The Last Honest Man

by Lynnette Kent

  “Phoebe?” Willa knocked loudly on the closed door. “Your next appointment is here.”

  She jerked herself upright like a mishandled marionette, and took a long step back. “I-I have to go.”

  “Right.” At the door, Adam paused. “C-can we have lunch today?”

  She couldn’t resist. “Is one too late?”

  His smile appeared. “P-perfect.”

  Watching him leave, Phoebe wondered if “perfect” was really the right word.

  Or was “perilous” closer to the truth?

  THE FALLOUT FROM HIS political rally was waiting for Adam when he walked into the office of DeVries Construction at noon.

  “Your parents are in your office,” his secretary told him, with a nervous glance in that direction. “Your mother is…um…”

  “Right. Thanks, Jody.” Since she was watching, Adam went directly to the door, turned the knob and stepped inside. He closed the panel behind him before speaking. “This is a s-surprise. I’m gl-gl…happy to s-see you both.”

  His dad came over to shake his hand. “Good to see you. Looks like you’re a busy man these days.”

  “I don’t l-lack w-work.” Bending, he pressed a kiss to his mother’s very cool cheek. “How are you?”

  No one who knew Cynthia DeVries ever asked her a question unless he was prepared for an honest answer. “Shocked and appalled, of course. After everything I’ve said, you’re going ahead with this ridiculous campaign.”

  Adam sat down behind his desk. “Each time you b-brought the s-subject up, M-Mother, I told you I would.” He could feel his right hand stiffening on his thigh and tried to think of Phoebe’s soft touch.

  “And, adding insult to injury, you announce your engagement to all of those people without informing your own family. We’ve never even met this girl, for heaven’s sake. Who is she?”

  With an inward groan, Adam accepted the necessity of yet another deception. No matter which way he turned, he seemed to sink deeper into the quicksand created by Tommy’s initial lie. “Her n-name is Phoebe Moss.”

  “I read the article, Adam. I know her name. Where is she from?”

  “Atlanta.” He held up a hand to forestall the next question. “Her d-dad is a pl-pl-plastic surgeon, her m-mother is a m-math p-professor at Georgia T-Tech. She was in the d-department when I was there, though I d-didn’t take her classes.”

  Cynthia sat back, somewhat calmer. “You knew this Phoebe Moss when you were in school?”

  Adam started to tell the truth, but remembered Tommy’s story at the last instant. “We were there at the s-same time.”

  “And I understand she is a professional? A therapist?”

  “A s-speech therapist.”

  “She’s been helping you?”

  “S-some.”

  “Well, at least she seems presentable. Are we permitted to know the date for the wedding? And will it be in Atlanta?”

  “We…haven’t s-set a d-date. This is all v-very s-sudden and we hadn’t meant to tell anybody y-yet. We haven’t made any d-d-decisions.”

  “Certainly a reasonable approach, since you have to get through this campaign first. I’m sure the mayor is laughing up his sleeve at the prospect of debating someone with your…difficulty.”

  “He who l-laughs l-last, l-l-l—” Adam swore under his breath. “We’ll s-see how things go.”

  “Yes, we will.” She got to her feet and crossed to the door, with his dad following. “We’ll have dinner on Sunday. Be sure to bring Phoebe Moss.”

  “We’ll b-be there. Thanks.”

  Cynthia left her son’s office in a state of agitation so unusual that Preston suggested they have lunch together before he went back to work. He drove to her favorite tearoom, the Trellis, and secured for them a table by the garden window that had been reserved for some other party. Under the influence of a glass of wine and her husband’s soothing care, she managed to recover her poise, if not her peace of mind.

  “How can he pursue this disaster without regard for his family?” Cynthia spoke quietly, looking out the window. The tables sat close together in the dining room of what used to be one of New Skye’s grand old homes.

  “He has your strong will, my dear.”

  “I suppose so. But surely strong will should be tempered with good sense.”

  “Adam shows more good sense than some his age. He’s built a thriving business.”

