Restoration: A Novel (Contemporary / Women's Fiction) (21 page)

“Too far.”

“What is it, about as far as we’re traveling today?  It’s
worth it.  I love upstate New York.  It’s beautiful country up there.  And
Cooperstown.  What a quaint place that is.  I was fortunate to tag along with
one of our sportswriters when he covered the Hall of Fame inductions a few
years ago.  Even if you’re not a baseball buff, you can’t help but be enamored
with that place.” 

Two more miles of white paddock fencing blurred along the
interstate before Neil treaded into another one-sided conversation.

 “So, what do you like to do for fun?”

She continued staring at the endless view out the window

He looked out the front windshield, mirroring her
disinterested pose.

“Look, this entire day between us is off the record,
remember?”  Neil said.  “Your rules.  We can at least have a conversation. 
It’s safe, I promise.  Nothing will be printed that’s said between us.  That’s
how it works.”

For the first since she’d gotten into the car, Tess turned
to look at him, studying his profile for clues he was telling her the truth. 
When he’d picked her up at the airport earlier, she’d recognized him from the
picture published of him with the article announcing his Pulitzer years
before.  Age had slackened his chin and he’d sheared off his bushy curls;
otherwise, it was the same face of another man she’d learned to despise. 

“Neil pretended not to notice her staring at him.

“Anyway, it’s not my story to write,” he said while his
eyes followed the road in front of him.  “It’s yours.  I’ll help you with it if
you ever feel like getting it out.”

She looked away.  “So, that’s your angle?  Win me over? 
Spill my guts and give you another story?”

“The state is going to punish Randall Wright.  You don’t
have to punish everyone else.”

Her head snapped back in his direction.  “Now you’re the
victim, huh?”  He ran his hands up the steering wheel until they were
completely outstretched and rigid.

“Look, I’m sorry for what happened to you and your
family.  I’m sorry for any part you think I played in your happiness.  I’m a
reporter, not the devil.”

Sorry?  He said he was sorry.  She slouched down in the
seat.  “I know all reporters aren’t bad.”

“Really?  How do you know?  Did you have one for lunch
once and find they tasted pretty good?” Am I behaving that badly?”

“I’ve never had the desire to climb Mt. Everest: too hard,
too cold.  Let’s just say I feel like I’ve already reached the summit,” he said
good-naturedly.  “Ouch.”

“So, how do you come by cavorting with reporters?” he asked.

“I used to go out with one.”

“Excuse the cliché, but knock me over with a feather.  Did
he know what contempt you hold his profession in?”

“I guess I never held him in the same regard as reporters
like you.”

“Reporters like me,” Neil roared with laughter.  “Okay,
spill it, because you’re finally being civil, even nice, and yet I get the
distinct feeling I’ve got a ‘kick me’ sign pinned to my rear.”

“He’s an art critic.”

“Ah, he’s a purveyor of opinions, not a real reporter.”

“I guess there’s no fraternity among you.”

“We’re different animals.  Art critic, huh,” Neil mused,
and she could tell by the way the ridge of his brow rose that he was sorting
through the index file of facts in his reporter’s mind.  “You were into arts
and crafts as a kid.”

“Art,” she corrected but didn’t bother explaining that
crafts are different.  She didn’t want to sound like an art snob.

“You used to draw and paint, I remember.  Still dabbling
in it?”

“I’m an art conservator.”

“Is there much demand for that?”

“Museums.  Collectors.  I work for an international firm
in their New York office and specialize in restoring paintings.  I’m branching
out and doing other things.”

“That’s good to hear.  Taking a passion and hobby and
making a career out of it.  A colleague of mine has one of those motivational
posters on his wall.  I always thought those things were hokey, but this one I
kinda like.  It says something about things in life catching your eye, but it’s
the things that catch our hearts we should pursue.”

Tess thought about her paintings stored in her father’s
attic and those hanging on the walls of her New York apartment. 

“So few people really get to do what they’re passionate
about,” Neil continued.  “I’m fortunate.  I always wanted to be a reporter, and
I’m twice blessed because I think I’m a damn good one.”  He shifted his eyes,
bringing her face into his periphery.  “Feel free to agree with me at any
time.”

