Restoration: A Novel (Contemporary / Women's Fiction) (17 page)

She pinched the bridge of her nose and shook her head. 
“You, your family, you were all innocent and I couldn’t do anything about it. 
I wish I’d been more perceptive.  I wish I could’ve stopped it.  I would have. 
I would’ve done anything to stop it from happening.”

Tess leaned forward, reached across the table, and
squeezed her arm.  “I know, Lydia.”

“I wish your father knew it, too.  Unfortunately, the hurt
he went through will be one burden never lifted from my heart.  The last time
we spoke, he called me Satan’s matchmaker.” 

“He’s happy now, Lydia.  I’m sure Hillary secretly
worships you.”  Tess frowned as she said her stepmother’s name.  “My mother
married Randall Wright, and Hillary Chase married my dad.  She came out the big
winner.”

“I understand she’s a nice woman.”

Tess sat back as the waiter placed a steaming plate of
curried chicken over rice in front of her.  “There’s something about her I’ve
never liked.  She’s so…Hillary.”

“She’s not your mother.”

“Something like that, I suppose.”

“I’m glad he found someone.  Lord knows he deserves to be
happy.”

“I don’t mean to sound petty.  I glad he’s happy, too. 
He’s been able to move on, get a new wife and share a new life with her.  I
still have the same mother.”  She poked her fork in the rice and pushed a
forkful into the creamy curry sauce.

“Is she the reason you left the public defender’s office?”

“You could say I lost my passion for my work there after
that case.”

“So, you have your own practice now but you’re still a
defense attorney?”

Steam rose from Lydia’s plate as she used her fork to cut
a piece of deep-fried fish.  “Yes.”

“I’d think you would’ve traded sides and worked to put
scum like Wright away instead of defending guilty people.”

Lydia’s eyebrows arched as she shifted her gaze from her
plate to Tess.  “Not everyone who needs a defense attorney is guilty, and even
those who commit crimes deserve proper legal representation.  We live in a free
society—”

“Save me the rhetoric,” Tess cut her off.  “Even you
believe Wright is guilty, don’t you?”

Lydia returned Tess’s sober look without answering.

“Did you ever tell my mother you knew he was guilty?”

Lydia dabbed her lips with her napkin.  “Tess, at this
point Wright could confess his guilt to your mother and she wouldn’t believe
him.  She’s invested too much of her life in him to allow herself to believe
otherwise.”

“Yes, now,” Tess said and nodded her agreement.  “But back
then, when all of this was happening, did you tell her?”

“I did everything I could to dissuade her.”

“Did you say to her that you believed he was guilty?”  Her
voice grew firmer.

“If I had, it wouldn’t have made a difference.”

“Did you tell her he was guilty of torture, rape and
murder?”

“Tess, what good will…”

“Did you tell her he was guilty?”

“It’s not relevant at this point, Tess, you’ve got to—

“Did you, Lydia?” she snapped.

Lydia set down her fork and whispered, “Yes.”

Tess sat back.  “Thank you.”

They both ate in silence, focusing on their plates instead
of on each other.  Tess took a few bites and pushed some chicken pieces through
the saucy rice.  The pleasing smell of curry wafting under her nose invited her
to eat more, but her appetite had deserted her.  She gave up on her meal and
rested her silverware on the edge of her plate.

“I want to be there when Wright is executed,” she said.

Lydia looked up and placed her fork and knife on top of
her unfinished fish. 

“I want to see him take his last breath,” Tess continued. 
“Can you help me?  You were his defense attorney.  Attorneys are always
invited, aren’t they?  You could get me in.”

“Tess, I’m no longer associated with his case.  He has
other lawyers who’ve worked on his appeals.”

Her fingers found the charm dangling at the base of her
throat that Francesca had given her and nervously toyed with it.  “But you were
there in the beginning.  He owes you.  Look at all you did for him.”

“Witnessing his execution wouldn’t be a reward.”

“Payment, then.”  Her desperate words quivered off her
tongue.

“Oh, Tess,” Lydia groaned.  “Wright is going to die, you
can be sure of that.”

“I want to see the look of fear on his face when he
realizes this is it, that his reign of terror and his hold over my mother’s
life have come to an end.”

