The Book of James (4 page)

proper. I sat in the car, looking at the tiny ripples in the water, unclear what to do next.

My eyes cast downward across the car seat, and in that split

second, I saw it. Nick’s personal effects, taken from him at the hospital. A clear plastic bag I’d tossed carelessly into the side compartment of the passenger door.

Onto the seat next to me, I dumped all the belongings he’d had

on him that night. His wallet, keys, a scrunched-up five-dol ar bil , some loose coins, a wad of smashed papers, and his cell phone,

still covered in dried blood. I tore at the dark-brown leather wallet, THE BOOK
of
JAMES

25

dropping the contents onto the seat. His driver’s license, insurance card, various business cards—all from the Portland area—and a

receipt from Home Depot for piping and tools from when he’d

fixed the sink in the upstairs bathroom a few months ago. And a

phone card.

It was the generic kind of phone card you’d buy at the drug-

store to use at a pay phone. But Nick had a cell phone. He had no need for a phone card. Unless he didn’t want to answer questions

about strange numbers showing up on our telephone bil s, or at

work. I dialed the access number on the back and then punched

in the PIN underneath. An automated voice told me I had twenty-

six minutes left. He’d used seventy-four minutes. Over an hour.

Talking to someone he obviously didn’t want me to know about.

I dropped the card onto the seat and picked up his cell phone.

Dried blood flaked off onto my hand. The screen was cracked, but I tried to turn it on. Uncharged or broken, it didn’t respond. I flung it onto the seat and pulled out into traffic.

My head throbbed. I’d driven as much as I could stand when

I realized I was back at the law office. The curb near the front of the building was empty, so I cruised in and turned off the engine.

McBride was the key to this whole thing. He’d acted so removed,

but I could tell he was protecting something or someone. A mas-

sive wall of granite behind that big desk. Impervious to begging or pleading or even tears. Warning me to go away.

I dug the business card from my purse and dialed the num-

ber for the law office. If I had to make out a wil , I would use the appointment as an excuse to get the information I wanted. The

Whitfield address, the phone number, something. I wasn’t going to leave this city until I did. And then Nick’s mother and I were going to have a little conversation.

“I’ve changed my mind, Mr. McBride. I’ll come to your office with a basic outline for my will whenever it is convenient for you,” I said.“Good. Good,” he responded. I could hear the rustle of endless papers in the background.

“When would that be?” I continued when he didn’t respond

further.

“Tomorrow?” It sounded like a question. “Oh, no, I’ll be out

of town. Would you mind if an associate handled this? It’s a fairly routine matter,” he added.

I paused. This wasn’t going to help me at al . “I would real y

prefer that you handle it. I’d feel more comfortable.”

“Ah,” he started. “Let’s see. I may not be able to sit down with

you for several weeks. You could go back to Maine and have your

own lawyer take care of this, if you want. But it’s imperative that it be done within the week.”

“No,” I insisted, “I’d rather settle this while I’m here.”

THE BOOK
of
JAMES

27

“I’m sorry; I’m swamped over the next few days. But let me

transfer you to the office manager. Maybe an associate can fit you in now. And Mackenzie?”

“Yes,” I said, hiding my disappointment.

“You’re doing the right thing, I promise you.” The line

clicked off.

“I know I am,” I murmured.

Only moments later I was told to “come on down.” As is.

Someone would see me and take care of composing my last will

and testament. I hadn’t planned on this. I didn’t have anything

ready. But it didn’t matter what they put on paper. I could always change it later.

I had hardly lowered myself onto a lacquered chair in the wait-

ing room when I heard, “Mrs. Weichmann, Mr. McBride will see

you now.”

“Mr. McBride? I thought he was busy.”

She smiled. “He’s here. Down the hall . . .”

I’d nearly reached his office door when I heard, “Ms.

Weichmann.”

A man was standing behind me. “My office is right here.” He

pointed across the hal way.

He was at least six two and had that blue-black hair that is rare.

