One Good Turn

by Judith Arnold

  Admit it, he ordered himself as he absorbed her graceful posture, her poise, the precision of her speech in that seductive voice of hers. Admit it—you’re falling for her.

  The possibility should have troubled him. He should have been disturbed by the fact that, after a monogamous two-year involvement with another woman which had ended only a few months ago, he could scarcely recall the color of Linda’s eyes or the quality of her voice, yet now, less than a week after he’d stumbled onto Jenny, every single detail of her seemed permanently emblazoned on his soul. He observed the way she cupped her left hand and tapped her right index finger on her palm; the way the overhead lights captured the fiery highlights of her hair; the way she lifted her chin whenever she spoke, as if she thought this would make her look bigger or more imposing. The way her straight skirt hinted at the feminine outlines of her hips and thighs, and the two-inch heels of her shoes emphasized the surprisingly athletic contours of her calves. The way a tiny dimple punctuated the left corner of her mouth.

  If he was falling for her, though, he was doing so in a manner vastly different from the way he’d fallen for her seven years ago. Then he’d been a drowning man, and she had been a lifeboat and a compass. If she hadn’t exactly rescued him, she’d given him what he’d needed to rescue himself.

  Much as he wanted to reciprocate now, she didn’t appear to be drowning. Far from it, she seemed safe. Too safe, maybe. She had washed up on a deserted island and constructed herself a shelter, cultivated a garden and woven clothes out of tree leaves and grass. She had everything she needed to survive.

  But she seemed so lonely.

  It had nothing to do with lust; Taylor had missed the target with that guess. What Luke felt for Jenny transcended physical desire—which wasn’t to say he would object to having sex with her. Leaning toward the aisle, he glimpsed her legs again, the delicate arch of her insteps and her slender ankles. Angling his head, he took note of the fluid line of her throat, accented by her simple, effective gold earrings. The suit she had on downplayed her curves, but that didn’t stop Luke from imagining them, imagining her in his bed, seven years more experienced.

  Oh, yeah, he was falling, all right. Lust and all.

  Court adjourned at one o’clock, and Luke waited patiently as the spectators around him exited the room. Jenny acknowledged him with a quick smile, then conferred quietly with the defense attorney for a minute. Snapping shut her briefcase, she strode up the aisle to Luke. Her smile widened, creating a matching dimple at the right corner of her mouth. “You’re turning into a courtroom junkie,” she warned.

  “Just this courtroom,” he said. “Just this trial.”

  He discreetly took her elbow as they left the room. For some reason, he prepared himself for the likelihood that she would pull away. When she didn’t, he relaxed and molded his hand gently around the bend of her arm.

  “It’s really an interesting case,” he remarked, having no difficulty discussing something intellectual and legalistic while his fingers were sending signals through his body about the dainty dimensions of her arm bone and the unexpectedly firm muscle surrounding it. “I mean, the Vincent girl’s best friend took the stand and testified that Vincent and Sullivan had been dating for six weeks.”

  “So?”

  “So, six weeks is a long time. These kids are past puberty. Things happen.”

  He detected a stiffening in Jenny as she halted at the elevator door and pressed the button. “It doesn’t matter how long they knew each other—he raped her. Most rape victims are attacked by someone they know.”

  She was tense, bristling. “I’m not criticizing the prosecution, Jenny,” he assured her. “I think you’re doing a great job. All I’m saying is, it’s going to be tough trying to persuade the jury that after six weeks of dating her exclusively, Sullivan couldn’t be expected to make certain assumptions. I’m not saying he’s right,” Luke hastily added when Jenny gave him a lethal stare. “I’m just saying he made a fairly typical assumption.”

  “Of course,” she snapped, pounding impatiently on the summoning button when the elevator didn’t arrive at once. “He made an assumption that if she didn’t go to bed with him willingly he was free to force her, under threat of bodily harm.” The elevator door slid open at last, and she slid her arm from Luke’s hand and stormed into the vacant car.

