Good Intentions (11 page)

“He gets to be in love,” Lynn said, hearing her voice shake.

“Watch out,” Marc Cameron warned, pushing Lynn roughly aside before she stepped on another man-of-war washed up by the tide. “A big juicy one too,” he said, grabbing Lynn’s arm to steady her. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to push you so hard. Are you all right?”

Lynn took a quick glance at the sand beneath her feet. “I’m still standing,” she remarked, then found herself staring directly into his eyes. And then suddenly he was kissing her. She didn’t know how it happened, and even later was unable to recall exactly what had led to what. There’d been no telltale tilt of his head, no slow angling toward her face, nothing to indicate he was intending to kiss her. His mouth was simply suddenly on top of hers, his arms around her waist, the softness of his beard pressing against her chin. She realized she had never kissed a man with a beard before, then realized that she was kissing him back. She pulled away immediately, catching her attorney’s horrified expression on the face of a woman bather who was walking past. “That was not a good idea.”

“Sorry,” he said quickly.

“No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not. Are you?”

“It can’t happen again,” Lynn said, avoiding his question, looking around self-consciously, feeling all eyes watching, waiting for Marc’s next move.

It seemed as though every resident in town was beachside, although, in truth, their kiss had attracted little attention. Farther down the beach, closer to the water’s edge, teenagers hurled Frisbees across the bodies of sunbathers. More prudent visitors retreated to the shade of colorful cabanas. Some buried sunburned noses in books, while others watched over restless toddlers who periodically broke into impromptu runs for freedom.
BATHERS TO THE RIGHT, SURFERS TO THE LEFT
, a large wooden sign proclaimed from the foot of the lifeguard’s tower, but there were few surfers out today, and fewer waves. Lynn realized with relief that if anyone had seen the kiss, it was already a forgotten memory.

Her hand touched her chin where his beard had rubbed. She found herself wishing that he would kiss her again and started walking faster in an effort to clear her head. What was she doing out for a Saturday-morning stroll with the one man common sense—not to mention her lawyer—dictated she should have nothing to do with?

“So you’ve lived in Florida all your life?” Marc was asking, running to keep up with her.

“All my life,” she answered curtly, not slowing her pace.

“Your parents still live here?”

“My father does. My mother died nine years ago.” She stopped abruptly. “Is this small talk? Are we engaging in small talk?”

“Would you rather I kissed you again?”

“Small talk it is,” Lynn said, resuming her brisk pace. It was several miles back to where they had started. She might as well make the best of it, although the beach wasn’t great for walking this morning. The sand was too soft and wet, and her feet kept sinking into it.

“What does your father do?” Marc asked, having hit his stride and having no trouble keeping up with her.

“He’s retired. He was in waterproofing, but he sold the business after my mother died.”

“What does he do now?”

“Plays golf mostly. He got married again a few years ago.”

“You don’t like her,” Marc stated, and Lynn stopped again, turning to him in surprise.

“How do you know that?”

“Just the way you said he got married again. What’s the matter with her?”

“Nothing. She’s a perfectly nice lady.”

“Then why don’t you like her?”

Lynn was about to deliver a flip answer, but the sincerity in his blue eyes stopped her. He must be a first-rate interviewer, she thought, wishing she had a good answer to his question.

“I don’t know. She’s a perfectly nice woman. She’s polite, she’s a good cook, and she can spend all day talking about her living-room furniture. God knows, she’s cheerful enough. I really don’t know why I don’t like her. I just wouldn’t have picked her, that’s all.”

“Nobody asked you to.”

“Maybe that’s the problem.” They resumed walking, but at a much slower pace. “She’s not my mother,” Lynn
continued, after a pause. “That’s probably the most truthful answer I can give you, and I know it’s not fair for me to dislike her for that reason but …”

“That’s the way it is,” Marc said, using Lynn’s earlier words. “Tell me about your mother.”

Lynn felt the push of tears behind her eyes. Even now, she thought, after nine years, the tears were only a few well-chosen words away. “She was a remarkable woman. Very much her own person. She was a housewife all her life, but when she was fifty, she went back to university and got her bachelor of arts degree. In medieval history, of all things. She was always reading. Every time I think of my mother, I picture her with a book in her hands.”

