When Lightning Strikes Twice

by Barbara Boswell

  “Do that,” decreed Town Junior. He and Town Three stalked off, leaving the Saxons with Marguerite’s family.

  “Yes, Eve, do that,” Marguerite seconded haughtily, and made her own grand exit. Her ever-silent husband and their son and daughter followed.

  Wade looked at his aunt, who was staring at the departing Tildens, her face a mask of barely contained fury. Marguerite was supposed to be Aunt Eve’s dear old school chum.

  “Man, with friends like her …” he unconsciously blurted his thoughts aloud.

  He felt an unexpected flash of sympathy for his aunt. Getting Cormacked was bruising, and Aunt Eve and Rachel seemed exceptionally unable to cope. And they hadn’t even heard about Pedersen’s defection. Wade took off his coat and loosened his tie. He felt as if he were choking on the fallout of that yet-to-be-dropped bomb. Meanwhile, there were the Tildens to endure.

  “Do you know there was a time when Marguerite and I hoped that you and Sloane would get together and our families would be officially joined?” Eve grimaced. “When you two were younger, it was our fondest wish.”

  “Aunt Eve, I’d rather be burned at the stake.”

  “Well, to be perfectly honest, I’m glad you’re not with her either. The girl is insufferable.”

  “All the Tildens are insufferable,” grumbled Wade. “What a stroke of bad luck that we’re stuck with them and Quint Cormack gets Misty!”

  “I’ll overlook that remark since we’ve had a trying morning.” Eve gave him a leveling glance. “What do you make of Shawn Sheely being with Misty last night and corroborating her complaint? A stroke of evil genius on Quint Cormack’s part?”

  “No. Dana would never condone that.” Wade was emphatic. “If Shawn’s with Misty, he arranged it all on his own. It’s not that hard to fathom, Aunt Eve. Misty is only a couple years older than Shawn and he—well, he’s not at all like Tim. Shawn has always been restless, kind of a daredevil. He loved his stint in the marines, except when he thought things were getting too tame. Bosnia just wasn’t the same for him after they signed that peace agreement. And now he’s back here in Jersey and bored. He wants to start up a lawn-care business but the banks turned him down for a loan and he’s frustrated and—”

  “The flashy young widow has lots of capital to invest,” Eve filled in the rest. “Considering her past, she would appeal to a restless young man with a taste for adventure. I do feel sorry for Bob and Mary Jean Sheely, though. They won’t like this at all. Are you going to tell them?”

  Wade recoiled in dread. “Do you think I should? I—uh—thought I’d mention it to Dana. She could tell her folks if she wanted to.”

  “You said that Dana is out of town. This type of gossip spreads fast as wildfire, Wade. I believe hearing it from you first would be easier for the Sheelys.”

  “Then I guess I’ll go over there now,” Wade said glumly. “I’d almost rather date Sloane than break this news to them.”

  “I know, but it should—” Eve halted in mid-sentence. “Isn’t that Chief Spagna leaving the building?”

  Wade followed her gaze. The chief was striding purposefully toward the squad car in front of the station. “Yeah, that’s him.”

  “He said he had a meeting in his office in two minutes, and that’s why we had to leave. Well, his meeting couldn’t be over that fast.” Eve was indignant.

  “True. Looks like we were evicted. Blown off.” Wade laughed slightly. “There aren’t very many people who would dare do that to the Tildens and the Saxons. Quint Cormack is one, seems like Spagna is the other. You have to kind of admire the chief for that.”

  “I will not be treated so disrespectfully!” Eve turned on her heel and started toward the squad car herself. “Chief Spagna, I want to speak to you right now,” she called out to him.

  Wade flinched. She sounded alarmingly Tilden-like, and the chief had made his feelings about the Tildens clear when he’d kicked them all out of his office a few minutes ago.

  But Spagna did stop and wait, his body language readable even at a distance. Chief Nick Spagna was not pleased.

  Wade chased after his aunt and caught her by the arm, halting her. It was surprisingly easy for him to physically restrain her. Startled, he found himself viewing her from a different angle, an objective one, for the first time in his adult life.

