Woman in Blue

by Eileen Goudge

  As Lindsay approached him, she felt as if she were encased in a blood-pressure cuff squeezing tighter and tighter with each step. It was all she could do not to shout, Shame on you! Instead she was careful to arrange her features in a pleasant, neutral mask. She pegged him as the kind of sharp operator who was good at reading opponents, and she didn’t intend to give him anything he could use to his advantage. At the same time, she was keenly aware of how vulnerable she was. What chance did she stand against a barracuda like him?

  Until now she’d dealt only with his representatives, Ben Hammond and Stacy Jarvis, but his presence had nonetheless been felt at each of those meetings. Every sentence that came out of their mouths, it seemed, began with “Mr. Heywood would like you to know …” or “Mr. Heywood is prepared to offer …” And, more recently, “Mr. Heywood deeply regrets any inconvenience …”

  Inconvenience? That was when you had to park a mile away because the parking lot was full, or when you had to wait in line forever at the cash register, or have your phone call rerouted for the umpteenth time after spending too long on hold. It didn’t begin to cover what these people had put her through. What they were still putting her through in their systematic and ruthless attempts to seize control of her property by any means.

  It was like biting down on tinfoil when she introduced herself. “Mr. Heywood? I’m Lindsay Bishop. You’re here to see me, I presume?” She spoke in the crisp, cool tone of a busy professional.

  He gave her a smile so warm and avuncular that she was instantly thrown off guard. “Lindsay—may I call you Lindsay? So nice to finally meet you.” His handshake was firm but not crushingly so. And his weapon of choice—a pair of laser-blue eyes—twinkled disarmingly. “I’ve heard so much about you, I feel as if I know you. And may I say you’re every bit as lovely as advertised.”

  Gritting her teeth, she inquired, “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Actually, there is. I was hoping to persuade you to let me take you out for coffee, or perhaps an early drink. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.” He spoke with the vaguely continental accent of someone born abroad. “Is this a good time?”

  “I’m very busy at the moment, Mr. Heywood. You should have called ahead to make an appointment,” she replied in a cool, dismissive tone. “Besides, I don’t know what there is to discuss. As I’m sure Ms. Jarvis and Mr. Hammond have told you, my property is not for sale—at any price. So if you’ve come all this way to make me another offer, I’m afraid it was a wasted trip.”

  He regarded her kindly. “No trip is ever a wasted one, my dear. Even when one fails to achieve his or her goal. Through the years, I’ve probably learned more from my failures than from my successes.”

  “Easy to say when your successes outweigh your failures.”

  He chuckled. “Well said. But I suppose it all depends on your definition of failure. In my book, he who consistently fails to take action stands to lose far more than he who takes risks. So what do you have to lose, Lindsay, by letting an old man buy you a cup of coffee?”

  She hesitated and saw the flicker of triumph in his eyes: He knew he had her. But what was the point of stalling him merely for the small satisfaction she’d derive from it? Sooner or later she’d be forced to hear his latest proposal. Briskly she replied, “Twenty minutes, that’s all I can spare. Which I’m sure will be more than enough time.” How many ways were there of saying no?

  She noticed Miss Honi hovering nearby, giving him the evil eye, and before Lindsay could signal that she had the situation under control, her self-appointed avenger was barreling toward them like a lioness sensing a threat to her cub. She even looked the part in her wraparound jungle-print dress as she swooped down on the unsuspecting Lloyd Heywood.

  “We haven’t met. I’m Miss Honi Love.” She extended her hand. “And you must be that Heywood fella we been hearing so much about. Nice of you to drop by. We was wondering when you was gonna pay us a call. Where I come from, it’s only sporting when you’re fixing to stab somebody in the back to be man enough to at least show your face.” Her tone was sugarcoated but the look in her eyes pure steel.

  “A pleasure, Miss Love.” He grinned, seeming not the least bit put off. “I’ve heard a lot about you, too. Though I must say my colleagues’ description doesn’t do you justice.”

  “Something tells me that ain’t a compliment,” she said with a sniff.

