Rekindled (30 page)

She sighed. What he described sounded less threatening than a court hearing. Still, the prospect of a question-and-answer session was less than pleasant. “What will I be asked?”

He gave a negligent shrug. “They’ll want to know about you and Jeff. How old you were when you met him. How long you were married. Where he worked. How much money he earned.”

“But aren’t those things matters of record, already?”

“Yes, but a deposition is a sworn statement of them. It’s legal and binding. It’s just a formality, but an important one.”

Anne rested against the back of the sofa. “I see,” she said when there seemed nothing else to say. “Are my parents meeting us at the courthouse?”

“My wife will have called them by now. There’s no need for them to be there, not at a meeting like this.”

She nodded, then searched the room for memories of Jeff that were warm and treasured, memories that had finally found their place. When her eyes completed the circle, they fell once more on her father-in-law.

“Shouldn’t we be going?”

He glanced at his watch. “We don’t have to be there until eleven. Was there something else you wanted to do first?”

She laughed sadly. “I’d pretty much chalked off the day, not to mention the next few.”

“Do you have much work to do?”

“Right now? No. I was expecting the worst from this hearing, so I gave myself a week’s vacation.”

“I hear you got a good rest in Vermont the week before last.”

“You’ve been talking to my mother,” she accused lightly, astonished at how the mere mention of Vermont could cheer her.

“We all worry about you, Anne. But you’ve been looking more yourself lately. Something is working for you.”

It was the perfect opening, but she couldn’t get herself to tell him about Mitch. It seemed so soon, and, in light of the day’s happenings, inappropriate.

She blushed-but her father-in-law couldn’t know why. “I’ve accepted Jeff’s death, which is why this whole legal thing is so hard. It helps spending time away from it all in Vermont.”

“I suspect you’d like to be there now.”

Her grin was sheepish. “Oh, I wouldn’t mind it, no offense to present company, of course.”

“Have you started to date yet, Anne?”

She took a breath the wrong way and coughed. “Not… really.” She and Mitch had never actually “dated.”

Theodore Boulton was sober. “We think you should, Anne. You’re young and beautiful. I know how much you and Jeff loved each other, but he’s gone. Dot and I have accepted that, too. He was our son. Not a day goes by when we don’t think about him. But it’s been over a year now, and life has to go on. You’re only twenty-eight. You should be enjoying yourself and your friends, finding someone else to love, having babies.” His cheeks reddened. “Come the day you do have a baby, I’ll think of it as my own grandchild.”

Anne’s eyes filled with tears. Reaching out, she hugged him soundly. “Thank you.” He had lifted a burden from her shoulders. She felt better knowing that when she told them about Mitch, they would support her. She prayed that that day would come soon, particularly once this one was over. The midmorning traffic was heavy. Sitting in it on Manhattan’s residential side streets, Anne looked around for a distraction from the upcoming interview. Her eyes fell on the first of the flowers that had appeared in window boxes, then, when the car reached the wider avenues, on trees that were beginning to bud. They were tall, thin, and pale, compared to her memory of the trees in Vermont.

Those Vermont trees, being farther north and later to blossom, would be barely swelling with buds now, but those buds held promise of a rich and fruitful spring.

Soon, Mitch had said. Soon they would talk again. Soon they would see each other, and the waiting would be done.

Her father-in-law touched her hand as they waited for a traffic light to change. “Such a wistful look.”

She sighed. “I’ll just be glad when this is over.”

He smiled Jeff’s warm and reassuring smile. “It’s going to be fine, Anne. Just fine.”

Within minutes, he pulled into a parking lot and guided Anne into the posh skyscraper that housed the offices of the attorney for Southeast American Air. The elevator ride to the sixty-eighth floor seemed endless. Her palms were moist and her stomach jumpy by the time they finally reached the law firm.

The Boulton family attorney, Terrence Carpenter, met then in the outer waiting room. He spent several minutes explaining the types of questions Anne would be asked, then led her through the double doors. They walked down long corridors of secretaries’ stations, past open doors of office after office to one at the very end of the hall.

