The Mischievous Mrs. Maxfield (89 page)

I went up to the scowling woman at the front desk and asked for Bessy but she gave me a long-winded speech about patient privacy rights and such. 

In short, she wasn’t going to tell us a damn thing about Bessy, let alone allow us to see her.

I rang Bessy’s phone again but she didn’t pick up.

Come on, Bess. Answer the damned phone so we can save you. 

Pacing, I tried a couple more times before she finally answered. 

My heart twisted when I heard her on the other line.

She was still sobbing on the phone but she was at least rambling out where she was in the building.

“She clearly doesn’t want to do this,” I told the woman, thrusting out my phone to her so she could hear Bessy wailing on the other line. “She’s very upset.”

“I know. We’ve been trying to get her to settle down in the last half hour,” the woman answered with an exasperated roll of her eyes.

“We’d really like to see Bessy Mitchell, please,” Jake said in a stern, serious voice as he levelled the receptionist the most intimidating stare I’d ever seen from him. “We’d hate to have to file a complaint about the treatment of patients and their trusted family and friends in this facility. I do own two of the top newspapers in this city, after all.”

Jake hardly ever called attention to his wealth and influence that I often forgot he was running a very successful publishing business. While I never thought of him capable of extreme vanity when it came to his social status, it was handy to see him turn up his level of self-importance at a time like this.

“And I happen to be a co-chairperson of the state’s most important charitable society—The Lady Championettes Society. You might have heard of them,” I added, tipping my nose so high in the air, it would’ve proved hazardous to a plane flying by. 

While this wasn’t my usual strategy, questionable places such as a fly-by-night abortion center like this only cared about money, dirty or not, and staying under the radar so they could continue to run their operation without sticking to the strictly implemented regulations. 

The woman scowled deeper as she contemplated our threat and I dramatically glanced at my watch. “I’m a very important person, you know, and you’re wasting my time.”

“And I’m the damned queen of England,” the woman muttered bitterly before pointing at the bay of empty chairs. “You two sit and I’ll go see about getting your friend who is not, for all intents and purposes, named Bessy Mitchell.”

She kept grumbling about people who couldn’t make up their damned minds and their stuffy friends before disappearing into a hall.

Jake and I glanced at each other before letting out matching sighs of relief.

“How did this happen?” he asked as he slowly walked to a chair and sank down on it.

I raised my brows uncertainly. “Uh, the usual way. Man and woman have sex, their reproductive cells meet and—”

“No. I mean, how did you end being Bessy’s extraction team for this?” Jake interjected with thinly-veiled impatience. “The last time I saw the two of you together, you were flaying each other with insults. What kind of miracle happened?”

“Nothing short of me just being there at the right place at the right time,” I answered wearily as I plopped down next to Jake. “It’s a long story and we’ll have to wait and see if Bessy’s in the mood to tell you. The reason she’s in this mess is because she hasn’t told anyone else—well, except for the asshole who got her into this situation in the first place.”

Just then, the receptionist came back and waved us over. 

“The private exit’s in the back so you’re going to have to pick her up there—and I don’t care who the hell you are, so don’t even start—but it’s the clinic policy that no one exits from the procedure through the front door so in the back you go,” the woman said sulkily. 

“I’ll go get the car,” Jake said, fishing out his keys. 

The woman held up a hand. “First, we’ll need to settle some paperwork because this procedure was already paid for and it wasn’t done, not because of any issues on our end. If the patient demands for a refund, we’ll need to loop in the person who’d forwarded the payment to us but if you’d just like to call it quits, we’ll need to have the release papers signed by another witness attesting that it was not our—”

“I’ll take care of it,” I interjected, nodding to Jake. “Go get Bessy and pick me up by the front door.”

The paperwork took less than ten minutes. It was just pretty much to say that the clinic had done their due diligence in ensuring that the procedure happened but that it was the patient’s decision not to go ahead. They clearly wanted to hang on to the payment and wanted some kind of proof in case Don (I had absolutely no doubt about this) came after them for a refund. 

