Antonia's Choice (18 page)

Ben's eyes narrowed. “How many wake-ups is that?”

I counted. “Six.”

“No, that's too many.”

“She isn't going to hurt you, Pal.”

He wasn't buying it. He hitched his backpack up and turned and ran for the building. I just stood there, eyes burning.

“Dear God,” I whispered. This time I added, “Tell me what in the Sam Hill to do.”

When I got home, Reggie was gone and Hale was back. Wyndham was still asleep, and Hale was on the phone, adding a name to a list of four he'd already scrawled on a piece of my notepaper, engraved in gold letters, FROM THE DESK OF ANTONIA WELLS. When he hung up, he gave me a grin.

“You're set until eleven-thirty tonight, and then I'll be back. Oh—and Betty Stires says the sooner you can get the paperwork to her the faster she can expedite Wyndham's admission. Until then, I'll keep you staffed so Wyndham has somebody with her all the time.”

“I owe you—in a major way,” I said.

He waved me off with one of his big, squared-off hands. “You'll be okay until ten this morning? Sherry Gibbons will be here then.”

“I can deal with Wyndham during the day.”

“Don't you have to go to work?”

“Oh.” I pressed my fingers to my eyelids, which were stinging from being open for too long at a stretch. “Yeah, I guess I do. If I still have a job.”

“Reggie says you're pretty indispensable over there.”

“Yeah.” It was odd how, for a fleeting moment, that seemed utterly unimportant.

When Sherry Gibbons arrived, I made sure Wyndham looked okay with her and then went down to the study to call Jeffrey. Even as I was dialing his number, I knew I should have been calling Chris. But I still couldn't do it.

Get yourself totally together first,
I told myself.
That's the only way to talk to Chris.

So Jeffrey it was right now, and I knew I was going to have to take charge of the conversation. I was pretty sure even God didn't expect me to handle Jeffrey Faustman “with love.”

“Good morning, stranger,” Jeffrey said. His voice was cool. “Mind telling me what's going on?”

Actually I would mind,
I thought.
I so do not want you in my personal business
—
especially
this
personal business.

“I can't tell you how sorry I am that these unavoidable circumstances have arisen,” I said.

“What unavoidable circumstances?”

“But I have everything under control now. In fact, I'll be in around one o'clock. Anything I should know about before then, in case I need to get my thoughts together?”

“I don't think so.” The temperature had gone down several degrees. “Ginny seems to be doing very well, keeping things in order in your office.”

You jerk,
I thought. But I said, “She's a gem,” though I didn't add that she was somewhere in the zircon category. “I'll let her know I'll be coming in.”

“No need. I'll tell her. I'm having lunch with her shortly.”

“How lovely.”
I hope you both get acid reflux.

But as I hung up, I couldn't hold onto a wish for heartburn, at least not for Jeffrey. After all, he was trying to run a business, and I wasn't exactly forthcoming with information to explain my mysterious absences. Ginny was another story, the little opportunist.

But even harboring hope for indigestion for her wasn't as delicious as it had been two weeks ago. If only Ginny's licking her chops over my job was all I had to worry about.

I was in a suit and panty hose by twelve-thirty and welcoming the next shift on the Wyndham watch at 12:50, a pudgy little woman named Bunny who walked like a rugby player. I figured she could handle Wyndham, and I actually had my foot out the door when Hale called.

“Betty Stires says that if you can get the guardianship papers faxed to her by 5 P.M. today, you can bring Wyndham on Thursday. How perfect is that?”

“You must have some kind of pull out there.”

“You want to go see Trinity tomorrow?” he said. “I'll drive you if you want. It might not be a bad idea for you to visit the place before you take Wyndham there.”

“You're probably right. She might feel less like I was dumping her off if I actually bothered to go check it out. What time?”

We set it up for one o'clock, and then I hurried off to Faustman. I got there before Jeffrey and Ginny were back from lunch, and it looked like Ginny did have everything in order. I was glancing over the neatly fanned files on my desk with the typed pink phone messages clipped to each one when Reggie came in. She'd been away from her desk when I passed through the reception area, but she must have smelled me in the building because she was carrying a cup of chicken-and-dumpling soup, which she tucked into my hand.