It was a conference room, dominated by a long, rectangular table of a rich wood, surrounded by large leather chairs. On the opposite side was the window, but the city seemed far away from this height. The wall to her left held oil paintings of past partners, the one to her right offered blackboards and panels, a television set, and a bar.

Others were already in the room, a woman and several men talking intently, but they quickly grew silent. Anne felt every pair of their eyes turn her way.

“Coffee, Mrs. Boulton?” her attorney asked, gesturing toward the percolator at the side of the room.

“Yes-ah-no,” she whispered. Caffeine was the last thing her jangling nerves needed. But her mouth was very dry. “If I could have some water, that would be fine.”

Moments later, when she had her water and a seat on one side of the long table, a man from the other group approached her. “We’ll be ready to start soon, Mrs. Boulton. My client should be here momentarily.”

Terrence Carpenter, who sat on her left, leaned in when the man left. “That was Peter Simmons, counsel for SEAA. He’ll be deposing you. He’ll introduce you to the others, but I believe the tall dark fellow is the attorney for Jet-Star Aircraft, the manufacturer, and the man with him must be its president.”

Anne nodded and took a sip of water. She wasn’t sure she could do this. It had been bad enough in the instant when they had looked at her. She had felt like the guilty party, rather than the one who had been wronged.

A professional-looking woman entered the room, whispered something to Peter Simmons, then left, closing the door behind her.

Simmons cleared his throat, “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s begin. My client is delayed and will join us shortly.”

The others took their seats. Formal introductions were made, ending with the stenographer, who would be making transcripts of the meeting. She was the one who put Anne under oath.

The next fifteen minutes passed harmlessly enough. Peter Simmons posed questions; Anne answered them. It was much as she had been told to expect, straightforward questions so innocuous that she was actually feeling a sense of security.

Then the door opened quietly and Simmons’ client slipped into the room. The lawyer said, “For the record, this is the President of SEAA, Mitchell D. Anderson, Jr.”

The only thing Anne could even begin to appreciate was that all eyes in the room were momentarily somewhere else. She felt her color drain and her stomach twist, felt a shaking, then shock, pure shock.

It was Mitch. Wearing an immaculately tailored blue suit. Groomed impeccably. Tall, well-built, and handsome. Hair neatly brushed, jaw firm and confident, eyes looking everywhere but at her.

It was Mitch. Head of the airline that she was suing. What had he said, that he had “other interests” beside real estate? When she had prodded, he evaded her. Then he had known all along? Had he planned the whole thing? How naive she had been!

She fought a rising nausea when he crossed the room and took a seat beside his lawyer, who proceeded to introduce him to the others in the room. When her name was given, he nodded politely, for all indications a total stranger meeting her for the first time.

The situation was so unreal, so horrific, that she actually distanced herself and found the strength to go on. Her voice was more unsteady, and she didn’t dare take a drink of water lest her trembling hand spill it, but she managed. She kept her eyes on the lawyer, completely blotting out the man to his right.

When did she meet Jeff? How long had she known him before their marriage? How long had they been married? Where did his family live?

Her family? How many members in each?

The questions grew more personal. What had Jeff done for a living?

How long had he done it? Annual income? Rising or steady? Did their parents help them financially? Did they travel? How often and where to?

How much rent did she pay each month?

Had Anne been herself, she would have been annoyed with the questions. When, after an hour of questions, they took a short break, her lawyer explained, “He has to establish a lifestyle. He needs to determine the way you live in order to estimate the value of your loss.”

“I lost Jeff! How do you put a dollar sign on that?”

The lawyer shrugged, and when they returned to the table, Anne was on the hot seat again. Had she loved her husband? Had they been faithful to one another? What had she done when he was away on business?

Did she have friends? Did she have male friends?

Anne responded in a low voice, willing it to be steady, but she couldn’t hide the shake of the hand she used to wipe away tears.

Mitch whispered something to his lawyer, who shook his head and went on with a vengeance.

Had Jeff been generous with her? Did he buy her gifts? Did he call her when he traveled? How often? Did he ever invite her along on business trips? ,Anne had broken out in a cold sweat, but the questions went on. “Mrs. Boulton, you were married for seven years. Did you have any children?”