  Cynthia waited to reply until the server had set down Preston’s chicken salad sandwich and her own salad plate. “One expects a few wild hares from students. Tim was certainly a handful before he went to medical school. And Theresa gave me some concern in high school and college. But they’ve both settled down nicely. No crazy stunts to worry about, even if they aren’t married yet.”

  “Each one’s an individual, with their own path to follow.”

  “Nevertheless, I don’t believe we can sit by while Adam makes a fool of himself, and of our family.”

  Preston finished his sandwich and then his wine before leaning closer, his elbows braced on the edge of the table. “Will he make a fool of himself, my dear? Simply because of his speech difficulties?”

  Tears stung her eyes, but she kept her voice as low as his. “How many times have we waited, Preston, and agonized, struggling not to interfere as he fought for words? The press, the people of the city will not be so patient. Curtis Tate will not be so patient, and L. T. LaRue, standing behind him, will note every mistake. That man has no honor, no sense of obligation to anyone but himself, and he will use every opportunity Adam gives him to capitalize on this misfortune. Should Adam win, which I grant is highly improbable, we’ll endure three years of mockery as he attempts to run this city.”

  “He’s an effective manager. His business makes money.”

  “He’s hired friends who put up with his impediment as foremen, you know that as well as I do. The city council will not be so kind, especially since they are all Curtis Tate’s cronies to begin with.”

  Her husband sat back. “So what do you intend to do?”

  “Talk to him again, Sunday. It’s possible that Phoebe Moss is no more enthusiastic about the campaign than we are. Perhaps she can be drawn to our side to convince him to drop this foolish effort.”

  “My dear, I have to say I doubt that will happen.”

  “I don’t want Adam hurt any more than is necessary. I just want to protect him, and us.”

  Preston put his hand at her waist as they left the restaurant. “Whatever you think is best.” He opened the car door for her and kissed her cheek before she sat down. “I’m a lucky man to have you, and I’ll be behind you every step of the way.”

  Finally, Cynthia could relax. She touched his cheek with her fingertips. “Thank you, Preston. Now I know I can face what must be done.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  PHOEBE REFUSED TO ALLOW Adam to drive out to pick her up before the debate on Saturday night. “You need to be relaxed and ready,” she told him during lunch on Friday, “not rushing around at the last minute on the highway. You’ve got three other appearances scheduled that day.” She finished writing the last of the upcoming week’s campaign activities in her daybook and closed the cover.

  “Focus, DeVries.” Tommy had joined them at the diner. “You need to focus.”

  Adam looked from Phoebe to Tommy and back again, his brows lowered, his mouth set in a straight line. “Why wouldn’t I escort my fiancée to a c-campaign event? I thought this election was about honor and decent behavior.”

  “Phoebe can meet you ahead of time and y’all can arrive together,” Tommy said. “I’ll drive. It’ll look okay.”

  “Looks are n-not the issue, Crawford. That’s the whole damn point of the campaign.”

  She put her hand over his. “I’m a big girl. I can get into town on my own.”

  “I know you c-can take c-care of yourself. It’s a matter of respect.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled at him. “But I’ll meet you at your house at si
x and we’ll go from there. That way I get to see where you live, too.”

  His face relaxed into a grin. “Guess I’ll have to d-do some cleaning b-before tomorrow n-night.”

  Tommy snorted. “Don’t let him fool you. He’s the only guy on the planet who organizes his socks by color.”

  Abby arrived with drink refills. “I don’t know about you, Phoebe, but as far as I’m concerned a guy who organizes his socks sounds like the answer to every woman’s dream.”

  Nodding, Phoebe lifted her glass in a toast. “Amen to that.”

  ADAM LIVED IN A SMALL cluster of cedar-sided, contemporary town homes built on a heavily wooded lot near Phoebe’s office. Walking up to his door, she viewed the interesting angles and tall narrow windows with approval. The setting seemed to fit the man—unusual, complex, intriguing.

  He opened the door before she could knock. “You found me.” Taking her hand, he drew her inside. “And you look wonderful.”

  “I’m glad you approve.” She’d taken some extra time with her hair and was wearing a new dress in her favorite purple, so she welcomed the compliment. Just as she welcomed the smile in his eyes as he looked at her. “Your fiancée should do you justice.”

