The Witness (50 page)

“You can’t bully me.”

“You’d know all about bullying, so you know that’s not what I’m doing. I’m outlining the situation. You may want to talk it over with your lawyers before you do anything you might regret. For now, I’m telling you to move along. Your wife looks upset, and embarrassed.”

“My wife is none of your business.”

“That’s the truth. It will be my business if you cause another ruckus.”

“Lincoln.” His color down again, his voice calm, Reverend Goode stepped forward. “I understand you’re in turmoil. I’m here if you want to unburden yourself. But I must ask you to take Genny home. She looks ill. I must ask you not to come back to this house of God with an unchristian
purpose. Go home now, Lincoln, and tend to your wife. I’ll pray for you and your family.”

“Keep your prayers.” Blake strode away, leaving his assistant to help Genny down the slope toward the waiting car.

“You’re going to need some strong prayers, Reverend.”

Goode sighed. “We do the best we can do.”

S
HE CHANGED CLOTHES THREE TIMES
. It was completely unlike her to worry about wardrobe unless it was for the purpose of establishing identity or blending in. Her research indicated that attire would be casual, unless specifically stated. But that could include a casual dress or skirt, neither of which she currently owned.

Now she felt she needed to acquire some.

If they succeeded—no,
when
they succeeded, as it did no harm to employ Brooks’s positive thoughts—she’d find use for a more expansive and varied wardrobe.

Now she settled on dark blue capris and a red shirt and sandals she’d rarely worn and only bought in a weak moment. She spent some time with makeup, also rarely worn since she’d become Abigail, as blending and going unnoticed had been the goal. But she had a good hand with it, if she said so herself.

She’d use that hand if—
when
—she transformed to Elizabeth, to cooperate with the authorities and give testimony against the Volkovs.

As she glanced to the monitor to watch Brooks come home, she put on John’s earrings, worn when she felt a need for confidence.

She went downstairs, found Brooks in the kitchen, scowling down at a can of Coke.

“Something happened.”

“Unrelated.” He popped the top, guzzled. “There was a to-do edging toward ruckus down at the Hillside Baptist Church.”

“Organized religion has an unfortunate history of fostering violence.”

He just rubbed the cold can over his forehead. “This wasn’t about religion. Blake’s been hassling the Conroys—and he took that to church this morning. He takes something that public, makes a fool of himself, he’s lost control. He’s not going to leave this alone. I’m going to have to talk to the Conroys about taking some legal steps to …”

He finally focused on her. “You look really good.”

“I have on makeup. I thought it was appropriate.”

“Really good.” When he smiled, the anger and stress she’d seen in his eyes warmed away.

“How do you do that? Relax so quickly?”

“I’m taking a pretty woman to a barbecue, and it sure takes the edge off my bad mood. Where’s the stuff you made?”

She took it, then a six-pack of beer, out of the refrigerator. “If you feel you should follow through on the problem now, I’m sure your family will understand.”

“You’re not getting out of this so easy. Colorful,” he commented, as he picked up the bowl. “Ready?”

“I suppose.” She clipped a leash on Bert. “You could brief me on the areas of interest of people who’ll be there. It would help me make conversation.”

“Believe me, making conversation won’t be an issue.” He snagged the beer on the way out. “As soon as we announce we’re getting married, every woman there’s going to be all over you about wedding plans.”

“We don’t have any.”

“Take my word on it, honey, you will before the day’s over.”

She considered that while she rode with the bowl on her lap and her dog sniffing at every inch of the back of the cruiser.

“They may not be pleased.”

“With what? You and me?” He flicked her a quick glance. “They’ll be pleased.”

“I don’t think they would, if they knew the full extent of the situation.”

“I wish I could tell them to prove you wrong, but it’s better if we don’t.”

“You seem so calm. I’ve learned to be calm when something has to change, but this is different. It’s hard to be calm, to wait for Captain Anson to call, to wonder what the authorities will say and do. To think about testifying, about being so close with the program.”

“Whatever happens, we’re together. That keeps me calm.”

She couldn’t claim to be. Her stomach jumped, her heart kicked, and with each passing mile she had to fight to keep her nerves concealed. She tried to think of it as going into a new community, stepping out for the first time with fresh identification. Nerves plagued her each time, but she knew how to conceal them, how to blend so anyone who noticed her saw exactly what she wanted them to see.