  Eve Saxon was slender and only of average height; she looked particularly fragile and feminine in her powder blue suit. Wade blinked, nonplussed. He’d always thought of his aunt as more powerful and invincible than an armored tank destroyer.

  “Aunt Eve, be careful what you say to the chief,” he hissed in her ear. “Spagna was a detective in Newark, remember? They don’t mess around up there. Disrespect him and you’ll end up in a cell. Probably with something broken. Maybe your head.”

  “Go to the Sheelys, Wade,” Eve muttered, her eyes fixed on Nick Spagna. The chief met and returned her fierce glare. “I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” She jerked free and stalked off.

  “And those were the last words she spoke before she disappeared forever,” Wade said sardonically, as his aunt headed straight for the police chief.

  He turned and resolutely walked to his car. He had never been the type to slow down and stare at traffic accidents or to watch disaster footage, and the ensuing Saxon-Spagna clash promised to be nothing less than a gruesome spectacle.

  He envisioned a ghoulish scenario in which Chief Spagna would claim he’d shot Eve Saxon in the line of duty and then retain Quint Cormack, who would get him acquitted of all charges. The Tildens wouldn’t care at all, of course. They would probably decide to take their legal business to the victorious Cormack, just like Pedersen.

  And now he faced the bleak prospect of breaking the Sheelys’ hearts. Feeling as welcome as a bell-ringing leper in a medieval town, a grim-faced Wade drove off to tell the family about Shawn’s new friend.

  11

  “I’ve never been to anything like this. It’s fun.” Rachel was caught up in the lively atmosphere of the Renaissance Festival. “Isn’t it?” she asked Quint, who walked alongside her.

  The four children were a few feet ahead of Rachel and Quint, their heads bobbing back and forth, like spectators following the ball in a tennis match, as they took in the strange sights and sounds.

  Festival personnel wearing period costumes and speaking a kind of pidgin Chaucerian English moved through the fairground, staging miniscenes with each other, acting as drunk or amorous or loquacious villagers.

  “Fun,” Quint repeated doubtfully. He watched a medieval-garbed nun scold a pair of drunken villagers, and the men’s muddled responses drew laughs from the surrounding crowd.

  “Well, I’ll admit there is pageantry and a certain infectious air to the whole thing, but I’m reserving judgment about how much fun we’re having. Those affected Middle English accents are awful beyond imagining and the costumes—”

  “You seemed to be enjoying the cleavage of that buxom blond wench selling ale back there,” Rachel observed dryly. “You couldn’t tear your eyes away from Canterbury Tales Barbie.”

  Her own ice green ribbed cotton sweater and slim-fitting wheat-colored jeans were a drastic contrast to her severe courtroom wardrobe, yet seemed downright demure in comparison to some of the festival players’ provocative attire.

  There was plenty of overflowing cleavage on display, thanks to the low-cut gowns and corsets that plumped up flesh more efficiently than the modern-day Wonderbra. Some of the men wore tights and tunics, but most had on baggy pants and shapeless shirts, presumably the practical unflattering garb of peasants of yore. Long, dark, hooded cloaks, elegant yet somewhat sinister, were sold at one of the booths, but more fairgoers than actors were wearing them.

  “I wasn’t staring, Rachel,” Quint assured her, tongue-firmly-in-cheek. “I was simply wondering if they had silicone implants back in the Middle Ages.”

  “Sure. They had funnel cake, too. And deep-fried vegetables drowned in cheese sauce and froze
n cappuccino.”

  They’d passed booths selling that anachronistic cuisine, along with pizza slices, soft drinks, hot dogs, and ice cream. From the long lines at each booth, it was clearly modern crowd-pleasing fare.

  They walked past a small crowd gathered around a festival actress—another blonde with an amazing chest stuffed into a brocade corset—who had engaged a male attendee in a bawdy conversation. The woman didn’t break character while the man stammered his replies and the onlookers laughed, enjoying the scene.

  “Poor sap, you can tell he feels like a fool,” said Quint, warily eyeing those around him. “This is too interactive for me.”

  The festival actors aggressively approached people to start a mock quarrel or pepper them with ribald questions and suggestions which other spectators—who weren’t targets themselves—found hilarious.

