A Girl's Best Friend (20 page)

I ignore his inference to my lighthearted lifestyle. “Did you find out anything about my father?”

“My secretary is working on it. I don’t know anything yet.”

I pace again.

“They want to interview you. Do you think you’re ready for that?”

“Ready for what? I don’t know anything. Have I not just been in the newspaper for being the most ignorant twit in San Francisco? What do you think has changed between last week and today?”

“You don’t have to get mad. That won’t help your case. I know you’re not ignorant, Morgan.”

I never thought you could go to prison for being naïve, but apparently that’s not the case. Apparently, ignorance can get you into a whole lot of trouble. “I’m not mad, and only dogs get mad, people get angry,” I remind him. “I’m powerless. Do you like being out of control, Mr. Gentry? No, because we’re all control freaks at heart. Without a moment’s warning, I just lost everything I knew to be my world. Try to have some sympathy, will you? I know I’m not your normal case, but maybe God’s testing you.”

He stares at me with hard eyes. I can tell he’s summing me up, trying to figure out if I’m really naïve or simply a calculating vixen who has run off with an estimated two million dollars. I would think if he’d read the paper in the last two months he’d have his answer.
No, really, she is that dumb.

“Why are you looking at me? You either believe me or you don’t. If you don’t, be gone and let me find a real lawyer.”

“I don’t think you’re that easy to read, and you will allow me to have my assessment time. You’re a beautiful woman, Morgan, and you’ve moved in some elegant social circles. I imagine you’ve learned a trick or two.”

“And you’re the poor, innocent lawyer next on my list, is that it? Will I grasp you in my clutches and make you powerless to escape? You’ll have a hard time finding someone to feel for the lawyer.”

He says nothing.

“I have a question for you, George. Why do you automatically assume because I am blonde and inherited my mother’s looks that I am a schemer? What is it you think I have to gain by tricking you, my lawyer? Why do men always assume the worst of women?”

“I can’t speak for all men, but are you familiar with Samson and Delilah?” He laughs and writes something down. “But you’ve got me all wrong, Morgan. I don’t question your innocence. I’m just giving you a sampling of what you’re going to hear in front of the grand jury.”

His comment infuriates me and his profession of my innocence awakens something ugly within me. I’ve been accused my whole life of being the vixen. Only Poppy and Morgan ever gave me the benefit of the doubt. Why shouldn’t I be Delilah? Maybe I wouldn’t be in this ridiculous situation if I had a schemer’s heart.

I bend over him, thankful Lilly’s collar is high enough for any church girl, and I look him straight in the eye. I swallow hard and try to think like Delilah. My eyes want to fill with tears as I think about what George Gentry and so many others assume about me, but I force the feelings away. I draw even closer to his face, so close I can feel the heat from him. I see his lower lip moving slightly, and I try to copy what I saw my mother do so often at birthday parties and fashion shows. I lean my elbow on the table, only to have it slip off and I nearly whack my arm on the table. I reassume the position.

“Maybe Delilah was fighting for her life, too.”

He takes a sharp breath and pulls away from me. Then he slams his folder shut and stands up. “You think this is a game, don’t you? You think your beauty, your grace is going to just let you walk out of here scot free, don’t you?”

I sit down, feeling the sting of tears, their warm stickiness falling down my cheek. “No, George, I don’t think I’m going to go free. If anything, I feel like I’m trying to accept my fate. I think my father could be out there sick, or possibly even dying, and I’m in here playing cat and mouse, and I don’t even care. You want to lock me up? You go ahead, but tell me that my father is all right.”

I stand up straight and walk across the room from him, allowing his eyes to fall on my figure. “You’re just like all the rest. I’m guilty by association. After all, a woman who spent nearly $150,000 last year can’t be good. She can’t have right intentions.” I pull out the Visa bill from his pile. “Read it.”

“Read what?”

“Where my money went, read it.”

He starts to list shoe boutiques and Nordstrom’s, but then he comes to more. Lilly’s fabric: $7,000. The spas with my Spa Girls: $4,300. World Vision: $58,000. And my church: $24,000. And suddenly he looks up at me, questioning everything he knows to be true.

