The Wedding Party (23 page)

“That's a real good place to start, Freddy. I don't necessarily like to fight, but I won't hesitate. In fact, I don't necessarily like to kill, but hey.” He shrugged.

“Aw, come on, man,” Freddy whined. “I could call the police, you know.”

“Yeah, if you could just get your hands on that phone, you could, couldn't you. Why don't I help you a little. Police,” he called. “Oh, pol-eeeece.”

“Jesus, you're—” Freddy stopped as he heard a car door open. A man stepped out. He wore a long, dark trench coat and he sauntered toward them. There was just no other word for it. He
sauntered,
full of confidence and meanness. Grant continued to press Freddy against the wall until the man came close, then turned him toward the man.

The man flipped open an ID wallet with one hand and a big, dangerous-looking flashlight with the other. He shone the light on the ID badge that, along with his picture and preposterously large badge, said, Jonathan “Jake” Dugan. Freddy stared at it open-mouthed.

“Jake Dugan, pleased to meet you.”

“Jake Dugan as in Stephanie Dugan,” Grant clarified, lest there be any doubt.

“You don't want to be hanging around here anymore, now, do you, son?” Jake asked. And he smiled. It was an evil and terrifying smile that Jake had perfected over the years, one he used to frighten young wannabe felons and teenage brats. He opened his coat to put away his wallet and expose his very big gun.

“Hey, I don't want any trouble. I was just—”

“Save it,” Jake said. “She's my little girl and I'm a little protective. You understand? So, just get the hell out of here and don't come around this neighborhood again. As in
ever.
If you meet someone who lives in this complex here, meet someone else. Do we understand each other?”

Grant gave him a shove in the direction of his cell phone. When he bent over to pick it up, Grant put a boot in his backside and sent him on a sprawl. Freddy rolled and sat up, glaring at the two of them with barely concealed rage, but he wasn't about to do anything physical. To keep some dignity he picked up his phone and stood slowly. He turned and walked, but did not hurry away. He walked across the parking lot and down past several buildings before getting into his car, which was parked a very obvious distance from Stephanie's building. The gate opened in response to the car's weight and out he went.

“You still think that was the right thing to do?” Jake asked Grant.

“I guess so. What would you have done?”

He shrugged. “Something like that, I guess.” He
tilted his head toward the stairs. “You going up there?”

“I can't, Jake. It doesn't work for us anymore.”

“That a fact?”

“But I'll be damned if I'll let some slimy little weasel like Freddy give her any trouble.”

“You probably nipped it in the bud, but I'd keep an eye on him.”

“I told her I thought she should go to your house. Stay with you a while.”

“Yeah, well, there's something going on up there,” Jake said, rubbing the back of his neck. “She hasn't even told me you left. And ordinarily she'd be on the phone wailing and complaining and cursing the day you were born.”

“You think I should check on her?”

The light from Stephanie's living room clicked off and the apartment darkened. It was 1:00 a.m. Grant looked up the stairs longingly.

“There isn't anything wrong with her. I talked to her around six or so. Asked her how her grandma was and she said she was thinking of going over for dinner with her mom. She was okay. Not cheerful, exactly. Distracted maybe. But okay. Come on. It's late.”

Jake walked toward his car, but Grant stood where he was, looking up the stairs.

“You still think it was the right thing? To leave?” Jake asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “I had to.”

“Well, come on then. Leave.”

Grant sighed, kicked at a pebble and went to the car.

Jake looked at him a long time before turning the key. Grant wore a look of misery and desire. It drew his features down long and sullen. “Candy-ass,” Jake muttered, and started the car.

 

While Lois was undergoing some cognitive and memory testing, Charlene and Stephanie were sitting in the doctor's office where they were learning about a world they had never, until now, had to think about.

“The symptoms Lois is experiencing could be traced to any number of causes, including Alzheimer's disease. ‘Silent' strokes, patterns of tiny dead cells inside the brain that can cause memory loss, mood swings, confusion, even trouble walking occur in as many as one out of three elderly individuals, people over seventy. Their effects are cumulative over the years and put people at risk for full-blown strokes. Alzheimer's, as you probably already know, is escalating dementia, and, as I explained last night, progresses more slowly the later the onset. Hardening of the arteries causes dementia, as do a number of other conditions and diseases. The preliminary testing we did before Lois left the hospital points us in the direction of silent strokes or Alzheimer's or both.”

“And does that explain the mood swings? The swearing and general grouchiness?” asked Charlene.