  He followed her in and the door whisked shut. “I’m not trying to excuse what he did,” he persevered. She seemed unjustifiably touchy about what he considered a calm, philosophical debate. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt compelled to resolve the issue before the elevator door slid open again. “All I’m saying is, it’s a hard thing to prove.”

  “Yes,” she muttered, glowering at the panel of buttons on the wall adjacent to the door. “Men always assume that if they know a woman for a while and treat her nicely, they’re entitled to do whatever they want to her. It’s in their nature. Spend enough time with a woman, and you’ve earned the right to jump her bones.”

  “You know that’s not what I think.”

  “If you didn’t think it you wouldn’t say it.”

  “I didn’t say it.”

  “You said that’s what Sullivan thought and that’s what the jury thinks. God only knows, maybe the only reason you kept asking me out that summer was that you figured it was only a matter of time before you’d earn the right—”

  The door began to open at the second floor, and he slammed his fist against the Door-Close button to stop it. Then he turned to her. He was shocked not only by what she’d said but by the fact that she’d referred so bluntly to their love affair.

  Bluntly and falsely. If she didn’t know why he had kept asking her out that summer—if she didn’t know how deeply he had cared for her—then she was crazy.

  Abruptly chastened, he let his rage at her fraudulent charge slip away. She had been crazy, for a while. The horror she’d been through had affected her mind. He shouldn’t be startled if her memory of their relationship had been warped along the way.

  “Jenny,” he said softly. “You know that’s not the way it was.”

  She, too, seemed chastened. She lowered her gaze to her hands, convulsively gripping the handle of her briefcase, and let out a shaky breath. “I’m sorry,” she managed. “I shouldn’t have said that. I guess—it’s just...this case...”

  “Okay.” He pressed the ground-floor button, and the elevator began to move again.

  Jenny’s head jerked up. “Where are we going?” she asked, her eyes wide with something akin to panic.

  “Out.”

  “I can’t go out. I’ve got too much work to do.”

  “You’ve got to eat lunch.”

  “I was planning to have something at my desk. Luke, I can’t go—” The elevator door opened and, once again taking her elbow, he propelled her through the throngs of people to the nearest exit. She didn’t openly resist him, but the look she gave him was scathing. “Luke, I have a lot of work to do this afternoon.”

  “And you’ll get it done,” he assured her. “Fifteen minutes isn’t going to make a difference.”

  “Fifteen minutes?”

  They stepped outside into the hot afternoon sunlight. “Just a walk around the block,” he suggested.

  She opened her mouth to object, then shut it. Pressing her lips together in a grim line, she hoisted her briefcase higher and started toward the corner at a brisk, business-like pace.

  He should have let her drop off her briefcase at her office. Chivalrously, he lifted the heavy leather bag from her hand and carried it for her.

  The street was alive with midday traffic—congested sidewalks and the drone of automobiles cruising by. He didn’t mind. He had to get her alone for a few minutes, to find out what the hell was going on in her head. Forget about reviving their affair—their friendship was at stake. Their history. Not only her memories but his.

  “Does every trial get under your skin like this?” he asked in what he hoped was an unthreatening way.
>
  Her eyes resolutely forward and her hands shoved into the pockets of her blazer, she held her silence for a minute. Then, “No. This is a special one.”

  “Why?”

  “Because...” She took a long, calming breath and let it out slowly. They turned the corner and she slowed her pace enough to imply she was beginning to unwind. “Because men treat women badly in this society,” she explained dispassionately. “I’m not talking about you in particular, Luke. But as a rule...men treat women badly.”

  That was it, then. Some man had broken her heart. The detachment, the withdrawal, the subtle defensiveness that had become a part of Jenny’s personality were a result not of the violence she’d suffered at college but of something that had happened since then. A man had treated her badly. She’d been in love with someone else and he’d hurt her, and she’d developed a hard, protective shell.

  He endured a strange mixture of emotions: jealousy, indignation, a hunger for revenge against the asshole who’d won her heart when it should have belonged to Luke—the asshole who’d won her heart and damaged it so severely that Luke might never possess it.

