Woman in Blue

by Eileen Goudge

  “I haven’t, actually,” said Lindsay. The stupidest thing that came to mind was sending a Valentine’s Day card to Billy Jarvis in the fourth grade, knowing he’d tease her mercilessly—which he had.

  Kerrie Ann stood, hands on hips, regarding her the way a teacher might a particularly slow-witted pupil. “Maybe that’s ’cause you were never in love before this. Anyway, speaking of stupid, what do you call blowing off the perfect guy just ’cause he turned out to be not so perfect?”

  “I don’t know. What?” Lindsay replied glumly.

  “Hello! I call it insanity after all the shit I’ve had pulled on me by guys not half as decent as Randall. Like, oh, I don’t know, my ex boyfriend, for instance.” She refused to even speak Jeremiah’s name. “But hey, suit yourself. It’s your life … or should I say funeral.”

  Kerrie Ann left her with that thought as she sashayed out the door.

  Lindsay somehow managed to make it through the rest of the day. By closing time, she was exhausted, not so much from work as from the effort to appear calm and collected on the surface with her mind in a muddle and her emotions all over the map. Ollie must have noticed she wasn’t herself because he came over to her as she was closing out the register, handing her a cup of espresso. “Here,” he said. “You look like you could use a shot.”

  “More like a shot of whiskey. But thanks,” she said, downing it in a single gulp.

  “De nada.” He lingered as if something were on his mind. Finally he said, “Listen, we were wondering—Kerrie Ann and me, that is. Would it be okay if we took some time off tomorrow?”

  She banged the register shut. “Tomorrow’s not a good day. I have to be in court, so we’ll be shorthanded as it is.”

  “Yeah, I know. That’s why I’m asking. We thought you could use a little support from the home team.”

  Lindsay was quick to apologize. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. That’s a really sweet thought, Ollie.”

  He leveled his gaze at Lindsay. “You don’t always have to handle everything yourself, you know. In case you haven’t noticed, we’ve got your back.” As if to prove it, he took the empty espresso cup from her hand, saying, “One more for the road?”

  Lindsay recognized the truth in his words. She was used to doing everything herself—a holdover from childhood—and thus she tended to forget at times that she wasn’t alone. “I don’t need any more coffee,” she told him, “but I gratefully accept your offer to be my cheering section.”

  She was on her way back to fetch her jacket and purse when she heard a last-minute customer come in through the door, a man who greeted Miss Honi in a deep, familiar voice. Randall! Before he could spot her, Lindsay quickly ducked out of sight behind one of the tall bookshelves. Seconds later she was holed up in her office with the door shut, plotting an escape out the back, when Miss Honi rapped sharply on the door.

  “Open up, sugar. You got company!”

  Lindsay felt a flash of irritation. The woman would have rolled out the red carpet for Saddam Hussein! But it left Lindsay with no choice but to show her face. To hide from Randall would appear childish—or, worse, as if she were afraid she’d weaken at the sight of him. The fact that she was guilty on both counts only made her angrier. Why was he doing this to her? Why couldn’t he just leave her alone and let the piece he’d written—admittedly a nice gesture—speak for itself: a last, eloquent mea culpa?

  “I just wanted to drop this off,” he said, handing her a bulky manila envelope. “It’s the article I did for the Chronicle. I thought you’d want to see it before it comes out in Sunday’s paper.” She needn’t have worried that he would throw himself at her and beg for forgiveness. His expression was pleasant, almost neutral, and far from the face of abject misery. Instead here was the Randall Craig whom she’d fallen for: those blue eyes crinkling at her in faint amusement, the mouth hovering on the verge of a smile. As the envelope exchanged hands, his fingertips brushed hers in a way that electrified her.

  She felt her resolve weaken, in spite of herself.

  “Thanks, but I’ve already seen it,” she told him. “One of my customers got a copy from someone who works at the paper.”

  He cocked a brow. “So what did you think?”

  Lindsay, struggling to strike a balance between cool remove and genuine appreciation, answered, “It’s exactly what I would’ve written if I could write as well as you.” To answer otherwise would have been dishonest, and she didn’t intend to stoop to his level. Nor did she intend to pander to him in any way. Briskly she added, “But really, you shouldn’t have gone to the trouble of dropping it off. I could’ve waited until the paper came out.”

