One Good Turn

by Judith Arnold

  She had been savaged not just by her friend but by her own senseless yearning to believe the best of everyone.

  And in the process she had lost a large part of her soul.

  Chapter Eight

  * * *

  MIDNIGHT FOUND LUKE sitting motionless on the wooden steps leading down to the beach, his arms resting on his knees and his gaze absorbing the moonlit vista of sea and sand and dune grass. His trouser legs were rolled up to mid-calf and his bare feet were dusted with a pale film of sand. The wind tangled through his hair and a stubble of beard darkened his chin. He’d been on the beach steps for hours, waiting for the shore breezes to sweep the clutter from his brain, waiting for his emotions to sort themselves. Waiting for the universe to make sense.

  He heard footsteps behind him, alerting him to the fact that Taylor had gotten home from work. Taylor’s shoes resounded first on the wooden planks of the deck and then on the boardwalk connecting the deck to the stairs. Without turning to greet his friend, Luke slid to one side of the step he was sitting on, leaving room for Taylor to join him.

  Taylor accepted Luke’s unspoken invitation and lowered himself onto the step. He removed his loafers and socks, then yanked his tie free of its knot and unbuttoned his collar button. “Warm night, isn’t it,” he said.

  Luke nodded. His gaze remained on the beach, on the silver tufts of foam glistening along the edges of the waves, on the reflection of the full moon splintering across the surface of the water.

  “How are you?” Taylor asked. No need to loosen up with banter about the restaurant, no need to open the dialogue with a report on the customers or the latest gossip concerning the dessert chef’s infatuation with a busboy ten years her junior. Tonight there could be only one reason for Luke to sit in solitude on the steps at this unseemly hour, and Taylor knew what it was.

  “I’m all right,” said Luke.

  “You want to talk?”

  Luke tugged a long spike of grass until it tore free. “About what?” he asked, shooting Taylor a humorless grin.

  Taylor didn’t smile back. “I thought you might come over to the restaurant tonight. I was watching for you.”

  “Nah.” Luke twirled the reed between his fingers. “I needed some time to think.”

  Now it was Taylor’s turn to nod. He gave Luke a chance to elaborate, and when Luke remained silent he asked, “What’s she like?”

  “She’s okay,” Luke said. He heard her alluringly husky voice running through his head: There are scars, but I’m okay. “God,” he whispered, for not the first time since he’d walked her back to the Superior Court Building, since he’d shaken her hand and mumbled something about keeping in touch and then climbed into his Hyundai hatchback and driven away. His voice trembled slightly with rage. “God, Taylor—it was all—the whole thing was so damned senseless.”

  “Not to say I told you so,” Taylor muttered, “but you shouldn’t have gone chasing after her.”

  “Chasing after her wasn’t the senseless part,” Luke argued. “It was good to see her. She’s still smart and funny, and she’s still got the most beautiful hair—shorter than it used to be, but it’s still that same incredible color. And her voice, and her eyes...”

  “Oh, swell,” Taylor groaned. “Adolescent lust time.”

  “Forget about lust,” Luke retorted. “We were adults. We shook hands. It was all very civilized.”

  “How charming.”

  “I mean, it was nice. We were friendly.” Not passionate, though. Luke had absorbed everything about Jenny—the nuances, the inflections, the way she’d moved her head, the occasional, unexpected shimmer of tears in her eyes, the instant of indecision in her face before she’d taken his hand in welcome. Her pleasure at seeing him had seemed authentic, but he’d sensed a definite barrier—one of Jenny’s construction—standing between them.

  He was willing to respect that barrier. He wasn’t looking for a replay of that long-ago Washington summer. He’d sought Jenny out of curiosity, nothing more.

  “Did you talk about the good old days?” Taylor asked.

  “Yes.” Luke’s voice dropped to a whisper again. More than Jenny’s appearance, more than her choice of career, more even than the invisible wall that separated her from him, his mind lingered on what she’d told him about the good old days, which had been about as far from good as he could imagine. He had been sitting outside for most of the evening, thinking about the horror Jenny had endured and grieving for her, grieving for everything had been destroyed thanks to a single, irrational act of violence. Jenny had been strong enough to recover, and Luke—to his eternal amazement—had also been strong enough to survive the sorrow of losing Jenny.

