The Witness

by Nora Roberts

  hundred for contempt.”

  Spatula fisted at his hip, Lindy turned. “About time contempt cost him, ’cause the sumbitch has plenty of it. That coffee’s on me, Brooks.” Lindy lifted his chin toward the door. “And his, too.”

  Kim spotted Russ when he came in, turned the second mug over. “You sit right on down here, sweetie.” She rose to her toes to kiss his cheek. “And no charge for the coffee or anything else you want. You be sure to tell your folks that anybody worth spit in this town is sorry as hell about what happened, and behind them a hundred percent.”

  “I will. Thanks, Kim. It means a lot.”

  “You look tired out. How about a big wedge of that French apple pie you like to perk you up?”

  “Couldn’t right now. Maybe next time.”

  “I’ll leave you to talk, then, but you need anything, you just holler.”

  Brooks pretended to sulk. “She didn’t offer me any damn pie.”

  Russ managed a wan smile. “She’s got to feel sorry for you first. Did you know about the passports?”

  “I knew we were going to request it, but I didn’t figure Reingold would rule on our side. He surprised me, and maybe that’s on me.”

  “He’s let the Blake kid slide on plenty before today.”

  “Yeah, he has, and I think he’s feeling the weight of that. He may be Blake’s golf buddy, but he can’t—and I think won’t—brush off this kind of thing. I believe His Honor was well and truly pissed this morning. And I believe Blake isn’t going to let Harry talk his boy into a plea on this. He wants the trial because he absolutely believes he and his are too fucking important to bend to the law. That boy’s going down, Russ, and he may go down harder than I expected. I’m not sorry about it.”

  “Can’t say as I am, either.”

  Brooks shifted forward. “I wanted to talk to you for a few minutes because I’m dead sure Blake’s going to do whatever he can to buy you off or pressure you into dropping the assault charges. He gets that gone, he’s going to figure it’s mostly about money. Pay the two dollars, so to speak, try to manipulate community service and some rehab, a suspended sentence for the boy.”

  Russ’s bruised mouth set like stone. “It’s not going to happen, Brooks. Did you see my daddy this morning? He looks ten years older. I don’t give a damn about taking the punch, and if it wasn’t for the rest, I’d let it go. But I’m not going to shrug this off so that little bastard slides through this.”

  “Good. If Blake starts hounding you, let me know. I’ll mention harassment charges and restraining orders.”

  Russ sat back, and his smile came easier. “Which one of them are you really after?”

  “It’s two for one, as I see it. They both need a good, swift kick. I don’t know if Justin was born an asshole, but his daddy sure as hell helped make him a bigger one.” He stirred at his coffee but found he didn’t have a taste for it. “I didn’t see his mama in court.”

  “Word is Mrs. Blake’s embarrassed and tired out. About done with it. And Blake’s ordered her to keep it shut. He runs that house.”

  “That may be, but he doesn’t run this town.”

  “Do you, Chief?”

  “I protect and serve,” Brooks said, with a glance out the window. “The Blakes are going to learn what that means. How about you, Mr. Mayor?”

  “It may be tougher to win an election with Blake backing whoever I run against, but I’m in it.”

  “New times.” Brooks lifted his mug in toast. “Good times.”

  “You’re pretty sassy this morning, son. Is it all about Reingold’s rulings?”

  “That didn’t suck, but I’ve got me a fascinating, beautiful woman I’m falling for. Falling hard.”

  “Quick work.”

  “In the blood. My mama and daddy barely did more than look at each other, and that was that. She’s got me, Russ. Right here.” He tapped a fist on his heart.

  “Sure it’s not considerably lower where she’s got you?”

  “There, too. But, Jesus, Russ, she does it for me. I just think about her and I’m there. I look at her, and … I swear I could look at her for hours. Days.”

  Brooks let out a half-laugh, edged with a little surprise. “I’m done. I’m gone.”

  “If you don’t bring her over for dinner, Seline’s going to see to it my life’s not worth living.”

  “I’ll work on it. I figure I’m going to have the women in my family making the same demand before much longer. Abigail’s the type who needs to be eased in. Something in there,” he added. “Something from before. She’s not ready to let me in on that yet. I’m working on that, too.”

  “So she hasn’t figured out you’ll just keep digging, nudging and chewing until you know what you want to know or get what you want to get?”

  “I’m blinding her with affability and charm.”

  “How long do you figure that’ll last?”

  “I’ve got a little more to spare. She needs help. She just doesn’t know it, or isn’t ready to take it. Yet.”

  ABIGAIL SPENT THE MORNING happily at her computer, redesigning and personalizing the security system for a law firm in Rochester. She was particularly pleased with the results, as she’d gotten the job on referral, and had nearly lost it as the senior partner had balked when she’d refused to meet with him personally.

