by Terri Lee
“No. On the way over here, I saw someone flipping a frog with a spatula.”
To the outward eye, they were two friends chatting over iced tea. One carried a straw purse, hat,and gloves. The other carried a murder charge.
“I won’t ask how you’ve been,” Millie said. “I just want you to know I’m here. I’ve always been here.”
“Thanks, Mill.” Savannah took a deep breath, preparing herself for the questions she knew were coming.
“Your lawyer came to talk to me.” Millie’s tone was casual, as if she were saying Beverly had dropped by for a visit.
Savannah sat up straighter, on the edge of her chair. “Phil? What on earth for?”
“He wanted to talk about you. Our friendship, mostly. But he also wanted to talk about...that night.” She picked the words carefully, stepping through a minefield, her green eyes watching Savannah for any sign of detonation.
“I see.” Savannah followed exactly in Millie’s footsteps, between the mines.
“He had a whole list of questions. He’s certainly thorough.”
“Yes, he is.”
“Anyway,” Millie continued. “He wanted me to describe you. I felt like I was being given a psyche test or something, because he said, ‘Just throw out the first words that come to mind when you think of her.’”
“What words did you throw?”
“Athletic. Gorgeous. Loyal. Private. Very private.”
Savannah winced at very.
“I told him the truth,” Millie said. “I said if one couldn’t be Savannah Palmerton, then the next best thing was to be near her. I told him you were Miss Everything, waiting for her crown. He liked that one. He has a great laugh.” Millie leaned forward then, reaching for Savannah’s hand.
“I also told him you could never do what they’re accusing you of.”
Savannah squeezed Millie’s hand. “I appreciate that.”
She felt bad for starting out this visit feeling resentful and put-upon when she should be grateful someone else was in her corner. Of course, once the evidence against Savannah was presented at trial, Millie might change her mind. Everyone might.
Savannah looked at Millie now. The neat summer dress, legs perfectly crossed at the ankles, all grown-up, ladylike composure. But Savannah knew underneath the straw hat, little Millie was dying to tell a secret. With good reason. Over the years, the two of them weathered skinned knees, boy troubles, college, and babies. They told each other everything and pinky-sweared to take all of it, or at least the less respectable bits, to the grave.
Savannah gave her an opening.” Did he ask you about the night of the Valentine’s dance?”
“I told him you and Price seemed very cozy at the start of the evening. But by the time you left, something seemed off. Price said you weren’t feeling well, but you seemed fine to me at dinner. When Phil asked my impression of Price I said the first word that popped into my head. Womanizer.”
“Was,” Savannah said quietly. He was a lot of things. He was also alive.
“Of course, the D.A. interviewed everyone at the dance that night. All the same questions. Did we see the two of you fighting? Did we see anything at all? Some people said they saw you try to slap Price across the face.”
Savannah’s heart flipped over but Millie was off like a roller coaster after it topped the hill. She had stories to tell and Savannah simply sat and listened, adding nothing from her end. She knew enough not to talk about her case, even with a trusted friend. An innocent remark, innocently repeated to the wrong ears, could leave her defense in shambles.
Millie looked like she wanted to say so much more, but instead she kicked the can of her conversation down a safer sidewalk.
“How are the kids?”
“Both dealing with it in such different ways. PJ tucks his grief in his back pocket. Angela wears hers like an open wound. And I’m ill-equipped to deal with either.”
“I’m sorry, honey. Is there anything I can do?”
“There’s nothing anyone can do.”
Millie stood up to go. “If you need anything, anything at all, just call me. I’ll be here in five minutes.”
“I know.” Savannah let Millie wrap her up in a hug. Let herself be held for a few seconds.
“Even when we were kids, you only let me in so far,” Millie said. “I would’ve kept your secrets.”
“I probably wasn’t a good friend.”
Millie shook her head with a sad smile. “That’s not what I meant. I love what we had. What we still have. It’s just... I’ve always known you were... I don’t know... Protecting something.”
