by Jacquie Gee
Jebson stares at me from across the room, the language of his whole body laughing at me. I don't want to give him this moment, but I have no choice. “It is possible.”
“Possible?” He mocks me. “Just possible?”
“Yes, sir. It's possible.”
“Possible is not a definitive answer.” Judge Clancy snaps up from his chair.
“It's just that—” I stammer. “I haven't been here long enough to speak to my mother's doctor, to know what's happening, but I understand there may be paperwork underway.”
“May be?" He frowns. "I understood there was."
“There was—is.” Likely.
The judge glowers at me. "None of this is my problem. My problem is running this proceeding, which, you are holding up.” He shifts his gaze from me to his desk. “If you do not, at this time, have documentation to this effect, then I have no choice but to lift the stay."
“But—"
“I’m sorry Miss Lane.” He turns away. “You can come back to me later with the proper paperwork, but for now, the temporary stay is removed!”
I take in a breath.
Jebson’s hot, prickly gaze bites my skin. He turns his head to his lawyer and whispers behind his hand.
"Tomorrow, sir," I blurt. "Tomorrow I will be getting the paperwork."
"So, it is your intention, then, to become your mother's guardian at that point. Is that correct?"
“Yes, sir.” My gaze travels from him to a wired and grinning Jebson, then slowly back. I lower my head.
“Fine.” Judge Clancy says. “We’ll reconvene tomorrow at noon if that suits all parties.” Jebson nods. “And see if we can’t get this thing taken care of. You will bring the paperwork.” He glares at me. “Otherwise, the stay is lifted.”
He leans across his bench, collecting his papers and turns to walk away. “I’m warning you, Miss Lane," he says in passing, “if any evidence comes across my desk to the contrary, if I find out in any way this has been a ruse," he wags his finger in my face, "that your mother is not being assessed and this was just some craftily way to create a diversion," his voice crescendos. "I will have no choice but to rule in favor of the plaintiff."
"Yes, sir."
"And you, sir." He addresses Jebson's lawyer squarely. "If, in the meantime, you come into any new evidence to support your claims, feel free to bring that along. Otherwise, until tomorrow noon, the paperwork stands. Your party is not to touch that bridge. And your party needs to speak to the taxes owing.” He reaches for the door. “I will not have my proceedings undermined, understand me?" He glares at us both, then exits the room, his robe’s panels swishing.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of Jebson, a gloating look on his face. He stands and leaves without speaking to me, but he doesn't have to. His face says everything. He thinks he’s already won.
I shift my weight, hesitating, not wanting to follow him and his lawyer out of the room too closely.
“You really should have asked for a new judge,” the bailiff says in my ear, as I pass.
“Why?” I turn to him.
“Because Judge Clancy hates women.”
“He does?”
“Yep. It's a known fact around these parts."
What is that Trent said about this place being steeped in tradition, yet so progressive at the same time? Guess he wasn’t including judges.
"So what do I do now?”
“There’s nothing you can do, now the proceedings have started. You ask for a new judge at this point, and he’ll bury you alive. Your only hope is to bring a guy with you next time. Preferably a lawyer.”
I’m burning up inside. “But I can’t afford a lawyer.”
“Too bad, ’cause that judge is gonna eat you for dinner.”
I drop my eyes to the floor and walk on.
“Maybe bring that tall, dark, handsome dude with you that your mother did,” he calls after me. I turn, raising a brow. “That dude went one of the best rounds I’ve ever seen anyone go with Judge Clancy.” He laughs, tossing his head back. “He would have buried your mother, otherwise.”
Honestly, is there anyone Trent has not affected in this county?
Chapter 22
One thing about the Lane women, we’re a hard breed to break.
And even harder breed to put back together.