The doctor, who was quite young, smiled. “Both the condition and the frustration of experiencing these maddening symptoms explains the mood swings and
anger. I'm going to prescribe both a blood thinner to prevent further strokes and an antidepressant that doesn't have a strong side effect of lethargy and sleepiness. Plus, there's a new drug that has proven beneficial in slowing the onset of Alzheimer's.”

“But if you're not sure she has—”

“It's a process of elimination. She is, at the very least, a strong candidate. I'd call it pre-Alzheimer's.

“I strongly encourage you to attend a support group for the families and caregivers of Alzheimer's patients where you'll learn not only a great deal about the disease, but how to manage Lois's care. There are some things you should look into right away. Her medications, for example. It's very common for patients with dementia to forget they've taken their drugs and overdose. I recommend a locked medicine drawer or cabinet and someone to give her the pills as prescribed. Companion care would be a serious need, I would think. She doesn't need to be fed and bathed, but she has already had a mishap. Mental stimulation and physical activity both play very big roles in slowing the progression, in giving our patients more quality time. Senior day care and support groups for the patient can be a good way not only to manage time so you can both work and spend quality time with Lois, but also serves as a good diversion for her.” He took a breath. “Above all, don't panic. I think Lois still has years at home, with her family.”

“Before a nursing home, you mean?” Stephanie asked. “Peaches would die in a nursing home!”

“We advocate keeping our patients at home with
home care for as long as possible. In the best cases, with good nursing help, they never go to nursing homes. But even in the most dedicated families, there is usually a point at which the patient requires more care than the family can manage…and that's what nursing homes are for. Before you let the very idea upset you, let me assure you that we have some very nice facilities…and they're getting better all the time.”

Peaches had always taken care of
them.
Neither Charlene nor Stephanie had ever imagined the day that they would be called upon to take care of her.

 

Stephanie had not been to school all week, and she still hadn't told anyone that Grant had left their apartment. After three days of scullery work, she was now too ashamed to tell anyone that she had used her days off to try to put her life in order.

Her self-project didn't end with housework, though admittedly she could now see the drastic need. She also went to a bookstore and did a little self-help shopping. She avoided all the “how to get a man” books and gravitated instead toward the “improving the mind and spirit” category. She needed to feel in control of her destiny, instead of like a passenger on a runaway train. It was time to explore gratitude and positive thinking. She could no longer take everyone's love and devotion for granted without giving anything back.

Her journal entries were growing long and filled with self-examination.

Once she caught up on the chores, she decided to make helping someone a priority. That was a lesson her grandmother had taught her early in life—if you volunteer, you'll feel better. Peaches had put in years of reading to the elderly and infirm and blind. She had taught adults to read even when she had a full-time job and a family to take care of. Well, now Stephanie needed to help someone—and Peaches needed her help. She would dedicate herself to her grandmother and stop focusing so much time and energy on
herself.

Stephanie was reinventing herself, and she wasn't going to tell a soul. Because it wasn't about getting attention…but about giving it.

P
am entered the conference room at 7:00 p.m. to spread out and organize her work on the large conference table. Her arms were laden with current files, calendar, day planner, legal pad, pens, highlighting markers and her bottled water. The office phone was now turned to voice mail, a welcome relief from Charlene's clients. Where to start with this mess? Charlene had twenty-two pending cases and Mike Dodge didn't do divorce or custody. He was in San Francisco at the moment, and he specialized in trusts, wills, probate and taxes associated with inheritance. Since it was routine for Charlene to refer those clients to Mike anyway, there were none in her caseload now.

Twenty-two. That didn't even touch the number of cases that were considered open without pending court dates. It was Pam's job to figure out the routing of the caseload. Charlene was spending lots of time away from the office, taking care of her mother's appointments with doctors. In addition, there was the reconstruction of a charbroiled house and all that went along with it, from refurbishing to redecorating. Charlene needed breathing room.

Pam's days, on the other hand, were getting longer
and she was suffering under a different kind of strain, that of trying to appear rested, well organized and stress free so that Charlene could handle her many personal issues with as little worry as possible.

Pam hadn't heard a word about the wedding. She supposed it had been pushed back till a more manageable time, but she didn't dare ask.

She shook her head in bemusement when she picked up a file. The one case Charlene was passionate about keeping up with was the pro bono for Meredith Jersynski…and this one was a dog. A loser. Not only that, but she paid Maxie out of personal funds, and Maxie was a high-priced investigator. The relationship Charlene had with Jake was some strange inseparable bond that exceeded their common parenthood to Stephanie. The only one who seemed not to know this was Charlene. Pam wondered how Dennis coped with that.