“I won’t lie to you and say I wish I could help.”  Lydia
shook head.  “You don’t want to be there, Tess.  There’ll be no satisfaction
for you in seeing him die.”

“I’ve waited thirteen years for this.  If not
satisfaction, then relief, elation.  Whatever it’s going to be, it’s been a
long time coming.  I know it won’t be sadness or disappointment, so I’ll take
my chances.”

The conversation between them dwindled into small talk
about the differences between St. Petersburg and New York City.  There wasn’t
much else to say.  Their relationship lay buried in the ruins of a history that
included Randall Wright, a lost best friend and a wayward mother.  There was
nothing to rebuild between them.

Still, Tess sensed it satisfied Lydia finally to be
pardoned from Tess’s anger.  They would part as old friends but remain
strangers, each taking with her the gift of closure. 

***

“Neil Palmer,” Tess said to the switchboard operator
taking her call at the Tampa Bay Journal.  Cell phones practically had
eliminated pay phone booths in the city, but her cell sat forgotten on her
breakfast bar in her New York apartment, so she scavenged to find a pay phone
just a few blocks from the newspaper’s downtown office. 

“Neil Palmer,” a now familiar voice answered on the other
end.

“This is Tess Olsen.”

“Tess?”  He sounded surprised.  “How are you?”

“I have another favor.”

“I hope it’s easier to fulfill than the last one.”

“Can you get me in to see Randall Wright?”

 “Tess, look, I don’t really know you, but I’m compelled
to give you this advice: Go on with your life and let the state settle all
debts with Randall Wright.”

 “Mr. Palmer, you’re absolutely right; you don’t know me. 
Now, can you get me in to see him?  You’ve interviewed him in the past. 
Arrange an interview with him.  Bring me along.”

“You don’t make favors easy do you?”  Neil’s lungs sounded
like they were deflating amidst a tremendous sigh.  “Why not contact him
yourself?  He’s allowed visitors.”

“He might not want to see me, and even if he agreed to,
death row inmates are allowed visitors only one day a week.  That’s the day my
mother will be there.”

“And you’d rather not run into her.”

She didn’t acknowledge his comment.  “If Wright thought
you were coming to interview him, he wouldn’t turn down one of his final
chances for publicity.  With the Thanksgiving travel crunch and my own
procrastinating, I couldn’t book a flight out until Monday morning.  I’ll be
available until then.”

“Arranging press interviews takes time, and you’re not
leaving me any.”

“I could reschedule my flight for Monday evening, maybe
even Tuesday morning, but it can’t be any later than that.”

“Now you’re not only asking for a favor but a miracle as
well.”

“And the entire day between us is off the record.”

“My editor will have a different opinion.” 

“This isn’t news.  It’s my life.  Listen,” she combed her
fingers through her hair.  “I don’t have anything to blackmail you with,
nothing that’ll force you to help me, just a reminder that the series you wrote
earned you a Pulitzer and esteem among your colleagues.  Me, I got a bit of
notoriety I could’ve done without.  Now, can you help me?” 

A short silence followed.  Then the reporter said, “I’ll
need to put in a media request to the Department of Corrections.  Wright will
have to agree to an interview.  Bureaucracy doesn’t move at the speed of
light.”

“I’m sure you or your editor have strings you can pull or
know someone who does.  Reporters are resourceful.  You’ll find a way.”

“You’re tenacious.  You should’ve been a beat reporter. 
What did you say you do for a living?”

“I didn’t.”

“You don’t trust me.”

She spat out, “I have no reason to.”

“Where can I get ahold of you?”

“At my father’s,” she said, then gave him the phone number
and hung up.

The aroma of the Olsens’ Thanksgiving dinner simmering,
warming and baking drifted through a set of French doors and into the family
room.  Tess and her sister played backgammon in the formal sitting area of the
oversized room while her brother and brother-in-law watched a football game
from brown leather recliners in a circle around the television at the other end
of the room.

This oversized room was the reason Dr. Olsen had bought
the house the year following his divorce.  It accommodated multiple activities:
snacking, napping and television watching, all things his children had insisted
on doing in the privacy of their rooms. 

