Revenant Rising (66 page)
“I wasn’t expecting to see you until the party tonight.” Laurel looks up at David, who has, as usual, barged into her office unannounced—without even knocking.
“There are a few things I’d like to go over with you, and I won’t get a chance later.” David sinks into a client chair and crosses his legs as though planning to stay a while.
“No you won’t, and it won’t just be because of your wife’s presence tonight.”
“Before I ask what my wife has to do with anything, I’d like to hear the other—”
“I shouldn’t have to remind you that your wife still views me as a threat. She’s made that plain from the beginning, even though she was clearly the victor. Any time we’re thrown together at one command performance or another, she—”
“Victor? What in hell are you talking about?”
“She won, David. She was able to marry you and give you children when I wasn’t.”
“That’s not the way it happened and you know it. You and I had already concluded nothing could come of our relationship when she arrived on the scene.”
“Maybe
you
had.”
“So had you, Laurel. Do not attempt to rewrite a history that’s seen us amicably survive what we once were. And whatever you do, do
not
attempt to rake me over the coals for something—”
“Not to worry, the coals have all cooled. No glowing embers left, not a one. You might want to mention that to your wife when she’s shooting me dirty looks.”
David bridges his temples with thumb and pinkie finger, his long-established means of tabling a disagreeable subject. “You force me to wonder whose bed you got out of on the wrong side this morning.”
“Nice try.” Laurel takes up a letter opener in lieu of pen.
“And to wonder why you’re staying in town this week. I heard you’re at the Phillipe. The commute’s finally gotten to you? I knew it would, sooner or later.”
“Don’t give yourself too much credit.”
“What the hell
has
gotten into you? All I’m after is a civil exchange, a simple progress report, and here you are, girded for hand-to-hand combat.”
“You know, I could probably use some hand-to-hand combat . . . hand-to-hand anything . . . whatever. Get on with it. What do you have to know that just won’t wait?”
“How the Elliot project’s moving along and if you’re any closer to reaching a decision about coming on board with me. I realize I’m rushing things to ask this soon, but it would give me great pleasure to be able to announce tonight that you’ll be joining my division when you make it official with the firm.”
“And delivering Colin Elliot into your management fold while I’m at it.” Laurel taps out a broken cadence with the letter opener.
“
That
is absolutely uncalled for.” David uncrosses his legs and corrects his posture.
“So is your hoping to announce recapture of me to a gathering that includes your already distrustful wife.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“I’m not. I don’t find being dangled as an enticement at all flattering.”
“I won’t dignify that with a response.” David grips the arms of the chair as though readying to rise—or attempting to restrain himself.
“Very well. I dare say we’re done here, then.”
“We’re done with the unwarranted sniping part of the program, if that’s what you mean, and if you’d rather not update me on your progress with Colin, fine. I can always check with him directly.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Laurel lets out a long ragged sigh. “Give me a second to figure out where we left off.” She forsakes the letter opener and makes a show of flipping through the documents on her desk, although none are related to the present subject.
“To refresh your mind,” David says, “the last time we updated was at the studio, the night Colin was about to be hauled away for murder one. Since then, I understand Nate Isaacs has been deposed—”
“Don’t you wish.”
“You know what I mean. Since then, I understand you to have
taken Nate’s testimony
pertaining to the ruinous events in Northern Michigan. There, is that better?”
“Ruinous. You said
ruinous
like you were describing a lost cause. I knew it. You’d already written him off, hadn’t you?”
“Slow down. Written who off?”
“You abandoned Colin. You went to East Bejesus or wherever it was, rattled a few cages, jerked a few judges around, and then hightailed it out of there.”
“Wait a minute. Is
that
what this nastiness is about?” David slaps the arm of the chair. “You’re upset with me because I didn’t maintain some sort of vigil at Colin’s bedside when he was injured? Good lord, girl, he was at death’s door.” He slaps the chair arm again. “No one except Nate gave him much of a chance, and once I took care of the legal concerns, my presence served no real purpose. Besides, considering the state he was in, Colin wouldn’t have known I was there and—”
“Oh, but I think you’re wrong.” Laurel drums her fingers on the arm of her chair. “I think he very well may have known you were there. Just last night he talked a little about the aftermath. He knows he did not sustain blunt trauma injuries to the head and was never in a conventional coma. He also knows that as his physical recovery progressed, he had a certain amount of awareness—enough, they told him, that he was able to cooperate with the physical therapists to some extent. He said when they’d done as much as they could for him in Colorado, he wasn’t considered a wholly lost cause because there remained the slim possibility that his so-called neurological deficit was, in fact, a dissociative disorder.”
“Then you’re saying—he’s saying—that his disconnect could have been a defense mechanism.” David strokes his chin as though he’d suddenly sprouted a beard.
“No one’s saying for sure. Only one of the neurologists at the catastrophic care center supported that theory, but it was the one with the best fit.”
“Can you elaborate on that?”
“Not yet.” Laurel rearranges the document folders on the desktop, pushes them into a neat pile that she sweeps into a drawer. “Not until I’ve talked with the neurologist, but as I presently understand it, a dissociative disorder is precipitated by profound stress, and that can include witnessing as well as experiencing an overwhelming event.”