  “We’ve definitely got that covered.” He paused, and for a second she thought he might rekindle that kiss from her office on Tuesday. The kiss she’d been thinking about all week long.

  Then Tommy came through a doorway to the back of the house. “See? Mr. Neat. Makes the rest of us slobs look even worse.”

  Adam rolled his eyes. “Doesn’t take much effort.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Tommy settled into an armchair and took a sip of the drink he’d brought with him. “So now that Phoebe’s here, we can go over your opening statement again, get you warmed up. And we need to leave in—” he checked his watch “—about forty-five minutes.”

  “I want a tour, first.” Determined not to let Tommy control the situation, Phoebe stepped farther into the living room. “Adam, this really is great.”

  Late-afternoon light streamed through the long windows, glinting on the rich tones of cherry, walnut and mahogany furniture. The mission-style couch and chairs offered cushions for comfort, but most of their beauty lay in the exposed wood. Above the fieldstone fireplace, the stained mantel shelf held an arrangement of primitive wooden figures.

  Phoebe picked up a rearing horse. “Yours?” she asked as Adam came up behind her.

  “Some of my earlier attempts.”

  She examined each piece in turn. “Where did you learn to carve?”

  “We spent summers on my grandparents’ plantation, d-down in South C-Carolina. An old b-black man lived on the place, k-k-kind of a c-caretaker, I guess. Chet Harris. He taught me about wood, encouraged me to try my hand.”

  At the end of the shelf she found a dog, the most carefully detailed of all the animals, painted black with a gold muzzle and feet and rich brown eyes. “Someone you knew?”

  “We had a dog until I was eight. Pixie was her name.”

  “A sweet dog, I think.”

  “Yeah.” The tone of the one word warned her not to go any further. Not that she got the chance. As she put Pixie back in place, Tommy began firing questions on local issues at his candidate. The more Adam hesitated, the less patience the campaign manager showed.

  “Okay,” he said finally, striding quickly to the door as if he wanted to get away from the whole affair. “Let’s roll.”

  Adam stood for a long moment in the center of the room, and Phoebe wondered if he was tempted to call the campaign off, right then and there. She waited, speechless, afraid to move until he made up his mind.

  Finally, he drew a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. With a set line to his mouth, he grabbed his coat and tie and ushered Phoebe out the door. Left hand at her waist, clenching and unclenching his right hand, he guided her to Tommy’s silver car and the challenge of the night ahead.

  SAM AND HER PHOTOGRAPHER waited outside the door to the Highlander Hotel after the chamber of commerce debate. When Tommy Crawford’s Lexus pulled up to the curb, Sam nodded at Rory and stepped around to the driver’s window to tap on the glass. The dark tint kept her from seeing Tommy until the pane finally slid down.

  “If it isn’t the Brash Girl Reporter.” He didn’t smile at her.

  “Your candidate handled himself pretty well in there.”

  “What else did you expect? He’s a smart man and he knows what this town needs.”

  “He should make some friends with his answer to the mayor’s accusation that he’s only running out of sour grapes because he didn’t get that contract.” She glanced at her notes. “Quote—‘I would have liked the contract for my company. But I’m more concerned that my kids grow up in a town free of cronyism and good ol’ boy kickbacks.’ That’s strong language.”

  “Mr. DeVries means what he says and says what he means.”

  “He and his fiancée looked very much together. No problems there?”

  “Why should there be?”

  “Campaigns are tough on even the most solid relationships.”

  “Could that be because reporters like you examine them under the microscope, looking for the tiniest crack?”

  The truth stung, but she managed to stay in the fight. “Or because campaign managers like you try to create an image that’ll hide the truth about your candidate?”

  “You wouldn’t know the truth if it bit you on—” his eyes slid to her hips, then away “—the ankle.”

  “Go ahead, Mr. Crawford. Feast your eyes. That’s as close as you’ll get.” Shaking inside, hard enough that her teeth chattered, Sam turned and sashayed around the hood of the Lexus. Her skirt stretched to mid-calf, but she’d bought it because of the slit in the back—cut up to there—and the fact that it shaped her rear end like a second skin. Yeah, Tommy. Look all you want.

