The Choice

by Robert Whitlow

  Sandy changed into exercise clothes. No one who saw Ms. Lincoln walking her dog could call her a slouch. In the fall, Sandy wore stylish workout pants with matching tops. Winter brought out jackets with coordinated hats. Whatever the season, Sandy’s wardrobe reflected the orderliness passed down from her mother, and she dressed in a way she hoped would inspire her female students to treat themselves with respect.

  She took Nelson’s leash from its hook by the door and grabbed the Labrador/standard poodle mix by the collar. The tight curls covering Nelson’s body were a clue that he was more poodle than Labrador.

  The dog sniffed the ground for a moment before pointing his nose up the street. Within a few steps, he settled in beside her. It was four blocks to the church Sandy attended with her family. She remained a faithful member. A sign in front of the church announced the sermon topic for the coming Sunday: “Don’t Be Late for Your Funeral.” Reverend Peterson used catchy but sometimes corny titles in an effort to draw a crowd.

  Nelson had the awareness of a Seeing Eye dog of the flow of traffic and waited without being told at street corners until it was safe to cross. Sandy did some of her best thinking and praying on walks. Today she thought back many years to Angelica. After the Hispanic girl moved back to Monterrey, she and Sandy had corresponded for a few months, but when Sandy wrote about the birth of the twins, Angelica never replied. Sandy suspected her friend didn’t want to be reminded of the loss of her own baby.

  Sandy passed rows of small businesses and shops and turned left in front of the county courthouse. Many people she encountered nodded in greeting. Few knew or remembered her past. After three decades, the community had moved on, and if the subject of Sandy’s teenage pregnancy came up, longtime residents focused on the positive influence of her life since then, not the disgrace of a long-ago mistake.

  Recent gossip focused on whether the notoriously picky Ms. Lincoln would ever meet a man who could convince her to marry him. Sandy had seriously dated a man in college and fallen in love with him. He’d visited Rutland, and everyone in her family liked him. Her boyfriend’s parents welcomed Sandy with open arms. A few months before graduation, Sandy was on pins and needles in expectation of an imminent marriage proposal. One Saturday night her boyfriend took her to dinner at their favorite restaurant and, instead of giving her a ring, told her he wasn’t ready for a long-term commitment. Shocked, Sandy asked if that meant a delay. He told her no—it meant the relationship was over. Burned twice by men, Sandy resolved not to be hurt again. The best way to do that was to avoid getting too close to one.

  Sandy and Nelson reached the local veterinary practice. The dog looked to the side and sniffed the air. He didn’t like going to the vet. He strained against the leash and picked up the pace until they passed the facility.

  Sandy’s cell phone buzzed. It was Carol Ramsey.

  “Hi, Carol. Thanks for returning my call. I just met with a student who has a serious problem you should know about.” Sandy told her about Maria. “Would you be able to meet with her at seven-thirty in the morning?”

  “I have a meeting out of the office on my calendar, but I’ll get in touch with the other person tonight and reschedule. A situation like Maria’s has to take priority.”

  “Thanks. See you then.”

  Sandy’s walking route for the day was a giant rectangle. She and Nelson reached the edge of the business district, then walked down a slight hill toward the elementary school Sandy attended as a child. Beyond that, they entered an older residential area with large trees whose roots caused the sidewalk to crack and buckle.

  As she walked, Sandy prayed for Maria Alverez. Times had changed in Rutland since high school girls were automatically expelled for getting pregnant. It wasn’t unheard of for a pregnant student to attend classes. Eyebrows went up when a young woman graduated in a gown that couldn’t conceal a growing baby, but a new generation had ushered in more relaxed societal attitudes. Sandy suspected none of that was going to help Maria. Her challenges went deeper than the negative opinions of women at the hair salon.

