Confessions Bundle

CHAPTER EIGHT

“HAVE YOU CALLED HIM?” Marcie’s question started the butterflies fluttering around inside her again. She’d spent the past hour telling her twin about the day’s events, the shocking developments in a trial of which she’d thought herself in complete control.

Juliet lay in her bed, pillows propped up behind her, the comforter pulled to her hips. Darkness, broken by a moonlit glow from the open shutters, gave the room a sleepy feel.

“I have no reason to call him,” she said aloud, something she’d been repeating to herself since Eaton James had delivered his startling testimony that afternoon. “I hardly know the man.”

“You had dinner with him two weeks ago.”

She wished she’d never told her sister that.

“And very clearly said a permanent goodbye,” she muttered.

“But you were there in the courtroom. You heard the whole thing. And, even if you haven’t spent many hours with him, you did fill those hours with some…fairly intimate communication.”

“We had sex.” They’d also had a baby. But since he didn’t know that, it didn’t count. Did it?

“Do you want to call him?”

“Dammit, Marce, can’t you just leave me in blissful self-deception for a while?”

“If that’s what you wanted, you wouldn’t have called me.” Her sister said. And then added, “Would you?” with a little less confidence.

“No, I wouldn’t have. I rely on the absolute honesty between us,” she admitted. “I always have.”

“Okay. So…why do you want to call him?”

Juliet sighed, ran a hand through hair that was loose and falling free around her face. “I don’t know. I just feel uneasy, you know? I mean, I’ve been working with Eaton James for months and he never breathed a word about any of this.”

“But I’ll bet you assured him, when he first came to you, that you could get him off, didn’t you?”

“I think I would have.”

“And would you have been able to do that if he’d told you about the forgery?”

The Monet lithograph on her wall was a square shadow with little glowing pinpricks where the light hit bright color. “No.” It could be said that she presented different forms of truth, and left out incriminating evidence when it suited her client’s case to do so, but Juliet McNeil never knowingly lied. “It’s his first offense. I’d have gotten him off with nothing more serious than a light probation term.”

“And a damaged reputation that would’ve been hard to recover, at least professionally. Not many people trust their charitable contributions to a crook.”

James had said something similar when she’d come unglued on him late that afternoon. Just what she wanted, a client who tried to outmaneuver her. When would she ever fully grasp the fact that in her world, it was always each man for himself?

“What happens now?” Marcie asked a couple of minutes later.

“I expect the D.A. to drop the charges. He’ll never get a class-two felony out of this. James’ll be charged with numerous counts of forgery and get his hands slapped.”

“And what about Blake Ramsden?”

Glancing out the window at an ocean she couldn’t see in the dark, Juliet held tight to the phone with a sweat-slick palm. “I suspect he’ll be charged with a class-two felony.”

“You think Schuster will do it?”

“Yeah. That’s one thing you can count on Paul Schuster for—he’ll take up any case he thinks he can win. Even more so because he’s going to be driven to get a win out of all the months he’s spent on this. Hell—” she chuckled without humor “—knowing Schuster, he’ll probably figure out a way to make it look like he knew that Blake was guilty all along.”

“Except for the little matter of having wasted the state’s money to press the charges against Eaton in the first place.”

“Who knows.” Juliet couldn’t remember a time when she’d been so tired. At least not since she’d been eight and a half months pregnant and hauling herself out of bed before dawn to get to work.

“Is he guilty?”

“How do I know?”

“You’re usually pretty tuned in to these things.”

“As I proved with my adept handling of the Eaton James defense,” she mumbled.

“No one’s right all the time.”

She sighed, fiddling with the bottom hem of the almost threadbare T-shirt she was wearing. “I don’t know if he’s guilty or not.” She finally gave in and let herself think about the situation head-on. “My heart tells me he’s not, but logic tells me he probably is.”

“I sure wish I’d met this guy!”

“Why?”

“He’s the only man who’s even got close enough for your heart to hear.”

Juliet took the next three minutes listing several men in her life who’d been closer to her than Mary Jane’s father had ever been.

Marcie mostly let her get away with this small refusal to face the truth as she saw it. Juliet hoped that meant her twin wasn’t really sure about the state of Juliet’s heart. Because she couldn’t afford, in any way, shape or form, to have her sister right on this one.