It had worked for a dozen years. It had worked until Brooks. He’d seen something else, something more, but she thought of that now as a blessing. If he hadn’t, she wouldn’t have this chance at a genuine life.

And the genuine life she might have would include backyard barbecues.

When he parked, she thought she had herself fully under control.

“Relax,” he told her.

“Do I look tense?”

“No, but you are. I’ll take that; you get Bert.”

He tucked the bowl under his arm, hefted the six-pack, and with her hand steady on the leash, they walked toward the house. Toward the music and voices, toward the scent of grilling meat.

She recognized three of the women—Brooks’s mother and his two sisters, but not the other women, the men, the children. The thought of being thrust into the midst of so many strangers dried her throat and thickened her heartbeat.

Before she could get her bearings, Sunny set down a platter and hurried over. “There you are.”

“I had a little business to deal with,” Brooks told her.

“I heard.” Sunny tied Abigail’s tongue into knots with a quick, hard hug before she gave Bert a casual rub. “Don’t you look pretty. And what’s this?”

“Orzo,” Abigail managed. “I hope it’s appropriate with your menu.”

“Since the menu’s a lot of this with more of that, it’ll fit right in. And it’s beautiful. Go on and put that on the table, Brooks, and get Abigail a drink. We’ve already got the margarita blender going overtime.”

“I’ll fix you up,” he told Abigail. “Be right back.”

“My girl Mya—you met Mya and Sybill—makes killer margaritas. Why don’t you let Bert off the leash so he can play with Plato?”

Abigail crouched down as the dogs sniffed and wagged at each other.
“Ils sont amis. Amis,
Bert.
C’est tout.”

“He’s all right with kids running around?” Sunny qualified.

“Yes. He’s very gentle, very patient. He wouldn’t attack unless I gave him the command. Or I was being assaulted.”

“We’ll be sure nobody assaults you. Come on and meet Mick and Hilly Conroy. They’re old friends, and that’s their son, Russ—Brooks’s best pal, with his wife, Seline, and their toddler, CeeCee. They’ve had a spot of trouble,” Sunny continued as she walked. “I’m hoping to cheer them up.”

“It’s an unfortunate situation. Brooks is very concerned.”

“We all are. Here’s Abigail,” Sunny announced, when they joined the group.

“About time.” The younger woman had smooth olive skin that set off the bright green eyes she used to assess Abigail. “I was beginning to think Brooks made you up.”

“No. He didn’t.” I did, Abigail thought.

“This is Seline, and her CeeCee, and our Russ. Russ’s parents, our friends Mick and Hilly.”

“I’ve seen you around town a time or two,” Hilly said. “It’s nice to meet you finally.”

“Thank you. I’m very sorry about your hotel. It’s a beautiful building.”

“It’s good of you to say.” Hilly tipped her head to her husband’s arm, as if seeking comfort. “We’ll have it all back and better than ever. Right, Mick?”

“Count on it. I heard the Blake boy gave you some trouble, too.”

“He wanted to give Brooks trouble, but he didn’t succeed. He appears to be a very angry, very stupid person with violent tendencies. He should pay the consequences.”

“We can all drink to that,” Mya said, as she strode over with a margarita in each hand. “Daddy snagged Brooks a minute, so I’m delivering your drink.”

“Oh, thank you. It looks … frothy.” She tried a sip, discovered the tequila ran strong and smooth through the froth. “It’s very good.”

“Packs a nice kick, doesn’t it?” As she spoke, Sunny put an arm around Abigail’s shoulders. “You were right about Bert.”

Following the direction, Abigail looked to see Bert sitting cooperatively while the puppy danced around him, a long-legged girl hugged his neck and a towheaded boy stroked his back.

“He’s very well behaved,” Abigail assured her. “And I think he’s enjoying the attention.”

“He’s big as a horse,” Seline commented.

Abigail started to disagree. After all, the average horse would be considerably bigger. Then had to remind herself not to be so literal.

“His size should intimidate intruders.”

“Scare the crap out of them,” Russ commented. “Now that we’ve got a second coming along, I’m talking Seline into a Lab.”

“Poodle.”

“Girlie dog.”