  She believed he and the other partners would be more than satisfied with the system and her suggestions. If they weren’t? It was the price she paid for doing business on her terms.

  To give her mind a rest, she shifted gears into gardening.

  She wanted to create a butterfly garden along the south corner of her cabin, and had read and researched how to best accomplish the goal. With Bert by her side, she gathered tools, loaded her wheelbarrow. It pleased her to see the little vegetable garden she’d already planted doing so well, to smell the herbs soaking up the sunshine as she wheeled by. Her narrow stream bubbled along, and birds sang to its tune. Through the thickening trees, a frisky breeze danced and wild dogwood peeked out like flowery ghosts.

  She was happy, she realized, as she marked off her plot with string and stakes. Really happy. With spring, with work, with her home. With Brooks.

  Had she been really happy before? Surely there had been moments—at least during her childhood, in her brief time at Harvard, even moments after everything changed so completely—when she’d been happy.

  But she couldn’t remember ever feeling quite like this. Nervous. Brooks was right about the nerves, and she wasn’t entirely sure she liked his being right. But over them and through them was a kind of lightness she didn’t know quite what to do with.

  As she switched on her tiller, she hummed along with its churning grind, with the bubbling brook, with the birdsong. No, she didn’t know quite what to do with it, but if she could, she’d have held these moments, these feelings tight—so tight—forever.

  She had satisfying work, had her gardening, which she enjoyed more than she’d ever imagined. She had a man she respected and enjoyed—more than she’d ever imagined—who would come to dinner, talk, laugh, be with her.

  It couldn’t last, but what was the point in projecting, in making herself unhappy? Hold it tight, she reminded herself, as she added compost to her soil. For the moment.

  She trundled her wheelbarrow back to the greenhouse, wandered through the smell of rich, moist earth; burgeoning flowers; sharp, strong greens, selecting the plants she’d nurtured for this particular project.

  Good, steady physical labor in the warm afternoon. That made her happy, too. Who knew she had such a capacity for happy?

  She made four trips, her Glock against her hip, her dog trotting at her heels before she began to lay out the plan she’d sketched out on chilly winter nights.

  The cardinal flowers and coneflowers, the sweet-scented heliotrope mixed with airy lantana, the flow of verbena, the charm of New England asters, the elegance of oriental lilies for nectar. She had the sunflowers and hollyhocks and milk
weed for host plants to tempt the adults to lay their eggs, the young caterpillars to feed.

  She arranged, rearranged, grouped, regrouped, gradually veering away from her initial, somewhat mathematical layout when she found the less rigid and exact pleased her eye.

  In case, she took out her phone and took pictures from several angles before she picked up her trowel to dig the first hole.

  An hour later, she stepped back and checked her progress before going inside for ice to add to the tea she’d left steeping in the sun.

  “It’s going to be beautiful,” she told Bert. “And we’ll be able to sit on the porch and watch the butterflies. I think we’ll draw hummingbirds, too. I’ll love seeing all this grow and bloom, the butterflies and birds. We’re putting down roots, Bert. The deeper they go, the more I want them.”

  She closed her eyes, lifted her face to the sun.

  Oh, she loved the way the air sounded, loved the way it smelled. She loved the rhythm of work and pleasure she’d found here, the quiet moments, the busy ones. She loved the feel of her dog leaning against her leg and the taste of tea cool on her throat.

  She loved Brooks.

  Her eyes popped open.

  No, no, she’d just gotten caught up in the happy moments here. In this euphoria of having everything just as she wanted. And she’d let herself mix that with what he’d said to her that morning, how he looked at her.

  Action and reaction, she told herself. Nothing more.

  But what if it were more?

  Her alarm beeped, stiffening her spine and shoulders as she laid a hand on the butt of the Glock.

  She wasn’t expecting a package.

  She walked quickly to the monitor she’d set up on the porch. She remembered the car even before she made out the driver. Brooks’s mother—dear God—and two other women.

  Talking, laughing, as Sunny drove toward the house.

  Before she could decide what to do, the car rounded the last curve. Sunny gave the horn a cheery toot-toot when she spotted Abigail.

  “Hey, there!” Sunny shouted out the car window before the three of them piled out.

  The woman in the front had to be Brooks’s sister, Abigail thought. The coloring, the bone structure, the shape of the eyes and mouth were too similar not to be genetic.

  “Look at this! Butterfly garden.”

  “Yes. I’ve been working on it this afternoon.”

  “Well, it’s just going to be wonderful,” Sunny told her. “Smell the heliotrope! I’ve got Plato in the car. Do you suppose Bert would like to meet him?”

  “I … I suppose he would.”

