Truth and Justice
Page 21
“Oh, it’s easy,” Kathryn said.
“We’re here with nine minutes to spare,” Maggie said, careening into the parking area near the beach. “Timing is everything, girls, move it!”
And they did. It was a precision drill. First, they assembled the oversize dog crate. Maggie and Kathryn carried it to the beach. Nikki and Alexis half carried and half dragged Sara through the sand to the dog crate. Yoko cut her bonds as Annie and Isabelle shoved Sara into the crate and locked it.
“High tide is in six minutes!” Myra shouted.
“Our work here is done!” Annie said, as she followed the girls back to the van. Off in the distance, if anyone was looking, Avery Snowden and his operatives were laughing like a bunch of lunatics.
“Anchors away, mates!”
Epilogue
Twenty months later
Bella looked to the horizon and smiled. A perfect day as far as she could tell. And, it was the first day of summer, June 21. How pristine everything is, she thought. How green. Did they measure with a ruler to make sure all the crosses lined up so perfectly? She should know the answer to that question, but she didn’t. But then how could she know? She had never been here before. Well, she was here now, and the answer really didn’t matter. Not now.
Bella dropped to her knees and laid the single yellow sunflower at the base of the cross that said that Major Andrew Adam Nolan rested here unto eternity. Because she didn’t know if flowers were permitted on the pristine grounds, she’d only brought one sunflower.
“It’s me, Andy. Bella. I’m sorry I haven’t been out here to . . . to visit. I just couldn’t make myself come here, knowing I couldn’t handle it. I stayed away on purpose. Forgive me, please.
“I came today for several reasons. I’ve had a rough time, Andy. I met a group of wonderful women who helped me. I wouldn’t be here talking to your . . . ah . . . spirit if it weren’t for them. Truly, I owe them my life. I don’t know if I will ever be able to repay them, but I am going to search for a way. I learned from them that it isn’t about weathering the storm but learning how to dance in the rain. I did it. I can now dance in the rain.
“I’m not going to go into all that went on with your sister. I think, wherever you are, you know. And I don’t want to ruin this visit.”
Bella rummaged in her bag and pulled out a mini recorder. “I brought something with me that I think will sum up my visit. Remember when you kissed me out on that pier, and we could hear the music from the bar. It was so romantic. They were playing that song Dolly Parton wrote and Whitney Houston sang and made famous, ‘I Will Always Love You.’ You kissed me and said you would always and forever love me even though we had just met. I cried the way I’m crying now, and this song is saying what I feel. Andy, a part of me will always love you. Always. I had to come here to tell you that.
“Paul Montrose came to help me when those wonderful people I told you about asked for his help. He stayed on. We got to know each other. We were friends, and that friendship went further as time went on. He asked me to marry him. I didn’t give him my answer because I wanted to talk to you first.” Out of the corner of her eye, Bella noticed a flash of pale blue. A tiny blue hummingbird was sucking at the nectar on the sunflower. She smiled.
“I’m going to go back and tell Paul that my answer is yes, Andy. By the way, I scrimped and saved and the mechanic felt sorry for me and gave me a good deal so I got your truck fixed, painted, and worked over. And then I gave it to Paul. He loves it as much as you did. I just don’t get that whole truck thing. I guess it’s a guy thing. Somehow, deep in my heart, I thought you would want Paul to have your truck. He’s a great guy, Andy, and he loved you like one of his brothers. He flew here when he came to help, but we’re going to pack up my stuff and put it in the back and drive cross-country. Paul works with his two brothers in a high-tech company in Silicon Valley. They made him a partner. He has a big family, and I can’t wait to be part of it. I want to belong, Andy. I need to belong to someone.
“Which brings me to the real reason I came here today. I came to say goodbye. I won’t be coming back here to . . . to . . . visit. It wouldn’t be fair to Paul. It has to be all or nothing or it won’t work for us. I hope you understand. But . . . I think it’s okay for you and me to have a secret. I know you aren’t going to tell anyone, and I will never, ever admit that one small part of me has been carved out and saved, the part of me that will always love you. So this is goodbye, Andy,” Bella said, as she put her hand over her heart and placed it on the pristine white cross. She looked down at the tiny hummingbird still feasting on the sunflower.
Bella was on her feet and about to walk away when she turned around, and said, “Hey, Andy, it would be nice if you could somehow give me a sign that you’re okay with all of this.” When nothing happened, Bella swiped her hand across her eyes to wipe away the tears. She walked away but turned back once to wave.
“Remember what I said, Andy, our secret, part of me will always love you.”
* * *
Six weeks later, in a small white church in California, the Montrose family, which numbered thirty-five, and what they called the East Coast family, eight Sisters and their menfolk, all clapped when the minister said, “I pronounce you man and wife. You may now kiss the bride.”
And the groom did exactly that.
And then they were all outside, laughing and throwing popcorn instead of rice. Bella turned when a little girl who looked to be around ten years old held out a sunflower. “That man over there said to give you this. He said if you hold it long enough, a hummingbird will come.”
Bella whirled around. “Where? What man? Where is he?”
The little girl pointed to a tree across the road from the church. “There was a man wearing a white suit. I don’t see him now. I asked him why he didn’t give it to you himself, and he said he had to get back. It’s a pretty flower, Miss Bella.”
A smile that rivaled the bright sun washed over Bella’s face. “Well, okay then, Andy. Message received.”
