by Renee Roszel
“Sit down, dear,” the elder woman interrupted softly, indicating the wide window seat. “I want to talk to you.”
Mary was taken aback by Miz Witty’s solemn request. So rarely did her employer discard her smile, Mary sensed an urgency in her, and did as she asked. “Yes?” She felt unaccountably nervous. “What is it?”
Miz Witty lowered her gaze to her book, turned it over and opened the back cover. Inside was a photograph, which she drew out and handed to Mary. It was a picture of Bonner, and another man. She looked at it, her heart soaring foolishly. Both men smiled broadly, arms slung across each other’s shoulders the way brothers or good friends might do. “Why, it’s Bonner.” She lifted her gaze to Miz Witty. “I didn’t know you had any recent snapshots of him.”
Miz Witty’s smile reappeared, more melancholy than happy. “Yes. It’s a few years old. I’m sure Bonny doesn’t even recall sending it. I found it inside a card, oh, I’d say a month before you came to work for me. It was right after my first stroke and I was in the hospital. The photograph got tucked away with the other letters and cards I received then. I ran across it last spring. I’ve had it in my bedside table drawer ever since.” She indicated the photo. “It’s a nice picture of him, isn’t it?”
Mary nodded, her heart twisting. It was hard enough trying to forget Bonner when she didn’t have to stare at his image—those hypnotic eyes, that devastating smile. She handed the picture back, fearing she’d burst into tears if she dared look at it any longer. “Yes—it’s very nice.”
Miz Witty took it, held it, gazing fondly at it. “The other man is Taggart Lancaster. He and Bonner grew up together. They’re like brothers.”
“They do look somewhat alike,” Mary murmured.
“Yes, they do. They’re handsome young men.” She sighed, a sound filled with regret. “I love my grandson, Mary. His father, my only child, grew into a stern man, and he married a cold woman. They were a selfish couple, hard on Bonner because he got in the way of their pleasure. My beloved husband died when Bonn was seven. I spent years in mourning, was no help to the poor child when he needed me the most. I’m thankful he found a friend like Taggart. He’s Bonner’s lawyer, now, you know.”
“Oh?” Mary thought she recalled hearing the name. Either Bonner or Lee must have mentioned it. “I see.”
“Taggart Lancaster has been a good, stable friend.” She ran a hand fondly across the photo. “Bonner needed stability in his life.” She glanced up and smiled. “I know my grandson has faults, but no matter what else he might be, he has a good heart.”
She gazed at the photograph again, her expression wistful. With one last caressing motion across the image, she lay the photograph inside the back cover and shut her book.
When she faced Mary again, she smiled tenderly. “I love you like my own granddaughter, and though I would be happy to pay for your nursing courses, or anything else you might need, I have respected your wishes that you pay your own way.” She reached out, covering Mary’s hand with hers. “You must believe me when I say I did not hire the private investigator nor did I hire the attorney.” She squeezed Mary’s fingers affectionately. “My grandson may have many faults, Mary, but if I know him at all, I also know he has powerful friends.”
Mary was confused. “Are you saying you think Bonner did it?”
Miz Witty withdrew her hand from Mary’s. “I can’t be sure of anything.” She paused, then added, “What other explanation could there be?”
Mary had no idea. “I can’t believe it.” She frowned at Miz Witty, dubious. “Besides, aren’t you sending him money? If he hired them, then ultimately you would be paying for it. You’d know.”
Miz Witty lifted her hands, as though mystified. “All I can say is, Bonner has not asked me for a penny since Joe took Becca away.”
Mary chewed the inside of her cheek, her frustration at explosive levels. “Well, one way or the other, I need to know.”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
Mary’s gaze had dropped to her lap, where she clutched her hands together. With Miz Witty’s question, her attention shot up and their eyes met. “You mean—call Bonner?”
Miz Witty smiled, her expression compassionate. “A moment ago you were willing to do anything for me, if I’d hired the private investigator and lawyer. Now you’re horrified at the idea of picking up a phone?”