“I know you haven't eaten all day,” she said. She groaned as she sank into one of my client chairs and put a hand to her forehead. Her nails were magenta today, and the Power Puff Girls were gone. “Honey, you have got one hard floor. My backside is killin' me. Tonight I'm bringin' a cot.”

I looked up from the dumplings. “Tonight?”

“Somebody's got to watch little Angel Boy while you watch Wyndham, and so far I'm his favorite—or didn't he tell you?”

Reggie's eyes were dancing. I couldn't help grinning at her.

“You and Hale. You're the only reason I still find it possible to smile at this point.”

“Honey, I think you're amazing.” She cocked an eyebrow at me. “Maybe a little too amazing.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means I'm waiting for you to start running around tearin' your hair out. That's what I'd be doin'.”

I set the half-empty mug on the desk. “I had my little breakdown Sunday night. What good would it do to keep that up? Besides, it's coming together. Wyndham's getting into Trinity Thursday. Once she's gone I can convince Ben that all the bad guys are now locked up, and we can get on with our lives.”

The phone rang, and Reggie reached for it, but I shook my head and picked it up myself.

“Speaking of getting on with my life,” I said, hand over the mouthpiece. I uncovered it and put on my professional voice. “This is Toni Wells.”

“Oh,” said a male voice on the other end. “It is?”

“Ye-es,” I said, patiently. “May I help you?”

“Well, I don't know. Your assistant told me you had left town for the rest of the week and wouldn't be able to get back to me.”

“I'm sorry. My assistant must have gotten some mistaken information. Who am I speaking to?”

“This is Charles R. Marshall.”

He said it as if the initial alone should have brought me to attention, but the name meant nothing to me. I flipped through the files on the desk but there was no “Charles R. Marshall” typed on a tab. I scribbled the name on a pad and shoved it toward Reggie, but she shook her head and hurried out. I whipped the chair toward my computer and typed in his name. Through it all, he remained silent on the line.

“You still with me, Mr. Marshall?” I said.

“Yes, but I'm beginning to wonder why. You were recommended to me by one of your clients who thinks you hung the financial moon, but so far I'm not impressed.”

How would you not be impressed?
I wanted to say to him.
We've only been on the phone for twenty seconds!

“Have we let you down in some way, Mr. Marshall?” I was coming up with no
Marshall, Charles R.
on the screen. Reggie returned, a blank look on her face.

“Nothing in my files,” she whispered. “Let me check another place.”

She hurried out again. Charles R. Marshall cleared his throat gruffly.

“Do you normally not return phone calls?” he said.

My brain was so fried, I couldn't untangle that sentence enough to know whether to say yes or no.

“Have I not returned a call from you, sir?” I said.

“Try five of them. And don't tell me you didn't get the messages because your assistant assured me she put them right into your hand. She was actually rather appalled that you left town without getting back to me, and she said if I called today she could probably help me herself.”

I
bet she did,
I thought.

“There's obviously a problem in our communication system here, Mr. Marshall,” I said smoothly. “I'm going to have to remedy that, but in the meantime, please accept my apology. What can I do for you?”

“I don't know now. You haven't exactly instilled confidence in me.

“Then it sounds like we need to meet face-to-face so I can fix that. Would you like to come in to the office? What's convenient for your

I yanked open my bag and pawed for my Day-Timer.

“Tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “Three o'clock.”

I was still groping around in the depths of my bag but I wasn't coming up with my date book. “Tomorrow at three,” I said, pretending to check my schedule. “Perfect.”

“And your office is where in the building?”

“I'll be waiting for you at the reception desk.”

That seemed to settle his neck hairs down a little. He agreed, gruffly, and hung up. I turned my bag upside down on my desk and was tearing through every item of its contents for the Day-Timer when Reggie blew in, waving something printed off the Internet.

“I looked in Jeffrey's ‘To Pursue' file,” she said. “Charles R. Marshall—entrepreneur—independent music videos. There's a note here, says, ‘Court him.'” She wrinkled her nose. “Jeffrey wants to date this man?”

