The Final Judgment

by Richard North Patterson

  She stood in the lobby, quiet now.

  “It hasn’t changed,” she said at last.

  Jackson smiled. “This is New England. Reverse ostentation is a way of life.”

  It was true, of course. It took a kind of genius, Caroline thought, for a place always to seem as if it needed paint.

  “Do you want to savor the ambience,” Jackson asked, “or would you like a drink outside?”

  “Outside, thanks. What are my choices?”

  “Scotch. And Scotch.”

  Caroline smiled. There was no bar; members kept liquor in their private lockers, beer and white wine in a giant refrigerator by the kitchen, maintained on the honor system. There was an ice machine on the porch.

  “I’ll take Scotch,” Caroline said, and picked a canvas chair on the lawn.

  Jackson tossed his windbreaker across the back of the chair next to hers, rolled up the sleeves of his cotton work shirt, and went to fetch them drinks.

  He came back moments later, with an ice bucket, two dishwasher-scarred milk glasses, and a bottle of Glenlivet. “Good Scotch,” Caroline said.

  When he filled her glass, she did not complain.

  They sat there, quiet again. Caroline took her first sip, felt the whisky glow inside her. Took another, gazing across the lawn at the kayaks and canoes, the lake as it turned gray blue with the sun of an early summer evening.

  “Amazing,” she said.

  “What is?”

  “To be here at all.”

  He turned to her, as if trying to decipher her tone of voice. “Does it seem that strange?”

  “Yes. It does.” Caroline paused. “I spent a lot of energy leaving.”

  Jackson was quiet awhile. “Where do you live now?” he asked.

  “I have a penthouse.” Summoning an image, Caroline found it unnervingly distant. “On Telegraph Hill. Very modern, with glass all around and a roof garden on top. On the right day, I can see not only the bay and the city but miles beyond.”

  Jackson seemed to imagine this. “Not much like New Hampshire.”

  “Not at all.” She drained her Scotch. “Have you ever been to San Francisco?”

  “Once, with Carole. It seemed quite beautiful.”

  “It is, isn’t it.” She tried to picture him there, at the opera or a dinner party or eating calamari in the glittering restaurant of the moment; the clearest vision she could manage was of a practical man, looking about him with interest and a certain wry detachment. Somehow New Hampshire seemed very much a part of him.

  Thoughtful, Caroline gazed across the lawn.

  On the lake, a lone man in a kayak made for shore, stopped paddling, let the kayak drift until it slid onto the rocky beach. He pulled the kayak another few feet and then made purposefully for the club. He was in his sixties, spare, with a white fringe of hair and, Caroline noticed as he approached, bright-blue eyes behind rimless glasses. Seeing Jackson, he smiled and came over.

  “Hello, Hugh,” Jackson began amiably, and then, as if interrupting himself on the way to introducing Caroline, stopped.

  But the man had turned to her. “Hello,” he said in a puzzled voice, and then smiled, still hesitant. “Pardon me, but aren’t you Caroline? Channing’s daughter?”

  Caroline summoned her own smile. “That’s right.”

  He extended his hand. “Hugh Askew. President of the Connaughton County Bank—I’ve done business with Channing for years.” He paused. “Sorry for the once-over; except for TV, I’m not sure I’d have known you. I don’t think you’ve been here for a while.”

  “No. Not for a while.”

  His smile faded. It struck Caroline that he must know—at least suspect—her business here but was too polite to mention it. Even more so in the presence of Jackson Watts.

  “Well,” he said in a subdued voice. “Welcome back. I’m sure your dad is very proud of you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Briefly, the man nodded to Jackson and went on his way, leaving Caroline self-conscious, her sense of ease diminished.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t be here,” she said quietly.

  Jackson gave her a look of concern, then shrugged. “These are not judgmental people, Caroline. And you and I have known each other for years.”

  She turned to him. “How has it been for you, living here?”

