by JLee Meyer
The loud click in her ear told her George had disconnected, probably by slamming the receiver down. “Nice to talk to you, too, bro.”
She quickly called Laurel.
“Darling, I’m sorry. George told me the meeting is today and I need to get this over with so they can remove the lien on the property and arrange more money to finish the renovations.”
“Of course. I have to leave for class soon, but I’ll avoid Rochelle. I should see Ember there, too, and I’ll have her walk with me to my car. Now, I want a moment-by-moment recounting of the whole thing when I see you later. Go get ’em, Stef. Remember I love you.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to cancel class today? You could come with me.” As confident as Laurel sounded, Stef still felt uneasy.
She had successfully avoided Rochelle since the day they removed her possessions from the house, but the situation couldn’t continue. They worked together, and Laurel needed to discuss publishing her work on the Elysium Society.
“No, darling, I’d feel awkward tagging along to your meeting,” Laurel said. “And I’m not going to let Rochelle think I’m still intimidated by her. We’ll do our things and see each other later. Perhaps a bottle of good champagne and another sleepless night will be called for.”
Stef smiled. “I think we’ve both earned that.”
“If I have time I might even go practice racquetball at the sport center,” Laurel said. “I’m getting back to playing form, like I used to be when my sis and I enjoyed it, and Ember’s pretty good. That’s another thing I let Rochelle take away. She played dirty and I hated it. I’ll call and if you’re still unavailable, I’ll decide then. Love you, and good luck, not that you need it.”
“Love you, too. See you tonight.”
Staring at the phone after they rang off, Stef told herself she was being ridiculous. She had a lot of details to attend to and only had a few hours in which to do it. Ember would be with Laurel and nothing was going to go wrong now. Rochelle was trying to avoid extra gossip, that was obvious.
Feeling marginally better, Stef started assembling her arsenal. She intended to score an important victory today, and she would make sure her private celebration with Laurel tonight would be something to be remembered.
*
“You can tell Mr. Beresford I’ll see him and his colleagues in court,” Stef informed the receptionist. She, Denny, and Sika had been waiting for ten minutes and she was out of patience with the power game.
The woman who had been so uninterested stood abruptly and asked them to wait, perhaps she could slip her boss a note. In under thirty seconds they were shown in the office, where George, Trip and two others were present, looking bored.
Barely waiting for them to be seated, George snapped, “Do you have the money? Otherwise, we’re scheduling a court date to take over the property, so you can start packing.”
Stef returned his glare with complete calm. She took her time opening her briefcase and pulled out several packets of paper. “Fine. Be sure to line up a few extra attorneys, because we’ll be filing complaints alleging fraud and misrepresentation against each of you, and every man on the boards of both the bank and this firm that are also members of the Bohemian Club. Oh, and Trip, or should I say Clayton Boynton Holloway the Third? Your mother sends her regards. This is for you.”
Stef slid a particularly thick sheaf of paper to him. To the group she announced, “His mother, Seraphina Drake Holloway, is filing a motion for summary judgment. Attached to it is a copy of her sworn affidavit setting forth the facts.”
They stared at her as if she had spoken in a rare foreign language.
“Feel free to peruse the complaints,” Stef invited them. “Obviously you’ll all need to confer with your attorneys.”
Fifteen minutes later the men looked up with shocked expressions. First at her and then at each other. James Pickle, president of the bank where their first mortgage was held and a major honcho in the Bohos, spoke first.
“Have you filed these?”
His already florid complexion was coloring even more and Stef briefly hoped he was on blood pressure medication. All that rich food and power must be curdling in his fat gut. George pointed a finger at her, his jaw rigid with fury. He opened his mouth only to have Pickle command, “Silence!”
George slammed his mouth closed so quickly Stef heard his teeth clatter. Looking around she paused one more second, to prolong the moment, then said, “No.” She heard their collective breath let go with a whoosh. “As you no doubt realize, Trip here, by drugging his mother and having her held in a facility against her wishes, opens himself to criminal charges. As does anyone else who conspired to help him.”
The look James Pickle gave Trip was frightening. “You told us your mother had Alzheimer’s. You had her held against her will? Are you insane?”
Sputtering, Trip said, “But you said—”
“I said nothing, Mr. Holloway, nothing.”
Trip’s eyes bulged and his Adam’s apple bobbed, but he remained silent.
“Seraphina Drake Holloway has no wish to see her only child in prison, gentlemen. If he voluntarily withdraws the petition to have her declared unfit to administer the family trust, this all goes away. Her husband left her in charge because of his son’s lack of good judgment, as he has more than demonstrated to you.”
Pickle immediately said, “I’ll see that the petition is withdrawn before end of business tomorrow, Ms. Beresford.”
Both George and Trip started to protest but stopped when Charles Teller, the member who had so far not spoken one word, merely lifted a finger off the table. Stef was impressed.
She continued, “Now, in reference to the complaints—some with multiple counts—we’re seeking damages, punitive damages, an injunction to stop foreclosure on the hotel against both the lending institutions and the individuals involved, and we plan to report these irregularities to federal regulating agencies as well. We charge conflict of interest. Comments?” She prayed that Agnes’s research and writing had been good enough. They’d had to let go of their only attorney because they had no money, and Agnes seemed better anyway. If they didn’t go along with this, they would have to try to find another attorney, and there was no money to do that.