I was so glad to be out of there.

When I came out of the building, Jake was already waiting in the car with a silently crying Bessy curled up on her side in the backseat.

“Where are we going?” Jake asked as soon as we hit a main road. “Are we taking her home?”

“No, no!” Bessy cried out from the backseat. “Don will kill me as soon as he finds out I didn’t go through with it. And I c-can’t go to my parents like this...”

“Don?” Jake asked, giving me a confused sidelong glance. “Don, who?”

I glanced at Bessy who’d turned her face down on the seat, soaking the luxurious suede with her tears, and turned back to Jake with an arched brow.

“How many Dons do you know in your circle?” I asked him quietly.

He frowned, his forehead wrinkling in thought for a moment, before the truth hit him.

His eyes wide with shock, he glanced at me and soundlessly mouthed at me, “Don LeClaire?”

I shrugged and turned back to face the road. “It’s not just messy. It’s a shit show.”

Bessy had calmed down a bit in the back seat just as we approached central downtown again.

“I can bring her home, I guess, and she can stay with me for a few days while Brandon’s out of town,” I said, biting my lip as we debated the best next course of action. “But it’s my turn to host our weekly tea meeting with the Championettes tomorrow afternoon, plus I’ve promised a sleepover with the sisters on Thursday night because Brand’s out of town. Then on Friday, I have a full day of Championette meeting just outside of the city.”

“She can stay at my place,” Jake volunteered as we sat at a red light. “I’ve got no one coming over, especially now with my all-celibate lifestyle.”

“You’re hardly celibate,” I shot back at him with a teasing smile. “You’re just monogamous now.”

I gently reached out a hand between the front seats to nudge Bessy who had been drifting off in the backseat, probably from sheer exhaustion of crying in the last hour or so since she’d been in that clinic. “Bess? What do you think about staying with Jake for a few days? He’s got a free guest room and no guests coming over, except for me because I’ll come by and see you to make sure you’re doing okay.”

Bessy opened her bleary eyes and blinked in surprise. “Jake? But he’s a womanizer.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence!” Jake grumbled, earning a light smack in the arm from me. 

“He’s been reformed for the past few weeks now,” I reassured Bessy with a smile. “Besides, no offense intended but he’s not interested in you. You could say his affections are otherwise engaged.”

Bessy narrowed her eyes at us. “You two are having an affair?”

“No!” Jake and I both said in unified horror.

“Okay, okay. You don’t have to sound so put out about it,” Bessy said, sniffling as she slowly pulled herself up to a sitting position. 

She wrung her hands together, her chin trembling again with another onslaught of tears. “It’s not that impossible, you know? I, of all people... I should know h-how easy it is to fall headfirst into that h-hole.”

“Good thing I’m handy with a shovel,” I told her brightly, hoping to God that she wasn’t going to start sobbing again. When her face crumpled again, I reached out and touched her knee. “Bess, come on. It’s alright. We got you out of there. Nothing happened. You still have your baby. You can still work things out.”

Slowly, she lifted her eyes to me and this time they didn’t just show her plain misery.

She was frightened.

“You have no idea how angry Don will be,” she said through choppy breaths. “He was like possessed by the devil when he came to see me the next day, after we talked. He’d made arrangements for me to...” She stemmed her tears with a quick swallow, clutching the base of her throat with a trembling hand. “He wasn’t going to let me keep the baby, Char, no matter what. Even if I promised to never bother him about it. Or not tell a soul who the father is. He wants it g-gone...”

My hands curled into fists so tightly I felt my nails dig into the flesh of my palm. 

I tasted a tang of rust in my mouth and realized that I’d bitten the inside of my bottom lip. While I’d learned to fight back throughout the years and despite my verbally creative threats, I wasn’t really particularly prone to mindless violence. I only used physical force when extremely necessary, and usually only to defend someone or myself. 