His skin was so fair, in contrast, that he looked like one of those porcelain dol s you put on a shelf. His face bore the hint of a five-o’clock shadow and probably always did. He looked familiar in

some way. Maybe it was his eyes, a striking pale blue surrounded

by long, spidery eyelashes. I suddenly regretted that I hadn’t at least gone back to the hotel room to change and wash up a bit. I

could feel the layer of sweaty grime on my skin.

“No, I’m here to see Mr. McBride,” I stated firmly. I had come

too far to be passed off to someone else.

“Yes, you are. I’m Dylan McBride.” He smiled at me, showing

straight white teeth and dimples.

28

ELLEN J. GREEN

“William McBride’s son?”

He nodded, then gestured for me to step in. “I’ll be back in one

minute. Make yourself comfortable.”

The office was cramped and windowless. The desk, the four

bookshelves, and the chairs all looked as if they’d been purchased in one shopping trip to IKEA—functional, reasonably nice, but not expensive. The office was devoid of personal effects. There were no law diplomas or photographs on the wal . I stared across the empty expanse of desktop at his bookshelf. Nothing there to help me. Just then he came back in and lowered himself into his chair.

“Have you come up with some ideas about your wil , Ms.

Weichmann?”

“Mackenzie, please call me Mackenzie,” I said.

“Interesting name.” His arms rested on the desktop, his fingers

interlaced. His eyes studied me; the steady gaze made me slightly uncomfortable.

“My mother’s maiden name.” I cleared my throat. “Her name

was Joan Mackenzie. My mother and father couldn’t agree on

a name until after I was born, so they just slapped my mother’s

maiden name in front and that was it.” I was babbling. His eyes were still on me; he said nothing. “I never liked the name Weichmann.

It doesn’t go with Mackenzie. It sounds like a Nazi name, but that was Eichmann, wasn’t it? And now I find out all this time I could have been Mackenzie Whitfield. That has a nicer sound to it, but I think I’m going to go with my maiden name, Carlisle.”

“So . . .” His smile was tight. “The will?” He hadn’t even been

listening.

“Yes, wel , this was such short notice. I didn’t have a chance to write anything down. It’ll be very simple, though.”

“We’ll start with this.” He pushed a piece of paper at me.

“Answer these questions first and then we can talk some more.”

THE BOOK
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JAMES

29

I looked down at the sheet. The words
executor
and
beneficiary
popped out at me. The letters all started to blur together. I glanced up.

Dylan was studying Nick’s documents, rocking his chair

slightly. “It’s a bit of money to consider.”

“Did you know the Whitfields?” I asked.

“Not real y. My father knew the family, but I can’t say I did.

They lived not too far from us when I was growing up but didn’t

socialize much, I guess.” He hesitated. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

The statement was wooden, but I barely heard it. “Where did

you grow up? Near here?” I tried not to sound too eager.

He nodded distractedly. “Chestnut Hil .” He was engrossed in

the papers in his hand. “If you aren’t interested in setting up trusts, anything like that, it shouldn’t take long to draw up a document so we can probate your husband’s wil . You need to finish those questions and then we can move on to . . .” He glanced up at me. “Are you with me, Mackenzie?”

I nodded. “Does Nick’s mother still live there, do you know?”

His brows creased. “I think so.”

“Would you happen to have her address? I want to send her a

card.” I had moved to the edge of my seat.

He set the papers down. “A card? To Nick’s mother? You

mean you haven’t spoken to her?” His head tilted to one side with curiosity.

Nick had used his precious last minutes warning me not to

trust anyone.
I had no idea if he meant to include this man on the other side of the desk, but my stomach was clenching. Dylan

McBride’s cornflower eyes bore straight into mine. “No, I haven’t.

Nick wasn’t on close terms with her. But I thought she should

know . . .” I hesitated. “I’m at a loss as to how to do that. He didn’t give me so much as an address.” I moved back in my chair and

rubbed at my face with my hand. “I was going to Google her, but I don’t even know her name.”