  Sandy’s favorite residential street in Rutland was an avenue lined on both sides with massive oaks. The large, older houses, with differing architectural styles, occupied spacious lots and exuded character. Locals called the street “Millionaires’ Row.” Owners included doctors, lawyers, businesspeople, and old-money families. Ben and Betsy had looked at a house at the end of the row when it came on the market but decided to buy a newer home that required less upkeep. On a teacher’s salary, all Sandy could do was enjoy the free view from the curb.

  At the end of the street, she was only a few blocks from the park near her home. The park was deserted when she cut through it. Nelson’s tongue was hanging out of his mouth with thirst, and he buried his face in his water bowl as soon as they were home. Sandy slipped his leash over a hook on the kitchen wall as the phone rang. It was Jessica.

  “How close did I time it?” Jessica asked. “From the time I saw you, I guessed you would walk through the door in another eight minutes.”

  “Where did you see me?”

  “I drove past you and Nelson going the opposite direction when you were on Millionaires’ Row. I waved, but you seemed deep in thought.”

  “Yeah, I found out today that a Hispanic girl I tutored a couple of years ago is pregnant.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Barely sixteen. She cried like a baby when she told me the news.”

  “Who’s the daddy?”

  “I didn’t get a chance to ask. Carol Ramsey, the new counselor at the school, and I are going to meet with her in the morning.”

  “Why bring in the counselor so quickly? It sounds like the girl trusts you.”

  “That’s the new procedure. Dr. Vale made it clear at teacher orientation in the fall that when serious personal issues involving students come up, one of the counselors needs to take the lead.”

  “And you don’t want to use Stanley Lapp?”

  “Right. He’s not equipped to work with a shy, pregnant teenager. I can tell Carol a little about the student’s background and hope she does the right thing.”

  Sandy could hear the TV in the background at her friend’s house.

  “Have you fixed supper?” Jessica asked.

  Sandy looked at the cold stove. She didn’t have a meal in mind, but she had leftovers in the refrigerator.

  “Not yet. I may warm up—”

  “No, you’re not. Get in your car and come over. It will take you exactly eight minutes if you don’t get stuck at the red light on Poplar Avenue. Rick is having dinner with his boss, and I’m here alone. I’ve got the makings of the best salad you’ve ever seen, but it will be a work of art if your hands get involved. All I need to complete it is Roquefort cheese. You can pick some up for me at the store.”

  “I’ll change and be on my way.”

  “Change? That outfit you had on when I saw you walking a few minutes ago was nicer than what I wore to the dentist’s office this morning. Of course, if I had your figure, any clothes would look better on me.”

  “You look great, and remember, you’ve had three children,”

  Sandy said.

  “And I’m glad I did, but that’s not helping me fight the bulges that seem to pop out in all the wrong places.”

  NINETEEN

  Jeremy Lane placed a new photograph on the credenza in his office. In the picture his wife, Leanne, and their two children were standing barefoot in a mountain stream. Leanne was looking down at the children, who were squealing with delight as the chilly water rushed over their feet and crashed against their ankles. Ten-year-old Chloe’s sandy hair hung to her shoulders. Five-year-old Zach’s wide-open mouth revealed several missing teeth. Leanne’s face, framed by dark hair, showed a mother’s delight in the presence of happy children.

  Jeremy positioned the photo beside a more formal family portrait of Jeremy and Zach wearing identical blue sport coats and Leanne and Chloe in matching dresses. It was a
corny photo, but that only made Jeremy like it more. A grainy picture of Jeremy as a little boy in front of his parents’ home near Charleston was propped on the corner of his desk.

  The phone buzzed. It was Deb Bridges, his secretary/legal assistant.

  “Have you checked your e-mail?” Deb asked.

  “No, I haven’t even turned on the computer yet.”

  “I’m not trying to ruin your coffee, but you need to see what came in from the lawyers on the other side of the Grosvenor case.”