Pickle and Teller looked at each other for perhaps two seconds, evidently long enough to reach a decision. Pickle said, “Most judges would throw out the charges as spurious. There isn’t one member of the bank’s board who is also on the private investor board.”
“I disagree, but I’m willing to test that, as long as any judge trying the case is not also a member of the Bohos. And we’ll be checking.”
Another long silence ensued.
Teller spoke for the first time. “And if we rescind the foreclosure?”
Keeping her face neutral, and not daring to look at either Denny or Sika, Stef replied, “Then we won’t file these charges. All of the papers, you have your copies, will be held in a secure place and never used. Unless you decide to come after the hotel again, of course.”
“How can we be sure you’ll keep your agreement?”
“Mr. Pickle, Mr. Teller, you will have my word.”
Pickle leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “Out of curiosity, how did you get your hands on the Bohemian Club membership list?”
Stef smiled politely and gave an evasive reply. “Nothing is confidential anymore, gentlemen. Don’t you just love the Internet?”
Pickle gave her a thin smile. “I have a question. How do you propose to finish the hotel? You’ll need more funding, and although your mortgages are safe as long as you make your payments, there isn’t a lending institution in this country who will give you more. I can guarantee that.”
Stef kept her gaze and her tone steady. She was a Beresford, after all. “Then it isn’t your concern, is it?”
His mouth formed a straight line. “You wanted the hotel just for women, then perhaps it can be funded just by women. You could have a bake sale.�
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George snickered.
Pickle said, “Shut up.” George did.
“Perhaps we will.” Stef rose and the others followed. “Gentlemen.” Then, “George.”
Stef held the door for Sika and Denny and was almost through it when Teller spoke once more. “Wellington was right, you are the smartest one in your family.”
Whirling on him, Stef asked, “He knew about this?” Her father was against her buying the hotel, but this?
Teller regarded her thoughtfully. “No. I just asked him about you and that’s what he told me. I thought you’d want to know.” His gaze was impenetrable.
Stunned, she could only manage, “Good day.”
*
Laurel finished class and checked her cell phone. She had one voicemail. She’d been in such a hurry to get to school on time she hadn’t noticed the message. It was from Ember, asking if she was still going to cancel class, because Jock needed her to work. That explained her absence.
Gathering her notes, Laurel thought about calling Stef but didn’t want to disturb her focus. The meeting was probably still underway. She was sorry Ember couldn’t join her for a game of racquetball, but there was no reason to miss the practice she was looking forward to. She could put in an hour and still be home to celebrate with Stef. It was wonderful to have the love of the game back in her life.
Walking across campus to the gym, she marveled at the new pronouns and nouns in her life. Their home, two small rooms that were only adequate at best. Yet she thought of it as home in a way that she had never experienced before. She only lived in Rochelle’s house, and she paid half the mortgage. Even the spare bedroom never felt like hers. Living with Stef had been completely different from the first night. Although they hadn’t talked about what would happen when they had to vacate to allow for the remodel, she knew that whatever they decided, it would work out best for them.
The certainty of that surprised her. She’d always had so many fears, needed reassurance, almost needing to belong to someone. That was probably the reason she’d fallen for Rochelle. She mistook control and possession for safety and solidity. She knew now that the only way to true safety lay within her.
She was grinning by the time she had changed clothes and grabbed her eye guards, racquet and balls, wallet, and cell phone. These new courts were great and she enjoyed watching others play as well as playing on them. The back walls were shatterproof glass and observers could look down from above, too. She waved to some students who were leaving, and put her things down to do some stretches before entering the play area. Walking to her court, she jumped when a ball slammed loudly into the back wall of one of the courts she was passing. Checking out the action, she froze when she saw Rochelle on the other side of the glass, smiling at her.
Breathe, don’t let her scare you away. Straightening, she realized that she was almost as tall as Rochelle. Odd, she’d always thought Rochelle was much taller. She nodded neutrally and Rochelle cocked her head in question, then swept her hand to indicate she was inviting Laurel to play. Invite was not the right word. Challenge. That was the word.
Laurel studied her impassively. She looked bloated and unhealthy and this was not new. Rochelle had always won by cheating and intimidation, so much so that Laurel had refused to play with her. She shouldn’t play now, but something in her ex’s insolent expression, in the way that she expected Laurel to run away yet again, propelled her through the door.
Surprise evident on her face, Rochelle said, “My, my, look who’s not afraid to play racquetball. Did you finally grow a spine?”
“Can you say anything without trying to bait someone? You invited, I’m accepting. Any other questions?” She strode over to the wallet-lock on the wall and stored her phone, keys, and money. “Your serve.”
With an exaggerated shrug, Rochelle said, “Your funeral,” and waited for Laurel to get ready. She served a rocket that was not only in bounds but managed to just miss Laurel’s head. Smirking, she said, “Gotta be faster than that, m’dear.”