I count Penny in that description, even though technically she’s not a Lane. She might as well be. She’s been helping to hold up the legacy for about thirty-odd years now, along with the rest of us. Honestly, the amount of work and strain Mom’s been under, it’s no wonder she’s been slipping. It all makes sense now, the threats, the tours, the so-called looming tax bill, no wonder her mind is crumbling. I refuse to believe she’s suffering from anything more than just that. Maybe I’m fooling myself, but that’s what I’m hanging onto. For now.
But I need to find out more. More about what’s going on here. I worry—if Jebson gets his way and that bridge does come down, what will happen to Mom?
I step out of her car and head toward the house, stopping midway to curse at myself for almost running up the front porch steps, then revert to the back of the house.
I can’t believe this has become Mom’s fate. Using the backdoor entrance of her former home.
How did things get so screwed up around here?
I take a deep breath, bubbling over with equal parts frustration, hurt and guilt, and scale the interior steps to Mom’s apartment. How could Mom keep so many secrets from me? Better question: Why?
How she let things deteriorate to this point without asking for my help?
Why would she trust in a stranger over her own daughter?
Did my moving away really change that much between us?
I reach for the handle, at the top of the stairs and creak open the door. “Mom,” I call before going in. “Mom? Are you there?” I step in further and look around. “Mom?” Thoughts of what Mrs. Williams said about the river coil in my gut. “Mom, where are you?" Panic threads my voice. I have a fleeting thought that perhaps she’s gone out for a walk and lost her way. My eyes stream to the river through the window, the wild rapids churning.
"Becca? Is that you?" She finally comes running, whirling around the corner from out of the spare bedroom, her face all aglow. It’s like she’s seeing me for the first time again like I’ve just arrived. “Oh, Becca, you’re here!” She springs into my arms—a look of surprise in her eyes. “You should have called and let me know you were coming to visit.”
New shift, different day, just like Trent said.
“I was just folding towels, helping Aunt Penny.” It’s as though her mind has erased all that was said yesterday, replaced it with a clean, blank slate. “I’ve been quite busy. Come let me show you.” She tugs my arm. “Three good-sized piles.” She’s still holding a pillowcase in her hands from when I interrupted her. “That Aunt Penny, she certainly goes through laundry. But who am I to judge?” She laughs it off. “To what do I owe this visit?” she starts again—and by ‘starts’ I mean she’s revolved completely back to the start of our conversation. She leans in close, a quirky smile lifting the corners of her aging mouth, her face as bright as lights on a Christmas tree. “If you had told me you were coming, I would have baked you something.” Her face falls. “Then again,” she pats my hand, “you bake so much better than me. Cupcakes, isn’t it?” She scowls as if struggling to remember, then clasps my hand tight. “Daniel!” She calls back over her shoulder, down the open hallway. “Daniel, it’s Becca! She’s come to visit!”
What is she doing? She’s calling for Dad. My stomach writhes into a knot. I feel like I could vomit.
“Daniel?” She turns, rushing room to room in search of him—my father—my long-dead Dad like he’s hiding from her.
“Mom.” I chase after her. “Mom, please.” I turn her by the shoulders and take her by the hands. “Mom, look at me.” I stare into her eyes. “Dad’s been dead for twenty-three years.”
�
�He has?” She looks at me, bewildered, her bottom lip quivering like I’ve just broken the news to her for the first time. Then, just as quickly, her face morphs into anger. “How dare you say such a thing!” She raises her voice and a hand as if to slap me.
“Mom?” I jerk to the right, afraid she might. “Mom, you have to listen to me.” Her gaze searches the walls, her eyes filling with tears. "Dad’s dead. He’s gone.”
“That’s not true,” she insists, her mouth skewing. “I saw him just this morning. He’s just gone to get the paper, that’s all.”
“No, Mom. You haven’t seen him. He hasn’t been here. Dad’s dead, Mom—”
“You think I don’t know that,” she snaps. She abruptly pulls back to reality. The lines in her face pinch together. She looks angry, embarrassed. She yanks her hands from me. “You don’t think I remember grieving at his funeral!” She sets her jaw and grits her teeth. She looks flustered, furious, frightened, all at once.