  “Mama’s so busy worrying about introducing the dogs, she doesn’t worry about the humans. I’m Mya, Brooks’s sister, and our middle sister, Sybill.”

  “It’s nice to meet you both,” Abigail managed, as her hand was gripped and shaken.

  “We blew the day off,” Mya beamed out, a lanky woman with a pixie cut in streaky brunette. “Work, kids, men. We had ourselves a fancy ladies’ lunch, and now we’re heading in to do some shopping.”

  “We thought you might like to come along with us,” Sybill said.

  “Come along?” Baffled, off-balance, one eye on her dog, Abigail tried to keep up.

  “Shopping,” Mya repeated. “After, we’re talking about frozen margaritas.”

  The puppy bounced, rolled, nipped and generally went crazy around and over Bert, who sat, quivering, his gaze slanted toward Abigail.

  “Ami. Jouer.”

  Instantly, he hunkered, head down, tail up and wagging, and playfully knocked Plato into an ungainly roll.

  “Aw, aren’t they cute!” Sunny declared.

  “He won’t hurt the puppy.”

  “Honey, I can see that. That big boy’s gentle as a lamb, and God knows Plato can use a little running-around time. He’s been in the car or on the leash all afternoon. Did you meet my two girls?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’re trying to talk her into putting away her trowel and coming along for shopping and margaritas.” Sybill offered Abigail a warm, easy smile that showed hints of dimples.

  “Thank you for asking.” Abigail heard the stiffness in her voice when compared with the other women’s ease. “But I really need to finish planting. I got a later start than I’d planned.”

  “Well, it looks just beautiful.” Sybill wandered over for a closer look. “I didn’t inherit Mama’s or Daddy’s green thumb, so I’m envious.”

  “It was very nice of you to come over and invite me.”

  “It was,” Mya agreed, “but mostly Syb and I just wanted to get a close-up look at you and check out the woman who’s got Brooks all tangled up.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’re not the type I imagined would hook him so good and proper.”

  “Oh” was all Abigail could think of, again.

  “Something’s in Mya’s mind,” Sunny began, hooking an arm around her daughter, “it just rolls right off her tongue.”

  “I can be tactful and diplomatic, but it’s not a natural state for me. Anyway, I meant it as a compliment, a good thing.”

  “Thank you?”

  Mya laughed. “You’re welcome. Mostly, see, Brooks—in the past—tended toward the looks without necessarily much substance to back it up. But here you are, pretty and natural, strong and smart enough to live out here on your own, clever enough to plant a well-designed garden—I did get the green thumb—and you run your own business, from what I’m told. And I guess since you’ve got that big gun on your hip, you know how to take care of yourself.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Have you ever shot anyone?”

  “Mya. Don’t mind her,” Sybill said. “She’s the oldest and has the biggest mouth. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to come with us?”

  “I really need to finish this garden, but thank you.”

  “We’ll have a cookout Sunday afternoon,” Sunny announced. “Brooks’ll bring you around.”

  “Oh, thank you, but—”

  “Nothing fancy. Just a backyard barbecue. And I’ve got some yellow flags I need to divide. I’ll give you some. They’ll like that sunny spot over by the brook. I’ll round up that pup, and we’ll see you Sunday.”

  “You’ve been seeing Brooks for a while now,” Mya commented.

  “I suppose.”

  “You know how he just chips amiably away at you until he gets his way?”

  “Yes.”

  Mya winked and grinned. “He comes by it naturally. We’ll see you Sunday.”

  “Don’t worry.” Sybill surprised Abigail by taking her hand as her sister walked off to help their mother with the puppy. “It’ll be fine. Your dog’s all right with kids around?”

  “He wouldn’t hurt anyone.” Unless I tell him to, she thought.

  “You bring him along. You’ll feel easier having your dog with you. We’re pretty nice people, and inclined to like anyone who makes Brooks happy. You’ll be fine,” she said, and gave Abigail’s hand a squeeze before she released it and walked back to the car.

  There was a lot of laughing and chattering, a lot of waving and honking. Shell-shocked, Abigail stood, her deliriously happy dog at her side, and politely lifted her hand as the O’Hara-Gleason women drove away.

  It was like being rolled over by a steamroller made of flowers, Abigail thought. It didn’t really hurt, it was all very pretty and sweet-smelling. But you were still flattened.

  She wouldn’t go, of course. It would be impossible on so many levels. Perhaps she’d write a polite note of regret to Brooks’s mother.

  She put her gardening gloves back on. She wanted to finish the bed; plus, she’d used finishing it as an excuse, so finish it she must and would.

  She’d never been asked to go shopping and have margaritas, and wondered as she dug what it was like. She knew people shopped even when they didn’t need anything. She didn’t understand the appeal, but she knew others did.