“I’m glad I have you.” Savannah kissed her on the cheek. “Love you, Mill.”
THE FIRST time Phil Hannigan came to dinner Neenie looked him over, from sideburns to trouser cuffs and gave a noncommittal harrumph. “Are you the fancy lawyer who’s gonna save my Baby Girl?”
Phil grinned. “I don’t know about fancy, but I’ll do my best.”
“You better.”
Little by little, Phil wormed his way through the barrier of Neenie’s folded arms. When she gave him the nickname City Boy, it was acceptance into the inner circle. When she offered to feed him, that was respect. According to Neenie, in order for Savannah to have proper representation, Phil needed to be properly fed.
“A man isn’t meant to live on a diet of restaurant food. He can’t do a good job if his stomach is out of whack. He needs a home-cooked meal. Plain and simple.”
And he got one. Whenever the kids were off to their grandparents, or staying with friends. Which was quite often lately.
Neenie piled second helpings on Phil’s plate as if he were a growing boy, introducing him to all the southern staples. The first time he tried the creamy goodness of shrimp and grits, he closed his eyes, a slow, sensual grin spreading across his face. Savannah watched him unfold as his stomach filled up, talking easily about his life. Phil played football in high school and college. His brother turned his back on the family profession and embraced an even older family tradition: he owned an Irish pub called Hannigan’s in downtown Philly.
She learned one night that Phil liked to sail.
“In Philadelphia?” she asked.
“Sure. The Delaware River is fantastic for sailing. We have some pretty intense boat racing.”
“Really?” Savannah studied his hands. She’d liked his hands from the moment she met him. Strong. Masculine. Now she pictured them securing the rigging, wind whipping his hair. It was a sexy picture. “Are you any good?”
He gave a humble shrug and bit his lip. “I’m part of a team, but yeah, we’re good.”
These little personal things helped fill in the picture of Phillip Hannigan. Shades and shadows were added to the pencil sketch and he started coming to life with colors of his own. Price’s home office now served as Phil’s headquarters. Sometimes it gave Savannah a jolt to walk in the room and see Phil behind her husband’s desk, a mess of papers shoved to each side.
Once she came in to find Phil sitting in the leather swivel chair, his back to her. In his hands he held the family portrait that sat on Price’s desk. A snapshot of happier times, with four smiling faces looking into the camera, like a family in a magazine ad. No doubt he was trying to reconcile the picture in his hands with the photos of the murder scene. She turned away without a word and tiptoed out again.
They’d been working on her case for close to six weeks now, seeing each other almost daily. When he went back to Philadelphia for a day or two, she found she missed his solid comforting presence. She felt safe having him around.
She trusted him.
This was a new word in her vocabulary. Trust. She rolled it around her tongue, like a piece of hard candy, delighted by its unfamiliar sweetness. Phil’s sole agenda was proving her innocence. He wasn’t kidding when he told her he’d heard it all and nothing shocked him.
The expression on his face never changed no matter how sordid and shameful her story turned. It gave her the
courage to be completely honest about Adam.
“It wasn’t a sexual affair,” she said. “Although believe me, it’s what I wanted. We were playing games and having fun. Then, he called my bluff. In fact, in the end, he called me a prick-tease. I guess I was.”
Phil’s gaze remained steady.
“When I think back on it now,” she said. “The flirting was exhilarating, but none of it was real. It never touched the part of me that longed to be touched.” Bits and pieces of herself dripped out with her words as if her filter had been removed. She couldn’t remember ever feeling this free with a man.
“So, no sex?” Phil’s eyes pressed her a little harder.
“No sex.”
“I don’t like any surprises on the witness stand. Even though I’m your defense attorney, I only play offense.”
It sounded like a line on a business card. Phil Hannigan, playing offense for your defense. She liked it.