She reviewed folder after folder, making notes and lists and changes, stacking up the finished work as she went, checking off files as she completed each review.

Timmons? The name took her breath away for the moment. She flipped through the file and read the sus
picious single page. It was only Janice Timmons's intake information—address, phone, date of birth, date of marriage. Pam had not been aware of this. The appointment had obviously been set up by the appointment secretary before Charlene's mother had been hospitalized. Janice was a twenty-something-year-old court reporter in the Superior Court. She had married her college sweetheart just three years ago in a storybook wedding they had all attended. When they toasted the bride and groom, there wasn't a guest present who didn't think this love affair would stretch into old age. They seemed made for each other; they were positively enraptured.

And here she was, divorcing. It was all so fragile.

Such was the life of family law. There were blissful moments, like successful adoptions, the reuniting of families, the lawful return of property. There were times that justice, however bittersweet, was finally reached, like winning a wrongful-death civil suit or getting a handicapped child into the right kind of educational facility. But there were terrible disappointments here as well, like Janice and Bill Timmons, so in love, and parting company after only three years. How did things like this happen? Pam had asked herself many times. And why, knowing how tenuous even the most solid relationships are, do we long for a mate?

Ray knocked at the conference door and stuck his head in. “Late night?”

She put down her pen and wished, for the millionth time, that her heart wouldn't pick up speed when she
saw him. But wish it or not, it hammered in her breast. “There's a lot going on,” she said.

“It's almost nine, Ms. London. Have you eaten?”

She looked at her watch in shock. A few lists, a couple of schedule changes, and almost two hours had gone by. “Ah…um…haven't even thought about food.”

“Well,” he said, entering the room despite the fact that she hadn't invited him. He had a take-out bag. “I brought you something anyway. Vegetables and rice. A little chicken. Tea. You have to keep your strength up.”

“I don't have time to eat, Ray,” she said, tearing her eyes away from his face and picking up the pen again. She looked down and pointed the pen at the legal pad, but he lifted her hand off the paper.

“Don't be so pigheaded. Have something to eat,” he said. “I'm on my break.”

She dropped the pen and leaned back in her chair, sighing in resignation. She was starving, and for more than mere food. “I'm never going to get done,” she complained.

He began to empty the bag of small cartons, cups and plates. “What's up with Ms. Dugan? Jake said something about a fire?”

“You know Jake?”

“Just sort of. I know the boyfriend, Grant Chamberlain.”

“You do?” she asked, stunned. Sometimes the world was shockingly small.

“Yup. I took a couple of classes with him at Sac
State. I met Jake at JT's—the bar where Grant works. And then, of course, Jake was just here…when was that? A week or so ago? With a woman?”

“Wow. It's always amazing how many connections there are in a town this size.” She would have to run for her life. Now it was settled. Even if she had momentarily toyed with the idea of toying with—She couldn't let her mind wander in that direction. Whatever she'd been thinking, she'd stop it at once.

He pushed a plastic plate and fork at her and she moved aside her tablet, calendar and files. Despite all her good sense, things started to happen to her vision. When he lifted his fork to his lips and slowly drew the chicken and vegetables into his mouth, she saw the top button of his uniform shirt unbutton itself. Then two more buttons opened, then another. The ripples in his tanned, hairless chest sent a rush through her that made her catch her breath.

“You okay, Ms. London?” he asked.

No, I'm delusional from overwork.
She looked down at her plate and muttered, “Uh-huh. Yeah.” She took a few bites with her eyes closed. In her mind she was seeing his handwritten notes, left at different times during the day when she might be away from her desk. It was odd that she never saw him hanging around, but she found plenty of messages just the same.
You look beautiful today
and
Just tell me when.
Boyish, silly messages.

She looked up as she realized he had left two such notes on her desk that very day, one before lunch and one after. And it was now 9:00 p.m. She also noticed
his shirt was completely buttoned, and blinked in surprise. “Ray, what are you doing here this late? Didn't you work a day shift today?”

“Yep.”

“Shouldn't you be off now?”

“Yep. But you're still here, just like you've been here late every night this week. No breaks for supper, and far as I can tell, you aren't having anything brought in to eat.”

“So?”

“So? So I thought maybe you'd appreciate this.”

She laid down her fork. “It's very nice of you, but…I'm concerned by all this attention, Ray. I think you're making too much of—”

“Too much? Not enough, I think.” He smiled. “Some women like that sort of thing,” he said. “And so do you, though for some reason you try to hide it.”

