by Sharon Sala
“I don’t mind if I do,” Tula said.
“Help yourself,” Laurel said, then began to pour the lemonade.
Marie frowned as Laurel puttered around the kitchen.
“It don’t seem right… you waitin’ on me like this,” Marie muttered.
“I do it because I want to.”
Marie’s lips pursed, but there was a smile in her eyes as she reached out and patted the back of Laurel’s hand.
“Then I thank you,” she said gently.
Tula handed Marie a cookie.
“Here, woman, put your teeth around this.”
“I might be wantin’ more than one,” Marie said.
Tula scooted the plate of cookies toward her old friend.
“Then help yourself.”
Laurel felt a sense of loss as she watched the two old friends squabbling back and forth. She sat down with her lemonade, then leaned forward, satisfied to be nothing more than an observer to their friendship.
It was Tula who first noticed Laurel’s wistful look.
“What you thinkin’ about, girl?”
“About how lucky you are to have each other as friends.”
Tula winked at Marie, then laughed.
“Shoot, honey. We aren’t friends. We don’t even like each other.”
Marie cackled. “That’s right. We don’t.”
Taken aback, Laurel didn’t know what to say. Then she caught the look that passed between them and knew they’d been teasing.
“You’re putting me on, aren’t you?” she asked.
They nodded in unison; then Marie put her hand on Laurel’s arm.
“Honey… the first thing to learn about havin’ a friend is knowin’ when to laugh.”
Then Tula added, “And knowin’ they’re there when you need a good cry.”
“I’ve never had a friend like that,” Laurel said.
Tula took a cookie from the package and handed it to Laurel.
“Here’s the way I see it. Marie, here, is gettin’ old.”
“So are you,” Marie muttered.
“True enough,” Tula answered. “Anyway… as I was sayin’… it seems to me that we’re in dire need of another friend to take Marcella’s place. One of these days, one of us is gonna pass just like she did, and if we don’t have a backup, we’re gonna be all alone.”
Laurel nodded, because right then, speaking aloud would have been impossible without crying.
Marie winked at Tula, then picked up where she’d left off.
“It’s a serious thing… bein’ a friend,” she said. “You have to love without judgment, and you don’t offer an opinion unless it’s asked for. But you do have to be there whenever the need arises. Think you can handle that?”
Laurel took a deep breath, then nodded.
“Then that’s that,” Tula said, and lifted her glass of lemonade. “Friends forever.”
The glasses of lemonade were lifted off the table, clinked gently one to the other, then the women holding them drank to the foundation of the bond that had just been laid.
Laurel thought of Justin, of what had passed between them and what had yet to occur. Back in D.C., she’d had no one, yet her world had been continuously expanding since she’d set foot in Bayou Jean. She looked at their faces, open and waiting. She’d shared laughter and food. Was it possible that having friends could be this simple?
“Now that you’re my friends, I have something to tell you.”
The two old women leaned forward, subconsciously drawing closer.
“I’m going to a party Saturday night with Justin Bouvier. You need to tell me what to wear.”
“Party? Justin Bouvier? When did all this happen?”
Marie shot three questions at her before Laurel could answer one.
“When he came over to thank me for my help last night, he said his sister’s family is having a big party Saturday night to thank everyone who helped with the search.”
The frown on Marie’s face lifted somewhat, but Laurel could still hear her mumbling beneath her voice about social etiquette and doing things right. Before Laurel could justify herself, someone started knocking on the front door.
More than ready to reestablish her position as the woman in charge, Marie jumped up from her seat.
“I’ll be gettin’ that,” she said, and strode out of the room.
Laurel smiled as she watched her go. If the simple statement about attending a party got her on edge, she could only imagine what she would think if she knew what had gone on upstairs. And that thought reminded her that she had yet to put the sheets in the dryer.
“Tula, I need to put a load of clothes in the dryer. Help yourself to some more lemonade. I’ll be right back.”
“Take you time, bébé,” Tula said, and palmed another cookie.
A few moments later, Laurel was setting the timer when she heard Marie calling her name.
“Just a minute,” she said. “I’m in the laundry room.”
She punched the start button on the dryer and then headed back into the kitchen. As she started down the hall, she could tell that whoever had been at the door was now in the kitchen.
“What’s—”
It was as far as she got before she lost her train of thought. All six feet plus of the man she’d just been naked with was standing beside Marie, but looking at Laurel as if he might eat her alive. Laurel was caught off guard by his reappearance. The look on his face wasn’t helping. His gaze was fixed, his posture stiff. She couldn’t imagine what had brought him back.
“Justin! It’s nice to see you again, but I didn’t expect another visit so soon. Did you forget something?”
He took a deep breath and then reached for her.
“After I left here, I drove into Bayou Jean, deposited some money in the bank, bought groceries and then started home. The closer I got, the more confused I became. The road still made that S curve just outside of town. Mose Reynolds’ vegetable stand was still in the same place. I waved at him just like I do every time I pass by. The sun was beaming on the hood of my truck just enough that when I headed west, it ricocheted into my eyes… and I began to doubt what I was seeing… and what I’d seen.”
