playing in sprinklers, for some reason he was thinking about last night again, the thunderstorm and what came after, and all the electricity and sexual tension in the air. There was tension and electricity in the air now, too, so thick he could cut it with a knife. But this time he didn’t think it had anything to do with sex.
“This is it,” Charly announced. “You can pull into the driveway, if you want.”
Troy nodded, put on his blinkers and turned right between two brick gateposts topped with carriage lanterns. “
She gave that snort of mirthless laughter. “Yeah, well, don’t be too impressed. I grew up in that house, and trust me, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.” She grabbed hold of the door handle. “You can wait here in the shade. I shouldn’t be too long.”
“You sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
She hesitated, then shook her head and muttered so softly he could barely hear it, “This is something I have to do myself.” As she opened the door and stepped out, he thought she added an unsteady “But thanks.”
This time Charly didn’t bother to go to the front door. Instead she went straight across the lawn and through the banks of azalea bushes, following a path of stepping stones where many had gone before-the trade and service people, the milkmen and meter readers, gardeners and plumbers, delivery people of every kind and description. The pathway led to the garages and outbuildings and the parklike grounds behind the house, and eventually to the woods beyond. Once upon a time it had meandered on through those woods to the huge stone mansion on the other side, where her best friend, Colin Stewart, lived.
But first it detoured to the trumpet-vine-covered back porch, and across that to the kitchen door. Which, as Charly knew very well, was seldom locked. And it was not now. Nor was anyone in the kitchen, it being Saturday, which had always been Dobrina’s shopping day. Charly closed the door carefully behind her and crossed the mellowed hardwood floor, her heart beating in cadence with her footsteps, loud in the silence. Oh, how she remembered that silence.
She knew the judge would most likely be in his study. Unless, of course, he was in his office at the courthouse. She’d thought of that possibility-that after all this, he wouldn’t be here. But she remembered that on Saturdays he’d almost always waited until Dobrina had returned with the groceries before going to his office. She was betting that, like everything else in this place, the old routine wouldn’t have changed that much.
And it hadn’t.
The study door was closed, which meant that it was occupied. Charly hesitated, her hand on the doorknob, trying to take deep, fortifying breaths for which there was no room in her chest. Her heart was pumping wildly, taking up far too much space, and her stomach felt hollow and fluttery, the way it did when she was about to stand up before a new judge and jury for the first time. Which, in a way, was a reassuring thought; she knew from experience that none of what she was feeling would show on the outside. She knew that to all appearances she was C. E. Phelps, attorney-at-law-cool, confident and very much in control.
She held her breath, turned the knob and pushed the door open.
Judge Charles Phelps was seated at his desk, smoking his pipe and reading his morning newspaper. He was dressed in the Saturday-morning uniform that hadn’t changed since Charly’s childhood-old slacks with suspenders and a cotton dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, unbuttoned far enough to reveal grizzled chest hair above a vest-type undershirt. He looked up casually when he heard someone come in, no doubt expecting to see Dobrina, back from her shopping.
When he saw who it was, he straightened as if he’d been poked, then peeled off his reading glasses, dropped them onto the newspaper and sat back in his chair, his fingers working the bowl of his pipe. The white tufts of his eyebrows lowered over his cold, pale eyes as he watched her close the door behind her, but he said nothing. She hadn’t expected that he would. To say anything at all-a greeting, a question, even a challenge-would have given her an opening, making it easier for her. She could hope for no such concessions from him.
“Hello, Father.” She said it in her best attorney’s voice-dry and cool. Good morning, Your Honor.
As she stepped onto the faded Oriental rug-which had no doubt lain in that same spot since the reign of Queen Victoria-it occurred to her that she was doing so for the first time as a full-grown adult. The thought made an odd little thrill go shooting up her spine-a sense of her own worth and power that wasn’t new to her exactly, but was certainly new to her here, in these surroundings. It was a heady feeling, a little like a straight shot of bourbon on an empty stomach. She accepted it gladly for the courage and confidence it gave her and didn’t stop to remember, then, that whiskey courage is almost always false.
“I’m glad I caught you in,” she continued in the same brisk, businesslike manner. “I assume Dobrina’s out shopping?”
The judge nodded, making no other concession to civility.
Charly gave him a lawyer’s smile, cold and dangerous. “Well. I will need to speak with her later, but right now it’s you I’d like to talk to.” She chose a chair, an upholstered Queen Anne wing-back, and shifted it slightly to suit her.
She’d thought about it-whether she would sit or stand. Standing would give her a height advantage, of course, but then she’d be too much like a supplicant, coming before the lord of the manor hat in hand, while a chair, on the other hand, especially a comfortable one placed at a slight angle, would put her more in the position of equal.
She sat, crossed her legs and leaned back, outwardly relaxed. “If you have a minute…?”
Her father had placed his pipe in its ashtray and was rubbing absently at a spot on his chest just below his left shoulder. “I b’lieve everything that needs to be said between us has already been said.” His voice was heavier than she remembered it-thick and Southern as blackstrap molasses.
Charly determinedly brightened her smile. “Yes, well, apparently Dobrina doesn’t share your belief.” She paused a beat, then continued in a conversational tone, “I suppose you heard about me getting arrested last night?”
The flash of surprise in his eyes gave her a brief moment’s satisfaction, before he closed them and said in quiet disgust, “Oh, my Lord.”
“No?” Her face felt rigid. How much longer could she maintain the smile? “Well, I guess the local news must be runnin’ a little slow this morning. Yeah, it seems that while you and I were having our little tete-a-tete yesterday, Dobrina took my purse out of my car-” she ignored his exclamation of disbelief “-and replaced it with an open bottle of Black Jack. And then, just to make sure that didn’t get overlooked by the proper authorities, after I left she called them up and reported my rental car stolen.”
The judge shook his head and muttered under his breath, something about lies, replete with distaste. “Now, why on earth would ’Brina do such a thing?”
“I don’t know,” Charly said lightly, “maybe you can ask her when she gets home. Personally I think she just underestimated my resources. See, I believe she thought, since I’d been away from this town for so long, that I wouldn’t know anybody else, and if I were arrested with no ID and no money, I’d have no choice but to call you for help.” She made an ironic clicking sound with her mouth:
“Failing that, well, there was always Plan B. Dobrina’s a smart lady. She knew that eventually I’d have to come back here to get my purse-by the way, you haven’t seen it around anywhere, have you? No? Well, I expect she’ll be back soon.
“In the meantime I’ve had time to do a little bit of thinking, and I’ve decided that, misguided though her actions were, Dobrina was right about one thing.”
She paused, and felt as if she’d scored a victory when he murmured on cue, “Which is?” It was a small but gratifying shift in the balance of power.
She replied quietly, “That you and I have some unfinished business to attend to.”
He made a sound somewhere between a hiss and a snort and rocked back in his chair, his hands gripping the arms almost spasmodically. His voice was harsh, his face contorted, drained of color.
Charly surged forward, pressing her advantage like a street fighter. “Look, you can hide your head in the sand all you want, but do you really think for one minute, now that I’ve seen those pictures on your mantelpiece, that you can just make me go away?” Her voice had begun to tremble and her heart was hammering painfully. Careful, Charly, careful. Whatever you do, keep it businesslike. Remember, you are your own attorney. With a valiant effort she reined in her emotions and sat back once more.
“I want to make you a proposition.”
