Greely's Cove (7 page)

“Jeremy’s still asleep,” said her mother, Nora Moreland, softly pulling closed the door that joined the two motel rooms. “Sleep is probably the best thing for him.”

Lindsay had rented two adjoining rooms at the West Cove Motor Inn, one for Jeremy and another that she shared with her mother. She put an arm around her mother’s shoulder.

“Sleep would be the best thing for you, too,” she said. “There’s absolutely no reason why you should be up so early.”

“I can’t seem to drop off,” said Nora Moreland. “Every time I close my eyes, I see Lorna’s face....” Her voice caught, and she swallowed hard, but she kept control. Having wept for most of the preceding twenty-four hours, she was temporarily fresh out of tears
—all cried out
, her husband would have said. “Anyway, there are things to do. What’s first on the agenda?”

“Breakfast. After you’re dressed, I’ll call room service.”

“And then?”

“I’m supposed to have coffee with Carl.”

“I’d best come along to referee.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mom. I can handle myself against the likes of him.”

“It’s
him
I’m concerned about, dear. I doubt that he can handle the likes of
you
.”

Lindsay issued a little smile. “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

“Yours, of course. I just think that Carl’s entitled to some consideration. He
is
the boy’s father, after all. I’m not saying he’s my favorite person in the world, but I’m tired of being angry with him. I’m tired of the hostility, Lindsay. It’s lasted for more than thirteen years, and I’m tired of it.”

“Mom, this isn’t a matter of showing good manners; it’s a matter of doing what’s best for Jeremy.”

“And do you really think that coming to live with you is what’s best for him?”

“I do. And Lorna would’ve agreed with me.”

“But, Lindsay, you’re only thirty-two years old. Your career is just starting to catch fire. And you’re not even—you’re not—”

“Go ahead, Mother. Say it.”

“Okay, I’ll say it: You’re not
married.
Why would you want to take on the burden of raising a young boy all by yourself? You’re a beautiful, single woman who—”

“Mother, I’m a securities-account executive who makes seventy thousand dollars a year. I live in a nice neighborhood, I have nice friends. I can make sure that Jeremy has a good life with good people in it. That’s more than a hell of a lot of kids get these days.”

“But don’t you think Carl could give him those things?” Lindsay chuckled bitterly. “Oh, Carl could provide the glitzy home in a fashionable Washington, D C., neighborhood, no doubt about that. He could show Jeremy how to become a sleazy politician. He could teach him the elegant art of sticking his nose up other people’s behinds—”

“For God’s sake, Lindsay, try not to be vulgar!”

“I’m only being realistic,” said Lindsay. “Carl Trosper is a political consultant whose bread and butter depends on how brown his nose is. He thrives on rubbing elbows with senators and cabinet officials and hotshot lobbyists in the halls of power. He flits all over the country on business, and he loves to party. How much time do you think he’ll have for Jeremy? And how long do you think it will take him to get tired of being a daddy again, especially to a kid who needs special care? Don’t forget, he’s already bailed out once.”

Nora Moreland knew when she was licked, and she sighed. “I just hope you’ll be civil to him.”

“I promise,” said Lindsay, and she kissed her mother’s forehead. “Now, about the rest of the day. After I’ve talked to Carl, I’m going over to the mortuary to make the cremation arrangements. Since there won’t be an autopsy, we can get on with things—meaning we can probably be finished here in a few days. This afternoon I’m going to talk to Jeremy’s therapist, Dr. Craslowe.”

“That’s wise, I think. Maybe he can tell you what you’re letting yourself in for.”

“I suspect you’re right. After that I’m heading over to Lorna’s house—”

“
That’s
where I can help,” said Nora. “Why don’t you drop me there after breakfast? I can get started packing Lorna’s things and cleaning. From what the police chief said, the place is an ungodly mess.”

“Mom, I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. I’d planned to call in some movers and housecleaners—”

“Forget about the movers and housecleaners. I may be old, but I’m still good for something. I’ll make a start on the cleaning and packing, and Jeremy can help. Having something to do will be good for both of us.”

“Whatever you say, Mom.”