  “On the contrary. I assure you it is,” he replied with apparent sincerity. “Would you care to join us? Your friend Lindsay and I were just about to step but for a cup of coffee.”

  “Don’t know what for, when we got the world’s finest right here,” she said, gesturing in the direction of the café, where at the moment Ollie was serving up a slice of chocolate cake to a girl Lindsay recognized as Annie Saxon, a former high school classmate of his and one of his not-so-secret admirers, while Kerrie Ann operated the espresso maker, looking like a honky-tonk girl who’d stumbled into the wrong joint.

  “I don’t doubt that, but perhaps it would be more private elsewhere?” Lloyd suggested.

  Miss Honi smiled flatly, her blue-lidded eyes glittering like an arctic sunrise. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll pass. Some of us got real work to do.” With that she whirled and stalked off.

  When Lindsay went to fetch her coat from the closet in back, Miss Honi rushed to intercept her. “You sure you know what you’re doing? Because, sugar, I don’t just smell a rat, I see him walking off with the cheese.” Lindsay saw the worry in her eyes and knew Miss Honi had every reason to worry.

  “In that case, let’s hope he chokes on it,” she replied with more bravado than she felt. “Can you manage on your own until I get back?”

  “Sure thing,” Miss Honi assured her. “Your sister can pitch in if I get backed up.”

  Lindsay hesitated, thinking of the incident earlier in the day with Leona Venable, a retired schoolteacher who liked to boast that she only read the classics. Leona had found it amusing that Kerrie Ann hadn’t seemed to know who George Sand was. And though Lindsay privately considered Leona to be the worst kind of literary snob and knew you didn’t have to be a simpleton to make the mistake Kerrie Ann had made, could she risk a repetition of that with other customers? Or, worse, a flare-up like last night’s? “I suppose it’d be all right, just this once,” she said at last with some reluctance, once more reminded of the decision she would have to make regarding Kerrie Ann.

  Miss Honi helped Lindsay on with her jacket. “Don’t worry about us—we’ll manage just fine. You just go on out there and tell Mr. Rat where he can stick his cheese.”

  The nearest coffeehouse, the Daily Grind, was mostly takeout and had only counter seating, so she suggested they go to the deli down the street, where Lloyd Heywood ordered coffee and a roast-beef sandwich and Lindsay a Diet Pepsi. When their order arrived at the table, she watched him sink his teeth into his sandwich with obvious relish, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, as if they were just two friends catching a bite to eat, and felt a grudging admiration for him. What must it take to project that breezy confidence in the face of such high stakes? She took note of the stainless-steel Rolex on his wrist—pricey without being ostentatious, the accessory of someone who didn’t believe in flaunting his wealth—and thought, Nice touch. He could rob you blind without looking like the greedy son of a bitch he was.

  “Very tasty. The horseradish gives it a nice kick,” he pronounced, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin. “I’ll be sure to recommend this place to my associates.” He smiled at her across the checked tablecloth as if it had been just an innocent remark instead of a reminder that he and his people were going to be around to torture her for the foreseeable future. “Do you eat here often?”

  “Not as often as I’d like,” she told him, taking a sip of her Pepsi that did nothing to quiet the roiling in her stomach. “Usually I bring a sandwich to work and eat it at my desk.”

  His eyes crinkled in understanding. “You know
the old saying: ‘When you work for yourself, you have a slave driver for a boss.’ All too true, I’m afraid.” He shook his head slowly, wearing a small, rueful smile, and reached for his coffee mug. “Take it from an old man, my dear—you should learn to enjoy life more. It goes by all too quickly.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not an option for some of us,” she replied stiffly.

  “Nonsense,” he countered in the same agreeable tone. He blew on his coffee before taking a careful sip. “Studies have shown higher productivity levels among workers who take longer vacations and more frequent breaks than employees who don’t. So what you see as hard work and dedication is actually a case of diminishing returns. Which is why I make sure to build in plenty of recreation time. I’m an avid golfer. Do you play golf?”

  “No, I don’t. And I have no intention of taking it up.” An edge crept into her voice. “What did you want to see me about, Mr. Heywood?”