  Sorrow for Jenny’s pain, and for his own.

  “Who was he?” he asked, steeling himself for a conversation he knew was necessary, even though he would rather avoid it.

  Jenny flinched. “Who was who?” she asked, so quietly he could scarcely hear her above the din of street noise.

  “The guy who broke your heart.”

  She didn’t answer right away. She continued walking, her face pale in the glaring sunlight, her eyes squinting slightly and her lips once again taut. “What makes you think someone broke my heart?”

  “Because it seems to be broken,” he replied, aware that that wasn’t an especially illuminating answer but unable to come up with anything better.

  Again she lapsed into silence for a while. “I’m not enjoying this,” she finally said.

  “Neither am I, but I’ll be damned if we don’t talk about it.”

  She stared across the street. She stared at the edifices of the buildings lining the sidewalk, at a delivery truck rumbling past, at a trio of frizzy-haired teenage girls giggling and eating ice-cream cones—everywhere but at Luke. Her eyes glistened, maybe from the sun’s glare, maybe from sadness. “It used to be so easy to talk to you,” she said wistfully.

  “Why is it hard now?”

  “Luke—I haven’t seen you for seven years.”

  “From the minute we met it was easy for us to talk to each other,” he reminded her. He sensed her discomfort, but he couldn’t let up. “You commandeered me, the way I commandeered you just now, and marched me around a block, and we talked.”

  “It was a prettier block,” she recalled, managing a crooked smile. “And by the time we’d walked completely around the block, you had thoroughly ticked me off. I don’t recall how.”

  Luke did. He’d ticked her off by trying to get her into bed. Chalk one up to Jenny’s negative view of men.

  “I want us to be able to talk like that again,” he said.

  At last she lifted her eyes to his. They were still glistening, a shimmer of tears magnifying their multicolored beauty. “I’d like that, too.”

  He stopped and turned her to face him. “Then talk to me,” he pleaded.

  He had to give her credit. A tear skittered down her cheek, and another, but her gaze didn’t waver. At long last she was ready to stop evading him. “I keep thinking...” She swallowed, then began again. “I keep thinking you want more from me than I can give you.”

  He knew a kiss-off when he heard one. But he couldn’t give up, couldn’t walk away from her. He just couldn’t do it. If she was setting him up for a fall, as Taylor had warned, he had to proceed on the assumption that he’d land on his feet. “What can you give me?” he asked.

  “My friendship.”

  “Your honesty?”

  She sighed and he heard the tremor in her breath. “I can’t give you my secrets,” she said. “But I’ll be as honest as I can.”

  Did he dare to push her? Should he test her promise? “Tell me honestly, did someone break your heart?”

  She searched his face, her breath still shaky, her lower lip trapped in her teeth. An infinity passed, and she shook her head. “No, Luke. No one broke my heart.”

  She appeared fragile to him, courageous yet exquisitely breakable. He suddenly felt as if he were trying to catch a butterfly with a flamethrower. If she was telling the truth, if no one had broken her heart up to now, he didn’t want to be the first to do it. One more question might just break her.

  “I’ll take your friendship,” he said, arching his arm around her shoulders as they resumed their walk. Almost imperceptibly, she leaned back into his arm until her hair brushed against the bare skin.

  Maybe he was being absurdly optimistic, but that alone was enough to make him think that someday—soon, he hoped—she would be able to give him more.

  Chapter Ten

  * * *

  “MS. PERRIN? THIS is Evelyn Vincent. Trisha’s mom.”

  “Yes, of course.” Jenny tucked the phone against her ear and turned off the heat under the vegetables she’d been stir-frying.

  It was Sunday evening, the end of a restful weekend during which she had gone to an aerobics class, taken a bike ride, read the Sunday Globe from beginning to end and reviewed her notes for the prosecution’s final day of testimony. Whenever thoughts of Luke had intruded she’d managed them, just as her therapist had taught her to do: “It is normal for certain thoughts to cause you distress,” Dr. Slater had explained. “The key to managing your distress is to manage your thoughts. Master them. Focus on that which gives you strength, and use your strength to conquer that which upsets you.”