“Do you think there’s a chance Blake Ramsden will call you?”

Marcie’s question was another one she’d been trying—without success—to avoid. “I don’t know,” she said.

“Do you want him to?”

“I don’t know the answer to that, either.” Part of her did. If he was charged, as she knew he would be, he’d need her—if she could convince Eaton James to sign a waiver allowing her to represent Blake. Not only was she one of the most successful defense attorneys in the state, she had an intimate grasp of the details of this particular case.

And she wanted to be there for him.

He’d given her the most precious gift of her life. Just because he didn’t know that didn’t mean she didn’t owe him something in return.

Maybe even, because of that secret, she owed him.

And another part of her, the frightened, lonely part, wanted him to stay as far away from her and her happy little life as humanly possible.

MARY JANE DIDN’T GET scared that often. Which was why when she did get scared, it really scared her.

Something was up that was worse than anything at school or stupid people who didn’t like her. All weekend her mother had done normal stuff with her. She hadn’t cried, or asked for time alone, or forgotten that she’d promised to take Mary Jane for ice cream after they cleaned the bathrooms this week. She just hadn’t argued. Even when Mary Jane had brought up some of the craziest things she could think of, just to get her mother talking.

What if Mom was sick? The thought made her feel as if she was going to throw up. What would happen to her if something ever happened to Mom? She could go live with Aunt Marcie in Maple Grove, of course, which wouldn’t be all that great, but it wouldn’t be horrible like going to an orphanage. But no one would love her like Mom did. No one.

No one would think she was the most special thing on earth. Or tell her about important things even though she was just a kid. No one else, not even Aunt Marcie, would argue with her about things that had no answers like whether or not a chicken came first or an egg.

They’d all say she was just a kid and wait for her to grow up.

Turning over in her bed, Mary Jane bunched up the pillow and squeezed her eyes shut. Tomorrow was Monday, and school was even worse when she was sleepy.

She was being dumb. Mom wasn’t sick. If she was, she’d tell Mary Jane for sure. Besides, she’d had lots of energy and made Mary Jane clean the bathrooms twice while she scrubbed the kitchen floor, even though they hadn’t spilled anything.

Feeling a little better, Mary Jane was almost asleep when she remembered that still didn’t tell her what was wrong.

It must be really horrible.

It had to be or they would’ve talked about it. The only other time Mom hadn’t talked to her at all was when her grandma had died. Mary Jane had been really little, only about three, but she could still remember. Mostly she remembered that summer when she was going into first grade and had asked her mother what Grandma had died of and her mother had talked a lot but never really told her. Only, Mary Jane hadn’t figured that out until later.

Someday she was going to ask again. Maybe. When she was bigger.

So who died? It couldn’t be Aunt Marcie. They’d just talked to her on the phone that afternoon. And there wasn’t anyone else who mattered that much. Was there?

Her stomach hurt and Mary Jane turned over, but that didn’t help. She thought about the book she’d been reading, about the horse and the race and how Bonnie was going to win the race and get to keep her very own horse. But then she remembered that Bonnie didn’t have a mom and that made her scared all over again.

One time, on a night before the first day of school, Mom had told her to count sheep when she couldn’t sleep. Mary Jane hadn’t wanted to tell her she didn’t see any sheep when she closed her eyes.

Maybe they were having trouble paying their bills and they’d have to leave the cottage on the beach and Mom didn’t want to tell her because she knew how much Mary Jane loved living on the beach. But at school once, when she’d told a couple of the kids where she lived, the one girl, Corinne, who was mostly nice to her, had said that it cost a lot of money to live on the beach.

She wasn’t really worried about staying in this house on the beach. As long as she and Mom were together, she didn’t care if they were like the homeless people she saw on the benches along the road to the airport. But did they let kids live like that? She didn’t think so.

So did that mean if they couldn’t pay their bills someone would say that Mom couldn’t keep her? Surely then Mom would be willing to go back to Maple Grove and stay with Aunt Marcie, even though Mom hated Maple Grove so much.

Her head hurt and Mary Jane rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling though mostly she couldn’t really see it. Just shadows.

She was being dumb again. They had lots of money. Mom was almost famous and got paid a lot for her job. But maybe she was losing a big case and then people wouldn’t come to her anymore.

