed. That’s a horrible sounding word, not the least bit romantic.
Maybe I should just stick to kissing.
Though I’d like to use a little tongue—
Wow! That must be the vodka talking.
“I’d better get going.” Trent leans over me, and for a moment I think he’s about to kiss me, but really, he’s just fixing my blanket. “I’ll come back and check on you in the morning.” He turns to leave, and my hand springs up and yanks him back. Silly hand. “No, wait.” My mouth says all on its own.