  “Yes, but then you wouldn’t have had it for your court date tomorrow.”

  “How did you know it was tomorrow?” Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. When he only shrugged in response, she knew: his father. Obviously he and Lloyd were in regular contact, if not cahoots. Not that it made a difference at this point. She’d had her fill of both men.

  He glanced past her. “Mind if I come in?”

  “Actually, I was just on my way out.”

  He grinned. “In that case, I’m glad I caught you.”

  She cursed inwardly as she stepped aside to let him in. “All right. But only for a minute.” Why couldn’t she tell him to take a hike? And why was her traitorous heart beating like that of a silly schoolgirl with a crush? If only turning her back on him were as easy as ignoring his calls and e-mails! She struggled to stay strong, maintaining a good distance and crossing her arms over her chest.

  “I won’t keep you,” he said. “I just wanted to wish you luck.”

  Ignoring his attempt to butter her up, she replied coolly, “Because I’m the one who needs it? Well, you’re right about that. Your dad hasn’t left anything to chance, has he?”

  “No; that’s not his style.” She could see how unhappy he was beneath his facade. His eyes searched her face, as if for some small sign of forgiveness. “Look, I know what you think of me, but I need to set the record straight about one thing: I wasn’t part of any conspiracy. The only thing my father and I share is the same DNA.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell me you were his son?” She met his gaze squarely, her chin lifting.

  “I tried … at least a dozen times.”

  “What stopped you?”

  “I didn’t want to screw it up with you. Ironic, isn’t it?” Randall’s mouth twisted in a pained smile.

  Lindsay felt another chunk break away from the polar ice cap around her heart. Looking into his eyes, she saw nothing to suggest that he was a monster like his father. She saw only the face of a man who’d made a catastrophic error, one he deeply regretted. She wanted to forgive him—everything in her yearned to—but she couldn’t forget that, whether or not he had purposely set out to deceive her, the end result had been the same. “The bottom line is,” she said, “you didn’t tell me. I had to find out from your father. Do you know how humiliating that was? Did you see the smug look on his face?”

  Randall grimaced. “I know. I wish there was some way I could make it up to you.”

  “You already have. Consider us even.” She dropped the manila envelope onto her desk.

  He gestured toward it dismissively. “I would have written it no matter what.” Despite herself, she couldn’t help admiring the fact that he wasn’t taking any more than his fair share of credit for what many would consider an act of contrition grand enough to wipe out any sins.

  “Look, there’s nothing you, or anyone, can do at this point,” she said. “Thanks to your father, I’m looking at losing not just my home but my business. Whatever happens tomorrow, I know he won’t quit until he’s either run me off or bled me dry, whichever comes first.”

  “Even if he wins, it’s just one step in a long process,” Randall reminded her. “There’s still hope.”

  “Is there? Really?” An appeal could take years to wind its way through the courts, and in the unlikely event that sh
e prevailed, it would most likely be a Pyrrhic victory. The best she could hope for under those circumstances was that she’d have enough money left to make a down payment on another house. “Don’t forget, your father has friends in high places. In fact, I’m told there’s someone in Sacramento who’s all set to rubber-stamp this if it goes through.”

  Randall all at once grew alert. “Where did you hear that?”

  “I have my sources.”

  “What makes you think this person is connected to my father?”

  “I don’t know anything for certain, but I smell a rat. The timing is awfully suspicious, don’t you think? This Curtis Brooks fellow gets appointed the new head of the Lands Commission right around the time we go to trial; then I hear he’s poised to give your father’s project the green light. Presumably he owes your dad a favor. Either that or he was bribed.”

  Randall fell silent, wearing a pensive look.

  “Face it,” she went on, “they have me boxed in. Even if I come out ahead tomorrow, it won’t end there. They’ll keep on.”

  Randall’s expression remained thoughtful, and he commented cryptically, “There may be another way around it. Don’t forget, there’s more than one way to skin a cat.”