  “I think I’m in hell,” Quint muttered a short while later when a young man dressed in raggedy village serf clothes demanded “a tuppence” to buy himself a cup of mead, a drink made of fermented honey.

  “No,” Quint said firmly, refusing to be drawn into further banter.

  Remaining firmly in character, the actor then turned to Rachel, and asked, “Why doth milady consort with Lord Cheapside here? If he doth not give gramercy to one such as I, certes you will be treated no better.”

  Rachel smiled gamely and tried to think of an amusing comeback but before one came to mind, Quint caught her wrist and pulled her away. His dour expression did not encourage the actor to continue the repartee, so the young man turned to more willing participants.

  “You looked ready to mangle the poor guy. It’s just pretend, Quint, like being in a play. Where’s your sense of humor?” Rachel reproved with a smirk.

  “I don’t find it funny to be forced into a stupid skit where the other guy knows the script and I don’t. I hate being cast in the role of village idiot.”

  “Since when do you need a script to follow? You certainly have no problem speaking extemporaneously, at least not in the courtroom. Of course, in the Pedersen case, I was the one cast in the role of village idiot, which would’ve been more to your liking.”

  She said the words before they fully registered, and when they did, Rachel was astounded. She’d actually joked about the calamitous Pedersen trial! She wouldn’t have thought it possible.

  Quint slid his fingers over her wrist and linked them with hers. “The problem with that case wasn’t you, Rachel, it was Pedersen and his tyrant complex that landed him in court in the first place. The man was indefensible. Even he will admit that now.”

  “You are as slick as an oil spill, Quinton Cormack,” Rachel said tersely.

  She debated whether or not to remove her hand from his, but ultimately, she didn’t. The warmth of his palm and the strength of his fingers felt too good joined with hers.

  “I hope you don’t really believe that, Rachel.” Quint’s voice was low and deep.

  Was he really being slick or was he sincere? Whichever, he was certainly convincing. She was beginning to accept his point of view, maybe even agree with it. The fact that she could make a joke about the worst defeat of her career portended … something.

  Rachel didn’t care to examine what.

  She glanced up at Quint, whose rangy, athletic build was emphasized by the faded jeans and Philadephia Flyers shirt he was wearing. She was instantly assailed by intense sensual memories, of his lips on hers, his tongue in her mouth, his hands on her breasts. She felt her insides liquefy as she imagined his hands and his lips touching her in places that were suddenly throbbing and ultrasensitive.

  It was lunacy, this physical effect he had on her. She should hate herself for it, but she couldn’t seem to work up even a middling dander. Reflexively, Rachel touched one finger to the purple passion mark on her neck. It had faded only slightly, but she hadn’t bothered trying to conceal it with makeup today.

  “Did your sister comment on that last night?” Quint asked.

  Rachel’s hand swiftly fell to her side. She was mortified that he’d been watching her and fervently hoped he hadn’t intuited what she’d been thinking. And wanting.

  “She didn’t notice,” Rachel replied. It was true. While eating ice cream at Richman’s last night, the conversation had centered exclusively on Laurel.

  “You could’ve had your face painted blue and she wouldn’t have noticed,” Quint said knowledgeably. “Laurel is the star of her own show, and you’re merely a member of the audience. Front or back row?”

  Rachel thought of Laurel’s long soliloquy on the trials and tribulations of being Laurel. “I think I was way up in the balcony, last row,” she admitted ruefully.

  “That’s usually where I am in those one-player scenes.” Quint gave her hand a sympathetic squeeze and pulled her a little closer to him.

  She didn’t even consider moving away.

  They reached a row of stalls where medieval arts and crafts demonstrations were being performed. There were also booths with festival souvenirs for sale. The children ran back and forth from one booth to another, thrilled with the merchandise.

  “Ah, ye old tourist trap,” Quint murmured. “A taste of the twentieth century interjected into the fourteenth.”

  Rachel hurried to take Brady and Snowy by their hands and guide them away from a rather risqué scene being enacted by yet another buxom young maiden and a lecherous young man who was practically drooling over the woman’s ample bosom. The crowd watching the pair were chuckling, but the two toddlers didn’t get the jokes, much to Rachel’s relief.