  Oh, yes, they were both okay. They were both fine. No pity necessary for either of them.

  “So?” Taylor nudged him. “By my reckoning, she still owes me a weekend with a gorgeous Smithie. I assume she came up with some excuse for having gone AWOL that weekend.”

  “She did,” Luke snapped, effectively stifling Taylor’s flippant tone. “She was attacked, just days before we were supposed to visit.”

  “Attacked?”

  “Yes, attacked—as in crime. She was beaten up by some thug. Pretty badly injured, from what I gather.”

  “Jeez.”

  “And then she had a nervous breakdown.”

  Taylor cursed. Luke couldn’t blame him. He himself had been doing a lot of cursing since he’d said good-bye to Jenny eleven hours ago. “Bummer,” Taylor grunted. “Is she okay?”

  “Now? Yes. She says she is, anyway.” Luke thought for a minute. “I don’t know.”

  “What kind of attack?”

  “I really don’t know,” Luke admitted, turning his thoughts over and over in his head, examining them compulsively, searching for some new insight that would illuminate everything for him. “It was a classmate of hers, she said.”

  “A classmate? I thought Smith College was all-women.”

  “Women can be thugs, too,” Luke pointed out, although he’d also found it hard to believe that someone intelligent and hard-working enough to get into such a selective college could be pathologically violent. “I think men are allowed to take classes at Smith—guys from Amherst and Hampshire and UMass. Maybe it was a man. She didn’t say.”

  “Well—like, was she shot? Was she stabbed? Was she—”

  “I don’t know,” Luke groaned, unable to smother his frustration at how little he did know. “How could I ask her for specifics like that? If she’d wanted to go into the details she would have. For me to ask would have been...I don’t know, voyeuristic.”

  “She broke your heart. You have a right to ask.”

  “She didn’t mean to break my heart,” Luke reminded his friend, just as Jenny had reminded him. “She was a basket case at the time. As she put it, I wasn’t her top priority.”

  Taylor raked his hair back from his sun-burnished face. “Nervous breakdown, huh,” he murmured, his tone forgiving.

  “I can believe it,” Luke admitted. He couldn’t help but believe it, and it was the part of her story that caused him the greatest pain. “She was such an optimist, Taylor. You never got to meet her, but if you had you would know what I mean. She trusted everyone. She trusted panhandlers on the street. She trusted my father, for God’s sake. And then something like this happened to her... It must have destroyed her value system. It must have demolished her entire view of the world. I feel bad for her.”

  Taylor gave him a long, searching look. “Do you still love her?” he asked, not bothering to disguise his apprehension.

  “No,” Luke said decisively. “She’s changed. She isn’t the same person I fell in love with that summer.”

  “Then what? You’re angry? Bitter? What?”

  “Sad.” Speaking the word forced Luke to recognize its inherent truth. “I feel very sad, and sorry that it happened. Damn...” He sighed. “She says she’s okay, Taylor, but she’s not. I know it. There’s something different about her—and it
isn’t good.”

  “She’s been through hell. She’s had a breakdown. What do you expect?”

  “It’s not what I expect,” Luke maintained. “It’s what I want. I don’t have to be in love with her to worry about the change in her. I don’t have to love her to wish there was something I could do to help.”

  “What do you think she wants?”

  “From me? Probably to be left alone,” Luke muttered, then discarded that obvious answer. “No. If she’d wanted me to leave her alone she would have said so. One thing that hasn’t changed about her: she isn’t coy. She looks you in the eye and tells you what she’s thinking.” He engaged in a quick mental review of the time he’d spent with Jenny that day and couldn’t come up with a single word or gesture of hers implying that she resented him for tracking her down. “I’m not going to leave her alone,” he resolved.

  “Great. Maybe I should call her up and warn her.”