While her mother dressed, Lindsay looked in once again on Jeremy. He lay on his side, apparently sleeping deeply. Even in the sparse, curtained light of the motel room, Lindsay could see what a beautiful child he was: a perfectly balanced mixture of Carl’s ruddy, squared-off features and Lorna’s delicate fairness. Of course, he would lose much of his mother’s beauty as he grew to manhood, Lindsay thought, and would probably end up a carbon copy of his dad. But for now he was an angel on a pillow, sleeping an angel’s gentle sleep.

Lindsay withdrew from the room, troubled just a little that the boy could sleep so peacefully in the aftermath of his mother’s hideous death. In fact, Jeremy had shown scarcely any sign of the trauma and grief one would expect in a child who had just lost his mother. Probably a delayed reaction, thought Lindsay. She closed the door gently behind her.

And Jeremy opened his eyes.

The West Cove Motor Inn had a coffee shop that the owners had named The Coffee Shoppe. It boasted white tablecloths with fresh flowers (even in the winter months), floor-to-ceiling windows that let in the morning light, and a reputation among the locals for the best waffles on the west shore. Its upscale atmosphere was in keeping with the motel itself—quite unlike the Old Schooner down the street, where Carl Trosper was staying.

Lindsay Moreland asked the waitress for a table near a window and, since the place was nearly empty so early on a Sunday morning, got it. Even though she had already nibbled a small room-service breakfast with her mother, the wafting smells of fresh coffee and cooking made her hungry again. She fought down the temptation to order Belgian waffles, needing no lumps on her lithe frame, no hints of “cottage cheese thighs.”

At the stroke of nine o’clock, which was the appointed time, Carl walked in and peeled off his raincoat. Lindsay’s eyes landed on him, and her breath caught: He was indeed a good-looking man, especially with the addition of a short beard. Six feet tall, reddish-blond hair, longish face with a lantern jaw, slender in a gray corduroy sport coat over khaki trousers and a green V-necked sweater.

The waitress showed him to the table, and he gave Lindsay one of his patented, brown-eyed smiles, the kind that had melted her elder sister’s heart back in her college days. But Lindsay’s heart did not melt. She had seen plenty of his type in Seattle’s business world—guys with proper tans and jaunty clothes and health-club bodies. Guys who traded on charm, not brains or ability.

Lindsay stood up, shook his hand firmly, and managed to return his smile. They exchanged civilities (her mother would have been proud), and Carl ordered coffee and a cinnamon roll with raisins.

After the inevitable
too bad this isn’t under better circumstances,
Lindsay said, “Well, how are things at J. Howard Maynard and Associates, Political Consultants Extraordinaire?”

“Busy, this being an election year and all,” said Carl, sipping his coffee. “We’re handling four Senate races and ten House races. Plus we’re doing some polling and analysis fora couple of presidential candidates.”

“Wow, the money must be rolling in,” said Lindsay, and the remark hung awkwardly.

“It’s a good job,” said Carl finally, without disapprobation. “I get to travel around a lot, meet people. Nice benefits; no heavy lifting.” He attempted a grin.

“Well, if that’s what you’re good at...” Despite her promise to her mother, Lindsay was making it plain that she didn’t hold Carl’s line of work in high esteem. Political consulting and lobbying, in her view, were mere steps above parasitism.

“And how’s the world of stocks and bonds?” asked Carl. “I trust you’re making the best of this bull market.”

“I suspect we’re in for a slide sometime before the fourth quarter,” replied Lindsay, using her professional tone. “But that’s all the free advice you’re going to get.” They both smiled uneasily.

“Then I suppose we’d better get down to cases,” said Carl, his face darkening. “Have you heard anything more about the autopsy?”

“Yesterday afternoon I talked to the police chief—what’s his name?”

“Stu Bromton; old friend of mine.”

“Whatever. He informed me that there won’t be an autopsy or inquest. The medical examiner and the prosecutor both agreed that the cause of death was”—here she took a deep breath—“was suicide. We’re free to get on with the arrangements. I suppose you know that Lorna had always said she wanted to be cremated.”

“Yes, I remember that. We should probably see the mortician today.”

“I told him yesterday that we’d want cremation, but you’re right—we should finalize things with him this afternoon. It’s on my lists of things to do.”

“Did Stu say anything else?”

“Like what?”

“About a suicide note—anything like that?”

“There
was
a note. Since there won’t be an autopsy or an inquest, the police don’t need it. We can pick it up at the police station, if we want.”