Mary felt a blush creep up her cheeks. How small could she be? “Of—of course, you’re right. I’m being silly.” She cleared her throat, telling herself she was a grown-up, a mature person. She could do this. She could speak to Bonn on the phone without falling apart. “I’ll call—right now.”
She got up and went to Miz Witty’s bedside table. Bonner’s number was programmed into speed dial. She pressed the button, telling her heart to slow down or she would be unconscious before the call could go through.
She concentrated on breathing slowly, deeply as the phone began to ring. Almost instantly it went to an answering machine; a metallic male voice requested that she leave a message. She licked her lips, nervous. What could she say? What possible message could she leave? Before she gave herself time to think about it, she slammed down the receiver.
“Did you change your mind?”
Mary shook her head, furious with herself for her cowardice. “He’s not there.” So much for being a mature adult. She’d been too frightened and tongue-tied to leave a simple message, like—Call me. We have to talk! Blood pounded in her ears and her face burned with humiliation. She couldn’t bear to face Miz Witty. Hurrying to the table, she grabbed the tray of dishes. “I—I’ll try again—later.” She dashed out the door.
Mary did try, and try. She really did! For three days she called, over and over, and was answered by the awful machine, its metallic monotone demanding the same thing—leave a message! Her response was invariably the same—a dry, croaking nothing. Even when she wrote down exactly what she planned to say and was determined to speak, she could only manage a brief, high-pitched croak, then silence.
In desperation, she’d finally called Bonner’s lawyer’s office. His secretary told her Mr. Lancaster was in court. When Mary asked if she knew whether Bonner was out of town, the secretary hesitated, then said, she wasn’t at liberty to give out information about clients. Because of the secretary’s delay before responding to something that should have been automatic, Mary got an odd, nagging feeling, as though the woman knew where Bonner Wittering was, and the news wasn’t good.
Was Bonner in trouble?
Mary felt a headache coming on, a dull throbbing she couldn’t get rid of. She was tired, angry with herself and depressed to discover what a spineless baby she was. If Bonner had really done so much for her, the least she could do was summon the courage to thank him! And what was a phone call, after all? How did a person thank someone over the phone for such a grand and caring gift?
Maybe the reason she hadn’t been able to speak to that dratted machine was because she knew it was the cowardly way out. So what if she went weak at the sound of his name? So what if she felt a mad, unruly attraction for him? If he’d been the one to facilitate Becca’s return, and hired the lawyer who’d won her sole custody of her half sister, didn’t he deserve her face-to-face thanks?
No matter how hard it might be to see him again, he deserved to be told in person. And if he was in trouble—and the sick feeling in her stomach told her he was—maybe she could help, at least offer moral support. He might be a conniver and a playboy, but if he were truly responsible for giving her back her half sister, she owed him that, and a lot more. With her resolve set, she knocked on Miz Witty’s door.
“Come in?”
Once inside, Mary stood tall and faced her employer, who sat at her antique writing desk. “Miz Witty, I’ve decided to go to Boston, to speak to Bonner in person.”
Miz Witty’s face brightened. “Why, that’s a fine idea, child.”
“After thinking over what you said, I know in my heart finding Becca must be Bo
nner’s doing. A few words over the phone aren’t enough. What he did was too important, too wonderful for—”
“I hope you won’t mind, Mary,” Miz Witty broke in. Reaching in her top desk drawer, she pulled out an envelope. “I took the liberty of purchasing an airline ticket to Boston.” She held it out. “For you.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ON a chilly Friday afternoon, Mary took a taxi from the Boston airport to the apartment building where Bonner lived. Inside, the security guard at a desk was more forthcoming than Taggart Lancaster’s secretary. The young man seemed almost gleeful to pass along the word that Bonner Wittering had been convicted of insider trading, had his bond revoked since his conviction because of the increased flight risk, and had been in jail. He went on to say Bonner was in court this very minute for the punishment hearing.
Mary was horrified by the news. What in heaven’s name was insider trading, and what kind of punishment did it involve? After coaxing the security guard to stash her suitcase, Mary took her taxi to the federal courthouse. She had no idea what she thought she might do once she got there. She needed to see Bonner, hopefully get a chance to speak with him.
