Gradually the July sun began searing his skin. But there was a clarity to this position, a pressure to see everything with morning’s purity. Kirsten was the most irritatingly secretive woman he had ever met. She held a huge portion of herself clenched impossibly tight. He would like it otherwise. He desperately wanted her to share all with him, even though he was certain her secret would prove to be appalling.
Here in this gift of quiet Sabbath space, he asked himself the carefully avoided question. What if she refused? Marcus set his cup aside. It was not like he needed a lot of time to think this through. The morning’s importance had lain with confronting the issue. The answer was immediate.
Whatever she chose to give him would be enough. Half of Kirsten’s heart was a thousand times more than he had ever expected, or deserved.
He walked across the gangplank and took the gravel path toward the house. Finally he had an answer for that long-ago client. You lived with someone and never knew them fully because the alternative was unthinkable.
When he crossed the rear patio, Marcus found two men in Dale’s kitchen alcove. Dale Steadman had recovered from the previous day’s binge with well-practiced speed. An older man stood like a wraith beside him, holding himself with the fragility of one guarding eggshells.
Marcus stepped through the doorway and announced, “We need to talk.”
“I hope it is to tell this gentleman that you cannot in any way be associated with this case.” The stranger had a patrician’s nose and the highbrow British accent to match. “A more atrocious set of circumstances I could not possibly imagine than to have this be dragged into open court.”
Dale offered Marcus a half-full pot. “Like a cup?”
“Black.”
“Marcus Glenwood, Kedrick Lloyd. Kedrick happens to be the eighth earl of Tisbury, and my oldest friend. He introduced me to Erin.” He handed Marcus a mug. “Then told me I was a fool to marry her.”
“Which you most certainly were.”
“No argument there.” He bent down and retrieved a bottle of cognac from beneath the sink. “Anybody else feel like a spike?”
Marcus said, “Don’t.”
“You telling me what to do in my own house?”
“If you want me to take the case, I am.”
“Gentlemen, really,” Kedrick Lloyd protested. “Neither of you can possibly be serious.”
Marcus walked around the central station and took the bottle from Steadman. He dropped it into the gleaming waste can. “These are my terms. You are going to be in court every single day this case requires. We have to do everything possible to counteract the impression Erin’s attorney is painting.”
“You’re going for it?”
“I’m not finished. You lay off the sauce and you join a local AA.” Marcus made every word a challenge, half hoping the man would refuse. “You must prove to Judge Sears that the claims against you are false and malicious. And by taking the time to appear you demonstrate a greater commitment to your child than Erin Brandt.”
“This is preposterous!” The hand that rose to wipe Kedrick’s mouth was pale as a linen shroud. “It has obviously escaped your local boy here that international custody cases are notoriously difficult.”
Marcus asked, “Are you an attorney?”
“Kedrick is a patron of the arts,” Dale replied. “He is vice chairman of the board of the New York Metropolitan Opera. Which makes him an expert on everything. If you don’t believe me, just ask him.”
“I know the ways of the world, unlike your hired gun!” He had still not glanced Marcus’ way. “Dale, listen to what I’m saying. Even if you win here, you will lose. Believe me. I have friends who have been tied up in such cases for years. It will rob you of your life.”
“No chance,” Dale replied. “That’s already been taken from me.”
“Hopeless,” Kedrick muttered, starting from the kitchen. “Senseless, preposterous, hopeless. You realize, of course, he will milk you for every cent you have, then vanish.”
“Just a minute, please,” Marcus said. “I need witnesses who will testify on Mr. Steadman’s behalf. Could I ask you to appear Tuesday in-”
Kedrick did not even turn around. “I will not grace this obvious act of prostitution with a single further instant of my time. Good day to you both.”
When they were alone, Dale said, “Kedrick is dying. Leukemia. He’s down here to sell a couple of hotels and start some last-ditch treatment over at Duke.” His voice held the hesitancy of one fearful of hope. “You’re serious about taking me on?”
“I meant what I said. You’re going to have blood tests on a regular basis. The first time you show anything stronger than aspirin in your system, you get yourself another lawyer.”
“Yes. All right. Agreed.”
“Let’s go back to a point I tried to make yesterday. On Friday your wife’s lawyer came up with a fire chief and the former head of the Wilmington Chamber of Commerce.”
“Let me guess. The fire chief said I was blind drunk and the businessman suggested I be burned at the stake.”
“Pretty much. Then yesterday I met with a local judge by the name of Garland Perry who basically agreed with them.”
“No surprise there. There’s all sorts of levels to a society like this one.” He took a hit from his mug, then shook his head over the absence of what he sought. “Once you’ve been cast to a role by the old guard, they grow testy if you head in a different direction.”
“You’re telling me none of what these people said about you is true?”
“I never had a chance of acceptance in this town. I was too ambitious, too tough, too full of newfangled ideas about workers’ comp and such. Then I brought home this foreign lady I met in New York. Man, I was history.”
“Come Tuesday morning, I’ll refute their testimony with evidence to the contrary. Either that, or any chance we have goes right out the window.”
Dale’s hands were too big and too busy to be contained upon the counter. They sent him traipsing around the kitchen, scattering little touches here and there. “I’ll try to come up with some folks who’ll speak on my behalf.”
“Your British friend is right, by the way. This case has virtually no chance of succeeding.”
“Then why are you helping me?”
To that Marcus had no definable answer. “You mind if I borrow your boat for a while? I’ve got some friends who should be arriving after lunch.”
Early that afternoon, Fay Wilbur’s car rattled across the plank bridge and pulled up in front of Dale’s waterside palace. Deacon rose from the car, gave the house a single astonished glance, then hustled around to unload the wheelchair from the trunk. A face like a shriveled gourd protruded from the driver’s window and shrilled up at him, “Marcus Glenwood! You ought to hang your head in shame!”
“Hello, Fay.”
“Don’t you sass me! My man’s supposed to be preaching at the revival tonight! He’s got hisself people wanting to hear about the Lord, and you’re taking him off sinnin’!”
“We couldn’t do it without him, Fay. He’s the only one who knows where the fish are.”
“Don’t you go blowing any smoke my way! This here’s nothing but a wrongness in the making!” An arm straight and angular as a dried tree root took aim at the man settling into the wheelchair. “And shame on you, Charlie Hayes, shame! With the Angel of Death hovering ’round, you oughta be busy getting your house in order!”
“Seeing you always makes my day complete, Fay,” Charlie Hayes assured her.
“I ain’t taking none of your smoke neither! Anybody close as you are to meeting your maker oughta be a little busier with the things of heaven, sir!” She waited until Deacon pushed the wheelchair farther down the drive, then lowered her tone somewhat. “Marcus honey, come over here a second.”