By now he had heard about Godfrey Priest’s murder, and I told him of my involvement. Sean, in his second year out of law school, worked for a large firm in Houston that specialized in civil law. He expressed concern for me, and I assured him I was fine.
He kept talking about innocuous things, but all the time he spoke I sensed an undercurrent. Finally, I decided to ask him outright what was wrong.
Sean sighed into the phone. “I don’t know, Dad. It’s a number of things. The job, for one. It’s not really what I thought it would be, and the hours are crazy. I work all the time.”
“It’s hard, I know. Those big firms work junior lawyers really hard for the first few years.” Now that he was talking openly, I could sense a certain amount of relief.
“Yeah, that’s part of the problem. It’s going to be years before it gets any better, and I’m not sure I’m cut out for this.”
That concerned me, because Sean knew he wanted to be a lawyer from the age of twelve when he first read To Kill a Mockingbird.
“You wanted to be Atticus Finch,” I said.
“I did,” Sean said. “I was pretty naive, wasn’t I?”
“Idealistic,” I said. “There’s a difference.”
“Well, it’s hard to hold on to your ideals when you’re working on cases involving millions of dollars and representing big companies who are trying to sidestep the law any way they can.”
“What are you going to do about it?” I asked.
Sean didn’t answer for a moment. “I’m not sure. I’m still thinking about it. I thought I might spend a couple weeks at Christmas with you, if that’s okay. Do you think Laura’s coming home then?”
“She hasn’t said yet, but I certainly hope she will. And you know, son, you can come and stay as long as you like. There’s plenty of room.” I didn’t dare be too effusive. Sean turned prickly over displays of paternal emotion. He had always been closer to his mother. “Thanks, Dad,” he said, the relief obvious in his voice. “I’ll let you know when I can get away.”
“Good. I’m looking forward to seeing you,” I said. I actually hadn’t seen him since his law school graduation over two years ago. He was always too busy to visit me, and whenever I suggested coming to Houston, he put me off.
We chatted a few more minutes, and when I put down the phone I was thoughtful. Sean was in distress, and I wanted to help him. I would have to wait until the holidays, though. I tried not to dwell too much on the possibility that he might leave Houston permanently for Athena. I didn’t want to be disappointed. By December he might change his mind about even coming here for the holidays.
Dinner was every bit as delectable as I expected, and when I finished I thought ruefully about that third helping of roast. I felt discomfort in my stomach, and I scolded myself for overeating. I put it down to my concern for Sean. I had always been a stress eater.
I had a restless night as well, partly because I’d overeaten, but in large part due to worries about my son. When I rose the next morning, bleary-eyed from not getting enough quality sleep, Diesel hopped out of bed, perky as ever. On mornings like this he reminded me of one of my college roommates, who invariably rose from bed chipper and happy. There were times when I could cheerfully have whacked him over the head and stuffed his body in the closet.
Diesel was safe, however. He was much too fast for me.
On Saturday mornings I pottered about the house once I had read the newspaper and eaten my breakfast. Sometimes I worked in the yard, and I knew a couple of the flowerbeds in the backyard needed attention. I was not the world’s most enthusiastic gardener, but I knew it would do me good to be out in the clear, cool air, engaged in a useful activity.
Besides, Diesel loved exploring the backyard. The lot was large, and there were plenty of spots for an enterprising feline to delve into in hopes of finding something fun to play with. As I weeded the flowerbeds, Diesel popped into and out of them, batting fallen leaves about and cheering me up to no end.
Near noon I decided to break for lunch. There had been no sign of Julia and Justin, and I hoped they would appear soon. I was eager to talk to Julia about the writers’ group.
As I was washing my hands in the kitchen sink, I heard the front door opening. Justin had a key, so I assumed it was he and Julia. Diesel scampered off. He would accompany Justin upstairs, I was sure.
“Good afternoon,” Julia said moments later, as she paused in the doorway. “You look like you’ve been working out in the yard today.”
I glanced down and saw the streaks of dirt on my old khakis. “Weeding flowerbeds while Diesel stalked the jungle in search of dangerous leaves.”
Julia laughed at that.
“Come in and have a seat,” I said. “Would you like something to drink?”
“I’m fine,” Julia said as she came to the table. “We finished lunch a short time ago. Justin was anxious to get back. He has a paper due for his English class on Monday.”
I filled a glass of water from the tap and sat down at the table. “How are things?”
“Okay,” Julia said. “Though we had a visit this morning from Kanesha Berry.”
“I see,” I said. “I have an idea what you might have talked about.”
“How would you know?” Julia asked. “Is she taking you into her confidence?”
“Not exactly,” I said wryly. “But I did manage to find out a few things that she didn’t know.”
“Something to do with a writers’ group that I used to belong to.” Julia said it flatly. She looked annoyed, whether with me or Kanesha, I wasn’t sure.
“Yes,” I said.
“Why all the interest in something that happened twenty years ago?” Julia frowned. “I can’t see what my belonging to that group for a couple of years has to do with anything.” She paused for a moment, a faraway look in her eyes. “Though that is when I had my fling with Godfrey, the Lord forgive me, and got pregnant with Justin.”
“I can’t really say why Kanesha is interested, or why I am either,” I said. “But I do think it’s important. I never knew you were interested in writing.”
Julia shrugged. “I tried my hand at several things back then, trying to figure out what I could do besides being a preacher’s wife. I’d always made good grades in English, so I assumed—wrongly, as it turned out—that I had potential as a writer.” She laughed suddenly, a bitter sound. “I had visions of becoming the new Phyllis Whitney or Victoria Holt. Not only were books like that not being published anymore—unless you were Phyllis Whitney or Victoria Holt—but I wasn’t very good at writing them. Godfrey might have been a jerk in many ways, but at least he convinced me to stop wasting my time.”
“You weren’t interested in writing thrillers?” She had sounded sincere when talking about her writing, but I needed to be sure she wasn’t X and trying to put me off the scent.
“Heavens, no.” She laughed again, this time sounding amused. “I almost never read them. I never had a desire to write them, I promise you.”
“Good,” I said. “What about the other members of the group? Were any of them interested in writing thrillers?”
“Not that I recall,” Julia said. She thought for a moment. “Rick Tackett was writing a book about Vietnam. I think it was therapy for him, more than anything else. The other two women in the group were writing romance novels, and one of them was working on a western. The history professor—I think he’s actually teaching Justin this semester—was writing this horrendously awful historical novel about an oversexed druid in ancient Britain.”
“That’s six of you,” I said. “Were there others in the group?”