  “True. But frankly, I’m out of ideas.” She sighed and gathered up her jacket and purse.

  “Maybe I can help. I don’t suppose you’d consider having dinner with me,” he said, eyeing her hopefully.

  “Not a chance.”

  He looked disappointed, if not exactly surprised, but only said, “In that case, I’ll have to settle for a good-night kiss.” Before she could stop him, he had his arms around her and his mouth was closing over hers. She stiffened, but could no longer contain the feelings she’d been struggling to keep at bay, and for a beautiful, terrible moment she gave in to him. God, how she’d missed this! His mouth was warm and minty; he smelled of aftershave and of his own unique scent that seemed redolent of some old, happy memory. She kissed him back and went on kissing him until the feeble voice of reason in her head finally asserted itself. Even then it took all the strength she possessed to withdraw from his embrace.

  “That,” she said, pulling in a breath, “wasn’t supposed to happen.”

  “Maybe not, but it did.” He put a finger under her chin and tipped her head up to meet his gaze. “There’s no use denying it. Admit it, you missed me. Maybe almost as much as I missed you.” He gave a wistful smile. “Would it be so terrible if you were to give me another chance? I promise I won’t let you down again.”

  She considered it briefly before slowly shaking her head. For some people, trust was something to be negotiated, but for her it was black and white: You either trusted someone or you didn’t. Once a person had broken that trust, there was no going back. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just don’t see how it could work.”

  “What would it take to change your mind?”

  Seeing the pain in his eyes, she felt the crack in her own heart widen. “Even if I could learn to trust you again, I don’t know that I could get past the fact that you’re his son. Every time I looked at you, I’d see him. It’s hard enough as it is. How will it be when he’s robbed me of everything I own?”

  Randall’s jaw tightened. “He’s my father; there’s nothing I can do to change that fact. But he’s not part of my life.”

  “Unfortunately, that doesn’t change the fact that he’s ruining mine.”

  “Lindsay …” Randall reached to put his arms around her.

  This time she pushed him away before she could give in. “No. I can’t. Please, just go.”

  The following morning at nine o’clock, Lindsay arrived at the courthouse, flanked by Ollie and Kerrie Ann. The courtroom was packed. The usual suspects, she thought, glancing around her. There were those who had been following the case since the outset and were fairly evenly divided into two camps: local business owners like Jerod Dorfman—a general contractor, who viewed the jobs and tourism the resort would generate as a way to boost their bottom line—and those who were firmly against any development that would spoil the rugged beauty of the coastline. In back stood a handful of reporters: John Larsen from the Blue Moon Bay Bugle, Melinda Knight from Channel 4 News, and several others Lindsay didn’t recognize. At the respondent’s table up front sat the attorneys for the county, a pasty-faced man named Newt Howland and a heavyset, middle-aged woman named Ann Wolf. They were accompanied by a pair of young associates and backed by representatives of the Heywood Group. At the plaintiff’s table Dwight Tibbet sat alone, calm and in control as usual but looking seriously outgunned.

  The judge had yet to show, but the bailiff, a balding, lantern-jawed man whom Lindsay recognized from previous court appearances, was on hand. The court stenographer, a pretty, curly-haired young woman was also a familiar face.

  The only one missing was Grant, who’d phoned a little while ago to let Lindsay know he was running late.

  She’d been a nervous wreck since she’d gotten up that morning, but now a strange calm descended over her. She had to face the fact that whatever the outcome, she wouldn’t walk away a victor. Win or lose, the battle would go on. Were she to win, she would have the strength to forge on, knowing she’d have the advantage in the likely event of an appeal. But if she were to lose? She wasn’t sure she would have either the strength or the resources to carry on.

  She would just have to cross that bridge when she came to it.

  She felt an elbow nudging her in the rib cage and turned toward Kerrie Ann, who muttered darkly, “If this doesn’t work, we can always put out a contract on them.” She cast a murderous glance at Heywood’s posse. “I know people.”

  “Bite your tongue,” Lindsay said. But it felt good knowing someone had her back.