“I’ll plead the fifth.”

“All right, I won’t push it.”

She stared at the back of the van they were following, wishing
they’d speed past it.  It reminded her of Randall Wright.  They all did. 
Especially construction contractor’s vans.  These vehicles carried tools and
supplies and sometimes dead bodies; at least when Wright was driving them.

“You did a good job with that series,” Tess said.

He glanced at her, then hurried his eyes back to the
roadway.  “Thanks,” he said with uncertainty.

“My mother is writing a book or wrote one.  I’m not sure
which.”

“I heard.  The paper ran a short article in the book
section when she signed with a publisher.  I’ve thought about doing a book
myself.  I’ve drafted an outline and a few chapters.  It’s all very rough right
now.  Someday I’ll get to it.”

“What’ll you call it?”

“People always ask.  I’m not sure.  A title should capture
the essence of a story, don’t you agree?  Maybe
The Two Faces of Evil
. 
I think that about sums things up.”

“You really think he’s evil?”

Neil nodded.  “Is there any doubt?”

“You never came right out and said so in the series you
wrote.”

 “I’m a news reporter, so it would be unethical for me to
editorialize.  I have to let the facts speak for themselves.”

“You spent a lot of time interviewing him.”

“I did,” Neil said with a nod and smirked at the memory.

“Did you like him?”

“I can understand how those girls got in that van with
him.  It never crossed their minds that it would be the biggest and last
mistake of their lives.”  He paused as if giving their memories a moment of
silence.  “There were times when I was interviewing him that I felt like I was
sitting with a buddy, chugging back a beer and waiting for the burgers to
cook.”

“So, I guess you understand how my mother ended up with
him.”

“Even the devil and his promises looked pretty good to
Eve, but no.”  Neil shook his head.  “I don’t understand it at all.”  He
offered her a tight-lipped smile of condolence.

“I imagine my mother’s book will be a glowing tribute to
him.  More embarrassing moments in the history of my family chronicled for the
public to view like a freak sideshow.  I’m sure she’ll omit anything about the
pain it’s caused us.”

“Tell your side of it.”

“I’m no writer.”

“Then let me tell it for you: a series of interviews over
time and before you know it, your story would be told.”

“I don’t want to relive it.”

“Relive it?  You’re still living through it, and I get the
feeling you keep replaying parts of it over and over again.”  He didn’t look at
her, just let his words bake into her consciousness while he studied the road. 
“It’s simple.  You talk and I listen.  I ask some questions and listen some
more.”

“You’d be dredging a sewer.”  Tess shook her head.  “I
can’t.”

“So, you’re going to let Wright have the last word?”

She shifted in her seat, turning her back to him as she
huddled closer to the door, seemingly hypnotized by the landscape streaking
past them.

“We could start with today.” 

Neil glanced at her, hoping to read something from her
expression.  But she lingered in her cramped pose, her back to him and her
shoulders still, her whole body betraying nothing of her thoughts.

 “Okay, how’s this: no formal interview, just my
observations.”

“And how many thousands of people would read this?” 

“I hope every single person who read the first series of
articles I wrote, and more than who’ll read your mother’s book.”

She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the
window, struggling to say yes but overwhelmed by the memory of the other
stories he’d written.  She opened her eyes and glanced at the charm on her
necklace dangling in the space between her and the window.  Gently, she scooped
it up in her palm and gazed at the gold palette from Francesca and wished she
were here comforting her and dispensing her wisdom.  Tess tilted her palm and
the gold palette went back to dangling from the chain.

“How good are you at finding people?” she asked.

“I haven’t played hide-and-seek since I was a kid.  And if
you listen to my wife, I’m not very good at finding anything.  I misplace more
things around our home that she ends up finding.” 

“If I gave you a name and location, could you find someone
for me, get me an address?”

“Is this person in the witness protection program?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“The last two things you asked of me had a high degree of
difficulty, so I have a suspicion this one will, too.”