“No,” she whispered. “Why not?”

She was mortified. “We just-didn’t have any.”

“Did you want a child?”

“Yes! “

“Did your husband want a child?”

“Yes.” She brushed at more tears. “Then why-” Mitch cut in. “That’s enough, Peter. She’s upset. Is this necessary?”

The lawyer called for a short recess and led Mitch from the room.

Anne bowed her head and put a hand to her forehead. Inhaling deeply, she tried to steady herself “Are you all right?” her father-in-law asked.

Her plea was a barely audible whisper. “I have to get out of here. How much longer can this go on?” She reached into her purse for a tissue to wipe her eyes.

“Not much longer. Try to hold up, Anne. Once this is over, you’ll never have to face it again.”

In her heart Anne knew that the agony was just beginning, but she had no time to dwell on it. Mitch and his lawyer returned to their seats.

The lawyer said, “My client feels strongly that we have all the information we need. I have no further questions.”

“Excuse me,” broke in the man who had been introduced as counsel for the manufacturing company. “If you have nothing more to ask, I do.”

His tone was ominous. Clearly, he wasn’t having his client go down without a fight.

Simmons spared Mitch a glance before saying, “Certainly, Mr. Parks, but try to be brief Mrs. Boulton is under a strain.” To Anne, he said, “Are you up for a few more questions?”

Anne dared a look at Mitch, but his expression was masked. Angry at him, angry at the world, she turned back to the lawyer and nodded.

Parks picked up where Simmons had left off. “On the matter of children, we want to know why, after so many years of supposedly wanting them, you never had them.”

Anne stared at the man in astonishment. She couldn’t imagine any greater invasion of her privacy than this.

Terrence Carpenter leaned sideways to explain in a low voice, “They want to know the extent of your loss in terms of future parenthood. If you and Jeff wanted a child and he’s no longer here to sire it, the loss is greater. Do you understand?”

She nodded. Yes. She could understand that.

She took a breath. “We wanted to have a child, but it just never … happened.”

“You mean, you never conceived?”

“I did conceive. TWICE. I miscarried both times.” In the silence that followed, her father-in-law took her hand.

“Did you see doctors?” the lawyer prodded.

“Of course!” Her voice rose. As if the memories weren’t painful enough, the humiliation of airing them before this hostile group was traumatic. “They couldn’t find a cause. They insisted that another time the baby would be fine.”

“And you kept trying?”

“How could I, Mr. Parks? My husband died.”

Her words brought silence to the room. Anne sat stiff, clenched her jaw, and looked nowhere but at the lawyer, who quickly redirected the discussion.

“Do you date, Mrs. Boulton?” When she frowned, he rephrased the question. “Have you begun to date since your husband’s death?”

The sudden hammering in her chest threatened to rob her of breath. She refused, absolutely refused to look at Mitch. “No,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear that, Mrs. Boulton.”

She raised her voice. “No.” It was a technicality, she knew, but she didn’t care.

“That’s hard to believe, if you’ll excuse me for saying so. You’re an attractive young woman. Aren’t you planning to date?”

“Not now,” she said with a bitter laugh. After what Mitch had done, she was a wasteland inside.

“Wouldn’t you like to marry again?”

“No.”

Disappointed at not ferreting out information that would help his client, Parks made a final stab. “You mean, there have been no men in your life-“

“The woman answered you once, Mr. Parks,” Peter Simmons broke in forcefully. “Unless you have anything different to ask, I suggest we let Mrs. Boulton go. There are other depositions to be taken, from my client and yours.”

Reluctantly the other lawyer agreed. “Very well. Thank you, Mrs. Boulton. I have no further questions.”

Anne heard nothing of the remaining exchange. Feeling hollowed out, she let her father-in-law guide her from the room and the building, then drive her home.

“There, now, that wasn’t so bad,” he said when they were back at Anne’s place, but her silence must have tipped him off. He went to the liquor cabinet and returned with a glass of amber liquid. “Drink this. It’ll help.”