Bluegrass Blessings

by Allie Pleiter

  Paul Sothington, the silver-haired calmly-speaking lead attorney who reminded Cameron a little too much of Howard Epson, folded his hands. “It sounds easy at first to launch something like this. Easy to classify this as ‘clearly the right thing to do’ until you’re faced with the reality of it. This means resurrecting an unpleasant time in your life and it could be lengthy and messy. Everybody admires the whistle-blower, but no one understands more than we do how hard it is to find a job after it’s all over.” He leaned a little bit closer to Cameron. “This will just extend all that. I want you to proceed with your eyes open. It may end up costing you.”

  “It’s already cost me,” Cameron said. “I suppose I’m trying to figure out if it’s worth costing me more.”

  “We think it is,” said an academic-looking woman at the end of the table. She wore glasses and had a stack of notes in front of her over an inch thick. “Or we wouldn’t have agreed when you first came to us. There’s too much grief for everyone in these things not to be careful. We’d never have advised going forward unless we saw a good shot at substantial results.”

  “Meaning?” Cameron had a picture of Frank making license plates in a dull gray jumpsuit. He’d be lying if he didn’t say it satisfied him on some level—Frank was fond of six-hundred-dollar suits and four-hundred-dollar shoes. One of Cameron’s co-workers had taken to calling him Grand Man because he calculated it took a thousand dollars of clothing to get Frank out the door every morning.

  “Meaning this case would set important precedents. As I told you before, it’s not just about how you lost your job. It’s about everyone who finds themselves in your shoes.” She wore an intense expression. “We wanted you to take another look before you lost your chance to make that impact. If we win this, we hand other attorneys the tools they need to make it very hard for other companies to do what Landemere did to you. I’m not saying Landemere won’t pay for what they did to you, but the lasting benefit of this case will be the protection it gives all the other people who have stood up against these shady deals. You struck me as the kind of man who would care about that.”

  “Make no mistake,” said a handsome younger lawyer who looked like he’d just walked off a legal show on television—all driven and mussy-haired with searing eyes and a sleek laptop. “Landemere will pay. If you want to watch Frank and his cohorts go down, we take no prisoners.”

  The whole conversation made Cameron wonder: Was there really such a thing as noble revenge? Or could you simply never combine the two concepts? If he still felt cravings for revenge, did he have any business dressing this up as noble justice? “I’ve got some thinking to do. I’m sure you understand that while I hate what happened to me, I’m not in any hurry to prolong it. Right now I’d just as soon never set foot in the same room as Frank ever again. I’m happy not being in the same time zone as the man.”

  “We’ll try to keep the trips down to a minimum,” the woman said, “but you will have to come to New York several times if we go forward and we can’t guarantee what kind of stay you’ll need to plan for during the trial if it comes to that. At the risk of asking a sore question, what is your current employment situation?”

  Cameron thought of his short residency in Middleburg, balancing an insane baking timetable and the last of his real estate exam notes. Rather than answer “tycoot,” he simply sighed and said, “I’m pursuing a self-employment scenario.” It sounded so lame. As if in another minute he’d be selling carpet door-to-door out of the back of a rusty pickup truck.

  The woman smiled. “That’s good. That helps us a lot. And it may make it much easier on you.”

  Somehow Cameron didn’t think “much easier” was really part of the picture. He certainly wasn’t harboring any illusions that this would be “easy” if he chose to go through with it. Most likely, it wouldn’t fall too short of ugly, and his only satisfaction would be knowing he did the right thing even when it was the much harder path.

  Where was the simple answer when you needed it? The giant neon sign descending from heaven saying “This Way”? The chances of a pillar of fire descending on lower Manhattan were rather slim.

  “May I suggest this?” Paul said. “Will you sign the release allowing us to access your personnel files and some other paperwork that will let us take our inquiry to the next level?”

  “What will happen if I do?”