“I like her already.”

Lynn smiled. “She was the one who insisted I go to college, have a career, make something of my life. She told me not to wait for anyone else to do things for me.”

“How did she die?”

“Alzheimer’s disease,” Lynn said, a wayward tear betraying the sudden flatness of her voice. “She just kept losing bits of herself until there was nothing left. In the end, she had no control over anything. Not her bodily functions. Not her mind. She didn’t even know who I was.”

“That must have been very hard on you.”

Lynn shrugged. “That’s the way it goes,” she said, unmistakably ending the conversation.

“How did you meet Gary?” Marc asked after they had walked for a stretch in silence.

“Is this an interview?”

“Just trying to find out more about you.”

“And what have you found out so far?”

“That you’re beautiful,” he began, “sensitive, caring. That you like to be in control. That you walk fast,” he said, and she laughed despite herself. “That you’re a good kisser.”

“I met Gary right here on the beach,” Lynn said quickly, pushing his words away with her own. “I’d come with some girlfriends. He was also with friends. Somehow these friends all disappeared and Gary and I ended up sharing the same blanket.” Lynn tried to make it sound very casual, but even now she could feel the soft breezes that had been blowing that afternoon against her skin, and see the assorted stains that dotted the bright orange-and-yellow beach blanket they had sat on. Her mind reached out to touch the dimples that had creased Gary’s cheeks around his mouth, and she recalled the bitter taste of the beer he had offered her as he confidently transferred the bottle from his lips to her own. “There was something so calm about him. He didn’t push. He was a good listener, which I liked, because in those days, I thought I had a lot to say. I’d just gotten my master’s degree and I was very eager to show everyone how much I knew. I really thought I had met the man I was going to spend the rest of my life with.” Again, she felt the presence of unwanted tears. How could she reconcile what she was feeling for Gary now with the feelings he had aroused in her so few hours ago? “I think I’m all talked out,” Lynn said, and was grateful when Marc asked no further questions. They walked the rest of the way in silence.

As they left the beach and headed up the street to her house, Lynn wondered what she would do if he asked to come inside, if he tried to kiss her, if he suggested they see
each other again. She recalled the things that Renee had told her, the reasons why any thought of a relationship with this man was out of the question. She also thought of how angry she’d been at Gary, how powerless he’d made her feel, how nice Marc’s kiss had felt, how excited by it she’d been. Would he try to kiss her again? Would he repeat his suggestion of taking their relationship to the nearest motel?

They reached his car. “You have my number,” he said.

“W
e’d like to settle this thing with as little fuss as possible,” the lawyer on the other side of the round conference table was saying, giving Renee a carefully constructed smile.

Renee returned Herbert Tarnower’s grin, glancing from the small, rotund attorney to his tall, voluptuous client. Penny Linkletter was twenty-five years old, six feet tall, and looked as if she had just stepped off the stage of a Las Vegas nightclub. All that was missing was the sequins, Renee thought, turning her smile toward the young woman’s elderly husband. Why was the size of a man’s wallet, she wondered, so often inversely proportionate to the size of his brain? Why didn’t people get smarter, and not just older?

“We don’t think that what Mrs. Linkletter is seeking by way of a settlement is in any way out of line,” her attorney further explained, about to say more when Renee stopped him.

“You don’t think that a lump sum of two million dollars plus twenty thousand dollars a month in alimony isn’t just a tad excessive?” Renee made no attempt to hide the sarcasm in her voice.

“Mr. Linkletter is a very wealthy man. His wife is entitled to a share of his earnings.”

“Mrs. Linkletter has been Mrs. Linkletter for a total of sixteen months …”

“During which time she has been an exemplary wife to Mr. Linkletter.”

“During which time she has slept with apparently half of Dade County,” Renee interrupted, pushing a folder across the conference table, watching it slide to a halt at the tips of the opposing attorney’s well-manicured fingernails. “You’ll find sworn statements from a variety of men and women, ranging from the Japanese gardener to the Cuban maid. Mrs. Linkletter was nothing if not an equal-opportunity employer.” She smiled at Penny Linkletter, who, strangely enough, smiled back. “We also have photographs,” Renee added.