  Jeremy sat in the burgundy leather chair that had been a gift from his mother when he left the district attorney’s office to open his own practice. He swiveled to the side and turned on his computer. He scrolled down to the subject line, Grosvenor v. Alcott Business Systems, et al., and opened the file. He’d been electronically served with a motion to compel discovery. A hearing on the motion was set in Fulton County Superior Court in downtown Atlanta. Jeremy quickly read the motion. Deb came to the office door and leaned against the doorframe. The auburn-haired secretary was in her midforties. A pair of half-frame reading glasses hung from a chain around her neck.

  “Did you read this?” Jeremy asked.

  “Every word.”

  “This is bogus. We filed answers to all the interrogatories and requests for production of documents last week.”

  “But you didn’t give them what they really wanted—details about the termination of Mr. Grosvenor’s consulting contract with the company in Virginia.”

  “If they want that information, they’re going to have to go to Virginia and take depositions. When that happens, the CFO of the Virginia company is going to hurt them.”

  “Or so you hope.”

  “Oh, he’ll hurt them. I just want that information to come out after I depose Alcott’s regulatory compliance officer and get him nailed down on the record.” Jeremy looked up from his computer. “Prepare a notice to take the deposition of Gregory Sexton, the compliance officer. Set it for the afternoon of the hearing on their motion in Atlanta. If they refuse to make him available, I’ll file a countermotion to compel his appearance and ask the judge to hear it at the same time as the motion to compel.”

  “Sounds like you’re going to war.”

  “I knew that going in.” Jeremy turned back to the computer screen. “But what Alcott did to Mr. Grosvenor was wrong, and if I can survive summary judgment and get this case in front of a jury, there’s a chance for a decent verdict.”

  The lawyers on the other side of the Grosvenor case fired their legal missiles from ninety miles away in a fancy office tower in Atlanta. The advent of computer legal research, with its virtually unlimited resources, had leveled the battlefield between big-city lawyers and small-town practitioners. A lawyer like Jeremy, who knew the right questions to ask the search engine, could compete with any law firm in the country.

  A half-empty cup of black coffee grew cold as Jeremy checked and reviewed the appellate decisions cited in the motion to compel. Only one case gave him concern, and the problem it raised for his position made him shake his head. This was going to take some serious digging. The phone buzzed again.

  “Did you forget your appointment with Larry Bishop?” Deb asked.

  Jeremy glanced at his watch.

  “Yes. Call the Blackwater and tell Bobby to be on the lookout for a gray-haired man in his early sixties who’s not from Tryon.”

  Jeremy grabbed his jacket from a small closet in the corner of the office and quickly checked his appearance in the mirror on the back of the closet door. His sandy hair was slightly darker than his daughter Chloe’s, but they had matching blue eyes. At five foot nine inches tall, Jeremy still had the sinewy strength that had made him a successful wrestler in high school. Leanne jokingly held his hand tight when they went for walks on the beach because she didn’t want a bikini-clad female to get the idea he might be available.

  “I’ll be back by eleven for the conference call in the Dobbins case,” he said to Deb as he passed her desk.

  “I’m typing the memo right now,” she replied. “It’ll be on your desk waiting for you.”

  Jeremy’s office was on the ground floor of a two-story office building located two blocks from the courthouse. Other tenants in the building included a two-person accounting firm, an investment adviser, a real-estate lawyer who spent most of his time in the courthouse deed room, and a child psychologist. Jeremy and the accounting firm occupied the prime spaces on the ground level. When he had a deposition involving multiple parties or lawyers, the accountants let Jeremy use their conference room.

  Jeremy stepped into the crisp air of the late fall morning. The Blackwater Coffee Shop was several blocks away on South Avenue, the main street through the center of town. Tryon wasn’t large enough to attract a national coffee franchise, so Bobby Miller, the owner of a sandwich shop, created his own. Skeptics doubted local residents would pay several dollars for a flavored cup of coffee, but Bobby had proved them wrong, and the Blackwater did a brisk business.

