The Witness

by Nora Roberts

  “Orzo,” Abigail managed. “I hope it’s appropriate with your menu.”

  “Since the menu’s a lot of this with more of that, it’ll fit right in. And it’s beautiful. Go on and put that on the table, Brooks, and get Abigail a drink. We’ve already got the margarita blender going overtime.”

  “I’ll fix you up,” he told Abigail. “Be right back.”

  “My girl Mya—you met Mya and Sybill—makes killer margaritas. Why don’t you let Bert off the leash so he can play with Plato?”

  Abigail crouched down as the dogs sniffed and wagged at each other. “Ils sont amis. Amis, Bert. C’est tout.”

  “He’s all right with kids running around?” Sunny qualified.

  “Yes. He’s very gentle, very patient. He wouldn’t attack unless I gave him the command. Or I was being assaulted.”

  “We’ll be sure nobody assaults you. Come on and meet Mick and Hilly Conroy. They’re old friends, and that’s their son, Russ—Brooks’s best pal, with his wife, Seline, and their toddler, CeeCee. They’ve had a spot of trouble,” Sunny continued as she walked. “I’m hoping to cheer them up.”

  “It’s an unfortunate situation. Brooks is very concerned.”

  “We all are. Here’s Abigail,” Sunny announced, when they joined the group.

  “About time.” The younger woman had smooth olive skin that set off the bright green eyes she used to assess Abigail. “I was beginning to think Brooks made you up.”

  “No. He didn’t.” I did, Abigail thought.

  “This is Seline, and her CeeCee, and our Russ. Russ’s parents, our friends Mick and Hilly.”

  “I’ve seen you around town a time or two,” Hilly said. “It’s nice to meet you finally.”

  “Thank you. I’m very sorry about your hotel. It’s a beautiful building.”

  “It’s good of you to say.” Hilly tipped her head to her husband’s arm, as if seeking comfort. “We’ll have it all back and better than ever. Right, Mick?”

  “Count on it. I heard the Blake boy gave you some trouble, too.”

  “He wanted to give Brooks trouble, but he didn’t succeed. He appears to be a very angry, very stupid person with violent tendencies. He should pay the consequences.”

  “We can all drink to that,” Mya said, as she strode over with a margarita in each hand. “Daddy snagged Brooks a minute, so I’m delivering your drink.”

  “Oh, thank you. It looks … frothy.” She tried a sip, discovered the tequila ran strong and smooth through the froth. “It’s very good.”

  “Packs a nice kick, doesn’t it?” As she spoke, Sunny put an arm around Abigail’s shoulders. “You were right about Bert.”

  Following the direction, Abigail looked to see Bert sitting cooperatively while the puppy danced around him, a long-legged girl hugged his neck and a towheaded boy stroked his back.

  “He’s very well behaved,” Abigail assured her. “And I think he’s enjoying the attention.”

  “He’s big as a horse,” Seline commented.

  Abigail started to disagree. After all, the average horse would be considerably bigger. Then had to remind herself not to be so literal.

  “His size should intimidate intruders.”

  “Scare the crap out of them,” Russ commented. “Now that we’ve got a second coming along, I’m talking Seline into a Lab.”

  “Poodle.”

  “Girlie dog.”

  “We’re girls.” She gave her daughter a kiss on the cheek. “You’re outnumbered.”

  “This one might even things up.” He tapped her belly with his finger. “A guy needs a dog, not a little French toy.”

  “Poodles are smart.”

  “They are a highly intelligent breed,” Abigail agreed. “Only the border collie is thought to be more intelligent. They’re agile and, if properly trained, very skilled and obedient.”

  “See?”

  “A Lab’s a dog. They’re smart,” Russ added, appealing to Abigail.

  “Yes, of course. They’re the most popular breed in this country, and in Great Britain. They make excellent assistance dogs. They’re loyal, and most have a well-developed play drive. They’re excellent with young children.”

  “Young children.” He snagged CeeCee, made the girl laugh as he tossed her in the air. “We’ve got one of those, getting another.”

  “Poodles are good with kids.”

  When Seline turned to Abigail, Sunny laughed. “Now you’ve done it. These two will tag you as referee in this battle. I’m going to save you, show you the gardens. Food’s going to be ready in a few minutes.”

  “Maybe they should consider a Labradoodle,” Abigail murmured, as Sunny steered her away.

  It wasn’t so difficult, she realized. For about twenty minutes, she walked and talked the gardens, talked with Brooks’s family and friends, answered excited questions regarding Bert from wide-eyed children.

