“Not a word, so I’ll be making arrangements for him to have his own personal guide.”
There was another short pause. “Let me guess,” Ali said. “The next debt is to Leland Brooks.”
“Yup. Big-time.”
“What’s your idea there?”
“You told me about his invitation to that family reunion. I can understand after so many years of being separated from his family, his reluctance for the initial contact to be at a huge cattle-call family event that has the potential for turning into an over-the-top circus. So how about if, sometime between now and Christmas, you use my frequent-flier miles and take him across the pond? That way he’ll have you there to rent a car and do the driving. I have it on good authority that UK car-rental companies won’t rent to anyone his age, so he’ll have a nonfamily member there to run interference for him. If his relatives turn out to be a bunch of homophobic bigots, you can drag him out of the fray and bring him home.”
Ali nodded. “And making contact now will put him in a lot better place to decide whether he’s going to the family reunion come next summer.”
“Exactly,” B. said.
They fell quiet after that, lost in their own thoughts. Ali was thinking about how, the previous day, B. and Stuart Ramey had risked everything they had worked for over the years in order to save her from what was, essentially, a bit of her own foolishness. She never should have gone to see a homicide suspect on her own. But B. and Stuart had stepped up. Together they had put everything on the line. Yes, Stuart had been the one with his fingers on the keyboard, but he had done it with B.’s full knowledge and encouragement.
Given all of that, her previous objections to marrying B. Simpson seemed downright petty.
Those were the thoughts running through her head as they headed north toward the Grand Canyon, but she didn’t say any of them aloud. When they got to Bright Angel Lodge, Ali was surprised to learn that on this supposedly spur-of-the-moment side trip, they had a luncheon reservation. As B. helped her from the car to the door, Ali worried that her bandaged bare feet would consign them to the “no shoes no service” side of the universe. It didn’t happen. Their reserved table next to the restaurant’s massive windows gave them a spectacular and unobstructed view of the canyon.
When it came time for dessert, Ali tried to turn it down, but B. insisted on sharing a slice of pumpkin cheesecake. Halfway through, Ali’s fork ran into something surprisingly solid. When she pulled out the offending item, it turned out to be an amazing diamond solitaire.
“How did you manage this?” she asked, dipping the ring in her water glass and rubbing it clean with her napkin.
“I already had the ring picked out,” B. admitted. “I called the jeweler in Flagstaff first thing this morning and asked him to drive it over. I was going to give it to you for Christmas, but that’s too far away. Yesterday I almost lost you. I couldn’t believe how much it hurt. If you had ended up in a hospital somewhere, badly hurt or dying, I wouldn’t even have had the right to see you. Please marry me, Ali. It’s time.”
For a moment she didn’t answer him. She was too busy fussing with the ring. When it was properly dried, she slipped it on her finger.
“You’re right,” she said. “It is time.”
“So that’s a yes?”
“Yes,” she said with a smile, leaning over to give him a light peck on the cheek. “That’s definitely a yes.”
Afterword
By the time they got home that evening, they had decided on and arranged for a Christmas Eve wedding in Las Vegas. Stuart Ramey would be the best man. Sister Anselm would be the matron of honor. The twins, Colin and Colleen, would be ring bearer and flower girl, respectively.
Back at home, still feeling more than a little stiff, Ali put her Googling skills to work and located Scott Ballentine at his office in Newport Beach, California. She used the old freelancer ruse to get past the corporate gatekeepers.
“You’ve heard what happened?” she asked once Ballentine knew who she was and why she was calling.
“Yes,” he said. “I heard he was murdered, and most likely over the money. Jimmy told me he was ill and that he didn’t have much time, but I feel sick about it. I don’t know what I should do. I thought about sending Sylvia and A.J. a sympathy card, but I’m not sure how it would be received.”
“Let me make a suggestion,” Ali said. “Sylvia called late last night. They’re going to have a private service at a funeral home in Phoenix on Monday of next week. She invited me to come, and I’m inviting you.”
“You don’t think she’ll throw me out?”
“No,” Ali said. “I think she’ll be glad to see you, and I think A.J. will be delighted to meet one of his father’s friends.”
“I’m willing,” Scott Ballentine said. “But do me a favor. Check with Sylvia first. Make sure it’s okay with her. I’d rather not be an unwelcome surprise.”
Which was how, on Monday of the following week, Ali and B. accompanied Scott Ballentine to James Sanders’s very small and very private funeral. Among the twenty or so people in attendance, Ali was introduced to several, including A.J.’s vivacious girlfriend, Sasha, her parents, and her three sisters; Maddy Worth, Sylvia’s lifelong friend and A.J.’s boss; two of A.J.’s teachers from school; and a number of people from Sylvia’s workplace. When Ali introduced Scott Ballentine to Sylvia, she didn’t hesitate. She grabbed the man, hugged him, and said, “Thank you. I thought all of James’s friends deserted him. I’m so glad you didn’t.”
In those few words, Ali heard a world of forgiveness.
Beatrice Hart had sent Ali a message asking her to stop by, and after the funeral was the first opportunity to make that visit.
When Ali rang the bell, Lynn Martinson was the one who answered. She smiled broadly as soon as she saw Ali and B. standing there. “Hey, Mom,” she called over her shoulder. “I believe the woman of the hour has arrived. Come on in. Mom’s making spaghetti. You’ll never guess who’s coming to dinner.”
“Who?”
“Chip and his mother.”
“How is Doris?”
“Amazingly better,” Lynn said. “I know about the Alzheimer’s now. But it turns out you were right. Molly had been dosing her with scopolamine for months, so her Alzheimer’s hasn’t progressed nearly as far as Chip feared. Her big problem right now is dealing with her husband’s death. Now that she’s detoxed, she’s having to deal with the grief of losing him. She’s also grieving for Molly and Gemma and her beloved house. It’s tough. My heart goes out to her.”
“Chip’s helping her with all that?” Ali asked.
Lynn nodded. “He’s got an attorney working on dragging the money back from Belize. He’s also made some progress on retrieving some of Doris’s keepsakes, things that were stolen and pawned.”
“The missing necklace, for instance?”
“Yes,” Lynn said. “That was one of the first items he found. He isn’t as focused on getting back things like oil paintings and china, because there won’t be any place to put them. He’s taking the insurance settlement on the house and using some of that to move Doris into an upscale assisted-living place that specializes in the care of Alzheimer’s patients. There are gradually increasing levels of assistance, so as Doris’s symptoms worsen, she won’t have to move on to some other place.”
Beatrice came into the living room, wiping her hands on an apron and beaming. “There’s going to be plenty of food,” she said. “Would you like to stay for dinner?”
“No, thank you,” Ali said. “We told people we’d be back home for dinner. We’re having company.”