When his hand brushed the side of her face, Laurel froze. She was afraid to look at Marie or Tula. Then he spoke, and she found she could not look away.
“I had to know,” he said softly.
“Know what?” she asked.
“If you were still here… if you were still real.”
Laurel smiled. “So is the consensus in?”
Justin leaned forward, kissing the smile she was still wearing and satisfying himself that he hadn’t lost his mind after all.
Marie’s shocked hiss complemented Tula’s throaty chuckle. Laurel was too stunned to react one way or the other.
Suddenly remembering they were not alone, Justin reluctantly let her go.
“Six o’clock Saturday?”
She nodded, then remembered what she’d been about to ask Marie and Tula and asked him instead.
“What should I wear?”
A slow smile spread across his face, and she knew he was remembering her wearing nothing at all.
“Anything casual and comfortable,” he said. “They’ll cook outdoors… eat outdoors… dance outdoors. Whatever’s going on will be under Louisiana stars.”
“Okay, and thank your sister again for the invitation. I’m looking forward to meeting some of my neighbors.”
Marie snorted none too lightly.
“You know you and Tula are invited, too,” Justin said. “It’s a celebration for the life of Rachelle.”
Marie’s lips pursed, but she didn’t voice her disapproval of the fact that they’d kissed.
“Thank your sister for me, but my dancing years are far behind me. I’ll be in bed long before the dancing starts.”
“I might come with my nephew, Jean,” Tula said.
“Then we’ll see you there,” Justin said. He looked back at Laurel
, as if reassuring himself one last time that he had not imagined the previous events of the day.
“I’m here,” Laurel said, then added, “And I’m not going anywhere.”
He shook his head, as if still unable to believe what had happened.
“Okay then,” he said softly. “See you Saturday?”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Laurel said.
“I’ll let myself out,” he told Marie, and left before she could grill him with her own set of questions.
The moment the front door closed, Marie turned.
“Girl… what on earth was that about?”
Laurel lifted her chin, hoping she wasn’t going to insult Marie, but well aware there was no way she could explain.
“Mamárie, I know our relationship is new, and I’m already loving you dearly, but there’s something we need to get clear. I am not a girl, I am a woman. And since I believe it’s rude to kiss and tell, you’re going to have to trust me on this.”
Marie’s eyes widened; then she started to grin.
“Well now,” she said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d be thinkin’ that Miz Marcella was back in this house.”
“Then you’re not mad at me?” Laurel asked.
“Nope,” Marie said, then pointed at Tula. “And I know you’re keepin’ this to yourself, too, aren’t you, old friend?”
Tula acted as if she’d just been insulted.
“Since when have I betrayed a confidence and told something you didn’t want told?”
“You told my daddy I went to New Orleans with Oliver Stanley.”
Tula rolled her eyes. “Lord have mercy, old woman. That was more than fifty years ago. And it was a good thing I told, or your daddy wouldn’t have known where to look to bring you back.”
Marie sniffed. “Did it ever occur to you that I didn’t want to be brought back?”
Tula laughed. “Lots of times, but that don’t change the fact that I was right in tellin’.” Then she turned to Laurel. “That Oliver Stanley was a good-lookin’ man for sure, but good looks don’t mean a thing. They sent him to Angola for killin’ a man, and if he hasn’t already passed, he’s still there.”
Laurel stifled a grin. “We’ve all had our weak moments, haven’t we, Mamárie?”
“It took longer than a few moments. That Oliver had more goin’ for him than good looks,” Marie said, and then laughed aloud when Laurel’s mouth dropped.
Laurel could only imagine the stunts these two old friends had lived through in their lives and decided it was time to change the subject.
“Tula, I’m looking forward to your grandson coming to help clean up the grounds and wonder if you know of two or three more people who’d be interested in doing some work inside? It would involve climbing on ladders, cleaning and polishing woodwork, and the like.” She heard some muttering and hissing behind her and added quickly, before Marie ignited, “Mamárie would be in charge of everything, of course. There’s a lot of cleaning to do, but I can’t have my best girl climbing on ladders and getting dust in her hair.”
The hissing turned into a sort of clucking sound. Laurel didn’t dare look for fear she would laugh.
“I’m sure we can come up with some help,” Tula said. “Lots of people loved Miz Marcella. They’d be happy to help you clean up a little.”
“It will be more than a little,” Laurel said. “But if they work out, there might be a permanent position for one or two of them. Ultimately, it will be Mamárie’s decision. If they don’t respect her authority, then they just won’t work out.”
All was silent behind her now. Laurel figured it was the perfect time to ask.
“Mamárie, is that all right with you?”
“I could use some help. But I won’t stand for any foolin’ around.”
Laurel nodded seriously. “That’s what I figured. You tell Tula what you need, and she’ll have a better idea of who to ask. Now, if you two don’t mind, I’m going to take a shower and wash off the evidence of my gardening.”
“I’m making blackened catfish for supper tonight,” Marie said.
“Sounds good,” Laurel said. “I’ll help you later.”
Marie started to argue, but she was coming to realize that none of this had anything to do with getting too old. Instead, it was Laurel who had the need—a need to belong.
