A Promise to Remember (33 page)

Bruce put Andie's suitcase in the trunk. "This it?"

"Yes." She handed him a folded bill. "Thank you."

"Thank yon, Mrs. Smith. Please stay with us again soon."

Andie nodded and climbed into her car. The turn of the key
felt so permanent. This place hadn't been paradise-no place
could be under these circumstances-but it had been a haven,
a safe retreat for the last days, and she knew that reentering the
world would bring everything back down on her. Likely more,
once Blair found her. Still, she'd already extended her stay one
night past her intentions, and it was too easy to imagine continuing on. And since part of what she realized during her days in seclusion was that she needed to stand up for herself, that
meant she couldn't run away anymore. It was time to make the
next move.

She drove south on Highway 101. The Pacific Ocean lay
smooth and sleek, mirroring the sky above, and the sun shone
a blanket across the blue. Yet beneath the surface, there were
many things that could hurt-kill, even. The great whites that
occasionally went after surfers. Jellyfish, whose sting paralyzed
you far from shore. Even stingrays, like the one that killed that
alligator wrestler last year. Things that looked calm and serene
on the surface could still wound you deeply. Just like Blair and
all his apologies.

She dialed the number to her house, knowing Blair would
already be at work. She needed to make certain. No answer.
Good. She could stop by her house, pick up some clothes, and
make it to Christi's without a confrontation. She planned to
spend the next week in her guesthouse and reevaluate from
there.

Thirty minutes later, she pulled into her driveway, relieved
to see the house quiet. This shouldn't take long. She avoided
the garage, in the unlikely case Blair should come home while
she was still in the house.

Over the last four days, she had spoken to him only briefly.
It would be just like him to block her car in with his own as a
way of forcing her to stay and listen to his excuses-excuses
she wouldn't believe anyway.

She climbed the stairs, not bothering to turn on lights-the
sunlight through the windows provided more than enough
illumination. When she reached her room, she started across
the space toward her closet, then stopped. There, lying sprawled
out on the floor, was Blair.

He wasn't moving.

When she walked into Les's office on Saturday morning, Melanie
found him looking at a large rectangle wrapped in brown paper.
He quickly closed the flap and set it against the wall when he
saw her. He cleared his throat and looked down at his legal pad.
"Now, let's see, where were we?"

As he studied his notes, Melanie looked at the large object leaning on the wall-obviously something in a frame. She
knew that he was no longer married but had been a time or
two. Maybe this was a family photo of his children and grandchildren-dressed in white shirts, blue jeans, and hare feet,
standing on the beach. That was the way all family photos
seemed to be made in Santa Barbara.

"Oh yes, the case-management conference. That will happen
week after next."

Melanie nodded. "And that's-"

"You jerk! Get out of my face before I smack you one!" Shouted
words New into Les's office through the open balcony doors.

He jumped up, glared toward the street below, then slammed
the door shut. A gust of air whooshed through the room, causing the flap of brown paper to By up. It came to rest slightly
askew.

Melanie saw the words Los Angeles across the top. She
remembered that he'd said something about being interviewed
by a magazine a few weeks ago. Still, he wasn't mentioning it
now Back to the subject at hand. "So ... a case-management
conference is when they set the trial date, right?"

He nodded. "And some other things. They'll send us to mediation in the meanwhile. Also, they'll set the date for the mandatory settlement meeting."

"Mandatory settlement? Nothing doing. I'm not going through
all this just to settle."

"It's all part of the procedures. The meeting won't even happen until right before the trial. The judge will call everybody in
and try to make each side believe their case can't possibly win,
so we'd all better settle."

"But-"

"Don't worry. He can make us attend the conference. He
can't make us settle."

"So do I need to attend the case-management thing?"

"No. I'll call and let you know our pending dates. After that,
we'll go into the discovery phase. We'll talk more about that as
we go along."

Melanie nodded and looked at the brown parcel. "Anything
else we need to talk about?"

He shook his head. "That'll do for now"

She walked from his office, down the sidewalk toward the
parking lot. A small magazine shop caught her attention. She
went inside and looked for a copy of the most recent issue of
Los Angeles magazine. She flipped through profiles of movie
stars and restaurant reviews until page twenty-seven, where
she found Les's picture, along with those of three other men
who looked equally distinguished-or inflated, depending on
your view.

"Today's Power Players," the article was entitled. Les's picture
showed him in khakis and a button-down, standing at the rail of a
yacht. "Lawyer with a heart," said the caption under his name.

Les Stewart moved to Santa Barbara last year, with plans
to sail, travel, and enjoy his retirement. However; after a
grieving mother asked for his help, he gladly postponed his
hard-earned retirement.

The rest of the article talked about his life, career, and the
basic skeleton of the case.

An uncomfortable sensation that felt a lot like betrayal began
to chew at Melanie's gut. Nothing in the article was false-the
paper presented Jeff in a good light. But this lawsuit was supposed to be all about Jeff. Somehow, this made it seem like it
was a lot about Les Stewart.

Andie walked down the long corridor in the hospital's rehab wing
noting that the smell of disinfectant-strong though it was-did
not quite manage to mask the other scent. Vomit.

