“When he drinks, he goes after Jenny sometimes. Twists her arm. Pushes her down. She tells me these things, but then he gets in her ear afterward, and suddenly, the story changes.”
Roberta looked at the young mother, who stared at her lap. Roberta had seen and heard plenty of disquieting things in her years as judge, but it was often the inanimate details that got her, like now: the aisle of still space between mother and daughter. A grandmother on one side of a courtroom, her daughter on the other. Divided, in this case, by a man. Beside Jenny, as Edith Warren went on, Austin Hicks maintained a calm expression Roberta could not read.
When Jenny Bruzi stood before her, Roberta couldn’t help but feel the nerves beneath an otherwise angry demeanor. “This is all ridiculous,” she protested. “Austin is a real good man, and he’s the only dad Layla has ever known. Her own sure isn’t around.” She glanced at Austin, and Roberta wondered if this had been rehearsed.
In the case of Austin Hicks, it was clear to Roberta the first time he opened his mouth that, despite his limited education, he was intelligent and unswervingly charming. He spoke confidently in her courtroom and with respect. Despite his admission of one incident of physical altercation between him and Jenny, and a subsequent verbal disagreement as reported by their neighbors, there were no reports of any endangerment or neglect to the children.
When questioned, Austin Hicks did not deny his responsibility or try to avoid accountability. Rather, he admitted openly that he had what he referred to as a “complicated” relationship with alcohol, and he had, in fact, lost his temper and his better judgment on occasions around Jenny and the children in their apartment. “I’m not denying it. Our fight got out of hand, but the kids were asleep. I would never do that again. I would never do it in front of the children.”
“Mrs. Warren is concerned about your ability to care for the children, Mr. Hicks. Can you tell the court what your plans are for employment and providing for rent, groceries, and living expenses?”
Austin Hicks shared that he’d recently applied to multiple local businesses, including Walmart, Home Depot, and a restaurant. “I used to work at my brother’s garage as a mechanic, but it went out of business.”
There were records to support that claim, and Roberta knew these things happened. “I advise you to pursue a new job with vigor,” she told him in no uncertain terms. “And I wonder about anger management classes in the interim.” He did not look pleased, but he did not protest, either.
Roberta questioned Jenny Bruzi methodically and thoroughly. “Ms. Bruzi, do you understand that, statistically speaking, once there is assault in a family home between two partners, it is more likely that the children will eventually be on the receiving end of such?”
Jenny nodded and insisted that was one time and that it had never happened again. Roberta believed it neither then nor for the future, but she repeated the gravity of the situation. “Raising children in a home where the parents are at odds, even verbally, is psychologically damaging to the children. Even at their young ages, they are processing this, whether or not they understand it. Do you wish to raise your children in a home where fear and aggression are being modeled?” It was not her intent to shame Jenny Bruzi, but Roberta was going to drive home the worst-case scenarios to her there and then, in the hope that it might somehow sink in that she was on a very dangerous path if this behavior and this relationship continued. Roberta indicated to Jenny’s mother, across the aisle: “Just appearing here today in front of me, as a family divided, I would argue that damage has already been done.”
There would be another hearing. And more visits from DCF to the apartment, which would result in reports being submitted to the court and recommendations for Roberta, as judge, to consider. But at the end of the day, the decision fell across her shoulders. And to this day, how she ended up ruling on the Bruzi case still weighed on her.
Twenty-Six Wendell
Two things had happened. First, Wendell received a phone call from an attorney named Jamie Aldeen, followed shortly thereafter by one from Roberta. His presence at an emergency hearing in the petition for emancipation of Julia Lancaster had been requested.
The second thing that occurred was that for-sale signs went up at White Pines. He’d had time to reason with himself, and he was glad that the work had gone to Ginny and her parents. They were good people. But even though it may have been irrational and more than a little bit unfair, it stung as a betrayal. Ginny should’ve told him she was trying to land Candace as a client. As he drove past the Feldman Agency sign at the mouth of the driveway, he tried not to grit his teeth. Since Julia had blown the whistle on all of them, it was time to face Candace.
As promised, Candace waited for him outside the barn.
“This may surprise you, but I don’t want to discuss anything about the horse,” she said, approaching the truck before he’d even had a chance to shut the door. She seemed rushed.
“All right.” This was a big surprise, and a relief, but Wendell needed to clear the air. “If I may, there’s a clarification I need to make.”
Candace lifted her chin.
“I’m not sorry for buying Radcliffe. It still strikes me as the right thing to do. But I am very sorry for the apparent confusion and hurt this whole situation has caused the girls. I know you have your hands full, as you said.”
This seemed to satisfy her. “I could have fired you, you know.”
Wendell swallowed. “You still could.”
“I don’t have time. And I sense you know that.” She indicated to the trucks parked along the edge of the field that he had not noticed until now. “The surveyors and engineers are back on-site today, finalizing some line changes. And I already have showings with two developers. That said, I propose we move on.”