“That would be good. And you can tell me about growin’ up in Washington, D.C., while we’re workin’.”
***
While Laurel was finding her balance in her new home, her father was struggling with her absence. To compensate, he’d thrown himself into his latest case. He had investigators digging through every piece of evidence that he’d been presented with, making sure that there would be no surprises come the day of the trial.
He’d interviewed Cherrie Peloquin, McNamara’s secretary, and knew that the defense could poke enough holes in her testimony to render it useless. Any number of interpretations could be attributed to what she’d heard McNamara say. But the facts could not be misinterpreted. McNamara was an alias for Dimitri Chorkin. He had been planted in the U.S. years ago as a Russian spy. The military had finally admitted that certain top-secret files had been tampered with, and there was information recovered from a computer confiscated from McNamara’s home that could be interpreted as evidence that he’d been in contact with enemies of the U.S. through e-mail. Separately, none of the facts were hard-core proof that Chorkin was anything but a fake. It wasn’t against the law to live under an assumed name, and they couldn’t prove that Chorkin had ever done anything illegal in the U.S. under his real name. But add it all together and the feds believed they had a fairly solid case. But Robert wasn’t satisfied with “fairly.” He wanted a lock.
However, no one was more surprised than Robert when he got a call from Carter Murphy, McNamara’s lawyer. McNamara wanted to talk to the prosecuting attorney, and not even Murphy knew why. Robert agreed to the meeting, but with reservations.
***
Carter Murphy was a small man in appearance, but he had the IQ of a genius, which was fortunate, because it was going to take a genius to keep Peter McNamara from a life sentence in a federal prison. Part of his problem was McNamara himself. McNamara, or Chorkin, whatever he called himself, was of the opinion that he could finagle his way out of this “situation,” as he called it, by giving up some players who were in a much bigger league than himself. But Carter knew something about the federal prosecutor that McNamara didn’t. Robert Scanlon didn’t bargain and he didn’t make deals—not with men who sold out their country. Of course, technically speaking, McNamara hadn’t sold out his country, because he wasn’t a United States citizen. But under the circumstances, Carter seriously doubted Scanlon would see it that way.
He glanced at his watch, then up at the door of the visiting room, and wished to hell everyone who was supposed to be here would show up. He didn’t like prisons. Then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the conference table, and reminded himself that being a lawyer had been his idea. He could have gone into the mortuary business with his father and saved himself the hassle of dealing with the living.
While he was feeling sorry for himself, the door opened. Robert Scanlon came in, nodded courteously to Carter Murphy, and then took a seat on the opposite side of the table.
“Mr. Murphy, it’s been a while,” Scanlon said.
Carter nodded. “The Tyler case, right?”
Robert Scanlon grinned. “Yes, I believe it was at that.”
Carter resisted the urge to tell Scanlon to wipe that damned grin off his face, but it would have been childish, considering that he’d been the attorney for the defense that had taken the loss. Marshall Levon Tyler, convicted of ten serial killings, was sitting on death row, awaiting his termination, thanks to the relentless prosecutor.
Robert glanced at his watch, then back at Murphy.
“What’s this all about, anyway?”
Murphy frowned. “I’m as much in the dark about this as y
ou are. I advised him against this, but McNamara has a mind of his own.”
“I don’t make deals,” Robert warned.
Murphy shrugged. “I have none to pitch. However, I cannot speak for my client.”
Before anything else could be said, the door opened. McNamara entered in handcuffs and leg irons, and accompanied by two armed guards. The odd thing was, despite the chains and prison garb, McNamara still managed to look somewhat stylish.
“Mr. Scanlon, isn’t it?” McNamara asked as he seated himself in the only empty chair.
“Mr. Chorkin, I’m going to ask you to be brief. My time is valuable.”
Peter grinned. By calling him Chorkin, the prosecutor was taunting him with the reminder that he was not an American citizen.
“Of course it’s valuable,” he said. “As is what I have to tell you. I want to make a deal.”
Robert stood abruptly, glaring at both Murphy and his client.
“I told you, I do not make deals.”
Peter was leaning back in his chair. His head was tilted to one side, and there was a big smile on his face.
“But you will this time,” he said.
Robert’s heart skipped a beat. There was something about McNamara’s grin that made his stomach knot. Still, he maintained his stance. He glanced at Murphy.
“I’ll see you in court,” he said, and started toward the door.
“Confiscate my property… have me deported… drop the charges of treason, because we both know that your evidence is circumstantial at best.”
Robert stared at the man in disbelief, then glared at Murphy.
“This is ridiculous. You should have more control over your client than to waste my time like this.”
Without another look at McNamara, Robert started toward the door again.
“Wait! Hear me out!” McNamara said, jumping to his feet.
Carter grabbed Peter by the arm. “Sit down, and for God’s sake, why don’t you stop while you’re ahead?”
McNamara stared at Carter and then sneered.
“Small man… small mind… why did I ever think you’d be of any use to me?” He looked up. Robert Scanlon was standing at the door. “The U.S. suffered some major setbacks during the war with Iraq that didn’t play very well in the media.”