  The younger man spoke up. “Well, most importantly, it will send Landemere a red flag that you’re looking into legal action. If you were still living in the area or had close ties to the company, I’d let you know things might get a bit uncomfortable. They’ll know we’re looking deeper. Most of the time that makes everyone get especially civil, but occasionally it brings out the nasty side in people. I wouldn’t go hanging out in the company watering hole if I were you.”

  The thought of sitting in any bar, restaurant, or even coffee shop with anyone from Landemere Properties was nearly repulsive. Cameron was finding his taste for the dark, cold, rush of Manhattan in general had soured fast. “No problem.”

  “But it will also let us get more information, do more planning, and we may be able to give you a clearer picture of what you’re in for. Of course, it’s still ultimately your call. You can keep the case dead, or we can keep talking.”

  Cameron took a second to gauge his gut response to that statement. No fight, no flight—mostly a cautious neutrality. It seemed safe to go ahead and explore further. He was sure he’d know more after talking the whole thing over with Dinah in a few hours.

  “Okay. Take it to the next step. As long as I’m not committing one way or another yet.”

  The academic woman smiled softly. The young-gun lawyer looked victorious. Only Paul Sothington had the look that matched Cameron’s gut: There’s never a good day to launch a bloody war.

  Dinah was unprepared for her dual reaction when she caught sight of Cameron in the crowd disembarking the commuter train. He was all business in his stunning charcoal gray suit—looking one-hundred-percent “tycoon.” That part of him looked just like all the other cookie-cutter junior executives that had been half the reason she wanted out of the tristate area. Cameron looked handsome, but in an uninteresting kind of way if it weren’t for the other touches—he wore a scarf striped with the Middleburg Mavericks team colors and carried a bakery box. She instantly suspected them to be a preview box of Middleburg charity Cookiegram cookies.

  “The scarf’s for you from Janet and Emily,” he said by way of greeting. “I told them I wouldn’t wear or carry flip-flops in the Maverick colors and I’m guessing you already have some anyway.” He tossed the scarf so that it landed on her shoulders and she recognized just a hint of his cologne as the material hit her neck. She’d already received multiple gifts from both Janet and Emily, and she did in fact own flip-flops in the blue-and-white stripes of the Middleburg High School colors. Still, it was such a welcome gesture that a lump rose in her throat. Cameron smiled widely as he handed her the box of cookies and then moved around the car to put his luggage in her trunk. Sure enough, the box was topped by a Middleburg First Annual Charity Cookiegram card, signed “We Miss You!” by about two dozen people. Why had she not thought to use the waterproof mascara this morning?

  When he got back in the car, Cameron pulled out a vintage-looking embroidered handkerchief. “Emily told me you’d need this. That woman knows her stuff.” Which, of course, sent Dinah into open sniffles. “I have to say,” he chuckled as she handed off the box and grabbed at the handkerchief, “I’m not sure if they miss you loads or if they’re pulling out all the stops to bring you back.”

  “Probably both,” Dinah sighed as she tried to dab her tears without smearing her mascara and search for a ladylike way to blow her nose. Both failed. “Oh, I was so determined to keep it all together when you got here.”

  “I came here to help, not to be awestruck at how well you’re managing. Do you want me to drive? I’m sure I can buy you a half hour of tear-soaked cookie consumption.”<
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  That made her laugh. As if she’d really stoop to eating all these on their way to dinner. Then again…she pulled at the strings and opened the box as he held it. She’d expected to find substandard but heartfelt cookies. Actually, when she was honest with herself, some part of her wanted to find substandard cookies. To know they couldn’t quite pull it off without her.

  They could. The collection of frosted cookies before her was downright admirable. Which made it impossible to explain to Cameron, who sat patiently holding a box of cookies in the passenger side of her car, why she started crying again. “They’re so nice,” she whimpered as she peered into the box.

  “I will never take cookies for granted ever again. Those babies are harder than they look, even with the benefit of Cookies for Dummies Like Cameron.”

