The Reluctant Prophet

by Nancy Rue

  “Great piece about your homeless project. Don’t tell anybody in this building I said this, but it sounds better than anything the county has going.”

  “And it mentioned my arrest?”

  “In the most complimentary light.” Liz gave a bright laugh I also didn’t remember, since there hadn’t been much for her to laugh at back when. “It didn’t surprise me at all. I never told you this, but I always admired you for turning your back on what the Chamberlains stood for, including not marrying Troy.”

  I dug my fingernails into the chair arms.

  She continued to talk as she filled in blanks on a form. “This wasn’t mentioned in the article, of course, but I would be willing to bet that Chamberlain was behind the police breaking up your gathering. And you know yourself that Chamberlain means Troy Irwin.”

  Liz put the form aside and leaned toward me, eyes eager with the story. “For openers, I’ve heard he has these big plans for the West King Street neighborhood—four or five blocks in every direction. It just follows that the homeless people and drug dealers and prostitutes are in his way—so …”

  “So he’s trying to starve them out?”

  “Somebody told me he actually said at some meeting that if they aren’t fed here, they’ll go somewhere else. I do know he has city council people, county commissioners, everybody in his pocket. So far he hasn’t gotten his slimy tentacles into this office or I’d be tearing my hair out. It’s bad enough as it is.” She picked up the form again. “Your case is one of the easy ones, though. Now—I just need a little information and you can be on your way.”

  Yeah. On my way to Chamberlain Enterprises.

  It was an encounter I’d been actively avoiding for over twenty years. I would rather meet that hulk in a West King Street alley any day. Chief said I was going to have to eat some crow in this, but he didn’t say anything about swallowing the words, “I will never—ever—speak to you again as long as I live on this earth.”

  For Sacrament House, I was going to have to break out the spoon.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I was able to get an appointment with Troy Irwin on Tuesday, which was unexpected. From what little I hadn’t been able to avoid seeing of him, I knew Mr. Irwin, Chamberlain Enterprises CEO, was a very busy man.

  I’d seen his picture in the St. Augustine Record and even the Jacksonville paper dozens of times since he’d taken over the position once held by my father. It would sneak up on me when I was looking for a sale or at the comics—turning my stomach before I could rustle on to another page. Several times I’d seen him in parades, or at intersections with the top down on his BMW, or at the kinds of weddings I drove carriages for, funded by other corporate executives with princess daughters who didn’t feel married without white horses. It was hard not to know that he owned acre upon acre of real estate, held seats on prestigious boards, and had a voice in every issue that affected the monetary life of the community. Or that his marriage to Trophy Wife Number Two had died from neglect.

  Which was why when his secretary returned my call and said Mr. Irwin had made an opening for me the very next day, I was surprised. And then I was suspicious. I hadn’t told her the nature of my business with him, and she hadn’t asked. Why would he make time for me without even knowing what I wanted? Unless he somehow did know, which would be even creepier. If Frank Parker could have me watched, why couldn’t Troy?

  Okay—I was being paranoid, and I couldn’t let that keep me from enjoying the part of this I was actually looking forward to. If what Liz said was true, it was going to be fun to let loose on him the way I’d been itching to go off on somebody ever since the park. I even admitted I relished seeing just how low he’d sunk—just so I could congratulate myself on having made the right decision so long ago.

  Be that as it may, when I entered the First American Bank Building, I took the stairs, despite the lack of ventilation in the stairwell and the pinch of the closed-toe shoes I hadn’t worn in a decade. It probably took me only five minutes longer to climb the five stories than it would have to use the elevator, but I had to indulge the avoidant side of my personality before it disappeared completely. I’d been dodging Troy Irwin for twenty-two years, four months, and five days. It seemed fitting that I should get it down to minutes, now that I was finally going to look him the eye. I just hoped I wouldn’t spit when I did.

  But the stairs were a mistake. While the rest of the building had been remodeled twice since 1985, the stairwell was exactly the same as it had been the summer Troy and I were both made to work as interns for my father. I shuddered now when I reached the landing between floors three and four—the dark secret spot where we used to meet during our coffee breaks to make out. The smell of cleaning compound brought with it every kiss, every wandering hand, every thrill that now rose up as acid from my stomach. I tried not to look at that corner where I couldn’t get close enough to him, but my eyes went to it like I was passing a train wreck. Which was exactly what it had turned out to be.

  By the time I entered the fifth-floor executive suite, I had a blister forming on my left heel and I could feel the bun I’d coaxed my hair into rebelling its way out of the clips. If the secretary had actually looked at me, she’d probably have called 911.

  “I’ll let Mr. Irwin know you’re here,” she said, as if it were all one word. “Can I get you a beverage while you wait?”

  “I wasn’t planning to wait that long,” I said.

  She gave me a non sequitur smile and returned to her desk, leaving me with my heels sinking into the carpet like I was standing in mud. I started a dialogue with myself to keep my mood from going down with them.

  Of course being back here was physically affecting me. One of the worst scenes of my life was played out here.

  But that didn’t mean I hadn’t healed emotionally.

