Trouble's Brewing (11 page)

I opened my mouth in protest as Olivia raised a hand to stop me. “I told him,” she continued, “that you are not unreasonable and you’d surely be happy to have Thanksgiving dinner as a family. Mom, please say you’ll think about it. We’re still a family, you know.”

I reached for my purse and then turned to walk away, heading toward my bedroom. This was not going as I expected. How was I supposed to tell Olivia that I had a date—though not a real date, just dinner between two friends—when all she could do was babble on about next Thursday’s holiday meal?

“Mom,” Olivia called. I realized she was coming up behind me, so I turned.

“Olivia, we’ll talk about it later, okay? I’ll call your father and discuss this whole thing with him. I will, I promise.”

My daughter crossed her arms over her middle and cocked out a hip as though she found my words very difficult to believe. “Fine,” she said. “When? When will you call him?” Apparently our conversation wasn’t going as she’d planned either.

“Olivia, I don’t know …”

“Tonight? Will you call him tonight?”

“Not tonight, no.”

She looked at me with wide eyes as her lips formed a circle of disbelief. “Why not? Why can’t you call him tonight?”

I stood straight. “Because I have a … because I have other plans.”

“What other plans?”

“I’m going out to dinner with a friend.”

“Who? One of the Potluckers? How long will that take? You can’t take five minutes out of your evening to call Dad?”

“Olivia, stop it!” I raised my hand to my forehead and attempted to rub away the tension forming there. “I’m going out to dinner with a gentleman—”

“Excuse me?”

“A gentleman, Olivia. And before you have a heart attack, just let me say this is not a date. He’s just a friend.”

Olivia began to flail about. “Ohmigosh. Oh … my … gosh. Mom, you can’t be serious. You’re a married woman.” She ran her fingers through the short mop of red curls atop her head. “You cannot be serious.” Her voice squealed on the last word.

I took a step toward her. “What does my being married have to do with this? Besides, I’m not married. Not really. I don’t care what you say.”

“Mom, you are not going to honestly look at me and tell me you’re not married.”

“Okay. All right. I’m married. Legally, yes, I am. But that shouldn’t stop me from having dinner with a man who—”

“You’re justifying!”

“A man who is no more than a friend. A business associate.” Olivia opened her mouth to say something else, but I held up my hand to stop her. “Olivia, I want you to stop. I’m a grown woman, and I am, above all else, your mother. I’m not your sister or your best friend. I am your mother. Treat me thusly.” My bravado not being all I’d like to pretend it is, I turned and hurried into my bedroom, closing the door firmly behind me.

I met Van at Apple’s a few minutes after 7:00. He’d already been seated, but as soon as I entered the cozy, candlelit restaurant I saw him rise from his seat in the lower section of the room. He walked toward me with an air of confidence and familiarity, something I couldn’t quite see “Coach” Jack Dippel doing. Unless he was down at the Gold Rush Tavern, of course.

I met Van halfway on the three small steps leading down, my eyes darting around the restaurant—which was divided by a polished wood half wall that separated the upper level from the lower—attempting to take in who was there, who might see me.
Lord, if I’m just having dinner with a friend, why should I care who sees me?

An inner voice whispered,
You know the answer to that, Goldie.

“I was a few minutes early,” I heard Van say, “so I went ahead and got a table for us.”

I looked to the small, square table draped in white linen and graced with a small candle and floral centerpiece. It appeared Van had already ordered himself a drink as well, something I wasn’t remotely accustomed to. If Jack ever drank—when he did—it wasn’t with me. “Of course,” I answered, just as the overhead music changed from Doris Day’s “Que Sera, Sera” to Dean Martin’s version of “That’s Amore.”

“Shall we?” he asked, extending his arm toward the setting.

I nodded just as the hostess, who hadn’t been at the front when I entered, came up beside me and said, “I’m so sorry I wasn’t up front, Mrs. Dippel. May I take your coat?”

I blushed, grateful for the dim room so Van wouldn’t see the giveaway of my emotions.
Mrs. Dippel. Oh, Lord. Maybe I really shouldn’t be here.
“Yes, thank you,” I answered her, slipping out of the heavy outerwear. She took my coat with one hand while reaching for my chair with the other, pulling it away from the table so I could take a seat. “Thank you,” I said again. My voice quivered … another giveaway.

Van sat opposite me. “What would you like, Goldie?” he asked. He wrapped his fingers around his drink. His voice was smooth and easy, and I felt myself beginning to relax.

“I’ll, um … I’ll have …” I looked up at the hostess, a pretty young girl whose honey complexion accentuated the brightness of her smile. “Actually, a cup of hot tea would be nice,” I said.