She lifted her head from the air conditioner-cooled
passenger window, sat back in her seat and stared at the road ahead.  “You’ll
find her.”

“You think we reporters are magicians?”

“Just nosy as hell.”

“You used ‘resourceful’ before.  I like that description
better.”

“If you can locate this person, I’ll partially relieve you
of your off the record oath.  You can write about today.”

“What’s so special about this person?”

“Do you have a piece of paper and a pen?”

“I’m a reporter, aren’t I?  In the glove box.”

She retrieved the small notebook and pen, scribbled
something, tore off the page and handed it to Neil.  He held up the paper to
eye level, driving and reading at the same time.

“Dahnya Alicandri.  Sulmona, Italy.  Who is she?”

“No one who has anything to do with this story.”  Tess’s
words were steady and stern.

Neil frowned.  “You have a name of a person and a city, or
is it a town?  Sulmona.  I’ve been to Italy a couple of times.  Never heard of
it.  It can’t be that big of a place, so it’s not as if I’m looking for a
needle in a haystack.  Why not do it yourself and enforce the oath?”

“Look, I’ve given you the story your editor wants you to
write.  Can we just leave it at that?”

“She must be a special person.”

“Stop fishing, Mr. Palmer.”

Neil put on the turn signal, exited Interstate 75 and
tucked the piece of paper with Dahnya’s name on it in his shirt pocket.  “What
are your expectations?”

“About what?”

“The article you’ve given me permission to write.”

“You’re the writer.”

“There are many ways to write a story.  What would you
like to see come out of it?”

“You said no interviews,” she reminded him.

“This isn’t an interview.  It’s a conversation.”

“It’s semantics.”  She’d agreed but still couldn’t bring
herself to cooperate.

“It’s necessary.”

“You said you’d write your observations, so just shut up
and observe,” Tess said, annoyed.

“Sorry, I just want to ensure my article covers some of
what’s important to you.”

“Do you know what I’d like it to say?”  She was
controlling her temper.  “I’d like it to say, ‘And she lived happily ever
after.’ ”

“If I wrote it today, would that be fact or fiction?”

“I’m hoping it comes true.  Especially after Randall
Wright’s dead and gone.”

“You’re pinning a lot on that one event.”

“Maybe,” Tess said as they passed a road sign indicating
they were still at least a half-hour away from their final destination.

She wanted him to be quiet without having to enforce
silence by calling upon more of her contemptuous demeanor that had permeated
the first hour of their trip and started creeping into this part.  Sensing her
departure inward, Neil drove the rest of the way without saying another word.

***

At the Florida State Prison near Starke, a guard escorted
Tess and Neil to the first checkpoint where a second guard instructed them to
empty their pockets.  Without acknowledging them in any way, he inspected the
contents, patted them down and then ran a metal detector over their bodies. 
Tess thought about reminding him she wasn’t a prisoner and wondered if his
indiscriminate contempt extended to each and every person who walked through
the prison’s secured gates.

When he was finished, he nodded to a guard controlling the
locking mechanism of the iron bars that sealed off the hallway in front of
them.  As the gate unlocked, the guard responsible for the gate ordered them to
pass through with a sharp nod.  The guard who’d escorted them to this point
continued guiding them through the corridors and other checkpoints.

Tess didn’t remember this walk.  It seemed like such a
long time ago that she’d made her surreal walk through these halls on the two
visits that her mother took her to see Randall Wright.  There would’ve been
more, but her father had put an end to them when he’d found out his ex-wife
spent her parental visits with their daughter taking her to see her new husband
on death row.

The giant ice ball wedged in her gut grew larger and
colder the deeper they went into the prison’s bowels.  Only minutes separated
her from Wright, and she had just one request to make of him: front row seats
to his execution. 

Other than that, she had no idea what she’d say.  All of
her loathing and scorn for him had never had words.  They were just emotions
filled with acid that kept her hate charged and running.

“This is it,” the guard escorting them announced as they
came upon another guard standing between a metal door and glass window looking
into a twelve-by-twelve room.