An Accidental Woman (51 page)

He rested his hands on the arms of the chair. “Did you mean it?” He was talking about the words, of course.

She nodded. “Don't know what I'm going to do with it yet,” she said, but she was smiling.

“We'll figure that out,” he said, feeling giddy. “Come on. I want to introduce you to someone.”

He pushed her chair through the terminal, out the door, and into the short-term parking lot. She spotted the Porsche well before they reached it, and looked up at him.

“Someone?”

“She's inside.”

“There's no way we're all fitting in—your mystery person, me, my carry-on, and my chair.”

“Have faith,” Griffin said. He had done the figuring. He had thought it all out. There was no way he was knowingly subjecting the love of his life to failure. What he wanted—what he would always want—was to open doors for her.

He steadied her wheels while she shifted into the passenger seat of the Porsche. Then he folded the chair and brought it to the trunk. He had a moment's panic when it didn't quite fit. With a bit of thought and a tiny turn, though, it slid in. The carry-on was flexible. A push here and a squeeze there, and it, too, was stowed. Pleased with himself, he closed the hood and slid in behind the wheel.

Beside him, Poppy was moving a hand over the leather upholstery. “This is a handsome car.” She pointed to the GPS monitor. “Turn it on. Is this her?”

There went his surprise. “How did
you
know?”

She grinned. “We use these things on the lake. It helps finding our way through the islands at night. Charlie calls his Amelia.”

Griffin sighed. “Mine's Sage. You just know too much, Poppy Blake. I can't surprise you with anything.” As he turned the key in the ignition, Poppy closed a hand on his arm.

“You surprise me,” she said, very serious now and vulnerable. “You're here.”

Heart clenching, he nearly went for his pocket. He had something there, and it wasn't a kiss. But the timing wasn't right yet. She admitted that she loved him.
Don't know what I'm going to do with it yet,
she had said. He couldn't push her too far too fast.

So instead of forcing a commitment, he told her about Cindy.

* * *

So she was feeling ebullient as they headed back to Lake Henry. Her outlook on life today was totally different from what it had been barely three weeks ago. The Porsche was a perfect example of that. It was sleek and racy. It spoke of possibilities, which was so much of what her trip to Florida had been. Three weeks before, she wouldn't have dreamed that she would have been able to make that trip, much less be loved by Griffin.

Heather's fate was still up in the air. Like with Cindy, though, there was hope.

She thought about that as they drove north. As they approached Lake Henry, though, her ebullience faded. Lake Henry was real, as were certain other realities. The deal with the California authorities could fall through and Heather might have to stand trial. Cindy Hughes could pack up, take off, and be unheard from for another seven years. Griffin could realize that Buck Kipling's old truck wasn't worth another minute, that the Porsche represented his life, and that being in love with Poppy was fine while he was in town, but with a resolution to the Heather situation in hand, New Jersey called.

The next few days were crucial.

Should I have told him more about Rob? Less about Heather? Did I make my case strongly enough? Did I make it too strongly? Was I too greedy? Should I have given him options? Should I have given him more time?

She second-guessed everything she'd done. Heather's future hung in the balance of her dealings with California; this morning, she felt the full weight of that responsibility.

There was always Plan B. If the deal she proposed was turned down, she had a wonderful case for the press. She planned that out while she waited, listing possible revelations in the order of their priority using a pencil with a rubber pom-pom on the top. The pom-pom pencil was from her home stash, others of which were being used by Ethan and his older brother, Brad, who had the hardwood floor covered with paper and were drawing pictures. Their younger brother, Jamie, had caught Ethan's croup and was asleep against Cassie's shoulder much as Ethan had been four days earlier. It was actually a comfortable way to contemplate Plan B.

John Kipling must have felt the vibes coming from her home, because he called shortly before noon. Since it was Wednesday, he was putting the finishing touches on
Lake News
before driving up to the printer.

“Okay,” he told her. “I've covered the ice storm. I've covered the
schools closing and the crisis at Micah's. I've covered the efforts of our heroes at the electric company and the phone company. Now give me something interesting, Cassie.”

She sighed and smiled. “I can't do that in time for this edition, but if I had something at dinnertime tomorrow, what would you do with it?”

“Dinnertime tomorrow?” John asked. “I'd do a
Lake News
supplement. But first, I'd write up a press release and go through my list of major media outlets across the country. Between you, me, and Lily, we'd be able to phone or e-mail everyone on that list in a few hours. If our electricity's still out, we'll do it from Center Sayfield.”

Cassie was gratified. John was a good one to have on her side. His efforts would be effective. She wished she had as much faith in her own.

Grumpy, she asked, “Why
does
Center Sayfield have electricity when we don't?”

Ever the repository for interesting little tidbits that only one who covered the neighboring towns for the local paper might know, John didn't disappoint her now. “Because as of two years ago, the single largest employer—translate, taxpayer—in Center Sayfield is a computer company that can't risk losing power even for a day, so there's been significant upgrading of lines, which doesn't mean that the lights don't go out, simply that problems are easier to pinpoint and, hence, fix. Think that's something for the Lake Henry Committee to take up?”