  Dinah selected a large pink heart and bit into it. Passable, but not the exquisite balance of butter and sugar she’d have been known for. The frosting didn’t have enough vanilla and it was a bit on the thick side. The minor deficiencies gave her enough shallow satisfaction to stop crying. Which wasn’t exactly noble of her, but she’d have to take what she could get under the circumstances. “Not bad, Rollings. I’m impressed.”

  He puffed up. “What do you mean ‘not bad’? These are outstanding cookies. Fashioned with dedication from a volunteer force devoted to the greater good.”

  She laughed, which helped her catch her breath. “You sound like Howard.”

  Cameron impersonated the mayor. “I’ll take that in the complimentary spirit in which it should have been intended.” It was dead on, which made her laugh harder.

  “Now you really sound like Howard.” She took another bite. The hard part was over. The sharp stab of missing Middleburg was ebbing against the warm enjoyment of seeing Cameron again. She wrapped the scarf around her neck and flexed her fingers against the steering wheel. “I’ll save the rest of the cookies until after dinner. Hungry after your return to the big city?”

  Cameron selected a cookie of his own before closing the box. “Starved.”

  Dinah had selected the Roundtree Bistro precisely because it didn’t feel like any restaurant in Middleburg. It was what people called a “foodie” joint, full of exotic flavors, surprising spices and unique dishes that came in outrageous presentations. Dinah liked the food, was always amused by the presentation and the clientele, and could be assured it wouldn’t remind her of Gina Deacon’s Grill with Cameron across the table from her.

  “Mercy!” she commented over her raspberry-pomegranate iced tea after hearing Cameron’s account of the meeting. “It does sound like you’re being asked if you want to start a war. Can they ‘draft’ you?” she added after thinking about it. “They can’t make you open up the case, can they?”

  Cameron leaned back in the booth. They’d managed to stay off the topic of his lawsuit through most of dinner, but she could tell he needed to talk it over, needed to process his responses to everything he’d heard this morning. She knew the feeling—how many times over the past few days had she wanted to launch into a story about her mother, only to edit herself because her companions might be uncomfortable talking about someone now dead?

  “No. It’s entirely my choice.” He’d loosened his tie during dinner and now he undid it all together and slid it out from under his collar. The “off-duty executive” look—open dress shirt, jacket off, sleeves rolled up—suited him well. She liked him better in a turtleneck and blue jeans, but she had to say he still was a fine-looking man all citified and elegant. Okay, really fine. She usually didn’t find the “dashing” look so…unsettling. He stirred his coffee and she could literally see the decision weighing him down.

  “Will you? Change your mind and go through with it?”

  Cameron leaned forward on the table. “I want it to be clear, you know? I don’t want to decide this a third time. If I go forward with the case, I want to feel certain I’m taking the right path. But I don’t feel certain either way—not at all. It’s just murk on all sides. I get a little bit of vision here and there, a little sliver of clarity, and then pow, back into the murk again.”

  Dinah, her life reduced to a fistful of tasks on an index card, could relate. “Well, what’s the last sliver of clarity you got?”

  It took him a second to answer. “To come here.” Even though he said it softly, she felt it pound into her chest.

  “And how’d you get to that clarity?” she asked, trying hard not to sound flustered.

  “You know, I think it was by baking cookies.” On anyone else she would have described his expression as a twinkle in the eye. Somehow, she couldn’t find the words for it on Cameron. Suddenly the powerful urge to get this man in her kitchen—to sift and stir things and make one recent happy memory in the New Jersey house—literally overtook her. She could no more explain it than she could resist it. “Well, then, I suppose we’ve got to bake.” She stood up.

  “Now?” he said, reaching for his wallet to settle the bill.

