Roberta smiled. The gala. She’d never been, though an invitation appeared in her mailbox around this time every year. She knew it was Wendell’s doing. “Going to have to miss this year,” she said. “My tiara is still at the jeweler being polished.”
Wendell nodded. He didn’t expect her to attend any more than he would’ve himself, though she appreciated the invitation every summer.
“Quite the controversy this year, with the land acquisition disagreements in town,” she said. “Has it had an impact on attendance?”
Wendell shook his head. “No, ma’am. Party is larger than ever.” It made Roberta wonder. For a small town, recently divided over the very land use the party was raising funds for, she couldn’t imagine where the supporters came from. She wondered if they were pulling friends from New York. She hoped not. Last year theNew York Timeshad listed Saybrook as New England’s “best-kept secret.” She loved theTimesbut really wished they hadn’t: locals wanted to keep it that way.
“Wendell, when can you come for dinner? I’m not getting any younger.”
Roberta felt a duty to issue such invitations: she’d promised Charlotte to keep an eye on her boys. And after what had happened with Wesley, well… Roberta wouldn’t allow herself to think much more on that. It was the only time she thanked God Charlotte wasn’t alive to have to endure that.
As Wendell glanced uncomfortably over her head at the treetops, she prepared for the usual polite refusal. “Now, I know you’re busy, and this time of summer is especially so. But what about an early dinner next Saturday on my patio? I grill a mean steak.”
It was all a lie. Roberta was a vegetarian, and the only thing she grilled with any measure of success was corn. No matter; if she could get the boy to come over, she’d set him to the task. Men seemed to like to be in charge of primal things like fire and red meat.
“All right, Bertie. Dinner would be nice.”
Roberta almost fell over. That was the thing: Roberta knew Wendell Combs was as much a loner as she was, but itwouldbe nice. Not just out of obligation to his mother’s memory. He was the one person in her life Roberta worried over.
She wagged a finger between them. “Was it the red meat?”
He laughed, and she rapped the hood of his truck. “Six o’clock, next Saturday. Don’t make me wait.”
Back inside, she put the kettle on for tea and considered the ticking grandfather clock in the corner. Roberta had lived alone the whole of her adult life; never married, never had kids. She’d been retired, as she told people, nearly fourteen years. These days there was nothing but time.
What she didn’t tell people was how much she missed her job as probate judge. Having never had a family of her own, Roberta had thought of her work in the family court system as serving the greaterfamilyof her local county. The work was not pleasant, no. There were drawn-out custody hearings, the ones that pressed against her heart the hardest. Long-settled divorces that reentered her courtroom over revocation of rights. Disputes over trusts and estates. That was the thing about family court: the families who entered her courtroom barely qualified as such.
As gritty as the work could be, it filled her with a sense of purpose in preserving family. Not having one of her own was an advantage, in her mind. Roberta was unbiased. Her empathies did not automatically tilt in the direction of the young mother because she had been one herself. She did not pretend to possess knowledge of how difficult it was to balance the caregiving responsibilities with the funds available in a family bank account. Exempt from long nights nursing a sick child, caring for an elderly parent, or covering for a drunk spouse, Roberta had unprejudiced opinions. While other colleagues might have considered her personal lack of family experience a hardship in her line of work, Roberta believed it lent her judgment clarity.
For twenty years she’d been elected to office. That meant something. And she’d have stayed on as Saybrook’s judge for many more, if things had gone differently.
If five-year-old Layla Bruzi’s custody case had never come through the door of her courtroom. If she’d only listened to her gut.
Judge Roberta Blythe did not always get things right; over her esteemed career, there had been a handful of cases she might have ruled on somewhat differently when new evidence came to light. And there were a couple of cases she later had to revisit. But the Bruzi case was neither. It was the one that had not just ended her career; it was the one that would haunt her for the rest of her life.
FourWendell
Preparations for the gala had consumed Wendell’s day. The White Pines lawns had been mowed so pristinely they appeared as a rolling green carpet just vacuumed. Not so much as a leaf tumbled across their lush sprawl. Freshly trimmed hedges draped in white lights flanked the driveway, leading a twinkling path up to the main house. Smartly dressed valets stood by in the circular drive awaiting incoming guests, and behind the main house, the peaks of white tents soared against the remnants of blue sky like sails. Wendell followed the cobblestone walkway to the rear of the house, noting that his crew, Jerry and Hank, had done a sound job power-washing and sweeping. He was pleased to see that the patio setup was complete. It had seen a lot of traffic in the last twenty-four hours. The event company had carried in and arranged all the tables and chairs, along with electrical cords for speakers and lights. There had been some minor disruption to the adjacent garden beds, but thankfully, Wendell’s crew had seen to a final tidying of every nook and cranny. As he was ticking off the last items on his to-do list, the party planner, Josephine, started hooting from the top of a ladder at the edge of the garden: “You! Over here.” Wendell glanced up to where she teetered on the top step, in orange heels, no less. “There’s a problem!”
In Wendell’s opinion, there was more than one, but he was not about to waste his breath. Josephine Applegate was apparently some kind of big deal in Litchfield County. She seemed to be under the mistaken impression that Wendell worked for her. “I need you,” she called, though he was already moving in her direction.
Wendell looked up to where Josephine was hanging Japanese lanterns. He really hoped she wasn’t stringing them too tight; the pear tree leaves were delicate at this time of year. “What seems to be the problem?”
Josephine grasped the nearest lantern and shook it urgently. “There’s no power.” Her eyes were wide and frantic.
Wendell was used to this. The Lancasters, who were a much bigger deal than the likes of Josephine Applegate, made entertaining look effortless, but no matter how laid-back they were, their event planners were not. He could never understand why people got so worked up over party decorations. “I checked the lines earlier. It may be a fuse.”
Josephine stared down at him. “And?”
At this proximity, Wendell noticed her lips were the same shade of orange as her ridiculous shoes. “And I will check on that for you.”
“Right now, yes?”
Wendell would have very much liked to leave Josephine Applegate teetering right where she was. But although he did not work for the likes of Josephine, he did work for Alan. And he knew this would upset Anne, which meant it would upset Alan. Without another word, he turned on his heel.
“Wait! Where are you going?” she shrieked.
He didn’t reply. At that moment what bothered him more than Josephine Applegate was that he’d have to go through the main house. In all the years that he’d worked for Alan Lancaster and his family, Wendell had made a point to stay out of the house. As hesaw it, his job was to manage what was on the outside. Whatever happened on the inside was up to them. But the Lancasters, being who they were, made that difficult. They were always trying to bring him into the fold. Once, when Alan was away, Wendell had helped Anne carry in a large tufted sofa that the furniture company’s delivery truck had inexplicably unloaded and left in the driveway. She’d been so grateful for his help that she’d asked him to stay for a lemonade. It was homemade, just like his mother used to make when he was a boy, and the fresh pulp and grit of sugar on his tongue almost brought tears to his eyes. The memory and the kind look in Anne’s eyes were too much; he’d gotten out of there as fast as he could.