Mary Jane tried hard to sleep. As hard as she could. But it just didn’t come. The more she couldn’t go to sleep, the more scared she got.

Finally, when she couldn’t stand staying in her room all alone, she climbed out of bed, tiptoed down the hall to Mom’s room, lifted the covers quietly and slid in so gently the mattress hardly moved. She’d just lie there on the side of the bed, without even a pillow, so Mom wouldn’t know she was there.

Even if her neck hurt, she figured this was better than being in her own room. But then Mom’s arm came around her and pulled her close. Mom didn’t say anything. Just kissed her lightly by the eye and went back to sleep.

And finally, snug and warm and right where she wanted to be, so did Mary Jane.

EVERY TIME BLAKE’S PHONE buzzed, he jumped. That wasn’t like him at all. He’d lived through a hurricane and a near bombing, seen poverty worse than anything he could have imagined, slept in places where bugs were more abundant than pillows or sheets, and even been thrown in jail once in a godforsaken place he never had found on a map. And the one thing he’d learned about himself during those years of challenges was that he faced adversity with calm.

He’d just never been on the verge of being charged with a crime he hadn’t committed. He’d thought a hundred times over the weekend about calling Juliet McNeil. Had even gone so far as to spend several hours on the Internet finding out what her legal standing would have to be in case he asked her to represent him, given the fact that she was counsel for another man up for the same charges in the same case.

As far as he could tell, there was no statute that prevented her from doing it, as long as she had a waiver from the previous client.

Blake had no idea what the chances were of Eaton James agreeing to that. But surely, once Schuster dropped the charges—as he’d told Blake he was going to do—James would be feeling charitable.

Charity was, after all, his business.

His intercom buzzed. Blake’s pen went flying. “Yes?” he asked after inhaling deeply in an attempt to control his response.

“I’m going to lunch, sir. Would you like me to bring you back something?”

Thanking Lee Anne for asking, Blake declined. The only thing that sounded good at the moment was a visit to the little bar across the room. He retrieved his pen.

And moved over to stare out the wall of windows down at the bustling city he hadn’t realized he loved—or missed—until he’d come home.

He’d done a bit of research on other legal matters that weekend. Namely, how a person was actually charged for a class-two felony. After finding out that fraud of the type in which he and his father had allegedly engaged was a class-two felony.

There were people he could have called. Ramsden had a team of attorneys. Construction attorneys. But certainly they could recommend a good criminal attorney in the space of seconds. He just hadn’t been able to bring himself to admit to anyone that he was actually facing the possibility of being in so much trouble. He didn’t want to give the idea any validity by discussing it.

Neither could he remain completely ignorant. Ignorance had never been the Ramsden way.

Most of the close friends he’d had before leaving the country, friends from college, had moved on, married, settled into careers all over the country. He’d reacquainted himself with a few of them, but being so wrapped up in expanding Ramsden into commercial construction, he hadn’t developed any relationships close enough to call on in a time like this.

As he understood his situation, Schuster—who would be filing charges on behalf of the state—would have to take along an investigator who’d questioned key witnesses to appear before a grand jury.

Once the investigator corroborated Schuster’s claim about how witnesses would probably respond in court, a charge would be entered and either a warrant issued for his arrest or he’d be subpoenaed to appear in court for arraignment.

The whole process could be done in a day or two, which Schuster had already had. They could be coming for him at any moment.

A noise sounded in the outer office. A door closing? Glancing over his shoulder so quickly he pulled a muscle in his neck, Blake waited. After a couple of minutes had passed with no other activity, he strode over to yank open the door. He’d rather just face what was to come than—

The office was empty. But he could see where a calendar had fallen from its nail on the wall. Lee Anne had taken the calendar down earlier that morning, looking up a proposed completion date and had obviously not put it back securely. Slowly, calmly, he walked over and hung it up.

In his office again, Blake didn’t hesitate. He picked up the phone, dialed the number he’d already memorized, and waited. The chances were pretty slim that a woman as busy as Juliet McNeil would just be sitting at her desk on a Monday. For all he knew, she spent most of her days in court. Certainly she’d have a staff to do most of the investigative and research work she needed.

