An Accidental Woman

by Barbara Delinsky

  He could continue his freelancing from here, could work out of Poppy’s house or rent space at the Lake News office. He didn’t lack intellectual stimulation here. People like Cassie, John and Lily, Charlie and Annette—they were as sophisticated as people anywhere. And Poppy? She was everything he’d always wanted.

  He didn’t want to think that her love was contingent on the outcome of Heather’s case, but he was a realist. Things . . . lingered. Bad stuff eroded good stuff. If Heather’s case went on and on, and if it ended in a less than satisfactory way, Poppy might always remember that he had been the one responsible.

  It was rather like her accident. Shift a few inches to the right or the left, and things might never be the same.

  * * *

  Thursday morning, the lights went back on. By midday, the phones were also back. Their return provided Poppy a distraction, what with peoplecalling all afternoon to check in. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen them. Charlie’s was packed each time she stopped by, and if people weren’t at Charlie’s, they were chatting at the post office or outside the Town Hall. When storms hit and life slowed, people were left with the basics—oil lamps, woodstoves, and each other.After four days without, phones were more a novelty than anything else.

  Except, of course, for long-distance calls. And the one she wanted didn’t come.

  * * *

  Cassie kept an eye on the clock. She had given the attorney general of California forty-eight hours. As that time approached without a call, she felt a sinking in her stomach. Yes, she had Plan B. But she’d been hoping she wouldn’t have to resort to that. She had wanted Heather’s situation handled quickly and quietly. No one here wanted the publicity. But publicity was preferable to losing Heather.So she gathered her notes and began thinking along that line, all the more so when Griffin and John arrived. Then the phone rang.

  “I’m making progress,” the attorney general said, “but I need more time.”

  Cassie was wary. She didn’t trust that the DiCenzas were not playing a game. “You need more time,” she repeated for the benefit of Griffin and John. “What does ‘making progress’ mean?”

  She heard a sigh. “It means that I’ve met resistance and need more time.”

  “The DiCenzas don’t want to agree to the deal?”

  “They’re having trouble with the idea that the woman who ran down their son will walk away free.”

  Breezily, Cassie said, “Okay, then. If they don’t want to deal, we’ll go to the press. Do they understand what we have to say?”

  “I’m trying to make them understand it,” the attorney general said. He sounded frustrated enough so that Cassie believed him.

  “How much more time did you have in mind?” she asked.

  “Another forty-eight hours.”

  “If that was their suggestion,” Cassie remarked, “I’d say what they’re doing is trying to push this off so that nothing will hit the papers over the weekend, when more people are at home and reading all the fine print. I’m sorry. I can’t do forty-eight hours. I can do twenty-four. I’ll give you until Friday at five, your time. If they haven’t agreed by then, I’ll have to hold a news conference. There will be plenty of time for complete coverage in Sunday’s paper.”

  “You’re tough.”

  “With due respect, sir, I’m only doing what you would do if you were representing a client who has already been punished ten times over for what was truly a tragic accident.”

  * * *

  Griffin had barely set off from Cassie’s office in the truck when his cell phone rang. Thinking it would be Poppy, he said a discouraged, “Hey.”“What’s going on there?” Prentiss Hayden asked. “I’m hearing a buzz down here, and it’s ugly.”

  Griffin passed the general store as Charlie put the last of several bags into Alice Bayburr’s car. When he lifted a hand, Griffin waved back. “A buzz?”

  “Phone calls from mutual DiCenza friends. What’s brewing?”

  Griffin was disgusted enough with the whole situation to say, “Nothing that most normal people would be surprised at. You people in power just think you’re immune.”

  Impatiently, Prentiss asked, “What’s happening with the DiCenzas?”

  He glanced in his rearview mirror and saw John turn off the main road, heading toward the Lake News office. “Their past is coming back to haunt them.”

  “Rob was a good boy, and he’s dead. Why go after a dead boy?”

  “I won’t comment on that,” Griffin said as he passed the town beach. “It’s not my place. But it’s what I’ve been telling you for weeks now. If you draw attention to yourself by writing a bio, and then you choose to hide things, those things will come out. Sooner or later, they will. You won’t know when, you won’t know where, you won’t know how.” He left the center of town behind and, shifting gears, set off on the lake road. “Onthe other hand, if you come clean in your bio, no one has anything on you. You’ve picked the time, the place, and the method. You’ve taken control, rather than letting someone else do it.”

  “I don’t want headlines. Not on this. The existence of my son is between him and me.”

  “Normally, that’d be true. But you’re a public figure. There are perks that go with that, and there are liabilities. This is one of the liabilities. If you don’t mention your son in this book, even in passing, someone else will.”

  “You?” the senator asked. “Is that what this has been about—your giving me ample warning so that when you follow this book up with a tell-all of your own, I can’t say you didn’t warn me?”

  Griffin bristled. “I signed a contract guaranteeing confidentiality. If you think I’d break that, then we have a problem with trust, and if we have a problem with trust, there’s no way you’re going to be happy with this book. Maybe you need another ghostwriter.”

  “Wait. Wait. Griffin, I did not say that I didn’t trust you. It was a hypothetical remark.”