  Jenny focused on Luke’s companionship, on the fact that he could kiss her cheek or touch her arm without destroying her equilibrium. She focused on his claim that if all she could give him was her friendship, he would accept it. She discovered enough sources of strength in her thoughts about him that she could combat the troubling undercurrents in his questions about the state of her heart and about the man who had decimated her world.

  She’d managed. A weekend had passed without Luke, two long days during which he’d probably socialized, partied, done all the things he would never do with Jenny. From that thought, too, she took strength.

  “Ms. Perrin, I hate to bother you at home—”

  “No problem,” Jenny assured her caller. If she hadn’t wanted to be bothered she wouldn’t have given her personal phone number to the Vincents.

  “I didn’t think this could wait. Trisha is home with us this weekend, and...well, she doesn’t want to testify tomorrow.”

  “Doesn’t want to testify? Her testimony is the most important part of our case. I’ve been building up to it all along. I’ve saved her for my final witness because she’s the most powerful voice the prosecution has.”

  “I understand. Oh, Lord, I understand.” Evelyn Vincent sounded distraught. “I’ve tried talking to her. You know I want to see that creep locked up, what he did to my baby. I want to see him suffer the way she’s suffered. That is a mother’s prayer, Ms. Perrin. I pray every day for that boy to suffer.” She sighed, and her voice was muted when she continued. “But I can’t force Trisha. She’s been through so much already. She says she can’t bear the prospect of going through the whole thing on the stand in front of all those people. I can’t force her. She’s already been through too much.”

  Jenny’s mind raced. Without Trisha’s testimony, she might as well give up and ask that the charges against Matthew Sullivan be dismissed. There was no other way to win the case: she had to put Trisha on the stand. “Can I talk to Trisha?” she asked Evelyn.

  “Right now?”

  Jenny considered. “I don’t know that this is something we can work out over the phone. Would you mind if I came to your house?”

  “No, of course not. But please, Ms. Perrin—I don’t want my daughter coer
ced. She’s been hurt enough by all this—”

  “I understand. I’ll be there in half an hour, and we’ll see what we can work out.”

  The Vincents lived in a modest shingled house not far from historic downtown Concord. Jenny had been to their house a number of times; she’d done most of her questioning of Trisha there. Because Concord was only a half-hour’s drive from Tufts University, Trisha had been spending more time since the attack with her parents than in her campus dormitory.

  Evelyn Vincent answered the door wearing an apologetic smile. Jenny recognized in the older woman the same anguish she had seen in her own mother’s eyes when Jenny had been struggling to recover. Although Jenny wasn’t a mother, she could easily believe that a mother suffered her child’s hurts as acutely as the child herself.

  “I’m so sorry about this,” Evelyn said as she held open the screen door for Jenny. “I think Trisha is, too. But she’s already been exploited by that boy once, and—”

  “Let me speak to her,” Jenny said gently, patting Evelyn’s arm. “I’m not going to exploit her or coerce her or anything like that. I promise. I just want to see if I can make testifying easier for her.”

  “Why don’t you go out on the porch?” Evelyn suggested, escorting Jenny down a short hallway to an enclosed porch at the rear of the house. “You’ll be cooler out there. I’ll go tell Trisha you’re here. Would you like some iced tea?”

  “No, thanks.” Jenny stepped out onto the porch, sat on one of the upholstered wrought-iron chairs, and smoothed her cotton slacks over her knees. She had chosen her outfit—the cream-colored slacks and a kelly green shirt—for their informality. She wanted to gain Trisha’s confidence and put her mind at rest.

  After a few minutes Trisha appeared. A few inches taller than Jenny, she had brown hair and brown eyes, smooth, slightly rounded cheeks and a small nose. All in all, she looked quite ordinary—and she was quite ordinary, at least when it came to cases like this. Stewart Shaw had claimed that Matthew Sullivan could be anyone’s brother or son. Well, Trisha Vincent could be anyone’s sister or daughter.