“We’re girls.” She gave her daughter a kiss on the cheek. “You’re outnumbered.”

“This one might even things up.” He tapped her belly with his finger. “A guy needs a
dog,
not a little French toy.”

“Poodles are smart.”

“They are a highly intelligent breed,” Abigail agreed. “Only the border collie is thought to be more intelligent. They’re agile and, if properly trained, very skilled and obedient.”

“See?”

“A Lab’s a
dog.
They’re smart,” Russ added, appealing to Abigail.

“Yes, of course. They’re the most popular breed in this country, and in Great Britain. They make excellent assistance dogs. They’re loyal, and most have a well-developed play drive. They’re excellent with young children.”

“Young children.” He snagged CeeCee, made the girl laugh as he tossed her in the air. “We’ve got one of those, getting another.”

“Poodles are good with kids.”

When Seline turned to Abigail, Sunny laughed. “Now you’ve done it. These two will tag you as referee in this battle. I’m going to save you, show you the gardens. Food’s going to be ready in a few minutes.”

“Maybe they should consider a Labradoodle,” Abigail murmured, as Sunny steered her away.

It wasn’t so difficult, she realized. For about twenty minutes, she walked and talked the gardens, talked with Brooks’s family and friends, answered excited questions regarding Bert from wide-eyed children.

By the time everyone crowded around picnic tables, she felt more at ease. And relaxed further when, with the food now the focus, the attention shifted away from her.

A backyard barbecue had its points, she thought. A casual setting for socialization, a variety of food prepared by a variety of hands. It was a kind of ritual, she realized, and somewhat tribal, with adults helping to serve or feed or tend to the children, their own and those belonging to others, with the dogs nearby and—despite her wince of disapproval—enjoying the food scraps tossed their way.

And she liked the margaritas with their frothy kick.

“Having a good time?” Brooks asked her.

“I am. You were right.”

“Hold that thought.” He leaned in to kiss her, then picked up his beer. “I think you’ll all be interested,” he began, without raising his voice over the conversations crisscrossing the table, “Abigail and I are getting married.”

And those conversations, every one, stopped cold.

“What did you say?” Mya demanded.

“It’s what she said that matters.” He took Abigail’s hand. “And she said yes.”

“Oh my God, Brooks!” Mya’s face went brilliant with her smile. She grabbed her husband’s hand, squeezed it, then leaped up to rush around the table and hug Brooks from behind. “Oh my God.”

Then it seemed everyone spoke at once, to Brooks, to her, to each other. She didn’t know who to answer, or what to say. Her heartbeat thickened again as, beside her, Brooks looked at his mother, and she at him.

“Ma,” he said.

Sunny nodded, let out a long sigh, then pushed to her feet. He rose as she did, as she reached out, folded him into her. “My baby,” she murmured, then closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she looked directly at Abigail, held out a hand.

Unsure, Abigail got to her feet. “Mrs.—”

Sunny just shook her head, gripped Abigail’s hand, pulled her into the fold. “I’m going to cry, just half a minute,” Sunny told them. “I’m entitled. Then I’m going in and getting that bottle of champagne we had left over from New Year’s Eve so we can toast this proper.”

She held tight, tight, then slowly eased back to kiss Brooks on both cheeks. To Abigail’s surprise, Sunny took her face in her hands, laid her lips on each of Abigail’s cheeks in turn.

“I’m glad of this. I’m going to get that champagne.”

“She needs a minute.” Loren stood, walked to his son. “She’s happy, but she needs a minute.”

He embraced his son, then turned to embrace Abigail. “Welcome to the family.” He laughed, then squeezed, lifting her to her toes.

Everyone talked at once again, and Abigail found herself whirled between hugs, stumbling over the answers to questions about when, where, what about her dress.

She heard the pop of the champagne cork over the questions, the laughter, the congratulations. She let herself lean against Brooks, looked up, met his eyes.

Family, she thought.

She could have family, and understood, now that she could touch it, that she’d do anything, everything, to keep it.

W
EDDING PLANS
. A
BIGAIL SAW THEM AS A SMALL, SHINY
snowball rolled down a mountain. It grew, and grew, and grew, gathering weight, speed, mass, until it produced an immense, messy, thunderous avalanche.