So she was going to forgive him. Sort of. Wendell wasn’t sure if he was relieved or not. There was an even more complicating factor. “I received a call from Julia’s lawyer. And a hearing notice from the court.”
“As have I.” Candace looked worn, and Wendell actually felt bad for her. It wasn’t her fault that Alan and Anne were gone. She was not a mother and clearly had no feeling for White Pines. “It’s my understanding the girls have brought this about without any input or suggestion by you. Is that true?”
“That has always been the truth,” Wendell said firmly. “From the beginning, I told Julia that this was not an idea I supported, and I had no place being involved.” He paused. “But to stay truthful, I also have to admit that whether I like it or not, I am involved now. And if there is something I can do to help, without interfering, I am trying to stay open to that.”
“Are you able to continue to work here on the property?”
“I am,” Wendell said. It would be hard, but he couldn’t leave now.
“All right, then. I propose we move forward as our contract stipulates. As for the children, I have no choice but to let this play out. It is a tremendous distraction and expense, and I am not happy about it. But I have faith a judge will dismiss this out of hand, and that some sense of order will be restored. Julia is just going to have to accept that.”
Wendell wasn’t so sure, but he did not say this. For now, he still had a job. And there was a lot to do.
All morning he tried to keep his mind on his work as he carried the trimmers up to the ornamental trees by the main house. From the distance came the sound of voices every now and then. Candace was walking the property with a team of surveyors. It was impossible to make out what they were saying, and for that he was thankful.
The night before, Wendell had caved. Against his better judgment, he’d parked himself in his father’s old study and pulled the chair up to the mahogany desk to check the broker’s listing. “Pristine Connecticut properties in the hills of Litchfield County. Unique opportunity to design your own country haven. Just one hour northwest of the city!” Wendell had shut down his computer, staring at the blank screen a long time after it went dark. It was happening faster than he’d
thought.
Now, at work on a row of edges along the main driveway, he had full view as the group made their way down the grassy hillside. As per Candace’s instructions, he’d meticulously mowed the fields down to lawn height. “Easier for buyers to walk,” she’d said. Usually, Alan let those fields grow tall in summer, mowing a single narrow path through the wavy grasses to the orchard but leaving the rest in its natural state. Twice each season, he’d invited the local dairy farmer from Happy Acres Farm to come hay those fields, free of cost. Wendell liked that natural balance struck: between town and property, from wild clover to domestic herd feed. This year there would be no haying for the dairy farm. He wondered idly where they’d source their feed for the year and what it would cost them.
Wendell looked up as the surveyors drew closer. There was a group of four, in casual attire and work boots, carrying equipment. Behind them, Candace walked with a well-dressed man and woman, deep in conversation. Wendell identified the woman immediately: it was Ginny. Even at that distance, he recognized her graceful figure and the way she moved her hands through the air when she talked with zeal. Seeing her walk down the grassy paths he’d mowed was a fresh hurt. Despite the heat, Ginny looked crisp in tailored white pants and a sleeveless coral top. She was speaking to the man in their trio. Like him, Ginny was here to work.
Wendell imagined the pitch she was making, the words spilling from her lips like a cool stream through the sun-drenched field: “lakefront property,” “private enclave,” “natural environs.” As they approached, the man tipped his head toward her, seemingly hanging on to Ginny’s words. Wendell watched as she directed his gaze east then west, surveying the view. After further discussion, they shook hands and Candace and Ginny departed to the house, leaving the man to see himself out.
Hoping to avoid interaction, Wendell returned his attention to trimming the base of the hedge, but it was too late.
Wendell looked up from his work to see a pair of driving moccasins in some kind of reptilian leather.
“Say, there. You work here?” the man shouted over the noise.
Wendell cut the trimmer’s power. “Affirmative.”
The guy slid his sunglasses up onto his head. “Nice place. How long have you worked here?”
Wendell did not like crouching at this guy’s feet. He stood, swiping at the dirt on his knees. At full height, he looked him directly in the eye. “Can I help you?” he said instead.
The guy had a toothy smile. He extended a tanned hand. “Scooter Dunham. Prospective developer.”
Wendell knew about Scooter Dunham. For every parcel of open space Alan and Anne had purchased for the town land preservation trust over the years, Dunham Corporation was often the opposing bidder. They turned wild land into residential developments. Alan had hated the Dunhams. But Alan had been polite. Wendell shook his hand.
“So you knew Alan Lancaster,” Scooter said.
“I did.”
“Alan belonged to Quaker Hill Country Club with me.” He flashed his teeth again. “Never was much of a golfer, but he was charitable. I always meant to attend one of his fundraisers, but I never did make it. A real shame.”
Wendell wasn’t sure if Scooter meant the deaths of Alan and Anne, or the fact that Scooter had missed the opportunity to visit White Pines until now. He sincerely doubted the man had ever been invited. “It’s all a shame,” Wendell replied. He nodded to the group of engineers. Scooter had asked him enough; now it was his turn. “Are you planning to bid on the estate?”