But convicted! That had to mean prison! She’d known he was a lot of things, but a criminal? The man who’d treated Miz Witty with such respect and thoughtfulness, the man who’d been kind, even while rejecting Pauline, the man who’d gone to great and costly lengths to get Becca back? Could this man be a criminal? It didn’t seem possible.
As Mary’s cab approached the courthouse, she stared in awe. Most of Wittering’s main street could have been set down inside the magnificent brick and granite edifice. Located on Fan Pier, the imposing building overlooked Boston Harbor.
As Mary scanned the courthouse, she was reminded of the sea and sailing ships, from the towering rotunda, which looked like a lighthouse, to the multistory, concave window-wall, created by hundreds of panes of glass. Reminiscent of a huge sail, it allowed a spectacular view of the harbor.
Upon entering the cavernous rotunda, she asked an official where the Bonner Wittering punishment hearing was going on, and was given directions. Frightened, and unsure why, she hurried up the curved, sweeping granite stairway in the main lobby. The place became a blur and she blinked back tears. Why, oh why, did she have to be in love with a man who, at this very moment, was doubtlessly being sentenced to prison? She stumbled, almost falling, but righted herself.
And why did she have to choose this minute to face the truth—that she loved Bonner Wittering? It wasn’t a happy discovery! Now that she’d faced it, what was she going to do?
She burst into a run; her high-heels echoed over the granite floor in a massive hallway that looked like a downtown sidewalk. Around her people paced, or hunched on benches lining the walkway. The men and women she passed looked as serious and tense as she felt, few taking notice of the spectacular panorama of Boston Harbor and the distant, downtown skyline, beyond the window-wall.
When she reached the courtroom where Bonner’s hearing was being held, she swallowed hard, gathered her courage and pushed through the door. Her heart hammering in her throat, she made herself as inconspicuous as possible at the rear of the wood-paneled room. She scanned the place; it looked like a trial was going on, but there were no people in the jury box, and nobody sat in the witness stand. A man stood before the judge, speaking passionately, his voice ringing in the chamber, deep and rich and powerful.
Mary focused on him, tall, straight, in an expensive looking navy suit. Though his back was to her, she felt a tingle of awareness. It raced up and down her spine, startling her. The man’s words hadn’t registered, except for their sound. But now inflection and intonation penetrated her consciousness, and Mary stared, stunned.
That was Bonner’s voice.
“Your Honor, my client, Bonner Wittering, has had a great deal of time to come to understand the gravity of his actions, however inadvertently and unwittingly he became involved….”
Mary watched as the speaker turned toward a seated man, indicating him with a broad gesture. He continued to speak, his voice full of conviction, but Mary couldn’t comprehend the words. Her mind whirled with bewilderment. The man she knew to be Bonner Wittering was speaking about Bonner Wittering, and seemed to be identifying another person as Bonner Wittering.
A young, casually dressed male stood nearby, engrossed in what was being said. She sidled over to him, and whispered, “Who is that—that person speaking?”
The observer briefly glanced her way, then returned his attention to the speaker. “That’s Taggart Lancaster.”
Mary stared in shock at the stranger at her side. It was one thing to think the world had gone topsy-turvy, but to discover it actually had was extremely alarming. Mary refused to allow the statement to compute in her mind. When she finally managed to speak, her voice was raspy. “You—you mean Bonner Wittering, don’t you?”
The man peered at her again, his expression cautioning. “Wittering’s the defendant, lady,” he whispered. “Now kindly keep quiet. I’m studying to be a criminal defense lawyer, and Lancaster’s the best.”
Lancaster’s the best.
That statement rattled around in Mary’s head for several minutes as she stared at the man speaking so eloquently to the judge, a white-haired female who also appeared to be listening intently. Mary looked around, noticing the entire courtroom was completely still, enthralled—the spectators, bailiff, prosecuting attorney, and the defendant, Bonner Wittering. Only the court reporter moved, his fingers flying. Everyone else appeared engrossed in Taggart Lancaster’s words.