Right now though, I almost felt a perverted craving to claw Don’s eyes out and rip my nails down his face. 

I had no great love for Bessy but Don, in my opinion, was pond scum.

“It’s easy to be scared, Bess, especially when it’s not just you anymore,” I told her solemnly. “I can’t tell you not to be scared. I know how it’s like to be at the mercy of someone. What I can tell you is that your fear is no good when you’re dead. So fight—fight with all you’ve got.”

***

It took a couple of days before Bessy was back to even being remotely normal. 

When we dropped her on a bed in one of Jake’s guest bedrooms in his condo, she pretty much dozed off, wiped out from the emotional and physical drain of her situation.

I didn’t know where she lived and I didn’t want to risk running into Don so I went out and shopped for some clothes and essentials so she could have something for a few days while she was recuperating from her ordeal.

Jake called me from his office the next day to tell me that Bessy wasn’t eating. All she’d had since I left her was some tea and a couple of crackers.

She was pregnant. She couldn’t not eat but I suspected, given her frail appearance, that Bessy hadn’t been eating much for some time now.

As soon as Jake got off the phone, I grabbed a few things from the pantry and started filling a canvas shopping bag.

I had the Championettes coming for tea (which was really just lingo for a meeting where we all got to sit together, sip from dainty little teacups and nibble on pretty pastries) early in the afternoon but Felicity was there already preparing everything with the small catering staff we’d hired. She gave me an incredulous look when I told her I had to go out for a couple of hours but I didn’t give her a chance to interrogate me. 

I strode out of there and had Gilles drop me off at Jake’s place.

Bessy was still moping around in bed when it was practically noon, but I let her be until I finished cooking a hearty soup. I brought it to bed and stood guard to make sure she ate every last bit of it along with the crusty bread and assorted fresh fruit I heaped on a plate for her.

Thinking that I wasn’t really Bessy’s ideal company, I asked her if she wanted me to call Anna but she frantically refused, saying that she didn’t want anyone else to see her like this—especially not her friends. 

Right. Because I wasn’t her friend. Not really. But it didn’t make a difference to me.

I hung out with her until Jake came home early for lunch, bringing home a giant take-out meal that he promised was going to keep them fed until the next day. He’d sheepishly admitted to us that he didn’t cook but he knew how to order out extremely well. 

When Jake walked me down on my way out, I stopped him for a moment, just before we stepped out of the building, to ask how he was coping with having a house guest—a female house guest.

“It hurts that you have to ask but I’m perfectly fine with it, Char,” he told me, pressing a palm to his chest as if he was deeply wounded. “I’m not some animal who’ll hump everything female within fifty yards of me, you know? Bessy’s been knocked up by a married man who’s forcing her to have an abortion—even I know how screwed up that is. I just want to be nice to the poor girl, that’s all. And I’d rather you help her while within my supervision. God knows the trouble you’ll get into trying to do this on your own.”

I resisted blurting out to Jake just how much else I had going on that I couldn’t tell people about.

Between the Championettes’ endless fundraisers this fall, my familial obligations to help host Martin’s party and my duties as Brandon’s wife, I had a runaway wife trying to escape the clutches of her abusive husband, a boy and his uncle in hiding at my old house, and a young girl who dabbled with the same abusive husband her cousin had the misfortune of marrying and was now faced with difficult choices concerning her baby and their future.

I hadn’t planned on saving the world but there seemed to be no alternative, really.

Someone had to do help and for the first time in years, I had the means to do it. I had no excuse.

“I just want to make sure I’m not putting you in the direct path of temptation,” I told him placatingly, resting a hand on his arm. “If Tessa gets wind of the fact that you’re housing Bessy, she’s never going to trust you. Bessy’s gorgeous, even in her current state, and she wasn’t exactly the most demure of the girls in our high school.”