  Yeah. The fight I was ready for today had nothing to do with the one I walked away from back then.

  Uh-huh.

  And at least I had the advantage of knowing how a wealthy, unscrupulous, self-serving sleazeball of a businessman operated. Sickening as it was, I’d reviewed that most of the night. I still felt like I’d ingested poison.

  By the time Secretary said, “Mr. Irwin is ready for you,” I could say to myself in all honesty, “And I am so ready for him.” Face carefully modulated, just as I’d practiced, I followed her.

  Troy stood up the instant I crossed the threshold into his office. His chair rolled soundlessly out of his way as he stepped around a slick glass desk, hand outstretched. And trembling slightly.

  There was no way the sight of me unnerved him. He must be hung over. Trying to quit smoking. Or, most likely, attempting to make me believe this was freaking him out.

  I didn’t refuse his offer of a silent handshake. I’d already wrestled with that at about three a.m. and arrived at the conclusion that making a big thing out of not touching him would only make him think I still cared enough to hate him. Still, when the second hand closed over mine, its cool smoothness was reptilian.

  “Allison, I don’t even know what to say.”

  Well, now there was a first.

  “Please sit down.” He finally let go. “Were you offered coffee?”

  I looked at the woman still standing there invisibly waiting for orders. “I’m good,” I said.

  Then I took my time sitting down, finding a place to set my purse, deciding the best position for the arms that suddenly felt like they belonged on an ape. I didn’t know why I was so startled at the change in his appearance. The only time I’d been within ten feet of him was at Sylvia’s funeral, where I’d been flabbergasted that he had the nerve to show up to “pay his respects” when he’d never shown her any respect when she was alive—her or anybody else who mattered to me. I hadn’t noticed that the pale blue eyes that had always reminded me of sailboats and sunshine wer
e more reminiscent of yachts and paneled boardrooms. I couldn’t imagine him on a surfboard now, laughing at whitecaps and lifeguards and rules. The gray-tinged temples, the neatly creased Armani suit, the crisp dismissal without eye contact to his secretary told me that now, he was the rules.

  Hopefully those things were about to change. I found a place for my arms—folded tightly across my chest.

  Troy took a seat on the short couch opposite mine and leaned slightly forward, hands on his knees, grinning like an eager young boy. I might have been convinced if he’d actually looked like that as a kid. He had been sensually and confidently a man since he was five years old.

  “It’s good to see you,” he said. “I always hoped you’d show up here one day.”

  “You can skip the baloney slicing,” I said. “Let’s just get to why I’m here.”

  Troy sat back, still grinning. “I’m glad to see you haven’t changed, Ally.”

  He was indeed shameless.

  “I’m sure the shill you sent to the plaza Saturday has reported in by now,” I said. “How’s his lip, by the way?”

  Troy raised the eyebrows I’d once thought were handsome. Before they were man-scaped.

  “I’m thinking you’ve at least had lunch with the chief of police so he could fill you in on what went down when his henchmen came to break up our ‘illegal gathering.’” I narrowed my eyes. “I’m not the only one who hasn’t changed. That whole scene had your fingerprints all over it—although I have to admit I didn’t suspect you at the time. Maybe because I didn’t think even you would sink that low. But it made perfect sense once I put it beside Vivienne Harkness ‘visiting’ the house I rented.”

  Troy was staring. “I read about the plaza incident in the paper, but I had nothing to do with it.”

  “You can’t deny Vivienne Harkness works for you.”

  “She’s a colleague.” The tiny lines under his eyes deepened. “Ally—really—I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I was told—”

  “You got some bad information.”

  “I’d like to finish. I was told you’re trying to develop the West King Street neighborhood.”

  “That part is true.”

  He leaned in more, hands poised to shape an image for me, and I recognized the pose. It was more polished now, but it still said, “I’m going to sell you this idea until you think you came up with it yourself.” He obviously believed it would still work on me.

  “You know I love this city as much as you do. And I’m sure you have the same reaction I do every time you have to pass through that neighborhood. I admit it: I’ve got the doors locked and the windows up and my phone set to call 911.”

  Troy waited, forehead also poised, like I was supposed to wholeheartedly agree. Which I partially did, but I just motioned for him to go on.

  “All I want is for innocent people to be allowed to go anywhere in St. Augustine without fear.” He shrugged, barely moving the shoulder pads on the Armani. “What’s wrong with driving out the drugs and the prostitutes and the violent crime, and turning West King into a part of town where businesses can thrive and people can walk freely?”

  “Is that the way you worded it in your business plan?” I said. “Because I bet that looks really good on paper.”

  “Of course I have a plan. So do you, from what I read in the Record.” He was now just short of leaving the edge of the couch. “I hoped maybe you were coming in to ask for some financial backing for what you’re doing.”

  I could feel my well-modulated facial expression unmodulating. “Are you serious?”

  “Perfectly. But I’d want to take it one step further. I don’t see why you and I can’t work together to accomplish the same goal. You have the compassion. I have the wealth and the influence. When you think about that combination, what couldn’t we do?”