  Luke ignored the sardonic undertone in Taylor’s words. He felt determined, heartened, infused with hope. “Jenny saved my life, you know,” he remarked, as much to himself as to Taylor. “I was a mess when she met me. I was floundering. I didn’t know which way I was going, and she swooped down on me and took me in hand and showed me the way. She saved my life. The least I can do is save hers.”

  “Really, Luke—don’t you think you ought to let well enough alone? The lady fell apart, and somehow she pulled herself back together. Maybe you should leave it be. She’s functioning, right? She’s brainy, she’s attractive, and she’s got a high-profile job as an assistant D.A. Maybe the most you can do is congratulate her on her spectacular recovery and kiss her good-bye.”

  “That’s just it, though,” Luke argued. “I don’t think she’s recovered. On the surface, maybe, but deep down...” He couldn’t expect Taylor to understand, but he tried to explain anyway. “I knew her before,” he said. “I knew what she was. Something is missing inside her, Taylor, something isn’t quite right. If only I could make it better, whatever it is...”

  “And then what?”

  “And then,” Luke insisted, “I would kiss her good-bye. I’m not looking to relive my past. God knows my present is a hell of a lot better than my past ever was. If I were interested in a romance it wouldn’t be with Jenny. I just want to help her out.”

  Taylor eyed him skeptically. “So help me, if she does another number on you—”

  Luke shook his head. “She can’t. I’m a lot stronger now than I was seven years ago.”

  Taylor stared at him a moment longer and his doubt melted. “That you are. I just hope you’re strong enough to realize that sometimes some people don’t want to be saved.” He stood, gathered up his shoes and socks, and scaled the steps to the boardwalk. “Do me a favor and don’t try to save her life at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon. My broker has a property to show me over in West Yarmouth—fully operational. The owner wants to retire and he wants to sell the place as a working establishment. You might want to come along.”

  “Three o’clock. Sure.” Rising from the step, Luke dusted the sand from his slacks and followed Taylor into the house. He would be able to sleep now. He was imbued with a sense of purpose and commitment. Whatever had left him so unsettled about Jenny, he was going to fix it. He was going to slay her demons, just as she’d once slain his. He was going to heal her.

  It had nothing to do with love, he assured himself as he secured the deck door behind him. It had nothing to do with the fact that, despite the anguish she’d been through, despite the scars she claimed to have, Jenny was still the most exciting, spirited, enchanting woman he’d ever known. It had nothing to do with his failure, in seven years, to forge a relationship with another woman comparable to what he’d had with her.

  She wasn’t the Jenny Perrin he had loved. Her hair was short and her naivete was gone. It wasn’t love.

  It was only fairness, he swore to himself. It was only doing for her what she’d done for him, one good turn deserving another. It was only a matter of compassion—something Luke had had too little of until Jenny had entered his life and unlocked his heart.

  * * *

  BY THE TIME Luke arrived at the courtroom the following morning, the remainder of the jury had already been impaneled. He slipped inconspicuously into a vacant seat at the rear of the courtroom and peered through the thicket of heads in front of him, searching for Jenny. She must have been sitting, because he couldn’t see her.

  The judge signaled the defense attorney, a debonair middle-aged man in an expensive-looking gray suit. He stood, nodded deferentially to the judge, and then stepped around the defense table to address the jurors. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the first thing I always like to remind a jury in a criminal trial is the law of the land, and the law states that a person is innocent unless the prosecutor can prove his guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. What that means is that if there is any doubt in your minds as to whether Matthew Sullivan is guilty of the charge of rape which has been brought against him, you must find him not guilty.

  “However, there won’t be a shred of doubt in your mind. By the end of this trial, you will be positive that my client is innocent.”

  He went on in a smooth, urbane tone, reminding the jury that Matthew Sullivan could be their brother, their nephew, their cousin or their son. The attorney talked about the way young ladies didn’t always know what they wanted, and the way they sent out mixed signals. He talked about how Trisha Vincent and Matthew Sullivan had dated each other, and how Trisha’s love for Matthew had apparently led her to go further sexually than she might have intended, but that didn’t mean Matthew had raped her. The attorney talked about college life, and about how long Trisha and Matthew had known each other, and about how heartbroken his client was at having his former girlfriend bring such a charge against him.