  He took another bite of his sandwich, regarding her bemusedly as he chewed. “All right, then, I’ll cut to the chase,” he said at last. “I have a proposition for you.”

  “I told you my property isn’t for sale.”

  “Yes, you’ve made that abundantly clear, and I’m not here to beat a dead horse. What I have in mind is something far more interesting—and, I hope, attractive.” His blue eyes twinkled like those of a merry Santa holding out the promise of untold delights on Christmas morning.

  “And what would that be?” she asked warily.

  “Come work for me.”

  She almost fell out of her chair. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Please. Hear me out,” he said, raising a hand to still any protests before they could form. “What I’m proposing is that we relocate your bookstore to the resort once it’s built. You would continue to manage it as you see fit—no interference from us. The only difference would be that you wouldn’t have to worry about overhead and you’d be paid a handsome salary to boot. I would also provide you with living accommodations on the premises. In exchange, you sell me your land. For which,” he was quick to add, “I’m prepared to make an extremely generous offer.” He flashed her an ingratiating smile. “What do you say, my dear? It would solve both our dilemmas, don’t you think?”

  Lindsay didn’t know what to say. It sounded so reasonable, the way he put it: the perfect solution to her current financial woes. She would still have her business and a roof over her head, and in addition a secure income, which would take the stress out of doing what she loved. Plus she’d have the profits from the sale of her land to invest. The only catch—and it was a big one—was that it would mean giving up the solitude and serenity of her little piece of paradise: No more early-morning runs along the cliffs with only her dog as company; she’d have to contend with golf carts zipping by and tourists wandering about. There would be manicured greens where wildflowers and coastal grasses now grew. Instead of being serenaded by the sounds of the surf and the wind whipping in off the ocean, she’d have the sputtering of lawnmowers, the crack of golf balls and thwock of tennis balls.

  It would also place her squarely under this man’s thumb.

  It was all an illusion, she realized. A clever artifice designed to lure her into his trap. She would still wake up each morning to the same view, but it would be unrecognizable—the Ralph Lauren do-over of its natural state. And the book café? It would be patronized mainly by guests of the hotel, tourists who wouldn’t be around long enough for her to develop any kind of relationship with them. The majority of the locals would no doubt stay away, deterred by the off-the-beaten-track location and fancy new digs. Not to mention she’d be at the mercy of corporate maneuverings, however many promises Mr. Heywood made to her now.

  In that moment, she almost wished her sister were there to provide a few choice words on the subject. Instead she said in a polite but firm voice, “It’s a nice offer, but I’m going to have to pass.”

  His laser-like gaze didn’t waver. “Won’t you at least consider it?”

  “What would be the point? I’m not going to change my mind.”

  His smile faded. “In that case, you’re making a grave mistake.”

  “Maybe so, but at least it’ll be my mistake.”

  “One that will end up costing you dearly,” he predicted. “Because this resort will get built, I assure you—it’s just a matter of time. Of course there are always obstacles with any project this size, but I didn’t get where I am today by caving in to every local official waving ordinances at me or every property owner digging in his or her heels.” He paused, pushing aside his plate and reaching for the check. “Let me leave you with one final thought: the Panama Canal.”

  She frowned. “What does this have to do with the Panama Canal?”

  “Think of the achievement,” he went on as if she hadn’t spoken, “how staggering it is to this day. What it must have taken, and not just in terms of manpower. Think of the delicate negotiations, and the colossal feat of engineering. And that’s not even taking into account the inhospitable terrain: the heat, the mosquitoes, the constant threat of disease. Then ask yourself this.” He leaned in, his gaze locking with hers. “If such an enormous undertaking could be brought to fruition against such impossible odds, what’s to stop me from building a mere resort?”

  Lindsay all at once felt defeated. He was right, of course. What was she to a man like him but a temporary nuisance? A mosquito, to use his own analogy, that was almost certain to get squashed. Didn’t men like Lloyd Heywood always get what they wanted in the end?