  Lindsay took her seat up front next to Dwight just as the bailiff called out in his booming voice, “Hear ye, hear ye! All rise for the Honorable Judge Davis! Court is now in session!”

  The judge emerged from his chambers and took his seat: a not unattractive man in his mid to late forties, with a full head of wavy brown hair going gray and intelligent brown eyes behind a pair of rimless glasses. She’d noticed on previous occasions that he had a habit of removing those glasses whenever he was making a point, usually in censuring one of the attorneys, as if he wanted nothing to stand between him and the full thrust of his gaze. It was one of the many little signals she’d learned to pick up on over the months he’d been presiding over her case. It was strange because she’d never sat down and had a conversation with the man, but she felt as if they were old acquaintances.

  Once the formalities were dispensed with and the lawyers had made their opening remarks, witnesses for the county began taking the stand. The county assessor, a dour man in a dark gray suit, produced an impressive array of calculations regarding the projected tax benefits of the resort. A so-called scientist talked about the “minimal impact” on the environment. The COO of the Heywood Group, a svelte blond woman around Lindsay’s age, gave an account, aided by growth charts and glowing testimonials, of the positive impact on other communities where Heywood resorts had been built. Even the plainspoken Jerod Dorfman testified, speaking of the need for the jobs the planned project would generate.

  “I got guys depending on me, all of ’em, like me, with mouths to feed. I don’t see how a handful of tree huggers,” he glowered at Lindsay, “should come ahead of working stiffs just trying to get by.”

  The burly contractor’s words were met with a round of cheers from his cohorts, which brought the judge’s gavel cracking down in an effort to maintain order.

  Then it was Dwight’s turn to call witnesses. They seemed pitifully few in comparison. A bearded environmental studies professor from UC Santa Cruz discounting the earlier testimony of his colleague by speaking of the potential harm to marine life by contaminants in the water supply. Local business owners, one of whom was Ollie’s dad, weren’t eager to see the town overrun by tourists. Alfonse Oliveira, looking as sturdy and weather
ed as a pier piling, talked about what it would mean to his livelihood to have the waters he fished clogged with kayaks, Jet Skis, and pleasure boats. “Got enough of that as it is,” he groused. “Some days there’s more folks out there than fish.”

  “So you’re saying you’d be opposed to anything that made the problem, as you see it, worse?” Dwight clarified.

  “Damn right.” Alfonse’s dark eyes, so like Ollie’s, sparked in the rugged terrain of his face. “Fish are smart, see. Smarter than some people. They have the sense to stay away when something doesn’t look right.” He cast a pointed glance at the Heywood Group’s blond COO, who clearly hadn’t impressed him with her glorified charts and testimonials.

  A ripple of appreciative laughter went through the courtroom, though there were those, including Jerod Dorfman, who were none too amused by the inference that they were mere lemmings lured by the promise of a better life.

  Lindsay was the final witness. After being sworn in, she climbed onto the witness stand and sat down, her hands folded in her lap, her gaze sweeping the packed gallery before settling on her sister and Ollie, who sat holding hands in the front row. Kerrie Ann looked almost as nervous as she. She flashed Lindsay a small smile, and Ollie gave Lindsay a thumbs-up. It was just the boost she needed. She squared her shoulders. This was her Waterloo … her last chance to make a stand. She had better make it count.

  “I moved here with my parents in the early ’80s, when I was just thirteen,” she began in response to Dwight’s questioning. “Before that I lived with my mother and sister in a motel just outside Reno. It wasn’t anything like the life I have now, believe me. There was never any money, and whatever we did have went to feed my mother’s drug habit. My sister and I were put into foster care when I was twelve and she was just three. I was lucky and got adopted by a wonderful couple—the Bishops. They’re the ones who brought me to live here. Sadly, they’re both gone now, but they left me the land they loved and that I came to love just as much.” Lindsay, who in the past had been loath to tell her story, couldn’t believe she was doing so now to a roomful of people, many of them strangers. “So you see, to me it’s not just a deed to a piece of property. It’s all those memories. Each time I look out my window or take a walk on the beach, I’m reminded of my parents.” She choked up a little. “If I were to lose that, it would be like having to bury them a second time.”