Cassie guessed it was a matter for Town Meeting first, but she knew that it would end up with her committee. So she put her mind to thinking about that. It was one way to pass the time while she waited for a call from California.

* * *

Lake Henry was a special place, but it wasn't California. He couldn't go to California. If that was her choice, he was out of luck.

* * *

But he liked it here. He felt safe here. If he was to suggest that his sister come anywhere, it was here. Lake Henry was the first place where the thought of raising children appealed to him. It was the first place where he'd been in love—with a woman, a lake, a way of life.

He could continue his freelancing from here, could work out of Poppy's house or rent space at the
Lake News
office. He didn't lack intellectual stimulation here. People like Cassie, John and Lily, Charlie and Annette—they were as sophisticated as people anywhere. And Poppy? She was everything he'd always wanted.

He didn't want to think that her love was contingent on the outcome of Heather's case, but he was a realist. Things . . . lingered. Bad stuff eroded good stuff. If Heather's case went on and on, and if it ended in a less than satisfactory way, Poppy might always remember that he had been the one responsible.

It was rather like her accident. Shift a few inches to the right or the left, and things might never be the same.

* * *

After four days without, phones were more a novelty than anything else.

Except, of course, for long-distance calls. And the one she wanted didn't come.

* * *

So she gathered her notes and began thinking along that line, all the more so when Griffin and John arrived. Then the phone rang.

“I'm making progress,” the attorney general said, “but I need more time.”

Cassie was wary. She didn't trust that the DiCenzas were not playing a game. “You need more time,” she repeated for the benefit of Griffin and John. “What does ‘making progress' mean?”

She heard a sigh. “It means that I've met resistance and need more time.”

“The DiCenzas don't want to agree to the deal?”

“They're having trouble with the idea that the woman who ran down their son will walk away free.”

Breezily, Cassie said, “Okay, then. If they don't want to deal, we'll go to the press. Do they understand what we have to say?”

“I'm trying to make them understand it,” the attorney general said. He sounded frustrated enough so that Cassie believed him.

“How much more time did you have in mind?” she asked.

“Another forty-eight hours.”

“If that was their suggestion,” Cassie remarked, “I'd say what they're doing is trying to push this off so that nothing will hit the papers over the weekend, when more people are at home and reading all the fine print. I'm sorry. I can't do forty-eight hours. I can do twenty-four. I'll give you until Friday at five, your time. If they haven't agreed by then, I'll have to hold a news conference. There will be plenty of time for complete coverage in Sunday's paper.”

“You're tough.”

“With due respect, sir, I'm only doing what you would do if you were representing a client who has already been punished ten times over for what was truly a tragic accident.”

* * *

“What's going on there?” Prentiss Hayden asked. “I'm hearing a buzz down here, and it's ugly.”

Griffin passed the general store as Charlie put the last of several bags into Alice Bayburr's car. When he lifted a hand, Griffin waved back. “A buzz?”

“Phone calls from mutual DiCenza friends. What's brewing?”

Griffin was disgusted enough with the whole situation to say, “Nothing that most normal people would be surprised at. You people in power just think you're immune.”

Impatiently, Prentiss asked, “What's happening with the DiCenzas?”

He glanced in his rearview mirror and saw John turn off the main road, heading toward the
Lake News
office. “Their past is coming back to haunt them.”

“Rob was a good boy, and he's dead. Why go after a dead boy?”

“I won't comment on that,” Griffin said as he passed the town beach. “It's not my place. But it's what I've been telling you for weeks now. If you draw attention to yourself by writing a bio, and then you choose to hide things, those things will come out. Sooner or later, they will. You won't know when, you won't know where, you won't know how.” He left the center of town behind and, shifting gears, set off on the lake road. “On
the other hand, if you come clean in your bio, no one has anything on you. You've picked the time, the place, and the method. You've taken control, rather than letting someone else do it.”

“I don't want headlines. Not on this. The existence of my son is between him and me.”

“Normally, that'd be true. But you're a public figure. There are perks that go with that, and there are liabilities. This is one of the liabilities. If you don't mention your son in this book, even in passing, someone else will.”

“You?” the senator asked. “Is that what this has been about—your giving me ample warning so that when you follow this book up with a tell-all of your own, I can't say you didn't warn me?”

Griffin bristled. “I signed a contract guaranteeing confidentiality. If you think I'd break that, then we have a problem with trust, and if we have a problem with trust, there's no way you're going to be happy with this book. Maybe you need another ghostwriter.”

“Wait. Wait. Griffin, I did
not
say that I didn't trust you. It was a hypothetical remark.”

“It was an
offensive
remark.”

“Yes. Well, I'm sorry. I've spent a lifetime being offensive. But I like what you've done so far. I do not want another ghostwriter. It's just that I . . . well, how would
you
feel if you'd led a successful and productive life and then someone wants to focus on a foolish little thing you did in your youth?”

“I don't think your son is foolish. He's a husband and a father. He's a pediatrician. And you helped him get there. I'd think you would be proud of that.”