“No sex,” she said again. “But it was probably only a matter of time. Sexual or not, I was sharing myself. Sharing my thoughts, my kisses with someone other than my husband. I was doing the same thing I accused Price of doing.” She took a deep breath. “Everyone in the courtroom is going to assume I slept with him, anyway.”
“But we’ll know the truth. And knowing matters. It makes a difference in how I ask the questions.”
It mattered to Savannah, too, and made a difference in how she answered the questions. It was important Phil know the truth. They shook hands over honesty that day at the beach, and she would keep her end of the bargain.
“Do you think they’ll call Adam to testify?” Worry crept into her voice, picturing her parents sitting there hearing the sensational details of her extramarital fling.
“Count on it.” Phil never sugar-coated or fed her reassuring lies.
He never flinched from reality, never looked away as if trying to spare her. He warned her he’d dig deep and she let him, willingly abandoning her pretenses. Tossing them aside like yesterday’s newspaper. It was so easy with Phil. His quiet attentiveness was like a wrench on a rusty spigot. Little by little, Savannah opened up. No reason to hold back, no reason to impress him, nothing to lose by letting him see all the sludge that had to dislodge before the water ran clear.
One night he asked. “Why didn’t you leave Price?”
They sat at the kitchen table, long after everyone else had gone to bed.
“People like us don’t get divorced easily,” Savannah said, shaking her head. “Price Palmerton was a powerful man. The night of the fight, when I finally told him I wanted a divorce, he threatened me. Told me that I’d never have my children.”
“That’s a typical response. Men say stupid things when they feel cornered.”
“Price wasn’t typical. And he meant it. He always got everything he wanted. A son, a daughter, the house that wasn’t for sale, partner in the most prestigious law firm in town. And a string of mistresses.” She sat back with a sigh. “I remember when he used to want me.”
Phil took a drink of beer, blue eyes watching her over the rim of his bottle. “Tell me about that.”
She closed her eyes, letting the memory set the stage behind her eyelids. “Georgia University. Homecoming dance. He walked across the room like he was zeroing in on a target. I knew who he was. Everyone knew who he was. He didn’t so much ask me to dance, as claim me as a prize.”
She swirled the wine in her glass and saw her and Price swirling around the dance floor. So young. So full of...possibility. Blithe in their privilege. Watching the life they were born to live unfold according to plan. Price took her hand and her heart. He was the one. Tears stung her eyes with the remembering.
“My whole senior year I was consumed with my wedding,” she said. “Consumed with Price. I loved him so much I couldn’t see straight. Didn’t see a lot of things I should have.”
“Like what?”
“Like how he was never satisfied. Always reaching. I thought it was healthy ambition. Turned out it was an insatiable appetite. He always wanted what he couldn’t have. Sometimes I think he pushed me away, just so he could win me back. It was all about winning for Price.”
“I hate to speak ill of the dead, but the man was a fool,” Phil said.
Savannah was caught off guard at the crack in his professional veneer. She looked over at him and he didn’t look away this time, but held her glance in the palm of his hands. His words were a warm bath and she sunk into the depths.
“I should’ve walked away a long time ago,” she said. “I could have saved us both.”
Phil cocked his eyebrow at her. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, everything would’ve been different. Price wouldn’t have been at the dance with me. If you unravel one thing, the whole night probably wouldn’t have happened.”
“You can’t go down the road of trying to undo the past and rewrite his future. Don’t do it to yourself.” His voice was soft around the words.
“You’re right.” She turned her face to him as if he was the sun, warmed by his presence. “None of that matters now.” Her shoulders rolled in a subtle shrug. “The fact is I didn’t leave. For a host of reasons. On the practical side, how was I supposed to support my kids? Sell my paintings on the sidewalk? As a married woman I can’t even have credit in my own name. Everything belonged to Price. Even me.”
“I admire that you tried to save your marriage, for your kids’ sake.”
“A lot of good it did them.”