Keep reading for
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BITTER PILL,
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London—present day
Charlotte Hansen peered closely into the magnifying mirror on her vanity. “Why do I keep having these fog-like moments?” she whispered to her reflection. Looking down at the array of prescription bottles, she could not remember which pills she was supposed to take next. These were supposed to help me, but I feel like I’m getting worse. She had numbered the white caps of the green bottles to make it easier but had forgotten to replace the caps when she took the first three pills. She wrung her hands in dismay . I simply cannot tell Maryann that I’ve messed up my routine again. For sure, she’ll have me put under observation. And what would they observe? A sixtysomething woman losing her memory ? Nothing too odd about that. She heaved a big sigh and decided to skip the rest of her morning routine of taking twelve different pills. What difference will one dose make?
Unless her daughter, Maryann, was counting the pills. With that thought, Charlotte flushed what was left of her morning dose down the toilet. She splashed water on her face, took another deep look in the mirror, and decided she could fake it for the day if necessary.
Charlotte thought a visit to London to see Maryann and her grandson Liam would raise her spirits, but instead she seemed to be in a downward spiral. She would discuss the matter with Dr. Marcus at her next appointment. Checking her desk diary, she noted she was due to see him the next day. Charlotte didn’t care for him very much even though he was effusive and turned on the charm. But he had been recommended by her new personal physician in Aspen—who insisted she have a doctor on hand, particularly in a foreign country. Apparently, Dr. Marcus and her new doctor, Dr. Harold Steinwood, who had taken over the practice of her long-time physician, Dr. Robert Leeland, had studied together in Switzerland, and when Cha
rlotte had told Dr. Steinwood that she would be traveling to London, he insisted that she get in touch with his classmate, Dr. Marcus. In time, she would reevaluate this “miracle doctor” and his “cure” for mental acuity and longevity, but for now she was content to get dressed and prepare for the rest of her day.
Sag Harbor
Dr. Raymond Corbett strolled around his two-hundred-square-foot walk-in closet, deciding which cashmere blazer he should wear to the party. It was finally going to be his big night in the Hamptons. After years of being overlooked by almost every yacht club and country club in the South Fork of Long Island, he had persuaded the Longboat Yacht Club to allow him to become a member. The membership came with a very high price tag. Apparently, one could buy his way into the stodgy organization that catered to old-money and the nouveaux riche. One either had to own a yacht over eighty-three feet, be a power broker, or be some sort of celebrity. He was none of those. He was merely a physician who specialized in longevity wellness. Yes, he had been treating patients for almost a decade now, prescribing placebos and mind-altering drugs to women of a certain age—mostly rich widows, to be precise.
He took one of his Tom Ford designer blazers from the rack and frowned at the brass buttons. They needed to be polished. Now. He pressed his finger down on the house intercom. “Henry!” he bellowed. “Meet me in my dressing room. Now!”
A soft voice replied, “I will be there right away, sir.”
Corbett tossed it on the bed and then chose an Armani blazer to wear. He thumbed through his new collection of striped, button-down shirts and picked a shirt from one of his favorite designers, Brioni. Recalling the $820 price tag, he snickered. Yes, he would almost look like a million bucks. Almost. The jacket, shirt, Gucci shoes, and Audemars Piguet Royal Oak Concept 44mm Titanium watch totaled almost $160,000. He’d leave the pinky ring home. No sense being ostentatious. He snickered to himself again. Tonight was the night he would reveal to the members of the yacht club that he would be displaying a painting at a private exhibit: one by Marc Chagall once thought to have been stolen and burned by the Nazis. He had made arrangements to acquire it at a private sale brokered by Christie’s. Tonight, he was having a party, basically in honor of himself, at the yacht club. Once he had possession of the Chagall, he would hire a private security company, which would cost a small fortune, to deliver the artwork and keep guard over it during the gala he would hold at the club, then take it to a special locker at the Museum of Modern Art. He had made arrangements for them to borrow the painting in the fall. He wanted to spend his summer being known in the Hamptons as a great art connoisseur.
Yes, his group of “longevity” doctors—who claimed to have a new protocol to moderate the progress of aging—had brought him and his two partners the wealth to live an extravagant lifestyle, something he was enjoying immensely. He had a co-op in Manhattan and now this modest home in Sag Harbor.
Corbett knew that he and his partners would have to retire soon—before the world learned the truth. There were two old biddies who could ruin it all. Lorraine Thompson had died of an accidental overdose, and Margorie Brewster had an incident that sent her into convulsions, the treatment for which put her in a semiconscious state. Even with the waivers and nondisclosure agreements their patients had agreed to, those incidents would eventually pop up on someone’s radar. They had been lucky enough to fly under the radar for a good long while. These were simply a couple of mishaps. He, Marcus, and Steinwood had made a killing. He smirked. No pun intended. But enough of that. He picked a silk ascot, which added an additional $300 to his already ridiculously expensive ensemble, and left for the party.
Photo by M2IFOTO ©2006
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
FERN MICHAELS is the USA Today and #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Sisterhood, Men of the Sisterhood, and Godmothers series, and dozens of other novels and novellas. There are over ninety-five million copies of her books in print. Fern Michaels has built and funded several large day-care centers in her hometown, and is a passionate animal lover who has outfitted police dogs across the country with special bulletproof vests. She shares her home in South Carolina with her four dogs and a resident ghost named Mary Margaret.
Visit her website at fernmichaels.com.
CUT AND RUN
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