“Such as a near-fatal accident.”
“Yes, and if I further understand, this form of acute mental decompensation does not automatically preclude all forms of cognition.”
“Hence your argument that I should have spent more time with the patient on the off chance my support might have been registered in some primitive area of his brain.”
“I’m not sure I like the sound of that. Are you mocking me?”
“Far from it. This is fascinating stuff, Laurel.
Inspiring
stuff. David hunches forward in his chair, rapt listener personified. “I can’t wait to read the book. I mean that sincerely, and I couldn’t be more sincere about saying how pleased I am with the way you’ve embraced the project. There was a while there when I thought it might founder, and I have to admit, I’m a little worried now about how you’re going to proceed with him on the other side of the pond. Have you worked anything out yet? Will you be going there or will he return when things are more settled with the boy?”
“I have no plans to go to England.”
“Oh, of course not. I wasn’t thinking. Your father . . . You wouldn’t leave him for any length of time, would you? How’s he doing, by the way? Do you still look in on him as often?”
“Interestingly enough, I haven’t looked in on him—as you put it—since last Sunday when I went to the nursing home with the express purpose of signing a DNR.”
“You don’t say? Well . . . My goodness, I never saw that coming, but it does answer a few questions . . . quite a few.”
“Fine. Then that should do it for now.”
“Yes. For now. I assume I’ll be seeing you on Ryan Walker’s arm tonight.”
“No, you won’t. I’ll be with Colin. As his official biographer, I hasten to add.”
“Am I hearing something significant in that specificity—biographer rather than date?”
“You’re asking me? You’re the scrupulous one. You’re the one who always drummed into me the importance of avoiding even the appearance of impropriety.”
“Maybe so, but I don’t know that you have to go to extremes. I doubt anyone who matters believes you’re romantically involved with a client, regardless of what’s said in the papers.”
“Nevertheless, I’ll feel better when I can go back to being a private citizen. Inasmuch as you’ve been keeping up with the popular press, you must be aware that since I warned them away from Aurora Elliot, I’ve become their girl. Some tradeoff
that
turned out to be. At least I’m alive to defend myself.”
“I am very aware and that only underscores my obligation to alert you about tonight.”
“I know, I know. Amanda already warned me that the extremely luminous guest list—her words—would bring the media out in full force, and last night Colin mentioned the same thing in the context of other celebrities lessening the glare on him.”
“There may be some truth to that, but you still should be prepared for very intense scrutiny—especially if it appears that you’re Colin’s date.”
“I’ll handle it. I’ll take care of it, thank you. Now, shouldn’t you be rehearsing the waitstaff or reviewing the hors d’oeuvre selection or unrolling red carpet or something?” Laurel stands, inviting David to follow suit.
“As a matter of fact, I am going by the Tavern to give everything a final inspection.” He frowns at his watch and gets to his feet. “I see I’d better be on my way. It’s after five and I still have a few things to touch on with Colin.”
“Very well. Then I’ll see you later. From a distance, of course.”
David winces at the extra jibe and allows himself to be hustled out the door.
The minute he’s gone, Laurel places a call to Bemus, who picks up on the first ring. She’s required to explain that she has not called his number by mistake—that she does not want to speak to Colin—and then explain twice the reason for her call. Bemus is foursquare against the request. He doesn’t even want to hear about it. When he does give in, it’s with dire predictions of hell to pay.
Mellowed by a long bath and a catnap, Laurel stirs toward getting ready for tonight’s party. Similarly barefoot and clad in a hotel robe, Amanda is curled on the other bed watching the music television channel with the sound lowered to a syncopated hum. Laurel gropes for the remote on the table separating the two beds and increases the volume to let Amanda know she’s not bothered by it.
“I wasn’t trying to listen,” Amanda says. “I’m memorizing a few faces I might not recognize later on.”
“You never wear out on that, do you?” Laurel focuses for a moment on the TV screen and a parade of meaningless faces. “What time is Nate coming for you?”
“Eight-thirty. Why?”
“Oh, no particular reason . . . just making sure I’ll be out of the bathroom and out of your way before then.”
And making sure what the optimum arrival time for the party is because Nate Isaacs cannot be imagined arriving unfashionably early to any event. Laurel absorbs that information, gathers up her clothing and hurries into the bathroom before Amanda can ask what time Colin is calling for her. After completing hairdo and makeup in record time she pulls on wispy black bikini briefs and thigh-high ultra-sheer black stockings with lace tops, all that she’ll be wearing beneath her new cocktail dress—all that she can wear beneath a dress with no shoulders, deep décolletage and short petaled skirt.
She zips into it without help and takes a hypercritical look at herself in the mirror while inserting her usual diamond stud earrings. She could still switch to the other dress, the more conservative grey chiffon with the Grecian bodice and flowing skirt, also purchased yesterday and intended for a moment like this. Time decides the issue; there isn’t time to chicken out and change—not if she intends to go through with the plan.