  “This trial is not about a crime. It is about a confused young girl and a decent, law-abiding young man. I know that once you’ve heard all the testimony, you will recognize that what we have here is a lover’s spat blown way out of proportion.”

  The lawyer returned to his table and sat. Luke again craned his neck, and this time he was rewarded by the sight of Jenny rising from her chair and stepping forward. At first he could see her only from the back—her proud posture, her neatly arranged hair, her stylish belted blazer over a conservatively cut skirt. “Your honor,” she said in a crisp, assured voice as she acknowledged the judge. Then, turning to the jury, “Ladies and gentlemen, this trial is not about a lover’s spat. It’s about a single word. That word is no.

  “The facts in this case are uncontested. Testimony will bear out that Trisha Vincent and Matthew Sullivan were classmates at Tufts University and that they dated. It will bear out that on the night of October 14th Ms. Vincent and Mr. Sullivan went to a movie and then returned to Mr. Sullivan’s dormitory room. It will bear out that Mr. Sullivan tried to seduce Ms. Vincent, and that she said no.

  “The law states that if a man forces a woman to engage in a sexual act against her will, he is committing the crime of rape. Trisha Vincent clearly expressed her will. She said no. What Matthew Sullivan did was rape her.”

  Then Jenny returned to the prosecution table and sat down.

  Luke let out a slow breath. He had been expecting a longer opening argument from Jenny—an eloquent recitation on a par with the defense attorney’s. That she was so brief and direct took him by surprise, the way one might be stunned by a quick slap when one was expecting a verbal dressing down. Her ploy was startling—and incredibly effective.

  Damn. She was good at this.

  He wondered why he should be surprised. Perhaps it was because he hadn’t totally relinquished his memory of the gentle, kindhearted woman he used to know. To be a successful litigator required an edge, a certain ruthlessness that Jenny hadn’t displayed before.

  Maybe it wasn’t ruthlessness. Maybe it was the same passion for justice she’d exhibited when he’d known her seven years ago. Maybe she was just as com
mitted to helping others today as she’d been then, except that instead of helping street bums she was now helping crime victims. Maybe she was the same old Jenny, after all.

  No. The woman Luke had known in Washington could brighten the universe with her smile. This new woman couldn’t even brighten her own eyes with a smile. During lunch the previous day, he’d noticed the enigmatic shadows darkening her pretty hazel eyes even when she’d been laughing. She was still dedicated and principled and brimming with empathy—but she seemed leery, self-protective, distrustful.

  And anyway, he assured himself, if she were the same person he’d known in Washington he might wind up falling in love with her again. He had no intention of doing that. Too much time had passed, too much scar tissue had formed. He wasn’t interested in getting romantically involved with her.

  He steered his attention back to the proceedings at the front of the court room. The first prosecution witness, the physician at the school clinic who had examined Trisha Vincent after the alleged rape, was being sworn in.

  Luke watched intently. Jenny’s examination of the witness was straightforward and concise. No histrionics, no subterfuge, no playing to the balcony. Once again he reassessed her, weighing her past and present. She’d always been refreshingly direct back then, he recalled. She’d never resorted to game-playing. If she had wanted to know something she had asked. Her approach to people had been neither demanding nor cajoling but so frank and forthright a person couldn’t help but answer honestly.

  That much hadn’t changed, at least. She was still frank, still forthright.

  Luke’s attention flagged slightly when the defense attorney began his cross-examination. The man was obviously a seasoned professional, but his technique didn’t strike Luke as particularly gutsy or dynamic. He often glanced at the jury in a collaborative way, as if to imply, “You don’t believe this, do you?” as he picked through the doctor’s testimony, hunting for exploitable chinks and flaws. In his effort to woo the jury, Sullivan’s attorney exuded intelligence and molasses-sweet charm.