  By the time everyone crowded around picnic tables, she felt more at ease. And relaxed further when, with the food now the focus, the attention shifted away from her.

  A backyard barbecue had its points, she thought. A casual setting for socialization, a variety of food prepared by a variety of hands. It was a kind of ritual, she realized, and somewhat tribal, with adults helping to serve or feed or tend to the children, their own and those belonging to others, with the dogs nearby and—despite her wince of disapproval—enjoying the food scraps tossed their way.

  And she liked the margaritas with their frothy kick.

  “Having a good time?” Brooks asked her.

  “I am. You were right.”

  “Hold that thought.” He leaned in to kiss her, then picked up his beer. “I think you’ll all be interested,” he began, without raising his voice over the conversations crisscrossing the table, “Abigail and I are getting married.”

  And those conversations, every one, stopped cold.

  “What did you say?” Mya demanded.

  “It’s what she said that matters.” He took Abigail’s hand. “And she said yes.”

  “Oh my God, Brooks!” Mya’s face went brilliant with her smile. She grabbed her husband’s hand, squeezed it, then leaped up to rush around the table and hug Brooks from behind. “Oh my God.”

  Then it seemed everyone spoke at once, to Brooks, to her, to each other. She didn’t know who to answer, or what to say. Her heartbeat thickened again as, beside her, Brooks looked at his mother, and she at him.

  “Ma,” he said.

  Sunny nodded, let out a long sigh, then pushed to her feet. He rose as she did, as she reached out, folded him into her. “My baby,” she murmured, then closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she looked directly at Abigail, held out a hand.

  Unsure, Abigail got to her feet. “Mrs.—”

  Sunny just shook her head, gripped Abigail’s hand, pulled her into the fold. “I’m going to cry, just half a minute,” Sunny told them. “I’m entitled. Then I’m going in and getting that bottle of champagne we had left over from New Year’s Eve so we can toast this proper.”

  She held tight, tight, then slowly eased back to kiss Brooks on both cheeks. To Abigail’s surprise, Sunny took her face in her hands, laid her lips on each of Abigail’s cheeks in turn.

  “I’m glad of this. I’m going to get that champagne.”

  “She needs a minute.” Loren stood, walked to his son. “She’s happy, but she needs a minute.”

  He embraced his son, then turned to embrace Abigail. “Welcome to the family.” He laughed, then squeezed, lifting her to her toes.

  Everyone talked at once again, and Abigail found herself whirled between hugs, stumbling over the answers to questions about when, where, what about her dress.

  She heard the pop of the champagne cork over the questions, the laughter, the congratulations. She let herself lean against Brooks, looked up, met his eyes.

  Family, she thought.

  She could have family, and understood, now that she could touch it, that she’d do anything, e
verything, to keep it.

  28

  WEDDING PLANS. ABIGAIL SAW THEM AS A SMALL, SHINY snowball rolled down a mountain. It grew, and grew, and grew, gathering weight, speed, mass, until it produced an immense, messy, thunderous avalanche.

  In the sunstruck afternoon in the Gleasons’ backyard, that avalanche roared over her.

  “So, are you thinking next spring?” Mya asked her.

  “Spring? I …”

  “No.” Under the picnic table, Brooks patted Abigail’s thigh. “I’m not waiting that long.”

  “Spoken like a man who doesn’t have the first clue what goes into doing a wedding. We had ten months for Sybill and Jake’s—and worked like dogs to get it all done in time.”

  “But it was beautiful,” Sybill reminded her.

  “I assumed we’d just go to the courthouse,” Abigail began, and was rewarded with stereo gasps from the women.

  “Bite your tongue.” Mya pointed at her.

  Sybill gave her sister an elbow in the ribs. “You want something simple.”

  “Yes. Very simple.” She looked at Brooks.

  “Simple, sure. I’m betting there’s a lot of simple between a run to the courthouse and the diamond jubilee forming in Mya’s mind. I’m thinking in the fall—time enough for a little fuss, not enough time to rent a circus tent.”

  “That’s less than six months! Less than six months to find the perfect dress, book the right venue, interview caterers, photographers—”

  “Photographers?” Abigail interrupted.

  “Of course. You can’t have your uncle Andy taking your wedding photos.”

  “I don’t have an uncle Andy.” And she’d always avoided photographs. Ilya had recognized her in New York, in a matter of seconds, on the street. If a photo of her somehow got online or in a newspaper it could—likely would—lead to discovery and disaster.

  “Which leads back to the guest list. I can help with our side. I have the list from mine, and from Syb’s. How many do you estimate from your side?”

