to.”
Taylor let Michael hold her limp hand. He squeezed it, then with the thumb of his hand he rubbed her palm. She stared down at the two hands together as if they were separate from their bodies, two detached objects on the table in front of them doing a strange and unreal dance.
She looked up at him. “How long will it be before the trial begins? How long will we have to wait this out, to get some sort of resolution?”
“Abe says it could take months. A lot depends on what happens during discovery. If their evidence is weak and circumstantial, which it will be because I’m innocent, then we’ll push to go to trial quickly. They could stall, but for only so long.”
She looked away. “This is going to cost a fortune, isn’t it?
All that money you made, that money you worked so hard for. It’s all going to be gone.”
He shrugged. “I’ve been broke before. Have most of my life, in fact. The thing about money is, you can always make more.”
“Let’s hope so,” she said, her voice flat. “No one knows how your readers are going to react to this.”
“Well,” he said slowly, “one can always make the case that in my business, the kinds of books I write, a little notori-ety never hurt anybody. Who knows? When this is over, the books may sell better than ever.”
She looked down, suddenly feeling very tired and heavy.
“That’s assuming you’re around to write them,” she said, in a voice strained by the weight on her chest.
“Hey, hey, what’s that?” He reached out, touched her chin, and raised her head to face him. “Let’s not bring any negative energy in here, okay? This is going to work out. I promise. I’ll beat this.
Taylor felt the tips of his fingers on her chin like someone touching her with the handle of a wooden spoon. They didn’t feel like flesh, like people touching. Nothing felt like people touching.
“Trust me, this will be fine. I promise.”
Taylor slept all weekend, the phone unplugged, the television and computer off. Michael stayed in, reluctant to go out in case there were any other reporters still stalking the building. The initial rush of publicity had died down, like a storm surge that had broken over the banks, done its dam-age, and then receded back into the ocean.
And Taylor slept, slept like she’d never slept before. She turned the heat down to where her bedroom was practically frigid. She bundled up covers, quilts and comforters and blankets, so that she could feel the weight of the fabric on her, pressing her down, insulating her from the rest of the world. She came up for water or for bathroom breaks, or for a bite or two of food before her stomach roiled inside her and she could eat no more. Friday night melded into Saturday morning. The afternoon went by unnoticed and the night fell over her like a layer of mist. Michael periodically stuck his head into the bedroom, concerned. She tried to reassure him that she was all right.
Sunday afternoon, she dragged herself out of bed and took a long, hot shower. That seemed to wake her up, to get her blood flowing again, and she felt briefly reenergized.
Michael had slept in the other bedroom, the bedroom where she’d caught him with the blond what seemed like ages ago, that Saturday night when she threw the party to celebrate his success. He had found success, found it in ways he never imagined. And now it had come to this.
She went downstairs. Michael was nowhere to be seen.
She made herself a cup of soup and turned on the television. She turned to one of the cable stations that showed old movies without commercials. She watched an MGM black-and-white movie from the forties, one with Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland. The images moved and gyrated in front of her with no logical connection or narrative that she could figure out.
Hours later, Michael returned. Taylor was about to go back to bed.
“Where’ve you been?” she asked. “I was starting to get worried.”
He seemed quiet, subdued. “I had some last-minute business to take care of.”
There was a long silence, before Taylor said: “Last-minute business on a Sunday?”
“I had a couple of things to take care of and I hit an ATM
for some extra cash.”
“Oh,” she said blankly. “Okay.”
“Have you packed?”
“No, I thought I’d go get started. How long will we be down there?”
“I made a reservation at the Crowne Plaza for two nights, with the option to extend. A couple of days, we should know which way this is going.”
Taylor nodded. “Okay. Guess I’ll go pack.”
She hated herself for feeling this way, this tired, this passive. She realized as she climbed the steps that this was just the way she felt when Jack died. Then it had taken her months to feel awake and alive again. Maybe a year …
But this was different. Michael needed her; Joan needed her. She was an adult with responsibilities and obligations.
She had to pull herself together. She had to find a way out of this, to become focused and useful and productive again.
She took a deep breath and began packing.
The flight to Nashville left LaGuardia at seven-twenty A.M.
She and Michael got up at four-after neither of them having slept much-then hailed a cab and arrived at the airport around five forty-five. They got through security much faster than expected and sat in a crowded airport fast-food place and ate tasteless bagels washed down with tepid coffee. It didn’t matter anyway; she hadn’t really tasted anything in a week.
Taylor had never learned the elusive art of sleeping on air-planes. This flight was no exception. She was so tired, her eyes burned, her muscles ached as she sat there crammed into the tiny seat. To make matters worse, she’d gotten the middle seat, squeezed in between Michael on the window and some guy in a black cowboy hat, tight jeans, and T-shirt, who was badly in need of a shave and shower. Michael shifted in the seat and curled toward the window and drifted off. The cowboy tried to chat her up, but had sense enough to realize after a few cold looks that she wasn’t in the mood.
She lost track of time, her mind a blank, until the plane started to descend. Michael awoke abruptly, as if he couldn’t remember where he was, then opened the shade over the window just as the plane banked steeply. Taylor leaned over and looked out the window. Below them, the rolling Tennessee hills seemed like blots of color, alternating between browns and greens and strange colors she didn’t recognize.
Then the jet passed over a sprawling lake, a dirty kind of murky mixture of brown and green that looked like it had been sprayed across the landscape palette in a completely haphazard fashion.
Taylor had never been to Nashville before, had never spent much time in the South. She felt her stomach knotting at the thought that this strange and foreign place held her life in its hands.
The jet leveled out and descended rapidly. Taylor felt queasy as the plane approached the runway, then lifted its nose in the flare and settled down onto the concrete with a thump. Then it seemed to taxi forever before finally pulling to a stop at the gate. Taylor left the plane first, with Michael a few people behind her. He wore a pair of dark sunglasses and kept his head down.
The Nashville airport was bigger than she expected, was newer and more modern, and not very crowded. Taylor looked around, caught Michael’s eye, and then began walking down the concourse to the baggage claim area by herself. Taylor looked around nervously and was relieved to find there were no reporters to be seen anywhere. They’d booked this flight at the last minute, and as part of the negotiation with the district attorney for Michael’s surrender, no word had been leaked of their arrival.
Taylor walked between a row of uniformed guards out of the secure area. In the waiting area just in front of the security checkpoint, a young woman in black trousers and a white dress shirt held a small sign with the words “Ms.
Robinson” scrawled on it.
Taylor walked up to the young woman. “I’m Taylor Robinson,” she said quietly.
