Water's Edge (4 page)

“You’re kidding. He was a lawyer for over thirty years.”

“Who didn’t make a lot of money and did a bad job managing what he earned. I had to put the funeral bill on a credit card. After he sold the house and moved in with Elias, he gave most of his money away.”

“Gave it away?”

“He supported a bunch of religious causes, and there’s no shortage of them holding out their hands. The worst part is he didn’t keep back enough from the sale of the house to pay the federal tax due on his gain. I don’t know what he was thinking. Anyway, he worked out a payment plan with the IRS but was only partway through it when he died. There are thousands still owing. Also, he hadn’t paid any estimated tax on the income he earned at the law firm for the current fiscal year. I haven’t run all the numbers, but after the government is paid, there may not be enough left to justify probating the will.”

“That’s wrong,” Clarice responded emphatically. “Your father should have thought about you first when it came to his money. This makes me madder than you losing your job. At least McGraw was your boss, not your dad.”

“It hurt,” Tom admitted. “But then I haven’t paid a lot of attention to him for the past few years.”

“Which is no reason to leave a mess for you to clean up.” Clarice waved her finger in the air. “If your father was such a godly man, he would have paid the government its due and left something for you to enjoy, not given his money away to strangers. I can’t imagine my parents doing that to me. Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

“I was embarrassed,” Tom replied with a shrug.

“Yeah, I can see why.” Clarice stepped back. “I’d better get going.”

“And you’ll pick up Whiskers tomorrow?”

“After the meeting with Magellan. Brittany can help out while I’m in Savannah.”

______

After Clarice left, Tom turned on the gas logs in the small fireplace in the living room and sat in a leather recliner watching the flames. The harsh reality that John Crane had left him nothing except the hassle of dealing with the IRS and the responsibility of closing down a law practice hurt more than Tom wanted to admit.

While the fire flickered, Rover lay at Tom’s feet. The dog’s world was simple. His master’s presence was enough to bring him contentment. No such person inhabited Tom’s world. He was as isolated as a castaway on a desert island, a man alone in a city of millions.

chapter
THREE

T
he following morning Tom unpacked the boxes he’d brought home from the office. He took out the photo of his mother taken during a trip to Callaway Gardens when he was five years old. Quiet and reserved, she taught high school English composition and literature for twenty years. Her death from breast cancer when Tom was a junior in high school took away the only ears he knew would listen.

Caught in a web of joint grief, Tom and his father shared space in the same house for a year and a half until Tom left for college. By the time he graduated four years later, Tom had convinced himself that he’d grown stronger through the tragedy because it forced him to be more self-reliant. This became a mantra, and he repeated the theory whenever he told someone about his past. Not everyone was convinced. A girl Tom dated shortly after moving to Atlanta told him it sounded like something a redneck football coach would tell one of his players. They only went out to dinner once after that.

Tom’s cell phone buzzed. It was an unfamiliar number.

“Hello,” he said.

“Tom, it’s Arthur. I called your office, and the receptionist told me you no longer work at the firm. What in the world happened?”

Tom’s stomach twisted into a knot.

“I met with the three main partners after you and I talked yesterday. We lost a major client. I was the first of several casualties.”

“Did you tell them about our conversation?”

“No. You asked me to keep it confidential until you had a chance to talk with Mr. Snyder. I didn’t want to violate your instructions.”

“Talking to Lance was a formality. If I’d known your job was in jeopardy, I would have given you permission to bring it up. Who’s the real decision maker at the firm? Give me his direct number. I’ll call him as soon as we hang up and get this straightened out.”

Tom was shocked. It wasn’t the response he’d expected.

“Uh, I’m not sure how they operate. But I doubt they’d be willing to change their minds—” Tom stopped.

Joe Barnes, Reid McGraw, and Olson Crowther would do anything to entice Pelham Financial into their fold. They’d reinstate him in a second and might even throw a cocktail party to celebrate his return. But asking Arthur to step in made him feel like a kid on a baseball team begging his father to intervene with the coach. It ran counter to every independent bone in Tom’s body.