As his children struggled with their new lives without
their mother, he didn’t allow them to hide in their rooms with their burdens,
at least when he was home, which wasn’t often.  In those hours, when he wasn’t
fixing some child’s deformed heart, they gathered here, each to his or her own
activity. 

Hillary Chase was the Realtor selling their home haunted
by Alish’s presence who was tasked with finding them another.  Outgoing and
confident, she exuded social grace and was always as well- decorated as the
homes she showed.  Whenever she took prospective  buyers through Dr. Olsen’s
home, she breezed in and talked about its many features with such familiarity
that Tess often reminded herself Hillary had never lived in their house.

Tess had found herself liking Hillary, until her father
announced he was marrying her.

“Let’s play again.”  Cassie plucked her remaining pieces
off the backgammon board.

“You won’t beat me.”  Tess rearranged her cream-colored
pieces on the board.

“Give me time.  I’ll wear you down.”

“This isn’t boxing.”

“I’ll lull your ego into a false sense of security then
attack.”

“Give it up, Cassie.  This has nothing to do with ego. 
I’m just better at backgammon than you.”

Cassie shook her head.  “You can be so pompous.”

Tess lined up her pieces precisely on the leather triangle
strip.  “No, I’m competitive.”

Cassie tilted back her head and inhaled the aroma wafting
in the air.  As she exhaled, a generous smile filled her face.  “God, I think I
could fill up just on the smell of this stuff.”

Tess stopped perfecting the arrangement of her circular
game pieces and gazed at the face across from her that resembled her own.  They
shared similar features but couldn’t be more different.  If opposites really
attract, Tess wondered why they weren’t closer.

Cassie’s eyes shifted to her younger sister, a quizzical
stare replacing her smile.  “What is it?”

Tess paused in her thoughts, wanting to share them,
wondering how to arrange words, tone and sentiment so they didn’t sound
critical or condemning.  And certainly nothing that would trigger a kindly
worded but unwanted lecture.

“Wahoo!”  Across the room, Brice yelled at the
television.  “Run, run, run!  Break that tackle!  Nice move.”

Cassie broke her sister’s gaze and looked across the room
at her brother, who reached over to the chair next to him and gave her husband
a high five.  Brice was tall and broad, with his father’s wavy hair and dark
brown coloring before it had grayed prematurely.  Deep dimples pierced Brice’s
cheeks when he smiled, which was often. 

Brice sat on the edge of his chair, beaming at the
television.  “Man, this is what Thanksgiving is all about.  The three F’s:
football, food and family.”

“Hey!”  Cassie raised her eyebrows and her voice.  “How
come we’re last on the list?”

“You’re not edible, and you don’t score touchdowns.”

“That’s what you think.”

“Sis, don’t gross me out,” Brice said.  “Girls aren’t
supposed to talk that way.”

“Hey, mister,” Cassie said to her husband as he leaned
over and whispered something to Brice.  “What are you saying over there?”

Brad surrendered to his wife, his hands in the air. 
“Nothing.  Just giving the brother-in-law here a little advice on politically
correct words.”

“Okay, okay.”  Brice threw up his hands.  “Let me rephrase
that and avoid a catfight.  Women are not supposed to say things like that.”

Tess shook her head.  “Brad, he’s beyond training, but you
can try.”

“Hey, I resent that.  My fraternity brothers are training
me real well.  They say there’s nothing I can’t do.  I drank from my first beer
funnel last month.  Five seconds flat.  Not bad for a novice.”

“Beer funnel?  Sounds like something to be very proud of,”
Cassie said.

“Very proud.”  Brice jumped up, spun around, and looked at
his sisters across the room.  He pushed out his gut and grabbed his belly,
which had softened along with the rest of his frame during his freshman year. 
“How do you think I got this?”

“Apparently illegally since you’re underage and drinking.”

“When are you due?”  Tess asked her brother jokingly.

Glen Olsen leaned into the family room.  “I hope everyone
is hungry.”

“Yeah!”  Brice pumped his fist into the air.  “Soup’s on!”

As Tess stood up and set their unfinished backgammon game
on the coffee table, Cassie asked her, “What is it you were going to say
before?”

She shrugged.  “Nothing really.”

“Come on, what is it?”  Cassie placed a hand on Tess’s arm
and squeezed.  “It looked important.  What did you want to say?”