“Hot tea, it is,” she said. “I’ll bring a coat-check ticket to you in a minute.”

I nodded at her and then watched her walk away.

“I hope you don’t mind my indulgence,” Van said, nodding his chin toward the small glass in his hand. He raised it, and I heard the clinking of ice against crystal, mixing beautifully with the hushtoned conversations, the overhead music, even the flickering of candlelight.

“No, of course not. I’m just not a drinker. Never have been.”

He winked at me. “Good for you.” He took a sip of his drink, then eyed me. “You look very nice this evening, Goldie. I have to say I’m quite taken with the simplicity with which the women of the high country dress.”

I looked toward my lap and brushed away an imaginary piece of lint before looking back to him. I hadn’t wanted to dress up, of course. Didn’t want to give the wrong impression, not to Van, or to Olivia—or even to myself—so I’d chosen a pair of black wool slacks and an oversized sweater, under which I wore a complementary turtleneck. I’d kept my jewelry simple too. A strand of pearls and matching pearl stud earrings, both of which I’d purchased for myself. None of the fancy, expensive stuff Jack had given to me over the years for absolution.

The only thing I wore from Jack was the plain gold band on my left ring finger.

“It took some getting used to,” I commented. “When I first moved here, I mean.”

Van’s eyes widened. “Oh? I assumed you were from here.”

“Oh, no. I’m from Georgia. Small hometown. Good people.”
People who would never understand why I’m dining out with a man other than my husband,
I reminded myself.
No matter what I’m calling it.

“I do business in Georgia from time to time,” Van said. “Atlanta, mostly. I don’t guess you can call that a small town, though.”

I shook my head and let out a nervous giggle.

“Sometimes I’m called in on cases over there.” He waved his hand as though to brush away the topic. “But let’s not talk about business.”

“What should we talk about, then?” I asked. I placed my hands in my lap and squeezed them into tight fists.

“Let’s talk about you.”

“Me? Oh, there’s really nothing interesting about me.”

The hostess reappeared with a cup and saucer, a small teapot of hot water, and an ornate mahogany tea chest, which she opened to reveal neat little rows of gourmet teas. I stared at them for a moment as though I’d never seen a selection of teas before, then chose a fragrant chai spice. Before the hostess left, she laid my coat-check ticket on the table and slipped it toward me. I mouthed a thank-you and watched her walk away.

“How many children do you have?” Van asked.

I prepared my tea, keeping my attention on my hands as I answered. “One. Olivia. Married to a fine man—Tony. They have a little boy—my heart—named Brook. He’s such a character.” I could feel my face brighten. Any mention of Brook brought a surreal joy that washed over me like a fountain of springwater. “Olivia and Tony are expecting another baby in about seven months.” I looked over at Van. “I’m living with them.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“Chris told me … somewhere in the middle of his admonishments.”

“I don’t understand.”

Van chuckled. “He’s not overly happy with me taking you to dinner.” He leaned over the table as though he were about to indulge a confidence. “He doesn’t want me to take advantage of your situation.”

I felt my face flush, and Van chuckled again just as another young woman approached our table. “Good evening, welcome to Apple’s,” she said, setting two small menus at our places. “My name is Summer, and I’ll be your server this evening. I see you have your drinks. I’ll give you a few minutes to look over the menu and be right back to take your order.” She smiled at Van. “Sir, may I get another drink for you from the bar?”

Van shook his head. “No, I’m fine for now, thank you.”

“Alrighty then. I’ll be back in just a bit.” She turned and walked away, her long ponytail swinging from side to side as she bounded up the step.

“Ever notice,” I said, “how a person’s name fits them? She’s tanned, blond, and blue eyed. What better name than Summer?”

“Is that how you got the name Goldie?”

I reached up and with my fingertips touched the underside of my hair at the nape of my neck. “It’s not a given name. But I certainly suppose it fits. Or at least used to more than it does now.” I cocked my head a bit. “What did you mean when you said that Chris doesn’t want you to take advantage of my situation? Didn’t you tell him we’re just friends?”

As I asked the question, I felt a shot of cold air from the opening of the front door hitting me squarely in the back. “Welcome to Apple’s,” I heard the hostess say. I looked over my left shoulder and over the half wall to see who might have entered. My eyes widened.

“Someone you know?” Van asked.

“That’s Evangeline and … Bob Burnett?” My voice was barely above a whisper. “What in the world is she doing here with Bob Burnett?”

Van smiled broadly. “Maybe they’re two friends having dinner?” He raised his glass to me in a mock salute.

I didn’t answer him. I kept my eyes on Evangeline, wondering if she and Bob would be seated where they could see me … see me and Van having dinner.