When she reached the next-to-last door on the right, she saw
Kathleen Griffin, M.A. in bold white letters on the nameplate
above the door. Yes, this was the place. She knocked gently.

Maybe if no one heard her, she could turn and leave. She
could say she tried, and no one answered. Her hopes disappeared
when the door opened.

"Andie % I'm Kathleen Griffin. Thank you so much for coming." She extended a hand, which Andie took. The warmth of
Kathleen's hand drew her attention to how cold her own had
gone. "Please, come in, have a seat." She pointed toward a chair
covered in faded gray vinyl. "We've been taking good care of
your husband for the last two days."

"Good." She looked around the room.

Kathleen Griffin appeared to be about fifty. Broad-shouldered and heavyset, her hair was black-and-gray-streaked twigs
of frizziness. She looked like a reformed hippie who'd gotten
stuck having to find a real job but couldn't quite leave the sixties
behind. Andie looked around the office, searching for posters
about Woodstock or something similar. Instead she found framed
verses. "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me."
Then, "I have told you these things, so that in we you may have
peace. In this world , you will have trouble. But take heart! I have
overcome the world. John 16:33."

Kathleen cleared her throat. "That one almost sounds a bit pessimistic, doesn't it?You have trouble; you'll keep having trouble."
She had obviously seen the direction of Andie's gaze.

"Why is it on your wall, then?"

"Mrs. Phelps, the people who come through these halls need
to understand that staying with us a couple of weeks is not
going to solve their problem. It is a lifelong problem. One which
your husband has dealt with very effectively for the last twenty
years, I gather." She flipped open a chart on her desk. "In that
respect, you're lucky. A lot of our patients have to go through
a long detox process before they even make it to this point. All
your husband had to do was sober up."

"Lucky us."

Kathleen tapped a pencil on her desktop and frowned at
Andie. "Mrs. Phelps, an alcoholic relapse is a serious issue."

Andie thought back to her father's suicide. "I want to help
him-I really do. But there are lots of other issues here besides
Blair's relapse."

Kathleen's expression softened. "I know this is a difficult time
for your family. Losing a child is more than anyone should be
asked to withstand. It's important, though, that the two of you
get to the very root of your problems, hold nothing back, deal with all the ugliness. If your husband tries to cover up his feelings, he is sure to relapse again. He cannot begin the healing
process until he is completely honest."

"Okay." Nothing was mentioned about the danger of smothering Andie's feelings. She realized what she'd stepped into.

In the name of healing, Blair would come in here and vent at
her for an unlimited time. She was expected to be a good wife
and take it all, then beg forgiveness for her failures. It would
be called therapy. If that was therapy then her daily life was
therapy enough. What about her 'r What about her therapy? A
spark of anger lit inside her.

Kathleen went to a side door and opened it. "You can come
in now."

Blair's face was pale, his eyes puffy and dark. He wore a
T-shirt and jeans. He didn't look at Andie as he shuffled to a
chair and stared at the floor, like a condemned man before the
executioner.

Kathleen closed the door and returned to her seat behind
the desk. "Blair, let's begin with you. What do you need to say
to Andie?"

Andie felt the muscles in her neck tighten. Here it comes.

Blair shifted and crossed his left ankle across his right knee.
"I'm sorry."

Andie blinked. He had rarely spoken these words in their
marriage. Still... their effect was diminished by too many other
factors. They served only to provide an added second before
the condemnation would start.

He cleared his throat. "I know I've never done anything quite
good enough for you. I've always tried to be a good husband
and provide for you like you needed and wanted, but somehow
along the line I've failed you."

The words hit Andie like a slap across the face. The spark of
anger blazed. "What do you mean, you've never done anything quite good enough for me? You make it sound like my high
expectations caused this. I've never demanded anything of you,
Blair. Well, nothing more than coming home from work now
and then."

Blair's gaze jerked up toward Andie in obvious surprise.

The long-repressed emotions inside her would not be held
back any longer. Words began to spew from her, even as she
knew she should be holding them in. "I've never been good
enough for you!"

Blair's mouth dropped open, and he looked toward Kathleen.
Kathleen flipped another page on the chart. "Mrs. Phelps, I
think-"

"You think what? Blair's the one who decided to drink away
his problems, leaving me to deal with all the resulting garbage.
But since he has the problem, I've got to sit in here and listen
to him rag on me for all the supposed pressure I've put on him
over the years? Well, I won't."

Andie jumped to her feet. "I've spent the last twenty years
listening to constant criticism because I was not the person he
wanted me to be. I accepted him fully for who he was, but he
could never do the same for me."

"That's not true." Blair stood, as well.

"Oh yeah? How many times have I berated you for playing
the occasional round of golf? How many times have I railed
at you for half an hour for being compulsive about your sock
drawer. Huh? But my painting and messy closet have been the
target of hundreds of your rants."

She could see the hurt on Blair's face-a face that was so
wounded and broken now-but she was beyond remorse. "I've
listened to it every single day of our marriage. The only thing I
do for the pure joy of it is painting, and you tell me it's a selfish
use of my time. Things always have to be your way, and my way
is wrong, and I'm sick of it."