“I am not selfish, Mr. Gentry. I may not be an intellectual like yourself, but I am not selfish. I’m only wealthy and I don’t answer to you, or even the U.S. government. I answer to God, and I know in my heart my motives have been pure. If He chooses to land me in jail, that’s His choice, not yours.”

“I might remind you that the government doesn’t care if you were generous with their money.”

I flinch as though I’ve been hit. George’s lack of belief in me only reminds me I’m a bad judge of character. It will do me no good to prove anything. People believe what they’re going to believe. “I suppose you think I’ve had it pretty good all along, and now I’m getting my just desserts. Is that right? For someone who supposedly believes in me, you have a funny way of showing it.”

He looks down at the paperwork again. “I’m not here to judge you. I’m here to defend you.” But he won’t look at me. Maybe
I am naïve, but I do think he believes me. If I had to put money on the situation, I’d say he was trying to avoid the chemistry that is so obvious between us.

“So defend me, and let’s leave the personal judgments alone. I would have traded every cent to have a father who loved me.”

“I’m sorry, Morgan.”

“Forget it.” I wipe my face with the back of my hand. I don’t bother to dab my eyes daintily the way I was taught.

George comes alongside me in my chair and kneels beside me, staring deeply into my eyes. His face rises to a mere inch from my own and we both use every ounce of self control to avoid the obvious—that I want to forget where I am and be kissed by this lawyer like I’ve never been kissed before. The heat between us generates like a steam engine gathering speed. I close my eyes, hoping to feel the warmth of his lips on my own, but after a time with my eyes closed, I open them again, only to see he’s pulled away.

“Do you want me to say I believe you, Morgan? Because I’ll reiterate. I believe you had nothing to do with this, and it’s my intention to prove it in a court of law. If you are a conniving woman, I see none of it.” He laughs a little. “As a seductress, you’re not very good. No offense.”

I start to giggle through my tears. “I’m not?”

“I knew from the first moment I laid eyes on you at Spa Del Mar you were innocent. I never questioned it once, not even through that pathetic come-on. I’m a good judge of character, and I trust what I see.”

I start to blubber. Not a pretty, graceful cry that my mother practiced with flair, but a heaving, ugly sob that leaves me completely emotionally naked before my lawyer. I put my hands over my face and try to control myself, but the tears burst forth, and I feel myself shaking. It shouldn’t mean a thing that some guy believes me. Not a thing. But for some reason, his faith in me is exactly what I needed today.

“It’s all right, Morgan,” he says softly into my ear. “It’s okay.” He comes closer once again. I feel him press his lips to my forehead. “I’ll get you out of this.”

I pull away and look into his intense brown eyes, believing with everything in me God has truly sent me an angel with a six-pack tummy.

But of course, I’ve believed that before. The first time I ended up with a dead fiancé. The second time, I ended up with a Reno annulment. Now I’m sitting here with a United States indictment, and this time I don’t know what to believe. Except I know that George believing in me is the whisper from heaven I needed.

chapter 20

F
irst rule of law: the U.S. government is not in any hurry. I mean, I actually wonder if these people could afford espresso, would it get any quicker around here? Probably not. I wonder if you crushed up some No-Doz in the cafeteria food would we see some action. But the last thing I need is to be caught thinking about how to drug federal agents. Not really a great Christian thought, and besides, even if they worked at lightning speed, it would still feel like eons. The wheels of justice turn slowly, and although I’ve been interviewed again and again, I feel no closer to going anywhere.

Truthfully, I think they believe me. I suppose the dumb-blonde bit has been well-publicized of late, so it’s not exactly hard to believe.

They’re giving me a break now, and because no charges have actually been formulated, they’re allowing my first visitor. So I’m tapping on the table waiting for Poppy to arrive and tell me how blessed I am. I have no idea for what at this point, but she’ll find something. She is an eternal optimist.

The door opens, and Poppy stands in the doorway, her luxurious red hair a mass of flyaway split ends. Her “vintage” (a nice word for “used”) peasant skirt has shrunk from multiple washings and now lands above her knees, showing her moccasin-style boots (that really should be burned) coming to about midway up her calves. She is a walking fashion nightmare. But I look great, and I’m going to jail, so apparently, I’m not one to give advice.

“Did you find anything out about my father?”

She nods slowly.