  He seemed to contemplate the question. “It’s the world I know. Perhaps this says something about me, but it always seemed sufficient. Still does.” He sipped his drink. “If I consume enough Scotch, I can probably spin a piece of philosophy that’s downright Jeffersonian—that this is the last laboratory of civility, where people are both decent and restrained, where villages run their own affairs and where even politicians can exist without having to lie too much.” He smiled again. “But I really do need to have been drinking….”

  “And where does the Patriot-Ledger fit into that theory?”

  “Oh, for that I have to drink a lot.” His smile faded. “Are we leaving, then? Really, whatever feels comfortable.”

  What did she want? Caroline wondered. And then realized that Jackson, and then perhaps the Scotch, had dulled her cares for a time.

  “Let’s stay awhile,” she said, and poured them both more whiskey.

  They ate dinner on the porch. Jackson found a candle, produced a chill bottle of Chardonnay from the refrigerator, and shuttled two warm meals from the kitchen.

  “Trout,” he said. “The balance of nature continues.”

  Caroline smiled, finished her third Scotch, and gazed out across the lake.

  Dusk was falling; the last light turned to smoke above the sudden blackness of the water. There was the first sound of crickets; against her will, Caroline imagined that night as Brett described it, wondered again how much of it was true. She wanted to ask Jackson about drug dealers, then—for reasons of both tact and tactics—quelled the impulse: if they came up with nothing, it would make the drug-dealer defense less credible. Far better for Brett’s lawyer to chastise some detective on the witness stand for his failure to inquire.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Jackson said.

  “Why?”

  “Because you had that sort of veiled, intent look you used to get when we’d argue politics, just before you stuck some rhetorical point in my figurative ear.”

  Caroline smiled again. “I was thinking of sticking my fork in the literal trout,” she answered, and did so.

  It was fresh, sautéed in butter—perfect with a little lemon. “This is great,” she said. “I haven’t had fresh trout in ages.”

  Jackson poured some wine. Sipping it, oaky on her tongue, Caroline realized that she had well exceeded her self-imposed limit on alcohol. Part of her was troubled by this; the other part was surprised by how good it felt.

  “When I asked where you lived,” Jackson said, “part of it was whether anyone lives with you.”

  Caroline shook her head. “Not even a trout.”

  In a cautious tone, Jackson said, “I read somewhere, I think, that you were never married….”

  Caroline gave him a sideways look. As if caught at something, he looked away, and suddenly she began to laugh. “Why don’t you just ask me if I’m still straight, Jackson?”

  He gave her an astonished look and then put his forehead in his hands and shook his head, like someone detected in the middle of an unpardonable social lapse. “I mean, I did consider all sorts of things. If you could turn your back on me…”

  Caroline grinned. “You mean, did I go to Martha’s Vineyard one summer and become a lesbian?”

  He held up his hand. “Please, I surrender. Help me out of this.”

  Caroline smiled. “Whether gay or straight, single women without obvious attachments get used to it. Although usually from total clods. I’m reminded of Martina Navratilova’s great line when some idiot sportswriter asked if she was ‘still gay’: ‘Are you still the alternative?’”

  Jackson gave her a sheepish grin. “Sorry. Anyhow, it was only a pa
ssing thought, like rabies or Oliver North.” His look became curious. “You do sound quite determinedly ‘single,’ Caroline.”

  She sipped more wine, considering her answer. It had long been her practice, bordering on superstition, not to say too much about the things she held private. Now, for a night, that felt lonely. She looked across the table at the kind face of Jackson Watts, a friend—with whatever fragility and for however long—reclaimed. So that, in this way at least, one part of her past might still feel warm in the present.

  “ ‘Determinedly’?” Her voice was soft now. “I think perhaps what starts as self-protection, for whatever reason, in the end becomes a habit. So that even if you think you want to do better, you find that your emotional equipment is rusted out. That you’re no longer used to intimacy, have no gift for the small compromise.” She shrugged. “Perhaps no longer care…”

  He looked at her gravely. “What do you do, then? Just live alone?”