As he spoke, he took a few steps toward the judge’s bench. After a moment, he turned around, faced the spectators as he once again indicated his client. Moving back to the defense table, his gaze lifted to skim the crowd. The instant his eyes met hers, Mary felt it—by the blow to her heart.
She knew the second he registered who she was, because he paused, midsentence. For one, tiny grain of time, Taggart Lancaster came to a complete, astonished halt. She felt it more than saw it, because almost at once, he finished his sentence and his stroll to the defense table, lifted a sheaf of papers, faced the judge and went on with his exhortation.
Mary felt disoriented, ripped up by conflicting emotions. Bonner hadn’t visited Wittering at all! His lawyer had! Taggart Lancaster had! Voices screamed in her head, muted and sharp at the same time.
Taggart Lancaster wasn’t a playboy or a spendthrift or rash. But he was a lowlife who kept wealthy, spoiled clients out of trouble with his silver-tongued spin on their crimes. And, even worse as far as Mary was concerned, he’d perpetrated a huge fraud on Miz Witty!
Or had he? She recalled the photograph her employer had shown her—of both men.
Then Miz Witty must have known all along…
Mary squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head, not knowing what to think or how to feel. Did the fact that Miz Witty knew Taggart wasn’t Bonner excuse what they did? She was so disconcerted and bewildered and upset, she didn’t know who to be angry at, or how angry to be. She felt stifled. The room seemed suddenly overheated. She had trouble breathing, was seeing double.
In an anguished daze, she stumbled out of the courtroom and darted down the hall, running blind. Before she knew it, she was outside. The wind had picked up and it had grown bitingly cold with the approaching dusk.
She pulled her woolen suit jacket close about her and walked aimlessly. She didn’t know how long she wandered before she found herself standing in front of a coffee shop. Shivering from her emotional wretchedness and the evening chill, she went inside. She had to think, get her thoughts straight. She’d come to Boston to thank Bonner for what he’d done for her and Becca. But now what? Who did she thank—and who did she strangle?
Taggart had a hard time focusing on Bonner’s defense. The instant he saw Mary, his brain turned to ashes. She was here, in Boston, in the same room with him, but he couldn’t take her in his arms. He couldn’t hold her the way he had�
�in his dreams—for the past three, eternal months. He lived for the night and the escape it brought, because those were the only hours when he felt hope or joy.
Get your mind on straight, he warned inwardly. Finish this! You care about Bonner. Even though this is your swan song as his attorney-slash-baby-sitter, you still owe him your best. Don’t let him down!
Taggart had done a lot of soul-searching since he left Wittering, Colorado. He’d decided to downsize his practice, move west. Open a little law office in the Rockies. Let the simple, country life wipe the city grime from his soul. He wanted to help plain folk with their troubles, get into pro bono child advocacy work. He needed to feel fulfilled, clean.
Today’s punishment hearing was the end of his prestigious and lucrative Boston practice, as well as the end of his lawyer/ client relationship with Bonner, if not quite the end of their friendship. He still loved Bonn like a brother. But he knew he couldn’t spend the rest of his life holding Bonner’s hand. It wasn’t good for either of them. Taggart needed a life of his own and Bonner had to face life on his own and learn to accept responsibility for his actions.
The next hour dragged by like an ice age. When Taggart looked for Mary again, she was no longer in the courtroom. Where had she gone? He needed to find her, if only to be near her once more. To catch the high-meadow sweetness of her scent, to look into those smoky eyes that haunted him, day and night. He knew she must be furious—discovering the lie. But he was accustomed to her dislike for him. It didn’t diminish the way he felt about her, fool that he was.
At last, the hearing was over and the judge’s decision rendered. Taggart instructed his assistant to pack up, and left the courtroom as quickly as he could, determined to find Mary. He prayed she hadn’t rushed back to the airport and caught the first plane leaving Massachusetts.
Just outside the courtroom door, he practically ran into her. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair wind-tossed. She’d obviously gone somewhere, then decided to return. He was grateful for that, even if she’d only come back to slap his face.