  “Do you really want me to answer that question?” I chopped a hand in the direction of his computer screen. “If you do, you’d better clear your calendar for the rest of the day.”

  “You’re still looking down on wealth, aren’t you, Ally?” His face softened. “I’m not your father, you know.”

  “We’re not going there.”

  “Fine. I’m just saying money isn’t all about greed and power. It can accomplish good things in the world—”

  “Like food and shelter for those people we were trying to feed in the park before you—”

  “Like the best private halfway house in the state for the women you have in that rental and private school for the boy. You let me buy out your lease on the house, and I’ll provide enough for them to get on their feet and become productive members of society. It’s a win-win.”

  I was too stunned to ask the obvious question—the one he answered before the chill got all the way through me.

  “I’ve always kept up with what’s going on in your life,” he said. “I’m always looking for some way to reconnect. Maybe this thing we both have a passion for—maybe this is it.”

  He stayed very still—except for the eyes. They searched my face, not pleading—Troy Irwin never begged—yet not assured that he was going to get the answer he wanted. That was what kept me from clawing him with a tirade: He wasn’t sure I’d say yes.

  I wasn’t sure I’d say no.

  Not with stable options in front of me for Desmond and the women. And not with the faintest whisper of something genuine in his eyes. The only thing missing was the Nudge, saying yeah or nay.

  “I want a week to think about it,” I said.

  “Fair enough.” And then all assurance faded and he looked at me almost shyly. “Will it take you that long to think about going to dinner with me? Maybe put the past behind us?”

  Reprobate. If he hadn’t played that card, I might have bought the whole thing.

  “Why now?” I said. “Because you want something from me?”

  He looked down at his hands. “I deserved that once. I don’t think I do now.”

  And then he waited, and so did I, until the space between us was clotted by our wills.

  “Give me a week,” I said. “For both.”

  As I left the building—using the elevator—I contemplated calling Hank and asking if we could meet at the Galleon even though it wasn’t Friday. I stopped short of dialing her number when I remembered that the last time we talked, she called me a prophet. What had she said, that I saw things exactly as they are now and knew what that was going to mean for the future? This situation was about as clear as Matanzas Bay.

  I was due at Sacrament House anyway, to take Geneveve to the dentist and Jasmine to Walmart to buy underwear because she was gaining enough weight to graduate from kids’ sizes. And I was sure Mercedes would have some kind of beef she’d want to chew on with me. Her meltdowns had been replaced by marathon discussions that never quite got to the finish line.

  I turned off the Harley’s engine in front of the house and listened to her rumble fade. It was all so normal. The women were having cavities filled and buying lingerie and venting to each other in the kitchen. Maybe they were closer to being turned loose than I thought. It was that part of Troy’s offer that made me say I’d think about the rest. What would it mean for them if I let go so they could have something better than what I had to offer?

  I leaned the bike on its stand and shook my hair out of my helmet. I had a week. As I was learning all too well, a lot could happen in a week.

  Going up the walkway, I saw that someone—probably Geneveve—had made a pine wreath and hung it on the door. The front window was festooned on the inside with red ribbon, framing the heads of the three women gathered in the living room.

  I stopped, foot on the bottom step, and looked again. Make that four heads.

  We’d never come to a complete conclusion about what to do if former associa
tes from the neighborhood showed up again begging at the back door—which was why I knocked now like I always did instead of bursting in demanding to know what in the world they were thinking.

  Jasmine came to the door, opened it without looking at me, and returned to the voices that stepped all over each other in the living room.

  Mercedes’s cigarette alto: “It ain’t no good out there—it ain’t gonna lead you nowhere—but don’t be thinkin’—”

  Geneveve’s sweet lilt: “We know you tired, girl—you done the right thing comin’ here—”

  Jasmine’s fragile half-whisper: “Miss Angel will take you in if—”

  “I just don’t want nobody crammin’ no God down my throat.”

  That growl didn’t belong to any of them. It came out of the mouth of a white woman who leaped from the couch like a feral cat when I walked in. Mercedes all but put her in a headlock and turned her to face me. The eyes that met mine were wild and unfocused. I’d now seen three other pairs of eyes like that, and the sight still unnerved me. Again, make that four. This was the same woman who had come here hungry once before, and I’d turned her away then. But there was something else familiar about her—

  “Miss Angel,” Geneveve said, “this is Sherry. She wants to come into Sacrament House.”

  I almost laughed out loud. The woman was struggling against Mercedes’s arms, and I was sure she would have bitten her if she’d had sufficient teeth.

  “We like our prospective residents to be a little more willing,” I said. “Let her go, Mercedes.”

  “She gon’ run if I do.”

  “Which means she doesn’t want to stay. And if she doesn’t want to stay—”

  “Then she ain’t ready to change,” Geneveve concluded.

  Mercedes let the woman loose. I could hear the whole room holding its breath as Sherry’s long, yellowed body made up its mind whether to bolt or fold.

  Geneveve took a step toward her but Sherry hiked up her shoulders, bare in a dirty green tube top, so Gen stopped, hands out. “We all been there. We all been so sure there ain’t no way out, we turned on everybody wanted to help us.”