  Lindsay was so unnerved when she returned to work that she could hardly concentrate on what she was doing. She dragged from one task to the next, putting on a smile with her customers that felt carved into her face, until finally, blessedly, it was closing time. As she locked up, she caught Kerrie Ann eyeing her intently and was reminded that she had one more unpleasant duty: She was going to have to tell her sister that she couldn’t move in with them. She’d made the decision on her way back from the meeting with Heywood. It wasn’t just that she and her sister were polar opposites who were bound to clash, as they had last night, or that Kerrie Ann had more baggage than the cargo hold of a jetliner. How could Lindsay help fix her sister’s life when she couldn’t even fix what was wrong with her own?

  As soon as the three women returned home, Lindsay disappeared into the bathroom for a long soak in a hot tub. When she finally emerged, wrapped in her terry robe, the air was filled with fragrant cooking smells. She hadn’t given much thought to supper and was gratified when she poked her head into the kitchen to find Kerrie Ann, frying something in a skillet while Miss Honi chopped greens for a salad.

  “I found some hamburger in the fridge.” Kerrie Ann turned to look over her shoulder, saying in an ingratiating tone, as if aware that she was on probation, “I hope you’re okay with sloppy joes.”

  “Sure, sounds good.” In truth, Lindsay was too drained to care what she ate or whether she ate at all.

  Leaving her sister and Miss Honi to finish making supper, she went to throw on some sweats. When she returned, the food was on the table along with a small bouquet of wildflowers stuck into a jelly jar. “Shall we say grace?” said Miss Honi when they were all seated.

  Lindsay gave her a surprised look. They never said grace when it was just the two of them. But she supposed Miss Honi felt the need to honor the occasion of their first supper as a family. Lindsay felt a fresh stab of guilt, reminded of the uncomfortable task that lay ahead.

  “Dear Lord, bless this food we’re about to eat,” Miss Honi began, her head bowed and her hands clasped in prayer. “And thank you for bringing my baby girl home to me. It’s a blessing having her under our roof again after so long a spell.” Lindsay caught the glimmer of tears beneath her lowered eyelids. “Thank you, too, for mending this poor ol’ family by bringing these two sisters together just when I was beginning to think I’d never live to see the day. Amen.”

  Lindsay’s fork, when she finally brough
t it to her mouth, felt as if it weighed a ton.

  She was subdued while they ate. Kerrie Ann, as if picking up on her mood, kept darting anxious looks her way. If it hadn’t been for Miss Honi drawing them into conversation with her blithe chatter, Lindsay and her sister might have been strangers seated next to each other on an airplane. When supper was over, Kerrie Ann leaped to her feet to clear the table before Lindsay could beat her to it. Lindsay knew she was doing her best to make herself useful, probably in the hope that Lindsay would keep her around, which only made her feel more guilty for what she was about to do.

  She was stowing the leftovers in the fridge, steeling herself against the difficult conversation ahead, when a loud crashing noise caused her to whip around. Kerrie Ann stood by the sink looking down in dismay at a plate that lay in a dozen pieces on the floor. “I’m sorry,” she said, dragging her gaze up to meet Lindsay’s. She looked stricken. “It … it just slipped out of my hand.”

  “Don’t worry about it, hon. It coulda happened to anyone.” Miss Honi was already scurrying over, broom and dustpan in hand.

  “But it didn’t happen to just anyone.” Kerrie Ann’s voice rose, the strain of the past couple of days showing on her face. “It happened to me—the fuckup. Isn’t that what you’re thinking?” Her blue eyes homed in on Lindsay.

  “No, of course not. It was an accident,” said Lindsay, but her words sounded insincere even to her own ears. At the same time, in her mind, she was seeing a tiny spun-glass angel shattered at the feet of a small, frightened girl.

  “Guess I must be prone to accidents, then,” Kerrie Ann went on in the same self-deprecating tone as she stood facing Lindsay, her face flushed and soapy water dripping from her hands. “After all, it was an accident that I ended up here. One that’s shaping up to be a regular three-car pile-up, wouldn’t you say? Isn’t that why you’re not exactly welcoming me with open arms?”