  “It was an offensive remark.”

  “Yes. Well, I’m sorry. I’ve spent a lifetime being offensive. But I like what you’ve done so far. I do not want another ghostwriter. It’s just that I . . . well, how would you feel if you’d led a successful and productive life and then someone wants to focus on a foolish little thing you did in your youth?”

  “I don’t think your son is foolish. He’s a husband and a father. He’s a pediatrician. And you helped him get there. I’d think you would be proud of that.”

  “I am. But it’s such an intimate thing.”

  Griffin sighed. “Let’s be honest here. Most people know he exists. All you’d be doing is acknowledging a fine man. His mother’s dead, so she wouldn’t be hurt, and your wife knows about him. She has no problem discussing him. She’s perfectly confident with the four children you had with her. He wouldn’t be the focus of the book. We might be talking about one chapter out of twenty—just one chapter, but it would send a message that this is an honest book. They aren’t all, you know.”

  There was a grumbled, “Yes, I know.”

  “He wasn’t planned, but you handled it well. You made the most of it. That would be inspiring for people.”

  “Do you think?”

  “Definitely. People look up to you. This will only add to that.”

  There was a silence on the other end, then a sigh. “Your daddy was a powerful player in the courtroom. You inherited his silver tongue.”

  Griffin waited.

  After what seemed an eternity, Prentiss Hayden muttered a begrudging, “Oh, do it,” and hung up the phone.

  * * *

  Griffin decided to try out that silver tongue on Poppy, but he wasn’t relying on words alone, and he wasn’t rushing things. He cooked dinner for her, then took her to Charlie’s Back Room, where the entertainment was homegrown in the form of a local barbershop quartet. When they got home, he rebuilt the fire, settled her on the sofa in his arms. He told her about Prentiss, and talked about Cindy. Then he said, “You’re one of the lucky ones. The past is out there o
n the table now. The people who would judge you know the truth, and they still love you, so what do you say? Marry me, Poppy?”Poppy put her fingers over his mouth. “Don’t ask that. Not yet.”

  “I love you.”

  “Shhhhh.”

  “I do.”

  “Now. But what about next week? Or next month?”

  “What about next year? Or five years from now? Or ten years from now? Will I still love you then? Will you still love me then? Come on, Poppy. That’s not the way it works. If people put their lives on hold while they waited to see if love lasted, they’d miss out on it completely. I want to marry you. I want to have kids with you. Two’s fine. I can live with two.”

  “I don’t know if I can get pregnant.”

  “No woman does. No couple does.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t,” he said gently. “You’ve done things in the last few weeks that you didn’t think you’d ever do. What’s to stop you from doing this?”

  “I can’t leave Lake Henry.”

  “You can. But you don’t want to, and neither do I. I’m very happy living here. I love the town, and I love your house.”

  “It’s too small.”

  “I have money. We’ll build on. There’s plenty of land here. We could build to the right, the left, or the back. It’s called an addition.”

  “I know. I know. This has just happened so fast.”

  “Good things do. Do you love me, Poppy?”

  She nodded.

  “Then why wait?”

  “I don’t know. There’s still something . . .”

  “Heather. But we’ll know about that soon.”

  “There’s still something . . .”

  “Forgiving yourself? I meant what I said about that, Poppy. You need to do it, but why can’t we be married while you work on it? What better person to help than your husband?”

  “My husband? That is just such a dream.”

  “Make it come true.” He couldn’t say the words, couldn’t ask her again.

  She laced her fingers through his, studied all ten for a minute, then looked up. “Give me a little more time? Just a little more? There’s still something . . . I need to do.”

  * * *

  There were several somethings Poppy needed to do. She spent Friday morning thinking about those things, because the pace of Lake Henry had slowed to a crawl in ways that it hadn’t even during the ice storm. It was an emotional thing—waiting and wondering—and it was reflected in an unusual quiet at Charlie’s, at the post office, at Poppy’s phone bank.People weren’t in the mood to talk.

  Neither was she. She sat alternately at the console staring at the buttons and in the exercise room staring at the equipment. She did her upper-body workout, sat there a while, then returned to the phones. Anhour later, she went back into the exercise room and used the recumbent bike. When she was done, she moved to the parallel bars. Victoria sat in her lap when it was free and, when it wasn’t, went into the other room. She didn’t go near her usual spot under the parallel bars. Poppy wondered if that was a sign.

  * * *

  Griffin spent the morning at Charlie’s Café. He figured that Poppy needed time and space, and he had to work. So he staked out a table with a forest view, plugged in his computer, spread out his notes, and nodded yes each time Annette came by with the coffee carafe. Other people came by, but their greetings were short. He didn’t take it personally. Shortness was the prevalent mood. Lake Henry was in waiting mode.He certainly was. He was waiting for news about Heather, hoping that positive word would shorten his wait for Poppy.