“Can I see them?” Penny Linkletter asked, then backed away under her attorney’s hostile gaze. She adjusted the shoulder pads of her cotton-knit white sweater, pulled at the hem of her short skirt, and said nothing further.

Herbert Tarnower paused a moment to try to reconstruct his former expression. “Obviously, we’re prepared to negotiate,” he said.

“But
we’re
not,” Renee told him directly. “We think that the settlement Mr. Linkletter has suggested is more than fair.”

“Fifty thousand dollars? Why, last year alone the man made over five million.”

“Maybe you should take a look at these photographs, Mr. Tarnower,” Renee reminded him.

“Look,” Herbert Tarnower said quickly, his voice moving from indignation to gentle concern, “we have no
interest in going to court. And I’m sure that Mr. Linkletter feels the same way. Revelations of this nature can only prove embarrassing to both parties, and to a man of Mr. Linkletter’s age and stature …”

“Mr. Linkletter is seventy-eight years old and has been married and divorced a total of five times. His last three wives have all been tall blondes in their twenties, two of whom took Mr. Linkletter to court and came away with nothing. I suggest to you, Mr. Tarnower, that if Mr. Linkletter were a man who embarrassed easily, he would never have married your client in the first place.” Renee walked to the door of the conference room and opened it, signaling that the meeting was over. “Think about it,” she advised Penny Linkletter and her attorney before helping a silent but smiling Mr. Linkletter out of his chair and ushering him out the door, “and let me know what you decide.”

“Your line has been frantic all morning,” her secretary advised her when she got back to her office.

“Did Philip return my call?”

“Not yet. Do you want me to try him again?”

“No, I’ll do it.”

“Fiona Stapleton has called three times.”

Renee made a face indicating displeasure. “All right. I’d better speak to her. Give me a minute to call Philip and then get her on the line.”

Renee walked briskly into her office, hitting her hip against the sharp corner of her desk as she reached toward the bottom drawer to retrieve a miniature chocolate bar. “Serves me right,” she said, quickly unwrapping the bar and eating it as she dialed her husband’s office. She waited
for Philip’s secretary—an anorexic woman with an equally thin voice—to come on the line. The woman, whose name was Samantha, had spent a summer in England some years before and had affected a slight British accent ever since. Philip thought it cute; Renee found it insufferable. “Is my husband free?” Renee asked as soon as she heard the woman’s tinny greeting.

“Hasn’t he returned your call?” Samantha asked, knowing full well he hadn’t. “Well, he’s been frightfully busy all morning. Is it urgent?”

“No, nothing that can’t wait.” Renee reached inside her bottom drawer for another candy bar. Philip had mentioned the possibility that they might meet for lunch, so she had held off making plans of her own, but as it was almost noon now, there seemed little chance they’d be getting together. “I’ll speak to him later. Thank you,” she added, though she wasn’t sure why. She quickly ate the second candy bar, then closed the drawer before she could be tempted by a third.

Her phone buzzed.

“I have Mrs. Stapleton on line one,” her secretary told her.

“Thanks.” Renee pushed the appropriate button.

“You haven’t been returning my phone calls,” the woman on the other end said, her voice angry.

“We’ve been through this,” Renee explained patiently. “I’ve already told you that I can’t proceed any further with your divorce action until you bring your account up to date.”

“Where am I supposed to get five thousand dollars?”

“Mrs. Stapleton, I sympathize with you. I really do,” she added over the woman’s harsh laugh. “But you knew
my rates when you contacted me, and you agreed to the schedule of payments. This is a complicated case: I’ve spent a great many hours on it, and you can’t expect me to work for nothing. Now, I’ve already given you several extensions, but as I explained, it was decided at our last partners’ meeting that we really couldn’t continue with your case until all previous bills have been brought up to date. I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it is.” She heard the phone go dead. “And thank you for calling,” she added, dropping the phone back into its receiver.

The door to Renee’s office suddenly opened and Debbie strode confidently inside, her arms full of shopping bags, followed closely by Kathryn, smiling meekly and similarly encumbered, with Renee’s frantic secretary trailing behind them. “Your sister is here,” Debbie announced as Renee’s secretary was about to. “And your wicked stepdaughter.” Debbie laughed, throwing her parcels on one of the chairs across from Renee’s desk and motioning for Kathryn to do the same.