“Tell me, Poppy!” I jump up and grab her hands and I search her brilliant blue eyes, hoping for some sign of peace.

“He’s resting comfortably in the hospital.”

“The hospital?” I put my hand at my heart, silently repeating the name
Jesus
over and over again.

“He had a stroke, they think. He’s having trouble speaking right now, but the doctors feel his speech will come back rather quickly, because his other functions have been restored. You’ll appreciate this—he’s trying to yell at them, but his voice won’t work properly.”

“You didn’t tell him where I was?”

Poppy shakes her head. “I thought it would upset him. I just told him I was going to you, and that you loved him and to get better.”

“Thank you, Poppy. I owe you big time.”

“I met his girlfriend.”

“And?”

“Bad energy.”

“Wicked bad? Or just unhealthy bad?” I cannot believe I’m asking this question, but Poppy does have a discerning spirit, and she really can sum people up rather quickly. Even if she does couch it in her “energy speak.”

She lets go of my hands and sits at the gray plastic table. “She loves your father. She’s not in this for money.”

“Well, that’s good because there might not be any. Or is that not obvious by my location?”

Poppy lifts her eyebrows at me and continues. Nothing fazes her. “But Gwen does want to control him, not to share him.” Poppy takes a long, cleansing breath like she’s been known to do in the oddest of circumstances. “I think she’ll want you out of the picture.”

I look around at the stark interrogation room. “I think my father might have actually taken care of that for her.” I try to avoid the obvious thought that my father managed to use me as a human shield in the court room, but I’m beginning to wonder if there’s any other conclusion.

I put my chin in my hands and look around again. I’ve never actually been in a room with less character for such a long stretch of time. I would be willing to bet the carpet doesn’t have six hundred knots per inch.

“I feel like I’m living in an elevator. Only the bad music is missing.”

“Shh,” Poppy puts her forefinger to her mouth. “Don’t give them any ideas; they might use torture. The Muzak version of Beyoncé or something.”

Again we laugh. “Poppy, how do you know who Beyoncé is?” I ask, totally in disbelief that she pays any attention at all to pop culture.

“She’s Jay-Z’s girlfriend.”

I nod and Poppy goes on.

“I’m not totally a hermit,” she explains.

“Wonders never cease. Poppy Clayton knows who Beyoncé is.”

“And I watch
Survivor
. And
The Amazing Race
.”

“No, no more. Next thing you’ll be telling me you’re into
American Idol
, and I can’t believe my beloved Poppy would stoop down with the rest of us Americans.”

“I only watched the one with Barry Manilow on it. He’s my favorite.”

I start to crack up.“Now that is the Poppy I know and love.”

She starts to croon “Mandy,” and I groan.

“You know,” I shake my head, ruffling the
cuffs on my shirt. “You’re right about one thing. Being on the front page in a con man’s arms is really nothing compared to losing your freedom. I need to quit whining, because it only gets worse. I need to look for the joy, for the contentment in every day.”

She shrugs. “You’ll be out of here soon.” She rummages through her oversized tapestry bag. “I brought you some essential oils. This is lavender for relaxation.” She places a bottle on the table. “And this is ylang-ylang for stress and anxiety.”

I gather up the bottles. “Thanks, Poppy, but I’m not sure how the feds feel about essential oils in the pokey. I imagine they’ll just get confiscated.” But I do open them up and take a long, cleansing breath of them. The sweet, floral smells remind me of Spa Del Mar, and for a moment I imagine myself floating away into a hot-stone massage. “I wish I was at the spa.”

“You’re not going to prison. Your lawyer is waiting to hear what bail is set at in your arraignment. After that, I’ll take care of it.”

I laugh out loud. “Poppy, they’ve frozen my assets.”

“They haven’t frozen mine.”

“You don’t have any.” Now I may be a little slow, but I know that whatever my bail is set at, if they consider me a flight risk, there is no way Poppy has the money to pay it. “Even if bail is set at a fraction of what they say I owe, there’s no way.”

“There’s a way. My parents’ house is going to be collateral. I inherited it fair and square, and I can’t think of anything better to use it for. I went to the bail bondsman, and I found out how everything works. It’s really quite fascinating. You’re entitled to your civil rights,” Poppy chirps happily. “I love America.”