  Jeremy opened the door of the shop and saw Larry Bishop sitting in a corner chair reading the Wall Street Journal. A cup of coffee and a thin pastry were on a small round table in front of him. Like Jeremy’s father, Bishop was a Vietnam War veteran who had served in the air force and went on to become a pilot with a major U.S. airline. The two men rode the wave of high salaries for commercial pilots to their highest point before deregulation and airline bankruptcies eroded the wage scale so that many pilots were paid like glorified bus drivers. Jeremy shook the distinguished-looking man’s hand.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Jeremy said. “I was caught up in some research on a big case.”

  “No problem,” Bishop replied in a rich Charleston accent. “The owner set me up with a cup of Blue Mountain java and this flaky bit of sweet stuff. He’s got a great concept going here. Did you mention our conversation about trying to franchise this place in other small towns? I can think of several spots where it would take off.”

  Since his retirement, Larry Bishop had been a successful business investor.

  “Yes.” Jeremy waved to Bobby, who was behind the counter, and called out, “The arabica, please.”

  “Was he interested in expanding?” Bishop asked.

  “He told me that if his son comes back to work for him after college, he’ll consider it. Bobby doesn’t want business to cut into his deer-hunting time. His sandwich shop was popular, but he didn’t want the hassle of running two businesses at once so he shut it down.”

  The owner brought over Jeremy’s coffee and handed it to him. It was black as a moonless midnight.

  Since Jeremy’s father’s death from a stroke three years earlier, Bishop had made a point of stopping to see Jeremy every time he was near Tryon. Today he was on his way to Atlanta to play golf and had landed his small private plane at the tiny county airport that was not much more than a strip of asphalt in an empty field. The airport manager loaned Bishop a car so he could drive into town to see Jeremy.

  “How was your flight?” Jeremy asked.

  “Clear and smooth. The avionics on my new plane are topnotch. It practically flies itself.”

  Jeremy took a sip of the coffee. It was strong and bitter.

  “Kip and I saw your mother last weekend,” Bishop continued. “We went out to eat at a new place on Sullivan’s Island not far from the condominiums we bought last year. The condos have been renting great. Your mother’s unit is cash-flowing with extra to spare.”

  “Leanne and I want to take the kids there during the off-season this winter.”

  “You’ll like it. Oh, and your mother had her latest houseguest in tow. The poor girl thought boiled shrimp were a delicacy. She must have eaten two dozen.”

  Jeremy’s mother had been providing temporary housing for unmarried pregnant girls since Jeremy’s younger sister left home for college. Most of the girls were referrals from a local crisis pregnancy center, but several churches were aware that Ruth Lane had a furnished efficiency apartmen
t over the two-car garage beside her home.

  “How old was the girl?” Jeremy asked. “I’ve not talked to Mom about her.”

  “Sixteen, but she looked thirteen,” Bishop said, shaking his head. “The girls your mother takes in look younger and younger.”

  “Cara’s mother was barely seventeen when she was born,” Jeremy said, referring to his younger sister, who was also adopted. He took another sip of coffee. “Did my mom mention that Cara is interested in finding her birth mother?”

  Bishop, who was about to pick up his pastry, left it on the plate.

  “No, she didn’t. What’s going on with that? You have the best mother on the planet. Why in the world would Cara want to run off and try to find someone who didn’t want to keep her in the first place?”

  “Don’t be too hard on her. She’s just curious. Before she did anything, she talked it over with Mom and reassured her of how she felt. And you nailed one of the reasons Cara gave me when we talked about it. She wants to know why her mother didn’t, or couldn’t, keep her.”

  Bishop grunted. “She doesn’t have to look far. Based on the girls your mother takes in, it’s easy to see why sixteen-year-old girls don’t keep babies. And your dad treated Cara like a princess. I doubt she’s secretly related to European royalty.”

  “You’re probably right, but she’s got the itch. I think losing Dad so suddenly is part of it too. Mom and I are concerned she’ll be hurt, but Cara is an adult. She’ll be twenty-six in February.”