Jake rolled his eyes and sighed, his shoulders dipping in defeat slightly. “You know what? I want Tessa, but I want her to want me back without reservations or some niggling doubt that I’m going to betray her one day. I’m giving her some time to figure out if she can trust me enough to be with me. I want her but I don’t want her half-hearted.”

“Oh, Jake.” My heart wrenched at his pain so I wrapped my arms around him in a hug, my hand gently patting his back. “I really wish things would work out between you and Tessa. You’re a great guy and she’s an incredible girl. But you’re right—there is no point in having a relationship where you each expect it to be over any second from when you started. It’ll happen, whether there may be a good reason or not, just because you believe it will.”

Brandon and I were acquainted with that feeling of doom, when we first started our business arrangement/marriage. It hung heavy over our heads, making us question every sweet gesture, every tender word. It ate away at every bit of trust we formed. The freedom from it made the difference between the inevitable end and the lifetime we would now spend together.

In the next couple of days after that, I kept dropping by to check in on Bessy while Jake made a few short trips home throughout his work day to look in on her as well. She was still a bit thin and pale but she didn’t look anything like she did the day we practically abducted her from the clinic.

Late on Thursday night, Jake called to tell me that Bessy had decided to go home and he was going to drop her off and make sure that she made it back without any hitch.

I wanted to come with them but Brandon had come home that evening and I’d welcomed him with an extravagant dinner date I’d prepared. 

I was so tired that even though I’d missed Brandon terribly in the days he was gone, I did no more than close my eyes before dozing off the moment we hit the bed that night.

The next day, Gilles and I drove out to this address in Framingham, about a good half hour out of the city. 

The Society had been quite busy putting together the last-minute details for the Masquerade Magnifique that was being held in two weeks, where the Championettes’ featured charity of the year would be revealed.

I’d successfully championed the new cause I’d picked for this almost wild-card round—the family shelter and transitional program in the city which offered housing facilities to those who were displaced or were in dire situations. While the centers the program provided primarily catered to the homeless, the new housing facility that the Society was going to finance and maintain would focus on families, may they be whole or fragmented. In this shelter, they would be cared for and connected with other resources that could provide them legal and financial aid, employment options, housing assistance, and other means of community support that would help them find their footing once again.

The Society had been looking at location options for the project, debating whether we should build or buy the property.

Simone had invited the group to this location with the pitch that it was something she’d been thinking of donating to the project.

While most of the members didn’t bat an eye at spending the money for this project, none of them could turn down the idea of a free property on the spot. It would free up a huge chunk of our funds and allow us to do more things for the project.

The location held a rural appeal, sequestered in the picturesque countryside on a vast acreage surrounded by thick trees and gently rolling meadows. The narrow road was quiet and private, leading up to a driveway where even taller trees stood as a fortress against the rusty, white wrought-iron gate. A weathered wooden board bore the name Oakley Stead. The cracked, bumpy driveway wrapped around a grove of trees before stopping in front of a massive building, its clapboard sidings painted a deep terra-cotta red.

It was a sprawling, two-story, older colonial style that showed its age and character well. While it would certainly need to be inspected to fulfill all building safety requirements, it had great bones and would provide ample housing space that we could start with before any additions or extensions.

"My mother's family had purchased this house more than sixty years ago from the original owners who'd built it," Simone told us at the beginning of the tour she was giving our small group. "It was built by a family fleeing the Salem witch trials in 1693."

"It was owned by witches?" Catherine asked with her nose scrunched up in dismay.

She'd been full of sunshine since we first saw the house, just brimming with positivity.

I wiggled my brows at her. "There's a cauldron in the dungeon where they cook up toads and bats to make potions that turn really whiny people into frogs."

Catherine glared at me for that but Simone just rolled her eyes and added, "It's very old and rich in history. More than that, it's rich in space. It has six bedrooms, a large kitchen, with an eating area, a large library, a servants quarters, and even a ballroom that was later added."