Scooter chuckled. “I keep my cards close.” Then, “We’ll see. There are nicer properties I’ve got my eye on. In fact, I’m going to see one now, an old farm by Quaker Lake.”
Wendell knew the property. A childhood friend had grown up on that farm; his elderly parents still lived there. “I didn’t know that place was for sale.”
Scooter Dunham lowered his sunglasses. “Everything is for sale.”
Wendell had heard enough. “Excuse me,” he said. He flicked the button, and the trimmer buzzed to life. Wendell swung the machine in a clean arc over the top of the boxwoods, shearing off the top layer in one sharp swoop. Scooter hopped to the side as a jet of shorn twig and leaf sprayed the air between them. When Wendell was young, listening to his father talk about the working of town politics, about governing boards and committees, regulations and rules, it all sounded so honorable. But as Wendell grew up, he learned the truth. No matter the might of the rules or regulations, or the value of the things they stood to protect, what Scooter Dunham said was not wrong: for the right price, almost everything was for sale.
The day turned unbearably humid, and by the time he finished work, he was filthy and fatigued. All he wanted was a shower and a cold beer. But both would have to wait.
He saw them the moment he pulled into his driveway: up at the barn, a group of kids. Julia turned and waved. Wendell waited in the truck as she jogged to his window. “Hey,” she said, a huge smile on her face.
He was irritable and tired, his conversation with Candace fresh on his mind. “I’m not sure your being here is a good idea right now. After the other night. And now with the hearing coming up. I have a job to keep.”
Julia ignored this. “Oh, good! You got the hearing notice.”
Wendell pushed the truck door open impatiently. “I still don’t understand why I was summoned. We’ve already been over the guardianship thing. The person you need is not me.”
“I know, which is why I’m still looking for someone else,” she said. “The judge just wants to talk to everyone involved.”
“Involved. Exactly what I was trying not to be.”
Julia switched the subject. “So, I brought some friends to help today.” She turned and pointed as if he had not already seen the two teens loitering outside his barn.
Wendell followed her gaze. “Help with what?”
“The barn,” she said. “The paddock came out so well, I figured we could help you build a better stall for Raddy. He needs a real door. I saw some plywood in the corner, and Sam brought a set of hinges he found in his garage. I looked online to figure it out. See?” She held up a sketch.
Wendell glanced at it but kept walking. “Too hot today,” he said.
“But they’re free today. And we biked all the way over.”
Wendell spun around. “Julia. I said not today.”
“But—”
“But nothing! That’s hard work, and it requires all kinds of supervision. They’re just a bunch of kids. And I’m not a babysitter.”
“There’s just two of them, Sam and Chloe. She’s my best friend I’m always telling you about. Anyway, Sam is really strong, and they’re both hard workers. We can do it all, if you’re tired, and you can just watch from the patio or wherever. Or not at all.”
“Dammit, Julia. I said no.”
Her face fell. Instantly, he regretted it. But he could not give in. All around him, the things he’d built to ensure his work, secure his house in this town, and protect his peace of mind were coming down. What he really needed was to be alone. “Now, please, tell your friends I’m too busy, and take them home.”
He left her standing there and stalked up the walkway and up the porch steps. As he sat to unlace his work boots, he could feel her staring at him. Too bad she hadn’t been at the house when Scooter Dunham was standing in her front yard; even he couldn’t have withstood the withering look of a teenage girl. “You’re a real grump, you know that?”
Wendell tugged off his boots. He just wanted to get in the house. Turn up the air-conditioning.
“Fine,” she said finally, hands on her hips. “I’ll tell them you’re ungrateful and they should go home. But I’m building a stall.”
“Build whatever you want,” he said, rising and pulling the screen door ajar. “Just leave me out of it.”
He let the door slap shut behind him with a loud creak. Upstairs and finally free from Julia, the shower had never felt so good. Wendell turned the knob until it ran cold an
d tipped his head back. Even behind his closed eyes, he could see the look on Scooter Dunham’s face. And on Julia’s. Maybe he should sell this house and get out of Saybrook. Maybe he should start fresh somewhere else, doing something new. It was a terrifying thought that he toyed with only in times of great stress. Likely, he could never go through with it. But now he wondered.
When he’d toweled off and dressed, he peered out the window in the direction of the barn. The horse was grazing quietly. The kids were gone.
Later, when he’d finished dinner and a second beer, he went to the kitchen to clean up and let Trudy out one last time for the night. He was standing on the back patio waiting for her to get her business done when he heard the sound of hammer on board. The barn lights were dim but on.
“Christ.” Slowly, he made his way up the hill to the red barn. In the doorway, he paused. Julia was standing in the corner of the barn, her back to him. She’d nailed up one side of lateral boards to a corner post. Even from a distance, he could see they weren’t exactly level, but as he stepped closer and examined her work, he noticed the nails were sunk tight. She spun around, hammer in hand. “Jesus! You scared me.”
Message in the Sand Page 22
