Dogwood Estates was a dump. Anyone with other options would have moved out a long time ago.
Matt ground his teeth and followed Arwen down the weed-choked sidewalk and up a rusty metal stairway to a second-floor apartment. As she knocked on the door, a familiar guilt unfurled inside Matt like a pennant in the wind.
But for the grace of God, he might have grown up in a place like this. An undeserved twist of fate had made him a member of one of America’s oldest families. He didn’t deserve to be so lucky. And the members of the tenants association deserved better than an inexperienced lawyer with an impressive family name.
Heaven help them.
Of course he wouldn’t show any of his doubts. If he’d learned anything growing up as a Lyndon, it was never to show weakness. He would approach this meeting the way he approached women, with confidence and the sure knowledge that the best players strike out two-thirds of the time. But they deserved better.
The door opened to reveal a tall, sixtysomething woman with feathery white hair that framed a surprisingly youthful face. A pair of wide hazel eyes fringed with dark eyelashes studied Matt. A big smile widened her lipstick-bright mouth.
“Leslie, this is Matthew Lyndon. He’s LL&K’s new legal associate. He’s taking over Andrew’s cases.” Arwen gestured toward Matt.
Leslie Heath, the president of the Dogwood Estates Tenants Association, didn’t look poor or downtrodden or any other kind of stereotype that had been running through his mind a moment ago. In fact, her embroidered peasant shirt, big hoop earrings, and skinny jeans gave her a hip 1960s throwback look. She might be old enough to be a granny, but she was a beautiful woman.
“Y’all sure do have a lot of Lyndons in that law firm. Are you Andrew’s brother?” Leslie’s voice had the unmistakable twang of the West Virginia mountains in it.
“His cousin,” Matt said.
“Would that make you David’s brother?”
Matt shook his head. “No. David is also a cousin.”
“He’s Charles Lyndon’s son,” Arwen said. “So you guys are in good hands.”
Holy crap. Arwen, who knew all his failings and all the gaps in his knowledge, was one hell of a good liar. It surprised the heck out of him. So far, Arwen hadn’t failed to call him on his ignorance whenever he displayed it, which was often. Until that moment, Matt hadn’t thought Arwen was capable of lying.
“I’m glad to hear that, y’all. Living in this dump is getting old.”
“Well, I think we have some good news,” Matt said.
“Hallelujah, honey. Because it’s been nothing but bad news for months.” Leslie’s wide smile grew even wider as she stepped forward and took Matt by the crook of his arm and pulled him deeper into the apartment, which smelled of garlic and onions and other spices he couldn’t quite name. “Come on in, now, and get some refreshments. Delia’s made some of her pain patate, which in American is sweet potato and banana pudding. It tastes better than it sounds.”
Leslie ushered him into an L-shaped living/dining room dominated by a heavily used, brown leather sectional and a couple of blue recliners. The sliding doors to the balcony stood open, but with more than two dozen people jammed into the small space, Matt started to sweat. Clearly, the air-conditioning wasn’t working correctly.
Leslie half pushed, half dragged him into the dining room, where she sliced a wedge of some kind of bread and put it on a pink paper plate with an image of Minnie Mouse. She handed him a purple plastic fork and a blue cocktail napkin imprinted with the words Baby Jessica, coming this fall. “Honestly, honey, you have to try Delia’s sweet potato pudding once in your life. It’s supposed to be a traditional Haitian dish.”
He suddenly felt like a candidate out on the campaign trail. Uncle Mark, a United States senator, had dozens of stories about the weird food he’d eaten during his campaigns. Matt gave Leslie one of his best smiles and cut a healthy chunk out of the bread. He popped it in his mouth.
He hated sweet potatoes. And the bread had a sweet potato taste that almost made him gag. But he swallowed it down. No sense in getting off on the wrong foot with these people. He wanted to succeed if for no other reason than to gain his father’s approval. Thank God Arwen pressed a plastic cup of cola into his hands. He was able to wash down the sweet potato bread before he hurled it back up.
“So, why don’t we call this meeting to order?” he asked, anxious to get the job over with.
Arwen gave him her patented Frown of Disapproval. “Don’t you want to meet everyone?” she asked.
“Uh, yeah, I guess.” Matt once again found himself tugged around the room by a female. The Dogwood Estates tenants included single mothers, recent immigrants, and old folks. In short, the type of people without the income necessary to rent one of the newer apartments springing up all over Jefferson County. These folks were retirees, farm laborers, retail store clerks, and maids. Precisely the sort of people the rich folks in Jefferson County depended on. Leslie, he soon learned, was a widow living on her husband’s Social Security and supplementing that meager income with a part-time greeter’s job at the Walmart in Winchester.
When the introductions were finished, the tenants found places to sit or stand, and Matt stood facing them. “It’s very nice to meet all of you,” he said. “And I think I have good news to report. The complaint we lodged with the county has yielded some results. The building inspections office has fined Scott Anderson for the mold and garbage problems. I understand that the landlord was served notice on Monday of this week and a lien was placed on