“Mom,” I work to capture her drifting gaze. “Mom, I’m sorry.”
She hesitates, her features morphing. “No reason to be sorry, dear.” The cloud over her strained expression has lifted, just as quickly as its onset. She steps up to the mantelpiece, starts rearranging the things on top of it, swabbing the dust out from underneath. “Now, what were we talking about?” She turns back to me.
“Mom.” I shoot toward her, “I know about the bridge.” I just spit it out. “I know about the buses, the threat to the bridge, the taxes, and your court visit too. I know about it all.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” She turns, her expression slipping back to anger. “You don’t know the half of what’s been happening around here.”
“You’re right, Mom,” I go with it. “But I want to. Please share it with me.” I burst toward her. “I want to help.”
“I don’t need your help.” She turns away.
“Please.” I touch her shoulder. “Why don’t you trust me enough to let me help you?”
“It’s not a matter of trust.” She scowls. “You’re the daughter. I’m the mother.” She points to me, then touches her chest. “I’m not supposed to need your help. That’s how it goes.” She sulks. “How did you find out, anyway? Did Penny tell you?” Her voice is cross. I’ve never heard her sound like this.
"No, Mom.” I shake my head. “It wasn’t Penny—”
“Then who was the traitor, then?”
“No one, Mom. I found out on my own.”
“Snooping around in your mother’s affairs, were you?” She lifts her brows. She squeezes her hands together, trying to look anywhere else but at me.
“Why didn't you tell me, Mom?” I lean into her gaze. “Why did you keep everything such a secret? We don’t keep secrets, you and me.” Her gaze darts back and forth. “Did you think it’d be better for me to find out from strangers?”
“No, of course not!”
“Well then?”
A stretch of silence swells between us. “I never—” Mom catches her breath, then spins around, unable to face me. “You haven’t even been home, Becca,” she says, in a quiet, stern, voice. “How am I supposed to talk to you when you’re never here?”
“We talk almost every day, Mom. You could have said something.”
“Yes, well, and you never asked, did you?” She crosses her arms.
“How am I to ask about something I don’t know is happening?”
Her lips wobble. “Perhaps you could have taken an interest in something outside of yourself, Becca,” she spits.
Her words cut me like a dagger. She’s never been this mean. My mother’s a gentle, kind soul, especially when it comes to me.
Okay, so maybe I deserved that one. Maybe I have been a little self-involved of late. But honestly, to assume that I should know what to ask, and when to ask it, is a little much. Isn’t it? “Mom, I’m sorry. You’re right. I should have asked. I didn’t realize what was going on with you. But I didn’t hear anything in your voice either. You didn’t seem confused—”
“I’m not confused.” She whirls around. “What makes you think I’m confused?” Her face tightens.
“I don’t think I deserved to be completely cut out of your life, Mom. That’s all I’m trying to say.”
“Nor I out of yours, Becca.” She holds her stance.
Something snaps in my chest. My heart beats extra fast. I hadn’t realized she felt that way. She’s never told me. “I’m sorry, Mom,” I say again, “you’re right. I should have come home more often. But don’t you think that in one of the million phone calls we’ve shared, you could have told me something, anything, about what was going here? Any small thing?”
She examines her hands. They’re shaking. “Yes,” she whispers. “I suppose I could have.”
“Thank you.” I edge closer to her. “Now, Mom, please, talk to me. I’m here now. Tell me what’s happening.”
She twists up her face and turns her eyes away. “There’s nothing to tell.” She lifts her chin.
“Mom, please. Be honest.”
She starts to shake. She will not look me in the eyes. When she finally does speak, her voice is quaking and thin. “I didn’t want you to think less of me, Becca,” she whispers, nearly sobbing. “I didn’t want you to think me a failure.” She blinks away tears.
“Oh, Mom.” I fall toward her. “That would never happen. Never, ever.” I hug her briefly, then take her by the chin. “Not as long as we both live.” I force her to look in my eyes.