“Thanks,” he said. “But it’s time for me to move on. If I can’t trust the judgment of the people I’m working with, Barnes, McGraw, and Crowther isn’t the place I want to be for the long term.”

“I can appreciate that,” Arthur replied thoughtfully. “I’ve had the same conversation with employees over the years. Trust among coworkers is as much a key to our business as it is to yours. But are you sure about this?”

Tom searched his heart one last time. He knew if he turned down Arthur’s offer of help, it was the end of one road. Where the next road might lead was uncertain.

“I’ve cut the tie,” Tom said with finality. “When I find another job, I’ll let you know if the new law firm can provide the kind of representation you deserve.”

“That will take time to determine.”

“Yes, sir, because you deserve the best legal advice available. Do I have your permission to contact you if I end up with another firm that might be a good fit for Pelham?”

“Of course. And with your father gone, you have an open invitation to ask my advice about anything. Do you have my cell and direct phone numbers?”

“No, sir.”

The older man gave the numbers to Tom, who entered them into his phone.

“Tom, I’m sorry about the job,” Arthur said. “I know it stings, but this isn’t a failure. It’s a stepping-stone to something better. I’ve seen it happen over and over.”

“I believe that,” Tom replied with more confidence than he felt.

“Don’t hesitate to call.”

“I won’t.”

“Good-bye, son.”

Midmorning, Tom left for a couple of hours to run errands before leaving town. When he returned and walked through the living room on the way to his bedroom, Whiskers wasn’t in her usual place on top of the sofa. Tom stuck his head in the kitchen. The cat wasn’t in her second-favorite spot in the corner beside the oven.

“Whiskers!”

Going into the bedroom, Tom opened the door to his walk-in closet, the cat’s secret hideaway. What he saw stopped him in his tracks.

All his shirts, suits, and pants were neatly lined up in a row. On the left were his casual clothes and the heavy winter coat he wore on the few days in Atlanta when the temperature dipped into the teens. But the section of the closet he’d vacated so Clarice could keep a few outfits available at his apartment was empty. Feeling like he did when his car was once towed from a downtown parking lot, he stared at the empty spot as if the clothes would magically reappear. They didn’t. He glanced over his shoulder at the bed and saw an envelope on the bedspread. He took out a heavily scented piece of paper.

Tom,

What’s happened the past twenty-four hours has made it clear to me that it’s time for both of us to move on. Your trip to Bethel makes the separation easier. If you find anything else that belongs to me at the apartment, let me know. Whiskers is with me. I promised to watch her while you’re out of town, but what I’d really like to do is keep her as a positive reminder of the fun times we’ve had together.

Hugs,
Clarice

Move on
. It was the same phrase Tom had used when he told Arthur Pelham that he didn’t want help getting his job reinstated at the law firm. Apparently Clarice thought about Tom the same way he did about Reid McGraw. Opportunities to become more self-reliant were coming faster than he could process them. He lowered the note so Rover could sniff it.

“She perfumes a note breaking up with me and wants the cat?” he said to the dog. “I can only hope she and Whiskers will be as happy together as I am with you.”

Returning to the kitchen, Tom thought about the girl who’d taken him to the humane society the day he first met Rover. Her fate would be his. In a few years, Tom would be a barely remembered footnote in the book of Clarice’s life, Whiskers an entire chapter. He dropped the envelope and note in the trash can and closed the lid.

Tom sat at the small table where he and Clarice had eaten many ethnic meals together. There was no use delaying a response. Tom’s fingers raced across the phone keypad.

You’re right. Whiskers is yours. Best of luck. Tom.

An hour later Tom’s car crawled through Friday afternoon traffic. Rover lay contentedly in the passenger seat of the car, a towel positioned to catch any stray saliva. It was a hundred miles north and a hundred years back in time from Atlanta to Bethel.

Once clear of gridlock, they traveled another hour before leaving the interstate for a cross-country drive through a rolling rural landscape dotted with weathered farmhouses, an occasional cluster of mobile homes, and massive new estates that were surrounded by horses grazing behind long white fences and Angus cattle in herds near small ponds. The owners of the estate properties were akin to eighteenth-century English gentry who made their money in the city and moved to the country to enjoy it.