  Perhaps, Caroline thought, it was the wine, the comfort of darkness. Perhaps it was the need to tell him the truth about something. To hope that he would not judge her.

  She studied her wineglass. “What I do, Jackson, is a series of small affairs. Sometimes on vacation, just for a night—the longer term seems always to founder on career or children or whatever.” Her voice became ironic. “Lately, I seem to have developed a penchant for the long-term married. A couple of them have been good company, and there’s no chance they’ll become part of my life. Or even, if they’re sensible, want to.”

  It made him quiet. She gazed at the lake, a swath of black beneath a moonlit ridge, then saw him fill her glass and his.

  “Well,” he said thoughtfully, “we all make do.”

  When she looked at him, his face was serious but not unkind. He held up his glass and touched it to hers. “To you, Caroline.”

  She settled back into her chair. Quiet together, they finished their dinner, then the bottle.

  When they left, the night was cool and still.

  They got into the dinghy, and Jackson started the motor; its low thrum as they crossed was the only sound on the darkened lake.

  Caroline sat back, feeling the night air on her face. The glow of wine was receding a little, her sense of time returning; whatever respite she had enjoyed was coming to its end. She watched Jackson pilot them across the water, searching keen-eyed for his camp.

  “There,” he said.

  A moment later, they cruised up to his dock. Jackson jumped out; Caroline tossed him the line, and he hitched it to a spile. Reaching out, he took her hand as she stepped onto the dock.

  To her surprise, he did not let go. He looked down at their hands, as if surprised himself, and then let her fingers slip away.

  He stuck both his hands in his pockets. “Can I get you something before you leave? Coffee, brandy…”

  After a moment, Caroline nodded. “Brandy.”

  “Good.” Jackson turned and climbed the stairs up the hillside, Caroline coming after him. A wind stirred the trees, and there was the deep aroma of pine; Caroline remembered sleeping at her father’s camp, the comforting sense of woods around her. The stars, she saw, were bright.

  They entered the cabin. He went to the fireplace, threw in wood, knelt, spread tinder, and then struck a match. The fire leapt to life. Caroline stood in the kitchen, quiet, watching the first tongues of blue and orange as they rose from the burning log.

  Jackson stood, turning to Caroline. “I’ll get that brandy now.”

  He walked through the kitchen without looking at her, opened a cabinet, and reached for two snifters and a bottle of cognac. Carefully, head bent, he poured a measure in both glasses.

  Turning, he passed one to Caroline, raised his own glass. “To what, this time?”

  Caroline cupped the snifter in both hands. “I don’t know, really.” She paused for a moment. “I just didn’t want to leave without saying something. Like ‘thank you.’”

  “For what?”

  “For forgiving me, a little. For making me feel like you were still a friend.”

  He gave her a funny look, vulnerable and surprised. Almost under his breath, he said, “Jesus, Caroline…”

  Her chest tightened. As if without thinking, she went to him, took the brandy from his hand, and put it with hers on the counter.

  She turned to him again, hesitant.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  Caroline took his face in her hands, looking up into his eyes. Her blouse grazed his chest.

  Jackson gazed down at her, as if to make certain that he understood. Softly, he said, “I think I remember…”

  She was still smiling as he kissed her.

  His mouth was warm, somehow familiar. She closed her eyes, leaned against him for a while. Silent, gentle, he held her, kissing her hair.

  How do we do this? she wondered. Her nerve ends tingled.

  Jackson leaned back now. When she looked up at him, his head tilted in inquiry.

  Quiet, Caroline nodded.

  Slowly, he unbuttoned the top of her blouse.

  She looked at him steadily, eyes not moving from his face. When he had finished, she reached behind her, and then her bra fell to the floor.