“But I—” Her voice cracks and the tears start to flow.
Mom never cries. Never. She never shows weakness. She’s as sturdy as an oak.
A small streak of panic jolts through me and I become instantly unmoored. “Look, Mom,” I whisper, cupping her frail face in my hands. “We’re in this together okay? We’re going to fix this, you and me.” I hug her to my chest. “We’re gonna fix this. Somehow, we’re gonna fix this,” I say to her hair.
“How?” Her voice wavers. “How are we ever gonna fix this.”
“I don’t know, yet, but we’ll find a way.”
“You can’t,” she says.
“Why?” I pull away.
“I won’t let you?”
“What?”
“This is not your life, Becca. These are not your problems.”
“You’re my mom, so yes they are.” I pull her back to me again. “Besides, it’s not your life either. It’s just the one you’ve been dealt.”
“That’s where you’d be wrong.” She pulls back from me. Her eyes flash, and her mouth stiffens. “You’ve always thought the bridge was just your father’s family’s legacy, and that he died and dumped it on me. But that’s not true. It’s much, much, more than that. I entered into this life, willingly, thirty-five years ago, when your father asked me for my hand in marriage, and I’ve considered it my life ever since. I knew full well what I was getting into then, and I know full well what I’m fighting to hang on to, now. What you don’t realize is, it was a choice. A choice, I made for me.” She touches her chest. “I’m not simply holding up your father’s family heirloom—his family traditions. I’m fighting to save my own. This is who I am. What I do. How I breathe—”
“But Mom—”
“For me, there is nothing else, don’t you see?”
“But there could be.” I squeeze her hands.
“No.” She shakes her head. “This may not be the life for you, Becca, and I understand that. But whether you like it or not that bridge is a part of you, too. It’s in our blood and our bones. It beats in our hearts. There’s no escaping it. And now your father’s gone, it’s my responsibility.”
“But that’s just it, it doesn’t have to be, Mom—”
“But it is.” She smiles, warmly. “You don’t understand, your father’s dreams were my dreams; his legacy, my legacy. His bridge is now my bridge.”
“But Mom—”
“This is the only life I’ve ever known. The life I love.” Her mouth stiffens. “
I'm not fighting to spare a family heirloom or keep a family tradition going. I’m fighting to save the future. Mine and yours. And I’ll be damned if I’ll let some wet-behind-the-ears, overzealous politician take it all away.”
Tears prick my eyes hearing my mother fight for my choices. Until this moment, I never understood why she stayed here. She could have sold the place and left, and become so many things. She could have had whatever life she wanted—one that didn’t include spending every cent she ever made taking care of a rickety old bridge— but now I see that…she did.
I think for the first time, maybe ever, I finally understand why she chooses to uphold my father’s dream, his family traditions.
Because they don’t just belong to my father.
Chapter 23
I leave Mom with a hot cup of tea and biscuits, then head down the stairs on a mission. Bursting through the front door of Green Grub—which seems to be my signature move lately—I accost Trent. “That stuff you were spewing this morning on the bridge, about being dedicated to this town and its future, did you mean it?”
“Hello to you, too, Becca.” Trent scowls. He tosses the dishrag he’s holding over his shoulder and places his hands on his hips.
“Hello. Now, all that stuff you said, did you mean it?”
“I don’t know. That all depends. Why?”
“How far would you go to save it from extinction?”
“What are you talking about?” His expression tightens. His jaw sets. He looks like a cross between Clint Eastwood’s Dirty Harry and Jackie Chan in Shanghai Knights. Well, okay… maybe Jackie Chan in Mr. Nice Guy. I love me some Jackie Chan.
“Okay, let’s say the bridge was threatened—”
“The bridge has been threatened?”
“No, not officially. But we all know if it goes down, so does the rest of the town. And if Mom loses her tax suit, it could be a distinct possibility. So, did you mean what you said out there, or not?” I jerk my head toward the bridge.
“Of course I meant it.” He looks offended.