Bethel was nestled in the northwest corner of the state. Uncle Elias, the family historian, claimed the original member of the Crane family came to America from England in 1825 and migrated to Etowah County shortly after the Cherokees were expelled from the region in 1837. When he was a boy, Tom found bucket loads of Indian artifacts in the fields that surrounded the ancestral home where Elias now lived.

The population of Bethel remained stagnant until 1910 when a railroad spur connected the community to the surrounding region. This led to an economic boom that changed the region—the growth of the textile industry. Words like
creeling
,
spinning
,
tufting
, and
doffing
became part of the local vocabulary. Cash wages replaced sharecropping. People moved
to
Bethel, not away from it. Men became supervisors in the mills and built houses in town. Plant managers joined the country club established by the owners of the mills. Then, after two generations of prosperity, the bottom dropped out. Even the low pay in the area’s nonunionized mills couldn’t compete with the minuscule wages paid to workers in China, Guatemala, Pakistan, and a score of other countries. Mills closed. Those that stayed open became niche manufacturers for the most expensive garments. Then help came from an unexpected source.

Arthur Pelham saved his hometown.

Pelham Financial refurbished a bankrupt textile mill building and hired five hundred people to perform telephone marketing, customer assistance, data entry, mail processing, bookkeeping, clerical activities, and other support functions that didn’t require a high level of formal training or professional licensure.

When he was in Bethel, Arthur lived in a restored home near the center of town. The antebellum Parker-Baldwin house was already the grandest residence in town when Arthur bought it. He then poured a large sum into a major restoration. Now the house appeared in guidebooks about places to see in north Georgia.

Tom crossed the shallow creek that marked the eastern boundary of Etowah County. The road gently wound its way through the hills. Shortly before arriving at the city limits, he saw the driveway that led to the house where Derrick “Rick” Pelham, Arthur’s son, lived. Tom could barely see Rick’s house nestled on top of a hill. A shiny black pickup truck came barreling down the driveway into the road directly in front of Tom, who honked his horn. The driver of the truck slammed on his brakes and got out of the car.

It was Rick Pelham.

“Let’s settle this right now!” Rick yelled as he charged toward Tom’s car. “I’m ready to pound you worse than I did when we were in the fifth grade.”

Tom flipped on the emergency flashers and got out of the car. Rick, a short muscular man with close-cut dark hair, grabbed him in a bear hug.

“I won that fight,” Tom replied when Rick released his grip. “You had a black eye.”

“Which wasn’t nearly as bad as your bloody nose. Mrs. Fletchall thought you were going to have to get a blood transfusion.”

“Your left eye still looks a little crooked,” Tom observed.

Rick drew back his fist, then pointed up the driveway. “Can you come up to the house?”

“Now? You looked like you were going somewhere in a hurry.”

“Nothing as important as seeing you. And you’d already stopped in the middle of the road. When I saw your BMW, I thought you were another northern carpetbagger wanting to buy my place.”

“Does that happen?”

“Every so often someone rings the doorbell.” Rick grinned. “But there aren’t many people who could afford the house and the twenty-two hundred acres that go with it.”

“You’re up to that much land?”

“Yeah. I’m a bona fide tree farmer. Everything scientific and organized. But enough about me. How are you doing? You seemed okay at the funeral, but I know things like that hit you hard later on.”

“I’m fine most of the time.” Tom paused. “Have you talked to your father recently?”

“Not since last week.”

Tom decided not to mention the loss of his job. “I’m here to wrap up my dad’s affairs,” he said.

“That can wait an hour or two.”

“I’ll be in town for a few weeks. And I don’t want to surprise Tiffany.”

“She’s always ready to see you.”

Rover stuck his head out the passenger window of Tom’s car and barked. Rick leaned to the side to take a look.

“Is that thing yours?”

“Yeah, he’s a beauty, isn’t he?”

“If you say so. Where are you staying?”

“With Elias.”

“Why don’t you camp out with us? We have four empty guest rooms. And your dog could hang out in the kennel beside the horse barn. It’s heated and air-conditioned. After he eats and naps he could romp with my black Labs.”