  Rory glanced at her as she joined him by the hotel door. “What’d he say? You seem a little shell-shocked.”

  “Crawford rubs me the wrong way, is all.” She blew out a deep breath. “Got a cigarette?”

  “I don’t smoke, Pettit. Neither do you.”

  “Oh, yeah. Suppose they’ll be out soon? How long can these people make chitchat, anyway?”

  Longer than she cared to think about, standing there on the side of the street with Tommy Crawford sitting in a car not ten feet away, with her permission to stare at her all he wanted. Sam couldn’t turn to face him, but she felt his eyes on her like hot fingertips stroking her spine. And, worse, the backs of her legs, from her ankles to the hem of her skirt and along that stupid slit…all the way up to there.

  Boy, did she need a shower. Ice cold, preferably.

  The big brass doors eventually creaked open and the crowd streamed through, Mayor Tate and his wife at the forefront, as befitted their status, Sam supposed. She pushed the obligatory “How do you think it went?” at him, got the standard confident smile and total BS in reply. L. T. LaRue walked at the mayor’s right shoulder, his smile not quite so confident. Kinda brittle, in fact.

  Sam could understand his anxiety. If the mayor lost the election, LaRue would lose access to the bureacracy that set aside zoning rules, modified inspection reports and deflected lawsuits over substandard building, not to mention the influence that gave bankers an excuse to risk money on his company long after a reasonable lender would have balked. Having dumped his debutante wife and made enemies among the real aristocrats of New Skye society, LaRue retained very few options. The mayor’s defeat might well mean the end of LaRue Construction. And Sam doubted anyone in town would step in to save it.

  As the crush thinned, Adam DeVries and Phoebe Moss stepped outside. Their entourage was smaller but impressive—Dixon Bell and his fiancée, Kate, plus Dixon’s grandmother, Daisy Crawford, a feisty old lady if ever there was one. Kate’s father, John Bowdrey, a respected attorney and city council member, walked out with Judge Taylor and the judge’s sister, LuAnn, who were about as formidable as the town got
. Charlie and Abby Brannon from the Carolina Diner followed alongside Rob Warren, who ran a locksmith business with his dad, the current president of the chamber of commerce. Not a shabby display of power. Not at all.

  But Adam’s family was conspicuous by its absence. Now that she thought about it, Sam realized she’d missed some faces in the crowd at Monday’s kickoff rally. Theresa DeVries had spoken on her brother’s behalf, and Sam herself had parried Dr. Tim’s verbal thrusts all afternoon. Adam’s parents had yet to put in an appearance.

  Antennae at full staff, she pushed her way to the edge of the sidewalk. “Mr. DeVries? Mr. DeVries?”

  He looked over as he opened the door of the Lexus for Phoebe. “What c-can I do for you?” His smile said he felt pretty good about the evening, maybe anticipated an easy question he could answer.

  “Your family isn’t here tonight?”

  The smile dimmed. “They aren’t members of the chamber.”

  “But they certainly could have attended the dinner and debate, to show their support for you.”

  His hand clenched the edge of the door. “I think my brother is on c-call at the hospital today. My s-sister has a big c-case to prepare for trial.”

  “And your parents? Surely Dr. and Mrs. DeVries would want to see their son shine.”

  Adam glanced into the car, where Phoebe Moss leaned forward anxiously. Then he looked back to Sam. “My p-parents don’t support my c-candidacy. I wouldn’t expect them to attend.” He bent his head and dropped down on the seat.

  Sam caught the door before he could close it. “Why don’t they support you, Mr. DeVries?”

  Tommy Crawford gunned the engine. The Lexus screeched away from the curb with the door still open. A block away, at the red light, DeVries slammed the panel shut.

  “He could’ve fallen out on that handsome face,” Rory commented. “Guess you hit a nerve.” The crowd of people around them had dispersed as if there was a disease in the air they might catch. Sam would have liked to question Adam’s friends about the situation.