30

ELLEN J. GREEN

Everything about him suddenly relaxed, softened a bit. “It’s

funny, when I read your file I thought you were going to come in

here eager to get this taken care of.” He raised Nick’s will in the air and shook it slightly. “To get your money. Most people would. But you almost seem bored with the details.”

“The money was a complete surprise. To tell you the truth,

it doesn’t even seem real.” I sucked in air sharply, feeling my

eyes begin to water. I didn’t want to cry. “It’s been very hard, Mr.

McBride, because I’m all alone with this. My family is . . . scattered around. And I never knew Nick’s. Please, can you tell me how to

reach her?” My best attempt at holding myself together failed, and I felt a tear roll down my cheek. I wiped it quickly with a fingertip.

“That would make you happy?” he said. “To meet her? Real y?”

I nodded. I felt like such a ninny sitting in this law office in my shorts and tank top, clutching my cheap purse to my bosom.

He rubbed his chin lightly with his thumb and index finger.

“All right, look, I’ll show you where the house is. You’d probably never find it on your own.”

“Would you real y?” This was more than I had ever hoped for

when I’d walked in.

He nodded. “Meet me back here at six. Sharp.” He pushed the

pen closer to me. “Now, can you make
me
happy and get started on these questions? My father is going to expect this to be ready . . .”

But I was halfway out the door. My will could wait.

I stood before a full-length mirror and inspected myself. I hadn’t decided whether I would actual y knock on Mrs. Whitfield’s door

or simply take in the house from a distance, but I wanted to make a good impression should this woman and I meet tonight.

My hair had grown past my shoulders over the summer, and

my curls had loosened with the weight. My skin was fair and lightly freckled. What jumped out at me from the mirror was my mother’s

face. I had her high cheekbones and full mouth. My eyes were the

same greenish-brown shade and had the same peculiar almond

slant to them. I resembled her so closely that, growing up, I sometimes saw the pain on my father’s face when he looked at me.

I leaned forward and applied my lipstick careful y. After tak-

ing one more good look, I was reasonably satisfied that I couldn’t do any better. I hadn’t brought much with me in the way of clothing; a pair of lightweight khaki slacks and white T-shirt would

have to do.

“Good luck,” I whispered to the mirror.

Dylan was waiting for me in the lobby of the law office. His

suit jacket was slung over his arm, his tie loosened, the top buttons 32

ELLEN J. GREEN

of his shirt undone. He looked thicker somehow, more athletic.

During the silent drive, I sneaked glances at him. His hair was

curly and cut close to his head. Other than the five-o’clock shadow, the only flaw I could see in his skin was a little crease on his cheek that dimpled when he smiled.

“Are you planning to see her or just the house?” His words

broke the silence. “I ask because I don’t think she entertains visitors much. I don’t think she even goes out.”

I turned slightly in my seat to face him. “You know her?”

“No one real y knows her. I just know about her. Nick and I

went to school together.”

“You went to school with my husband? I sat in that office and

you didn’t even think to tell me that?” Astounding.

He shrugged. “I went to school with him, but he kept pretty

much to himself.” He glanced at me. “You don’t understand, but

you will when we get there. Their house is big, isolated, and gated.

And the family didn’t mingle much.”

“Do you know why?”

He was silent, deep in thought. “It was her family’s house, not

the father’s. Old money. She grew up there. I don’t know much

more than that, except that anytime her name comes up, people

lower their voices and whisper. Gossip, old stories. She’s like a local Huguette Clark. Hermit. Has money. Odd.”

“What is her first name?” I asked.

“Cora. Cora Whitfield.”

I glanced out the window and saw that we had left the city

behind. We were on an expressway and then on a series of streets

that seemed to be going uphil . The final turn landed us on a wide, cobbled street dotted on either side with stores and old-fashioned streetlights. The buildings were made of stone, very quaint and

expensive looking.

“A trolley?” I pointed to the cables overhead. “This vil age has

a trolley?”

THE BOOK
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JAMES

33

“Yeah. The Twenty-Three trolley used to run down