  “There’s no one.”

  “Oh, but—” Mya didn’t need an elbow jab or the warning look from Brooks to cut herself off. She rolled on as if “no one” was perfectly normal. “That sure keeps it simple. What we need is a planning session, a ladies’ lunch—because you don’t have anything to do about it,” she told Brooks with a wide grin. “Weddings flow from the bride.”

  “Fine with me.”

  “I know this wonderful bridal boutique down in Little Rock,” Mya continued.

  “White Wedding,” Seline put it. “It is wonderful. I found my dress there.”

  “What we need to do is take a day, all us girls, go down there, check it out, have lunch, brainstorm. I’ll have to check my calendar.” Mya dug out her phone, began to swipe screens. “Maybe we can set it up for next week.”

  “Next week,” Abigail managed.

  “You always were a bossypants.” Sunny sat back, sipping a margarita. “That’s one of the things we love about her, Abigail, but it takes some getting used to. Why don’t you give her a few days, Mya, to get settled in to being engaged?”

  “I am bossy.” Mya laughed and tossed back her hair when her husband snorted into his beer. “And when we’re sisters? I’ll be even worse.”

  “She means it,” Sybill said.

  Abigail heard the quiet hum of the vibrating phone in Brooks’s pocket. When she looked down, he eased it out, checked the display. “Sorry, need to take this.” His eyes met hers briefly as he stood up, walked some distance off.

  It seemed surreal. Mya continued to talk about wedding boutiques, flowers, and plated meals or buffets, and all the while Brooks talked to Anson about decisions that would put her life on the line.

  Like the snowball again, she thought, rolling, rolling, growing, picking up weight and mass until it took the mountain with it.

  No stopping it now, she reminded herself. She was committed to pushing through.

  “Are you all right?” Sybill asked her.

  “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. It’s just a little overwhelming.”

  “And it’s just getting started.”

  “It is.” Abigail glanced over at Brooks. “It’s started.”

  Brooks walked back, laid a hand on her shoulder. “Sorry, I have to take care of this.”

  “Go be a cop, then,” Mya advised. “We can drop Abigail home on our way.”

  “Oh.” For an instant, Abigail’s mind went blank. “Thank you, but I really need to get home to some work I left pending.”

  “Then I’ll call you tomorrow, or e-mail you. E-mail might be better, I can send you some links. Just give me your—”

  “Mya.” Sunny arched her eyebrows. “What happened to those few days to settle?”

  “All right, all right. I can’t help it if I was born to plan and organize parties. You e-mail me when you’re settled.” Grabbing a paper napkin, Mya wrote down her e-mail address.

  Abigail had a feeling it would take more than a few days. “I will. Thank you so much for the afternoon.”

  “Abigail.” Sunny crossed to her, hugged her hard, and whispered, “Don’t worry. I’ll run interference with Mya for a week or two.”

  It took some time. Apparently, people didn’t just say good-bye at a barbecue. They hugged, or stretched out a conversation, made future plans, played with the dog. Even called out and waved once you got as far as the car.

  “Before you tell me what Captain Anson said, I want to say your family is …”

  “Loud, pushy?”

  “No. Well, yes, but that’s not what I want to say. Affectionate. Naturally so. I understand you better now, for having spent the afternoon with them. Your mother … Don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t like it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Your mother put her arm around my shoulders. It was just a careless gesture. I doubt she gave it a thought, and has done the same, countless times, to others. But when she did that, to me, I felt—I thought—So this is what a mother does. She touches you, or holds you, just because. For no important reason. And then I thought, If there are children, I want to learn to be the kind of mother who can touch or hold without thinking, and for no important reason. I hope I have the chance to do that.”

  “You will.”

  “Anson talked with the FBI.”

  “For most of the day. His take is, initially, at least, they’d hoped to do an end run around him, get to you. But he stuck with the out-of-left-field contact. They were careful what they passed on to him, but he’s dead sure they’ll be doing some surveillance on Cosgrove and Keegan.”

  “Does he think they believed my story?”

  “You’d laid it out, step-by-step, right down to what John said to you. And now you’ve been this very valuable source over the last couple years. Why would you lie about Cosgrove and Keegan?”

  “It wouldn’t be logical.”

  “No, it wouldn’t. They want to talk to you in person. They want you to come in. They promise you protection.”

  “They want to question me, to make certain I wasn’t complicit in John’s and Terry’s deaths. If and when they’re sure of that, they’ll want me to agree to testify against Korotkii.”