Her skills were in the courtroom.

“Juliet McNeil…”

Traffic buzzed beneath his window. People who looked more like little bugs than human beings scurried down the sidewalk, collecting at street corners waiting for lights to change. A man stood, leaning against the side of a brick building across the street, smoking a cigarette.

The sky was a perfect cerulean blue. The sun bright.

“Hello?”

“Sorry.” Blake finally decided to speak rather than quietly replace the receiver. “It’s Blake Ramsden.”

“Blake! Oh my God. You’ve heard.”

“Heard what?”

“Oh, then I take it you haven’t seen the noon news?”

He’d been too busy dreading being in the news himself. “No, what’s up?”

“Are you in your office?”

“Yes.”

“I’m actually not far from there,” she said. “Mind if I come by?”

What the hell was going on? “Of course not. I’m on the twelfth floor. What did I miss on the noon news?”

Could they announce to the press that he’d been charged before they told him?

“As convoluted as everything is, I don’t want to have this conversation with you over the phone. Do you mind?”

Yes. He was a little short on patience. “No.”

“I’ll be right there.”

She’d clicked off before he’d pulled the phone away from his ear.

BLAKE WAS WAITING for her at the elevator outside Lee Anne’s office. He’d tried to find some local news on his computer but hadn’t had any luck.

She looked all business in her maroon linen suit and matching pumps. And still, in that first instant her eyes met his, Blake saw something else there. Some kind of knowing that had existed between them from the first moment they’d met—two strangers drowning fears and doubts and worries about their futures in a bar on a California beach.

A couple of his staff architects walked by and nodded, their interest in seeing their boss with a beautiful woman a little too obvious.

“Let’s go inside,” he said, indicating the brass placard that identified his suite of offices.

“President and CEO,” Juliet read aloud. “Impressive.”

“It would be if I hadn’t simply inherited the job.”

She glanced back at him, her forehead creased. “From what I hear, you’ve done miraculous things. In just five short years, you’ve turned this company into the leader in a very competitive industry.”

“You’ve done your homework.” It made him uneasy. She’d come armed.

She nodded. But didn’t explain. Nor did she meet his eyes, focusing instead on his inner sanctum.

“Nice. I like all the windows. The view is magnificent.”

He stood beside her as she stared down at the city. “Nothing quite beats the ocean, in my opinion, but this is nice, too. I just imagine that all those buildings are gone and then there it is.”

What kind of sappy idiot was he turning into? So he might go to jail. He’d handle it just as he’d handled everything else that had come his way.

“What did I miss on the noon news?” It was time to get on with it.

“Oh, Blake…” She turned, her eyes wide as she looked up at him. “Eaton James killed himself this morning.”

“What?” His stomach dropped. Another suicide? The brightness in the room diminished, as though the sun had gone behind a cloud. A cloud that was following him, would continue to follow him, for the rest of his life?

He had nothing to do with this one. Nothing.

“What happened?”

“Apparently he said goodbye to his wife and kids as usual when she left to take them to school. This was her morning to volunteer at a food bank. Then he went out to the garage, ran a vacuum cleaner hose from the exhaust to the back window of his antique Model T, turned on the car and climbed inside. When his wife came home a couple of hours later, he was dead, slumped over the steering wheel.”

“God.” What was it with people taking the easy way out and leaving their loved ones behind to deal with the consequences?

Not that he really knew about that. It wasn’t as though his father had killed himself. Or that he himself had still been among Amunet’s loved ones. Still, the sting was so acutely felt, so real. “Did he leave a note?”

Amunet had. And it had only brought about more questions with no answers.

“Just to tell his wife that his life insurance wouldn’t pay her anything because of the circumstances of his death, but that the money in the Cayman Islands would be hers when it was freed up and should be enough to care for her and the kids for the rest of her life.”

Blake’s skin was cold. “That was it?” No I love yous? Nothing to tell her children? His children?

“Except for the name of a man he recommended to handle her financial affairs, saying he was someone she could trust.”

Blake stood there, staring out at a day that looked exactly the same as it had mere moments before. And felt as dark as night.

Two weeks ago, he’d been a busy, if somewhat reclusive, builder with a moderately quiet life. Today, standing in that same office, he was living in a world gone mad.