  * * *

  Cassie wasn’t a pacer, but that was what she was up to by the time Friday afternoon arrived. She had other cases that needed attention, but she couldn’t concentrate on those. She had Committee business that needed attention, but she couldn’t concentrate on that, either. She kept thinking about Heather and the number of lives that would be affected if the DiCenzas decided to dig in their heels.Since her office was too small, she paced up and down the hallway, turning first at the window overlooking the street then at the one overlooking the woods. When the hallway closed in, she took both her cell phone and the cordless extension of her office line and paced outside. When she got chilled, she came back inside, where she sat until the need to pace returned.

  * * *

  Micah made sugar. He boiled, he skimmed foam, he scooped syrup. He monitored levels, bubbles, and sugar content. He put new syrup through the filter press, which was running on electricity again, and as afternoon waned and evening began, he packed his containers. The collection wasimpressive, shelves filled with growing layers of gallon, quart, and pint tins, all with the newly upgraded Smithson Sugarhouse label on the front.He had Billy and Amos working, and Griffin was there for a time. The girls camped out after dinner in their corner. It was all very comfortable and cozy.

  He told himself that he could do this forever. He could make syrup. He could do what had to be done. He could survive, whether Heather returned or not.

  But he wanted her back, wanted her to see those neat labels on the neat rows of tins. Cassie hadn’t called, which meant that California hadn’t called, and the deadline approached.

  * * *

  Cassie’s phone rang at eight on the nose. It was her office line, which Poppy had rerouted to the house. Jamie was already asleep; Mark had Ethan and Brad in the bath. She had been cleaning up the mess in the kitchen from the snickerdoodles she had baked up for a bedtime snack. She wanted to think she had done it solely for the kids, but baking was a way to pass the time.Heart racing, she picked up the phone. “Yes?” she asked guardedly.

  “They’ve agreed,” said the attorney general, sounding tired.

  Cassie closed her eyes and let out a breath. Smiling, she put a hand on her chest to calm her heart.

  “They’ve agreed to dropping the charges,” the attorney general went on, “but they want a nondisclosure agreement, and they want her back here to face the judge for the dismissal.”

  “Why back there?” Cassie asked, still smiling. She knew what they planned. Of course she did, but she was holding the cards.

  “They need closure,” he said in the same tired voice. “They feel that if the case disappears from the radar screen without any public explanation, it will raise questions. If there’s a public hearing at which Mr. Grinelle explains that we do not have the evidence to convict, the family can follow it up with a press conference honoring the memory of their son, taking the high road, explaining that vengeance won’t bring himback and that it’s time to put the case to rest. It’s a face-saving thing, Ms. Byrnes. Give them this.”

  Between “evidence to convict” and “press conference,” Mark had appeared at the door holding two dripping children in a single large towel. Grinning, Cassie danced to the door and gave the three of them a hug. She backed off only enough to play the tough lawyer again.

  “The problem I have,” she said into the phone, holding Mark’s gaze, finding as much pleasure in his excitement as in the news itself, “is that if there’s a press conference, someone will inevitably ask about your not having the evidence to convict. The implication will be that my client is guilty, but that since you can’t make a case, she’ll go free. You’re asking us to sign a nondisclosure agreement. I’m afraid, we’ll need the same. I won’t have my client returning to a hostile place where she’ll be talked about as a killer who beat the system. I’d rather go to trial and have the whole story come out.”

  Mark stuck a so- there fist in the air, then wrapped his arm around her neck and pulled her close again. He was wonderful, she realized. She was a workaholic who too often neglected her man, and he loved her anyway.

  From the other end of the line came an exasperated, “I can’t control what the press does. Talk shows love this kind of thing. I may be able to keep the DiCenzas from saying anything derogatory, but I can’t do anything about public opinion.”

  “Yes, you can. You can s
ettle this quietly. Heather can appear before a magistrate here in New Hampshire. The charges can be dropped, and that’s that. She’ll sign away the right to talk about Rob, in exchange for the DiCenzas signing away the right to talk about her. That’s a fair deal.”

  “The boy’s dead.”

  “He was a man,” she corrected, “and he abused a woman to the extent that she gave up a name, a history, and a child she wanted. But I’ll tell you what. I’ll be the good guy here. If the DiCenzas insist, she’ll return to California. She’ll even sign a nondisclosure agreement. I won’t, though. If pot shots are taken at Heather by anyone, I’ll answer them in kind.”

  There was a short pause, then an almost admiring, “You are tough.”

  “Yup,” Cassie said with a grin and slipped an arm around her husband’s waist.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, she got the call she wanted. She promptly called Micah, then Poppy and Griffin, then Marianne, Sigrid, Charlie and Annette. And Camille. She called Camille, because she knew that something was special there. She didn’t know what it was—didn’t want to know. It was enough that this was one more person who cared about Heather.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Saturday dawned glorious, though Poppy would have thought it even if the sky had been gray. As it happened, the sun rose a pale yellow and grew bolder as it climbed. She watched it with Griffin first from bed, then from the kitchen. He made omelets this time, quite creatively, and she was game. She didn’t mind having raisins in an omelet, particularly when he drizzled maple syrup on the top. Drizzled. He was emphatic about that. This was early-season syrup, he stressed. Its delicate flavor was not to be overdone.Poppy prided herself in being self-sufficient, but she had to admit that having a man dote on her was nice.