Wendell was off his stool before Ronny could finish his sentence. The first punch landed on the bridge of his nose. When Ronny regained his balance and popped back up, the next punch went to his gut and sent him sprawling backward to the ground. He lay on the filthy floor, holding his face, and cursed.
“Don’t you mention those kids ever again!” Wendell shouted as he stood over Ronny. He spun toward the others, who’d moved closer and now stepped back.
Bill Hardings held up his hands. “Easy, Combs. Nobody wants to fight.”
Wendell stared down at Ronny. “What about you? Anything else you want to say?”
Ronny’s nose gushed behind his hand. “Jesus Christ,” he hissed as Owen Miller helped him up.
Wendell took another step at him, and he jerked back. “Nothing else?” Wendell said between his teeth.
Ronny shook his head and leaned on the bar. “Get me some ice, dammit.”
Wendell threw two twenties down on the bar and got the hell out of there. His hand throbbed, and outside, he examined it in the growing darkness. Nothing appeared to be broken, but his knuckles were an angry color and scraped. He sure hoped he’d broken Ronny’s nose.
On the way back, he drove straight past his house. He didn’t slow until he turned sharply into Roberta’s narrow driveway, gravel spitting beneath his tires. She met him on the doorstep, a look of alarm on her face. “Wendell. Is everything all right?”
“I need your help.”
Thirty-FourRoberta
The Housatonic Probate Courtroom had once been hers to preside over. Standing outside its double doors felt like stepping outside her body and back in time. If it weren’t for Wendell, she wouldn’t be here.
Inside, she took a quick seat on the bench while Wendell went to see the clerk about filing the papers they’d worked on together. She wondered what Charlotte Combs would say about her son’s decision. Roberta was pretty sure it’d be a lot.
Roberta was not the praying kind, but at that moment, she prayed that neither Judge Bartlett nor any attorney she might know would walk by. She was relieved that she didn’t recognize the clerk. As soon as Wendell filed, she could get out of here.
As she waited, Roberta closed her eyes and let her mind wander. Being back at the courthouse was unnerving. The room was warm, and her memory was too long to keep her thoughts in check. She thought of something Charlotte had told her long ago. “Life is just a giant Ferris wheel, spinning through time. We’re on it for the ride, and all we can do is hang on.” Roberta pictured herself seated at the highest point of the wheel, the courtroom the cog. As she dipped down, she saw her past rising up to meet her from ground level. There was Charlotte, her dear friend. Perhaps heronly true friend, who had found her that day in the IGA market with the two little boys in tow, and rescued her. Charlotte, who gave her a sense of family, who invited her to birthday parties and holidays, and made her laugh when she felt like crying, and saw her as she was and where she was in her station in life, and decided she was worthy.
After Charlotte, came the boys, Wendell and Wesley, both young. They were fast and squirmy, and on rare occasions, she could catch one and pull him onto her lap. Oh, they smelled like little boys: sweat and heat and shampoo, all mixed together with something earthy. She let them go, and as they ran, she knew they were running headlong into futures that would shake them both. And leave one behind.
Roberta felt the dizzying pull of centrifugal force as the wheel swung skyward and she swept by faces on the ground. Faces of those she’d worked with. Attorneys she’d fought against and some she’d fought for. Families she’d come to know, along with all the dark details that had brought them to her courtroom. And among those faces, little Layla Bruzi.
Roberta closed her eyes, picturing her before the apartment fire. Her strawberry-blond bangs cut crookedly; her smile bow-shaped and uncertain. Layla’s stubborn young mother, Jenny, and little Dominic. And the man whose name she would not permit her lips to utter. The largest of all her regrets, which she could never let go of. Regret that had kept her shuttered away, alone in the shadow of life.
As the wheel crested, she pictured the Lancaster girls. Two unexpected vibrant faces, full of hope and sorrow. Who had, just maybe, given her a second chance.
“Bertie?”
Roberta opened her eyes, startled.
“Are you okay? I thought you might be sleeping.”
Roberta put a hand to her face, then smiled. “No, no,” she said, collecting herself. “I was just daydreaming. Are you all done?”
Wendell held his hand out to help her up. “I am,” he said. “Let’s go home.”
Thirty-FiveGinny
It had been a crazy couple of days at the office. Since the Feldman Agency had listed White Pines, business had picked up, and her parents were thrilled. Ginny wasn’t sure if it showed a local increase of confidence, their having landed such a big listing, or if more people were noticing her marketing efforts and were being reminded of her parents’ business. Regardless, they’d had a busy week, with two new listings, both nicely appointed homes in private communities, and a contract with an out-of-town young family looking to move before the school year began. “Keep it going,” her father told her on the phone. She’d been so swamped at the office, she’d barely had time to visit her folks. Let alone enjoy some downtime at her cottage. In fact, being back in Saybrook had kept her so distracted that she hadn’t given Thomas or Chicago any thought.
On top of that, she got a call from Scooter Dunham’s attorney. He wanted to finalize the contracts and closing details for White Pines. Ginny had tactfully reminded him that the permits had not officially come in from zoning, and his contingencies had not yet been satisfied. If she were a less ethical broker, she’d have scheduled it and hoped they’d forget about the contingency.
But the attorney didn’t seem concerned. “Mr. Dunham would like to sign the executory contracts and get the closing on the calendar anyway. He’s expecting the permit approvals shortly, so we can go ahead and pencil in a date.”
Ginny was surprised. It was Scooter Dunham himself who’d so vocally objected to moving ahead with the deal at White Pines before his subdivision feasibility was secured by the town. “Is there new information from town hall?” she asked, wondering if she’d somehow missed a relevant update.
“No. Mr. Dunham is just confident things are moving in the right direction.”