“No, that means Jeffrey planned to hunt him down and do whatever it took to get his business—wine him and dine him and all that.”

“I know. It's just the thought of Jeffrey courting
anybody
makes me want to lose my lunch. Speaking of lunch—did you finish that soup, honey?”

“Oh, man!” I'd found my Day-Timer.

“What? Did you spill it?”

“No, I told Marshall I'd meet him at three tomorrow and I'm going to Trinity with Hale at one.” I reached for the phone, and then I sat back.

“What?” Reggie said.

“It isn't going to look good if I reschedule. He already thinks I'm a flake.” I glared toward Ginny's empty office. “Two bits she was setting this up so she could take care of the client herself. She never gave me any of his phone messages.”

“You oughta a tell Jeffrey.”

“Right, and get a lecture on how if I had
been
here that wouldn't have happened. I'll just be back by three o'clock, that's all. I'm only going to look the place over. If I leave there by two-thirty I'll be back in plenty of time. I'll ask Yancy Bancroft to take Ben to soccer. Just don't let Ginny get ahold of Charles R. Marshall if he gets here before I do.”

“You sure you don't just want to call him and make it three-thirty?”

I shook my head. “I already feel like Sid and Bobbi are running
my personal life. I've got to try to keep them out of my job.”

I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes, which felt like they were being marinated in hot sauce.

“You got any Visine or anything?” I said.

“What you need is a good nights sleep.”

“Soon. After Thursday, this is all going to be almost over.”

I
GOT ON THE PHONE TO
Faith Anne Newlin to make sure she could have the guardianship papers ready to fax to Trinity House by five. She was still upbeat in that adolescent way she had, but there was something guarded about her voice when she said, “I'm almost positive I can make that happen. I'm waiting for one more phone call.”

“From who?” I said. “I thought this was a slam dunk.”

“From your mother.” Faith Anne seemed to be measuring her words by the teaspoonful. “She wanted to try to talk to Roberta before she gave the final okay.”

“Doesn't my mother have guardianship at this point?”

“She does, but she seemed bent on consulting the biological mother before she signed it away. I wouldn't worry about it,” Faith Anne added hurriedly. “The FBI isn't allowing anyone access to your sister until she's a little more cooperative.”

“Unbelievable,” I said. “No, I believe it. There's very little I
wouldn't
believe at this point.”

Faith Anne purred sympathetically and promised to call me the minute Mama got back to her. I told her Mama was lucky it wasn't me she was going to be talking to.

When I hung up I reached for the printout on Charles R. Marshall, but the words only screamed out Mama's name, in vain, as it were. I'd given Reggie what I thought was a plausible explanation for Mama's attachment to Bobbi, but I wasn't satisfied with it. My mother might be disillusioned, but she wasn't a complete idiot by any means. She'd always been sharp enough to catch me at every sly trick I'd tried to get by with as a kid.

But that was where I always got hung up. Bobbi had been just as determined to have her own way as I was, she just didn't have to sneak because Mama explained it all away. Mama had even stood up
to Daddy on her behalf, which was something none of us did, not even me.

I let the Marshall papers drop to the desktop and leaned back in my leather chair. If I could just close my eyes for a few minutes, I might be able to concentrate.

It wasn't Charles R. Marshall's voice that formed in my head, though. It was Daddy's, barking at Mama in the hallway outside my bedroom door where Mama had dragged him after he'd exploded outside Bobbi's and sent the girl into hysterics. I was thirteen. Bobbi was fifteen.

“I am
not
going to let this slide, Eileen,” he said, loud enough to be heard over Bobbi's sobs.

“Let what slide?”

Mama was talking through gritted teeth, the way she talked to me in clothing stores when I was arguing for tighter jeans. A Southern lady did not yell at her children. Nor did she talk back to her husband, a fact that sent me scurrying to my door so I could press my ear against it. I didn't want to miss a word, especially if Bobbi was finally going to get what was coming to her. I was clueless as to what she'd actually done, but as far as I was concerned, she deserved punishment just to make up for all the times she'd gotten off scot-free.