  “Quint, would you buy me a sword?” cried Austin, his dark eyes glowing with excitement.

  They all watched the blacksmith who stood over a fire, shaping metal into knights’ helmets and swords. The finished products were offered for sale in the stall next to the workshop and looked like genuine medieval wares.

  “Arm you with a sword?” Quint was incredulous. “You’re kidding, right? After your adventures with the BB gun?”

  “Sarah still has it,” Austin said sulkily. “She and Matt said they won’t give it back till they’re good and ready.”

  “I hope that will be about ten years from now,” replied Quint. “I won’t buy you a sword, Austin. Find something else.”

  “Sorn,” attempted Brady, pointing at one of the long metal swords. “Want that.”

  It was definitely time for a change of scene, Rachel decided. “Let’s look at the puppets.” She pointed to another booth and herded the smaller children toward it. “Wouldn’t it be fun to have a puppet? Look, there are green dragons and—”

  “I want a puppet,” Dustin said eagerly.

  “Puppets are for babies like Brady and Snowy.” Austin was scornful. “Hey, Quint, I see what I want. Over there. A whip!”

  Long, authentic-looking whips were being sold at one of the booths. Quint and Rachel looked at each other.

  “This is going to be a very long day,” Quint said resignedly, as Austin tugged on his arm, pulling him toward the booth.

  Rachel watched a glassblower for a few minutes before Brady and Snowy lost interest and moved on to a theater stall featuring a traditional Punch and Judy puppet show. The humor and the language was beyond the toddlers, who created their own game, making their new dragon puppets pretend to eat the grass, an activity they found far more entertaining than any historical reenactment.

  Quint joined them later with Austin and Dustin, each boy clutching a knight action figure—a compromise on the whip, perhaps?—and a wooden Jacob’s ladder toy.

  “There are lots of games for kids over on the far side of the field,” Quint reported, “and there’s something called a Living Chess Game, too. Do you want to see it?”

  “Cool!” exclaimed Austin, pausing to whomp his brother on the back. He took off with chubby Dustin running after him, hopelessly outpaced.

  Rachel managed to jolly Brady and Snowy into coming along, though they would’ve been happy to stay put, absorbed in their play.

/>   “They’ve been playing their puppets-eat-grass game for the past twenty minutes and still find it endlessly fascinating,” she marveled.

  “A game they could play in their own backyards. Glad we made the two-hour drive and paid those stiff attendance fees for them.” Quint was sardonic.

  “The Renaissance aspect of this fair is wasted on them, but they’re enjoying themselves in their own way. Uh-oh.” Rachel touched Quint’s arm, directing his attention ahead and to the right.

  Austin had just pushed his younger brother into the path of a colorfully clad juggler, who was gaily juggling five or six bright rubber balls. Dustin fell to the ground and knocked the juggler off-balance. The balls went flying in five or six different directions.

  “I think I’m finally beginning to understand the whys and wherefores of the Children’s Crusade,” drawled Quint. “The medieval Austins were shipped off to terrorize distant lands, leaving the villages in peace.”

  “If only you would make politically incorrect remarks like that in court, you would be a far less formidable opponent.” Rachel was only half-kidding. “But in the courtroom you never hit a false note, not even in jest.”

  “I think you’ve built up my courtroom prowess to mythical proportions, Rachel,” Quint said dryly. “A word to the wise … Don’t let me psych you out.”

  She tilted her head, inquisitive. “Wade said you’re deliberately trying to psych me out in the Tilden case. He said it’s part of your strategy.”

  Quint grinned. “Wade has more perception than I credited him with. I’ve always viewed him as Saxon Associates’ weakest link, but I may have to rethink that premise.”

  “So you admit it? You were playing mind games with me?”

  “Of course. A stock-in-trade technique, Rachel. You should know that.”

  At this point she was more curious than angry. She looked up at him, her eyes meeting his, her lips slightly parted. It took a moment for her to speak. “But why are you telling me now? Isn’t giving away your tactics a mistake?”

  “No, because it won’t change anything.” He put his arm around her waist and slipped his hand beneath the ribbed hem of her cotton sweater to lightly stroke her midriff.