The night was folding in on them, but Phil seemed in no hurry to get back to his hotel room. She would’ve suggested they move to the living room but she was afraid to disturb the moment. The silence was so comfortable between them with no mad scramble to fill it up.
Finally, Phil looked at his watch.
“I better be heading out.” He stood slowly, his eyes on her as if he wanted to say something else. “Thanks for dinner.”
“Anytime. Especially since I’m not the one cooking,” she said.
“Right,” he grinned. “See you in a few days. I leave in the morning.”
“Oh. I forgot.” Savannah felt a tug at her heart she didn’t recognize. “You’re stopping to visit with Kip in D.C. on your way home, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. Strategy session.”
She waved good-night from the kitchen door, watching as he walked to his car. She kept watching as his tail lights backed out of the drive-way, turned onto Gaston Street, and drove away. She unwrapped herself from the doorway and turned back to the silent kitchen.
Clearing off the table, her hand lingered on his empty beer bottle.
THE HOUSE was warm and soft with spring, interrupted by the cold front that preceded Angela whenever she came or went. And she went often, bouncing back and forth between her grandparents and spending the night with friends.
She returned stealthily as a thief breaking in, trying to sneak upstairs unnoticed, snow in her wake and her hands turning the banister to ice. By the time Savannah reached the front hall, she saw only the back of her daughter’s blonde ponytail disappearing into her bedroom. The door closed and though Savannah couldn’t hear it click, she felt the lock turn.
Savannah tried to be pleasant and involved with Angela’s plans. She tried giving her a wide berth and room to breathe. She tried everything, but nothing helped. The two of them rarely spoke. Any attempts at conversation were met with a stone wall. Angela’s eyes went blank, her lips drew into a tight line and her demeanor screamed, Don’t you dare come closer.
Savannah dared. She kept pushing up against the wall, lobbing her love over the sides and hoping against hope Angela might have her guard down one day. If she did, when she did, Savannah would be ready for her, arms open wide.
In the meantime, what did one do with a child who was convinced her mother murdered her father? A child whose rage grew more and more unpredictable each day. Pray? Oh yes indeed, Savannah prayed. Countless nights on bended knee, in tears, begging God to help Angela. The
girl was suffocating in grief. School was an ordeal of relentless taunts and teasing. She’d lost friends: parents didn’t want their children associating with the daughter of a murderer. Who could blame them?
While Savannah suffered the silent treatment, Angela and PJ’s loud arguments rattled the ramparts. Healthy sibling bickering turned to the black feud of mortal enemies. Savannah feared they would scar each other for life and never be able to repair the relationship.
Savannah worried constantly about the effects of the situation on both of her children. Just because PJ kept his feelings tucked inside didn’t mean he wasn’t suffering as much as his sister.
Just the other night, Savannah had sat up in bed, trying to decipher a noise that woke her. She flipped the covers back and slid to the floor. Out the window, she could see PJ moving in and out of the light from the side porch. His basketball hit the backboard and he chased after it.
Savannah looked over at her bedside clock. One in the morning. She knelt to the floor and curled up near the windowsill, head on her arms and watched a boy grappling with his grief in the shadows below.
PJ stepped up to the free-throw line, its markings faded and scuffed after years of wear. He snugged his toes up to the boundary, taking every inch allowed. The ball moved from his left hand to his right and back again, as he stared at the net in front of him. Fingers spread wide, he gripped the ball with precision before lifting it overhead. With one smooth push, he sent it flying, his right hand following through in slow motion. Just the way Price taught him. Swish.
He looked around as if he might see his father standing on the sidelines, cheering him on. The night was silent, except for the thumping of a basketball on pavement.
The dinner table was always a battlefield. Any word or phrase could trip the trigger to the land mines Angela carefully placed around the table, tucked behind the bowl of green beans, or beneath the platter of roast beef.
Tonight Savannah merely said, “What did you and Julie do this weekend?”
Angela threw her fork down, the clang of metal on china startling everyone. “What did I do?” Angela said, glaring across the table.