  The rest of it she did herself.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said. “Still.”

  Smiling a little, she began to undo his shirt.

  His body still. Still lean, not quite as taut, but still his. When their skin met, it felt warm to her.

  He led her to the fire.

  There was a couch there. Still holding her hand, Jackson angled his head toward the couch, inquiring. Caroline shrugged.

  They lay together, finding their place.

  Jackson kissed her forehead. “I don’t have anything,” he murmured. “But I’m all right.”

  “Me too.”

  Gently, his mouth moved to the hollow of her neck. She slipped beneath him.

  He was still careful now, but knowing. Knowing in the touch of his mouth, his hands, his fingertips. Caroline felt her hips move without her thinking. She grasped his neck, suddenly hungry for him, pressing her mouth to his.

  When he entered her, it was different.

  Caroline thrust against him. They had never had this, then; the warm, confident leisure, the sureness that all would be well. She lost track of anything but the warmth of his body, hers, the slow insistent surge as he moved inside her, she moving with him—quickly now. More quickly…

  She called his name, and then she exploded with the feel of him.

  Fingertips numb, the world dark and close, she clung to him as he came inside her.

  Afterward, she lay beside him, not wanting or needing speech. Watching the dance of shadows from the fire.

  The seniors league, she thought fondly; what we lose to youth, we make up in grace and comfort. At least so it seemed with Jackson.

  Still quiet, she gave him a kiss of tenderness and approval.

  He smiled at her. “Better?”

  “Better.” She kissed him again. “Good old Carole.”

  It made him laugh. The next time they made love, an hour later, Caroline was on top.

  In the morning, she woke in his bed. Her temples throbbed with Scotch and wine.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Hi.”

  He propped his head on his elbow, as if gauging her mood. “Are you okay?” he asked after a time. “I didn’t turn into a pumpkin, did I?”

  She did not smile. “No. Not at all.”

  He raised an eyebrow. Talk if you want, his expression said, but I won’t push you.

  Suddenly, Caroline disliked herself intensely. “Last night,” she said, “I was selfish—I liked being with you, and I didn’t want it to end. But in the clear light of morning, I’m Brett’s semi-lawyer. Who’s compounded her ethical confusion by fucking the prosecutor.”

  His eyes were serious. “Think of me as an ex-boyfriend, Caroline. If that helps.”

  For Caroline, the reality of Brett
had filled the room. “I wish it did.”

  “Whether or not you represent her?”

  Caroline touched her eyes. “I don’t know, Jackson. Please, I have to think this all through.” She stopped. “That is not, by the way, a reference to Brett’s guilt or innocence. But that I even have to tell you that illustrates the problem.”

  He was quiet now. Caroline sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Really,” she said quietly. “I think I’d better get back.”

  “All right.”

  They dressed in silence.

  “Ready?” he asked, and walked briskly to the door.

  She stopped him there, a touch on the elbow. He turned to her.

  Caroline tried to smile. “What I thought,” she said, “is that I’d kiss you goodbye. Here, where no one’s watching.”

  He paused, looking seriously into her eyes.

  Slowly and firmly, Caroline kissed him. “I really wish,” she said, “that you weren’t the prosecutor.”

  He smiled a little. “I really wish,” he answered, “that you had a different niece.”

  They walked to his truck together.

  For the ten minutes to town, they talked about small things. What he would do today. How Resolve had changed. Anything but Brett.

  When they stopped in front of the inn, Jackson did not get out.

  He leaned on the steering wheel. “I’d like to see you again,” he said. “Before you leave.”

  Caroline touched his hand. “We’ll talk, at least.”

  Slowly, he nodded.

  Caroline made herself get out. She was through the door of the inn before his truck disappeared from view—a lawyer again, beginning her day.

  Eleven

  But it was several hours before Caroline the lawyer resolved what to do, and another hour until she drove to Chase College, Jackson Watts still too much on her mind.