  “You have a more pressing social engagement, Mr. Rollings?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  It could have been plucked from a thousand houses anywhere in the country. Dinah’s mom’s kitchen was the quintessential “Mom’s kitchen,” filled with experience and the tint of years. Half a dozen cookbooks stood on a shelf above the fridge—just where Cameron’s mom kept hers. The dish towel hung over the oven handle, a trio of hot pads were held to the backsplash over the range with decorative magnets. The only distinction—and it was distinction enough—was the lack of photos on the fridge door. The fridge door in Cameron’s parents’ house was filled to the point of overload with photos, drawings from grandchildren, cards and invitations. Mrs. Hopkins’s fridge door had only three occupants—a yellow-tinged photograph of a middle-aged man standing beside a boat—Dinah’s dad, if the family resemblance was any indication, a photo of Dinah Cameron guessed to be from five years ago if not more, and a painfully large chart of pill dosages and treatment schedules. It made Cameron wonder if every fridge door so clearly reflected the lives of its owners. It made him irritated that his own fridge door was completely blank.

  “Is this where you learned to bake?” he asked, slipping his coat over the back of a tasteful beige kitchen chair. The whole kitchen was very beige. Nothing at all like the riot of color and texture that was Dinah’s kitchen back in Kentucky. It struck him with an odd sadness that he’d have to repaint over that riot if he got a new tenant.

  “Not exactly. This is more like where I learned to make a mess. I did a lot of experimenting in the kitchen before I realized baking is as much science as it is art.”

  “You know, I get that now. It’s math and formulas and procedures. Once I figured that out, it became a whole lot easier to get those cookies baked. I basically built a little factory.”

  “With a talkative and distractible production line?” Dinah teased as she flipped open the bakery box and ate another cookie. She’d eaten three on the way home from the restaurant. He thought that was a good sign. When they’d first met at the train station, it was hard to find the Dinah he knew hidden under the woman he saw. She was, at her core, a creature of joy. Take away the joy, and half the woman disappeared. It made him feel good to see glimpses of that joy return as they talked.

  “Well, I didn’t say it was easy. I just said it was easier.”

  “That’s me,” she said, running her hand down one of the potholders that hung over the stove. “It’s not easy yet, but it’s easier.” She turned to look at him. “Someone said to me at the wake, ‘You get past it, but you never get over it.’ I think that’s really true.”

  Cameron thought about his own ordeal. While it paled in comparison to Dinah’s, he understood the idea. His life would be forever changed by what happened at Landemere and by what he chose to do from here. “My mom paints,” he said, realizing he’d not shared much of his own family with her even though he knew lots about hers. “She says the same thing about color. When you mix a color, you can�
��t ever take it back. You’ve got to move forward with the color you’ve just made, and your only choice is to keep adding to it if you don’t yet have what you want.” He shrugged, embarrassed to be waxing metaphorical all of a sudden. “It’s dumb.”

  “No,” she said, putting a hand on his elbow. “It’s really smart. I like it.” She let her hand rest there for a moment before giving it a little squeeze and turning toward the cabinets.

  “It suits both of us, you know,” she said with her head inside a cabinet under the sink. “Both figuring out…aha, there it is…” she pulled back out of the cabinet to reveal an enormous rolling pin, “where we need to go from here. What colors to mix in with the new color the world’s just handed us. The trick,” she stood up and handed the pin to him, “is remembering that God paints with all colors, if you don’t mind my pushing the metaphor a bit.”

  Cameron grinned. She was always pushing metaphors more than just “a bit.” And he couldn’t help but smile at the memory of the first time he’d been in a kitchen late at night with Dinah Hopkins brandishing a rolling pin. “I don’t mind.” She began rummaging around the kitchen, pulling things out from the backs of cabinets, scouring the fridge, grouping ingredients on the countertop, selecting one tin while rejecting another. Again, slivers of the old Dinah. He had to say he felt better himself. Maybe baking really was the path to clarity.

  “So what color are you going to choose now?” Dinah asked as she counted the eggs she’d just pulled from the refrigerator. He noticed she now wore a gold band on her right index finger and wondered if it was her mother’s wedding band. “Do you feel up for the fight ahead?”