The rest of the game was similar, with Laurel barely able to return service, let alone get a serve in. Game: Rochelle.
“Want to quit? This is usually where you decide you don’t like this game and go off to lick your wounds.”
Laurel was quiet for a moment, seething. Seething instead of quaking. Buoyed by her anger, she whirled on Rochelle. “My serve.”
With no effort to disguise her disdain, Rochelle ambled to the back of the court to take her place and receive.
At the service line, Laurel bounced the ball a few times, then swung and hit a winner that sent Rochelle into the wall to try and stop herself after she whiffed the return.
Recovering, Rochelle patronized her with, “Not bad. But that’s all you’re getting.”
The battle was on, with each point being hard-won. When the second game was tied at eight, with sweat trickling between her breasts, Laurel noticed that they’d attracted a crowd. A strangely silent crowd, almost as if they were holding their collective breath.
Laurel won the second game at 15-12, and a cheer erupted, then the crowd fell silent when Rochelle glared at them. Whipping to face Laurel, she accused, “You’ve been practicing. What, does your rich bitch play?”
Meeting her glare steadily, Laurel said, “No, I’ve been playing. It helped me recover from the beating you gave me.”
Stepping menacingly toward her, Rochelle snarled, “Keep your voice down.”
“What’s the matter, Rochelle? Afraid of a little truth? Relax, there are no microphones in here and I wasn’t shouting, so unless someone can read lips, you’re safe. But here’s another truth. If you ever try to hurt me again, you’ll regret it. Care to serve for the match?”
Rochelle’s face was mottled with anger as she grabbed the ball. She stepped up to the service line and promptly double-faulted because she was so erratic, trying to hit Laurel more than to score a point. Laurel merely sidestepped the first serve and caught the next after the second bounce.
“Temper, temper. You really must learn to control yourself. My serve.” Laurel couldn’t help the teasing singsong tone of her voice, especially when she saw Rochelle’s face darken even more.
She nailed three points in a row before Rochelle was able to return and then win service after a long and heated rally. As she walked to the back of the court so Rochelle could serve she noticed that there were more onlookers. Just as she turned, the ball came sailing past her.
“My point.” Rochelle was chasing the errant ball down to get ready for her next serve.
“I wasn’t set, Rochelle. You could see that.” So, this is how it would be. Rochelle couldn’t stand to lose, and if the score wasn’t in her favor she often resorted to cheating.
“Pay attention next time.” Rochelle served again and struck a clean winner.
The next one Laurel was able to return and Rochelle couldn’t reach it. “Side out. My turn.”
The score seesawed up to a tie at nine. The first one to score eleven would win the match.
Rochelle served hard and it bounced, then ricocheted off a side wall. Laurel anticipated the ball and slammed it back, sending Rochelle skidding to try and reach it and she landed on her ass when she missed. Some clapping from the gallery ensued.
She screamed, “Serve again. I hit a wet spot and slipped.” She was panting and sweating profusely. One of the onlookers booed.
Laurel walked up and looked at the spot she said she’d slipped on. It appeared fine. Maybe she dried it with her butt. She shrugged and again went to the service line, hitting a clear winner. Rochelle shot her a murderous glare and stood to receive the ball. Laurel bounced it a few times and served hard, but Rochelle was able crush the return so that it caromed off of two walls before bouncing. Laurel returned the ball the only way she could, bringing the racquet behind her back and between her legs. She won the point and the match.
As whoops erupted from the crowd, Rochelle stood three feet from her, chest heaving and bi
tterness pouring out of her mouth. “You cheated.”
“No, I don’t play the way you do, Rochelle. I won, that’s all. It’s just a game.”
“So, are you going back to your owner? To be her little play toy?”
The words stung, but only because of Laurel’s realization that she had allowed herself to be dominated by this pathetic woman.
“No one owns me, Rochelle. She knows that and respects it. I am in love with her, forever, I hope. So, yes, I’m going to her. My choice, my life.”
The hostility and rage that Rochelle had barely controlled erupted and Rochelle screamed, “Then take this with you!” She used her racquet and slapped the dense rubber ball as hard as she could, aimed straight at Laurel’s face.
Chapter Twenty-One
By the time Stef, Denny, Jock, and Ember approached the campus sports facility, Stef had tried many times to reach Laurel. She’d been stunned to find Ember at the hotel when she got back after the bloodless coup that had neutered her brother and his buddies. When Laurel didn’t show up or answer her cell phone, she decided not to wait.
A tremor shook her spine as they turned into the parking lot and saw flashing lights. An ambulance and police cruisers were parked close to the front doors. Medics were guiding a gurney to the back of the vehicle. The occupant was waving her arms around and screaming for a doctor.
Stef fought her way through the crowd and skidded to a halt by the gurney to see Rochelle with an ice pack on her nose and her clothes covered in blood.
“Oh, my God.” Her heart stopped and she frantically looked around for Laurel.
Ember touched her arm and Stef whirled on her, panic consuming her. “Where is she? I can’t see her.”
“There.” Ember pointed to the police cruiser. “In the backseat. She’s…her head is bandaged.”