Together.

I breathed a sigh of relief when they were shown a table within my view, but with me out of theirs.

“Who are Evangeline and Bob Burnett?” Van asked.

I looked back at him. “Evie—Evangeline Benson—is a friend of mine, and Bob Burnett is … well, he’s a deacon from our church, but … I don’t understand why the two of them are here together. Evie dates Vernon Vesey, for heaven’s sake.”

“Vernon Vesey?”

“Sheriff Vernon Vesey.”

Van peered over his shoulder in amusement, then looked back to me. “Evangeline, the deacon, and the sheriff of Summit View. Sounds like a book title.”

“Yeah, and it would begin with ‘It was a dark and stormy night.’”

“You want to go over there? Say something to her?” he asked. I noted the twinkle in his eye.

“Goodness, no. If she saw me here with—”

“Me?”

I stopped short, then reached for my menu. “We’d better decide what we’re going to order.”

Van reached for his menu as well. “Good save,” he said.

I sighed deeply as I smiled at him. “You know, I’m fairly nervous being here. I don’t suppose that’s any big surprise.”

“No. Not really.”

“I mean, I am married—legally. Chris isn’t happy with you. Well, my daughter is not overly happy with me right now, either. One of my best friends is across the room, and I’m a nervous wreck she’s going to see me. I’m sure half of the people in this room are watching us, wondering who you are and why I’m sitting at the table with you. Maybe even wondering where Jack is, though they surely know the answer to that. My leaving Jack, I’m quite certain, has made all the local gossips happy.” I rolled my eyes. “All that to say, in spite of the fact that I’m a little nervous …”

Van arched a brow.

“Okay, a lot nervous … I’m finding you to be an easy man to be with. You make me want to laugh, and laughing is not something I’ve done in a long while.”

“And how have I managed to do that, Goldie?”

“You seem to find humor in this whole episode. Well, thank you. I need a little humor in my life.”

“Glad to oblige you.” He looked to the menu he held between his hands, then closed it and set it on the edge of the table. “The lasagna here is good.”

I closed my menu as well. “Make it two.” I swallowed. “May I ask you a question or two now?”

He spread his arms to the width of the table. “I have no secrets. Ask away.”

“Married?”

“I was. About a hundred years ago. My wife was killed in a car accident on the night of our fifth anniversary.”

“Oh, Van.”

He shook his head before I could give him my condolence. “That was a lot of years ago. And, no, I never married again. Never wanted to. I dedicated myself to my work and Dillon. Mercedes—my wife—and I had a son. Dillon was two and a half when Mercedes died. He’s in law school now. Not married, so no grandchildren as of yet.” The merriment had left his eyes and returned all within the same reply.

“I had no idea.”

“Why should you?”

“Every life has a story, doesn’t it?”

“It does at that.”

Summer returned to our table. “Are we ready?” she asked. I turned my head to look at her, to give my order, but something caught my eye before I could do so.

Something … someone … standing at the doorway of the restaurant. Watching me.

I swallowed hard, pursed my lips, and then smiled ruefully.

Clay Whitefield.

Uh-oh.

19

Woodward and Bernstein and Shredding Machines

Clay gripped the Styrofoam take-out box in his left hand as he attempted to get the keys to his apartment out of his coat pocket with his right. Apple’s being only a few blocks from his apartment, he’d chosen to walk there for his dinner. After all, he could use the exercise, right?

Seeing Goldie Dippel with … who was that man? … shot his “David’s biological mother theory” to blue blazes and back.

When he was finally able to retrieve his keys, he took the inside stairs leading to his second-story flat two at a time. He shoved the key in the lock, turned it, and then pushed his way through the door.

He tossed the chicken marinara onto his desk, where a stack of papers—lined pages filled with research on migrant workers—lay nearby. He picked them up and ripped them into several sections, then—realizing what he’d done—attempted to put them back together again as though they were pieces to a puzzle. “I can still use this,” he admonished himself out loud. Bernstein and Woodward watched him from their cage, apparently just as shocked by his actions as he.

For the second time that night he reached for his phone, this time dialing Donna’s cell phone number. The call immediately went to voice mail.

He didn’t bother to leave a message.

What would he say to her anyway? Before he could whistle “Dixie,” Goldie Dippel would probably be making the exact same phone call, letting Donna know that she’d been busted and that he knew she was alone out there in L.A. with Harris.

He picked up the take-out box, said, “I’ll feed you guys in a minute,” to his gerbils, walked over to the recliner he kept parked in front of the television, and plopped down into it.

Oh, well,
he thought.
I may as well enjoy my dinner.