"Oh, great. A ballroom," Catherine muttered. "Very practical."

"Witches like dancing apparently," I snickered to Catherine. "They do need the occasional break from turning people into frogs."

"Kids, no fighting in this field trip," Melissa piped in with a wink and I giggled while Catherine just looked more cross as we continued our tour throughout the house.

“It still looks like a red barn,” Catherine pointed out later, once we arrived back at the front entrance of the house after doing a full loop around the property. "And I'm not sure of its structural integrity. It's over 300 years old."

“It's a First Period English Colonial and my great-Aunt was living here for the last thirty years before we had to move her to assisted living facility. She took pride in keeping this place in top shape," Simone said with an impressive attempt at politeness considering this was about the tenth time Catherine complained about it. “As for the color, it can be changed. You can paint it purple, pink, yellow—paint it all the colors of the rainbow, if you like—I don’t care.”

“We’ll call it the Rainbow Roof Project. How about that?” I asked with a broad smile as I leaned down and plucked a dried dandelion from the ground. "It sounds better than the Family Welfare Assistance Center Project."

Melissa’s eyes lit up at the idea. “Rainbow’s a good word. It represents hope and all kinds of bright and happy things—like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow!”

“Which doesn’t really exist,” Catherine said peevishly.

“You’re in charity work, Catherine,” Melissa shot back. “At least try to be a little optimistic.”

“Good thing Layla isn’t here or you’d get a good, long lecture about promoting positivity,” I said with a snort, reminding everyone of Layla’s little pep-talk about showcasing everything the Society did in such a positive light it would be practically luminescent.

Catherine scoffed. “Well, if only she was around a little bit more, she might get a chance. Hard to remember she’s leading this troop when she’s hardly around.”

“Hey, the woman may have some personal issues going on,” I chastised lightheartedly. “Besides, I’m still one-half the troop leader so we can limp on."

I walked ahead of the group to face them. "And I think this house is absolutely gorgeous and perfect for what we're looking for. It's got history but it's humble. It's got so much land around it that we can add extensions to it later if we wish. Or build a playground for the kids, or a sustainable garden or greenhouse that would help supply food to the center and also allow others to learn produce-growing skills. It'll need a little bit of TLC and maybe some creative touches, and I know a really good interior designer who would love to be part of our project. It's a good size property with lots of history and character and it's free. I say we have a winner."

Everyone else murmured their assent—even Simone was smiling with satisfaction—that Catherine looked around, sighed loudly, and muttered a grumpy 'Fine'.

I was already on a roll, the lightbulbs blinking in my head like a Christmas light show.

"Actually, I think it would be a great idea to showcase Oakley Stead to our guests who would be letting out their deep pockets come the night of the masquerade. It gives them tangible proof of where our efforts are going and it offers a unique setting for once, since we do the wild card charity round at Clifton House every year."

I glanced behind me and arced my hand in dramatic flourish to highlight the rustic charm of the house and the quaint mystery of the thick woods that surrounded the soft slopes like fortresses to a fairy land. 

"With some firefly light effects outside, around the trees, and some elegant old-world touches, it could be the perfect setting for Masquerade Magnifique," I added with a near-twirl as I imagined the soft, smoky glow of candlelight in the ballroom, the fancy ball gowns and mysterious masks, the sweet, seductive music, the tinkle of wine glasses, the rippling laughter and humming conversations among the crowd. "I think it's going to be splendid."

The faces staring back at me all showed symptoms of dreamy excitement except for Catherine who looked at me incredulously. "But plans have been made to hold it at Clifton House! It's two weeks away. You can't just move the event to a totally different location."

I shrugged. "We have a long-standing partnership with the best event-planning team in the state who tote the esteemed reputation of being able to cater to our every whim and fancy considering how particular our standards are. I'm sure they can make it happen in all levels—from our guests, to our vendors, to the press. They can easily angle it as a means to showcase the home which will become the very center of this cause."