"Of course it is, Eric. We're going to need three people at the very least. We may even have to take on another two helpers later."
"Billy wants to work with me, serving in the café and the food shop. Joanna Smith is in love with the idea of selling beautiful things for beautiful dining, so she could run the shop upstairs in the new loft. Agnes had wanted to be in the boutique, but I told her that was Anna's territory, and so she's agreed to handle the Kilgram Chase Gallery. It's worked out well, hasn't it?"
"It has indeed, thanks to you. I assume they agreed to the money we're paying."
Eric nodded. "Oh, yes, no problem, and they're all prepared to stay in their current jobs, starting with us in October."
"Good. That gives us six months to get everything ready for the opening in spring of 1990. There's a lot to do, though. What do you think, Eric? Can we manage to unpack all of the products, get price tags on everything, and put the merchandise on display in that amount of time?"
"I think so."
"I'll discuss it with Sarah later, just to be sure. But originally she did tell me to set aside three months just to deal with the merchandise."
"It's not putting the price tags on that's the problem," Eric volunteered. "It's making attractive displays of everything. Sarah says that's very important."
"Crucial," I agreed. "But she has promised to come out here and supervise us, you know."
He grinned at me.
I handed him a collection of watercolors. "Do you mind helping me with these, Eric?"
"My pleasure, Mal."
I picked up a second pile of my paintings, and together we left the studio.
It was a boiling-hot July morning, and as we left the air-conditioned studio, a blast of warm air almost knocked me over. "It's terribly hot today," I muttered, glancing up at the hazy sky and the brilliant sun already breaking through the clouds.
"It's going to be a real scorcher by noon," Eric commented.
"The sign for the gate is going to be ready tomorrow," I told him as we walked toward the house. "One of Tom's carpenters has made it, and he's bringing it over. Then I can paint the background and our name on it: Indian Meadows: A Country Experience. In the meantime, let's go and find Sarah."
"She's in the kitchen, sticking her nose into all of Nora's bubbling pots. She doesn't know which jam to try first. And every time Nora gives her a new one to taste, she declares it's her favorite."
Eric had spoken the truth.
I found Sarah with Nora in front of the stove, taking small samplings of her jams and putting them on a plate.
"What do you aim to do with all of that?" I asked as I walked through the kitchen, heading for my little office at the back of the house.
"Eat it, of course," Sarah said. "On these two slices of homemade bread, also courtesy of dear Nora here. And I know, before you say it, Mal, I'll regret it later. And yes, my diet's gone to hell."
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
New York, August 1989
What I was about to do today would be difficult. But I knew it must be done, no matter what.
In a few hours I was going to stand up in a court of law and speak to the judge in the case brought by the district attorney against those who had killed my family.
I was going to tell the judge, the Honorable Elizabeth P. Donan, about Andrew and Jamie and Lissa and the pain their deaths had caused me. I was going to bare my soul to her and to everyone else who would be seated in that courtroom this morning.
And I was going to ask the judge to mete out the maximum penalty under the law. As David had said: This was my right as the victims' next of kin.
The four defendants had been found guilty of murder in the second degree after a trial which had lasted less than a week. There was obviously no doubt in the jurors' minds about their culpability. They had returned the guilty verdict within a couple of hours of going into deliberation.
Soon it would be my turn to say my piece, as David called it. He was going to be with me in criminal court in downtown Manhattan. So were my mother, my father, Diana, and Sarah.
Diana had flown in from London two days ago, after Detective DeMarco had given David the date the sentencing would be held; my father had arrived early yesterday evening from Mexico, where he was currently conducting a special archaeological project for the University of California.
Everyone wished to give me moral support; they also wanted to see justice done, as I did.
"Of course I'm going to be with you," Diana had said when she had spoken to me on the phone from London over a week ago now. "It would be unthinkable for me not to be there. I lost my son and my grandchildren; I must be present. And your father feels the same way. I discussed it at length with him some time ago. This is about family, Mal, about a family standing together in a time of crisis, pain, and grief."
I had driven in from Sharon yesterday afternoon so that I could spend the evening with my family, which included Sarah, of course. Now I finished dressing in my old room at my mother's apartment. Then I went over to the mirror and stood looking at myself for a moment, seeing myself objectively for the first time in a long while. How thin my body was; I looked like a scarecrow. My face was so pale my freckles stood out markedly.
I was gaunt, almost stem in my appearance.
I was wearing a black linen suit totally unrelieved by any other color, except for my red hair, of course, which was as fiery as it always was. I wore it pulled back into a ponytail, held in place by a black silk bow. The only jewelry I had on were small pearl earrings, my gold wedding ring, and my watch.
Stepping into a pair of plain black leather pumps, I picked up my handbag and left the room.
My mother and Sarah were waiting for me in the small den with Diana, who was staying with us. The three of them were dressed in black, and like me, they looked severe, almost grim.
A moment later David walked into the room and said, "Edward should be here any minute."
My mother nodded, glanced at me, and murmured, "Your father is always very punctual."
Before I could comment, the intercom from downstairs rang. I knew it was my father.
The press was present in full force, not only outside the criminal court building on Centre Street but in the courtroom as well.
This was already packed with people when we arrived, and David hurried me down to the front row of seats. I sat between him and Sarah; in the row behind us were my mother, my father, and Diana.
I recognized the chief prosecutor from newspaper photographs and television. He was talking intently to Detective DeMarco, who inclined his head in our direction when he saw David and me. I nodded in return.
Looking around the courtroom, I suddenly stiffened; my hackles rose, prickling the back of my neck.
My eyes had come to rest on the four defendants. I stared at them.
They were seated with their attorneys, and this was the first time I had seen them in the flesh. They were neatly dressed, spruced up for this procedure, I had no doubt. I held myself very still.
Three youths and a man.
Roland Jellicoe. White. Twenty-four years old.
Pablo Rodriguez. Hispanic. Sixteen years old.
Alvin Charles. Black. Eighteen years old.
Benji Callis. Black. Fourteen years old. The gunman.
I would never forget their names.
Their names and their faces were engraved on my memory for all time.
They were the fiends who had killed my babies and my husband, and my little Trixy.
My eyes were riveted on them.
They stared back at me impassively, indifferently, as if they had done nothing wrong.
I felt as though I couldn't breathe. My heart was beating very fast. Then something erupted inside me. All of the anger I had been suppressing for months, ever since last December, spiraled up into the most overpowering rage.
My hatred took hold of me, almost brought me to my feet. I wanted to jump up, rush at them, hurt them. I wanted to destroy them as they had destroyed mine, destroyed those I loved. If I'd had a gun, I would have used it on them, I know that I would have.