“I'm too old for you!”

“Fine, then just eat and I'll go.”

She became silent. Was that what she wanted? For him to go? And not come back? It was an awful thought, but she also had to think about what the partners would say if they found a middle-aged executive assistant fiddling around with a twenty-five-year-old security guard. It could cost her her job.

For now she would just eat the dinner, thank him and send him on his way with a calmly delivered explanation of the facts of life. She lifted her fork. “This is delicious. Thank you.”

“You're welcome. The Plum Tree. Best Chinese in town. Right down the street.”

“Listen, Ray, I'm a little tense,” she said.

“Seems like maybe you've been under a lot of pressure.”

“A lot, yes. And let me be honest, I don't really know how to handle your…your…pursuit.”

“That so?” he asked. “I would've thought you've had a lot of practice.”

“At—?”

“Handling pursuits. Men must pester you all the time.”

“Me?” Pam asked. “No! I'm hardly ever asked out on a date.”

“Impossible,” he said. “As smart and pretty and healthy and positive as you are?”

“Wouldn't you have a lot more in common with a younger woman?” she asked him.

“Well, Ms. London, I'll let you know if our relationship ever gets beyond me leaving you notes and flowers, and walking you to your car. Okay?”

It's never going to get beyond that, she thought, but for some reason she couldn't say it. She watched him eat, his fork carrying small bites back and forth from his paper plate to his mouth, sensually chewing, slowly swallowing. She was growing hypnotized by the slow, sexy movement. He locked onto her eyes, held her, and delivered a mouthful to her on his fork. She opened her mouth for him and closed her lips around his fork.

It began to happen to her again; the delusion returned. His shirt unbuttoned itself, his chest was re
vealed, his slow breathing expanded his pecs and strained his shirt—and she was lost.

She didn't know what was happening to her. She was tired, that was one thing. And although she had accepted her state of singleness, just having this sexy young man around was underscoring her aloneness, leaving her feeling hungry for attention, craving affection. And now, as they sat across from each other at the conference-room table, eating Chinese, she was hallucinating.

“I just want to get to know you,” she heard him say, but his voice was distant and faint. “We could just see what happens.”

His hand reached across the table, touched hers, and she thought she heard, “You know it would be good. We'd be so good.”

She was doomed. Her eyes drifted closed and she could feel his presence coming closer. His breath was hot on her neck and she felt his lips sear her flesh. “Let yourself, Pam. Let yourself go. You know we'd be so, so good….”

Pam had the feeling she was floating into his arms, that he pulled her to her feet, embraced her around the waist and gently lowered her to the boardroom table. He pulled apart her silk blouse so that her bare chest pressed against his. Never before had she known such longing. She sighed as she strained toward him and—

“Ms. London?”

Her eyes popped open and the fully clothed, politely patient and deadly handsome Ray tilted his head inquisitively as he studied her.

“I'm not the hottest ticket in town, but I've never had a girl nod off on me before.”

Her cheeks flamed a scarlet so hot she thought she might pass out, as embarrassed as if he had actually seen the fantasy that had overtaken her. She was no longer sure what he might have said, what she had dreamt. Had she moaned? Writhed? Said his name?

She put down her fork. “Ray, this little flirtation has been fun, but there's something you'd better get straight. I'm not going to lose my job over you. Got that? I've…really…got to…get going.” She pushed her plate toward him, gathered up and stacked the client folders. She virtually flew into her office, tossed the folders into the file drawer without putting each one in its place and locked it up. Forgoing all the closing-up rituals she typically engaged in, she simply grabbed her purse and ran.
Ran.
With no time to wait for the elevator, she took the stairs. She raced past the ground-floor security desk and was out the door and behind the wheel of her car in a flash.

She looked back at the office building in time to see Ray appear in the doorway, looking toward her, unmistakable disappointment drawing down his features. Well, there, she thought. He got the message. She started the ignition and drove too fast out of the parking lot.

And she thought, I am so screwed up.

 

Charlene rarely took personal days. An admitted workaholic, she usually had to get out of town to keep herself from going into the office on her rare vaca
tions. She was a little worse than driven—she was compulsive. She moved at a brisk and efficient pace and was capable of doing several things at once. The hardest part about being needed to help while Lois kept appointments with doctors and reconstruction companies was the time spent
waiting.
It was tempting to use that time working in one fashion or another—on the cell phone or laptop—but that made Lois feel like a burden. “I know you're too busy for this, Charlene. Go to your office and I'll get Mr. Conklin to take me on all these errands. Or I can always get a cab.”