Carl’s eyes grew heavy with sadness, and for the briefest moment Lindsay felt a surge of sympathy for him.

“Have you seen it?” he asked. “Do you know what it says?”

“No.”

“I’d like to have it.”

“That’s fine with me.”

“Is Jeremy awake yet?”

“He was still asleep when I left the room. My mother suggested that I drop her and Jeremy by the house later this morning. She wants to start cleaning the place up and packing Lorna’s things. Why don’t you come by around lunchtime?”

“Sounds good,” said Carl agreeably. “Home is probably the best place for him.”

And there it was, thought Lindsay: the first tentative shot before the opening salvo of the battle.
Home is probably the best place for him
, and home is where Daddy is, naturally. Home will become Washington, D.C., is that it? Fat chance.

“I’m glad you brought that up, Carl. We need to talk about Jeremy’s future.” Lindsay folded her hands on the white tablecloth and fixed Carl with a steady, blue-eyed gaze. She leaned forward slightly, assuming a posture of stiff resolution. “I’m sure you’ll agree that he should stay close to Dr. Craslowe, since this man is largely responsible for his recovery. It’s unthinkable that Jeremy should start up with some other therapist at this stage of the game. That’s why—”

“I couldn’t agree more,” put in Carl. “Craslowe’s been the only doctor who’s been able to get through to him. I don’t see any reason to switch horses in midstream.”

Lindsay wilted a little and blinked incredulously. “But yesterday—on the phone—you said something about becoming a real father again. You talked about how tragic it was that Lorna had to die in order to bring you and your son together. I took all that to mean that you intended to take Jeremy back East with you.”

Carl gazed out the rain-streaked window at the rolling mist. The wintery grayness of Greely’s Cove seemed a living part of him, like skin or hair, something he’d been born with.

“That’s what I meant—then,” he answered. “But I’ve had some time to think, Lindsay. I’ve thought about what my life has been till now, about the things I’ve done—to myself and to others—and the things I’ve missed. I’ve thought a lot about Lorna and Jeremy, and I don’t mind saying that I’ve had some fairly heavy-duty regrets. It’s time to start putting things in order again.”

What the hell is this?
wondered Lindsay.
A tactic?

“So what’s the upshot?” she demanded, sounding harsher than she wanted.

“The upshot is that I plan to move back here. I’ll take care of Jeremy like I should’ve done a long time ago. I’ll probably hang out a shingle and practice a little personal injury law—I’ve kept up my Washington-state bar dues, thank God. I’ll raise my kid and teach him how to sail, play ball, maybe even how to practice law someday. We’ll survive, might even prosper.”

Lindsay stared at him, slack-jawed, for a full ten seconds.

“Is this really what you want?” she asked.

“It’s what I want. It’s what I need.”

Lindsay’s anger took control of her, giving her voice the bright, sharp edge of a straight razor. “Now that your son has recovered to the point that he can behave in a socially acceptable way, you want him back, is that it? Now that he can be trusted not to defecate on the furniture? Or take his pants off in church?”

Carl’s face hardened. “You haven’t changed at all, have you?”

“I’m too old to change, Carl, and so are you. You couldn’t abide the thought of living with Jeremy before he started to get well. You couldn’t take his screaming or his messes or the sympathetic looks from your friends. All you wanted was to get away from him, even if it meant leaving Lorna, and that’s exactly what you did. You made a life for yourself somewhere else, somewhere far away, the kind of life you’ve always wanted.”

“Know something, Lindsay? You have the diplomatic charm of a tarantula.” He pushed his uneaten cinnamon roll away and signaled for the check. The waitress didn’t see him at first, for she was talking in urgent whispers with the policeman who had just sat down at the counter.

“What Jeremy needs is stability,” Lindsay went on. “He needs someone who’ll stay with him and love him; someone he can count on to be there when the sledding gets rough. You don’t meet the specifications, Carl. That someone is not you.”

“Gosh, it’s been nice chatting with you,” said Carl, scooting back his chair, anticipating the arrival of the check. The waitress was on her way, scribbling on her pad as she walked. “Let’s do it again real soon.”

“I’m not going to let you have him, Carl.”

“Oh? And what makes you think you’ll have any say in the matter?”

“Lorna was my sister. She would’ve wanted me to take Jeremy. That’s what I intend to do.”