Judgement By Fire (5 page)

The insistent
burring of the phone, and her own heightened awareness of the chemistry which
still lurked between her and this almost-stranger like a wild animal waiting
its time to pounce once again, made Lauren clumsy and it took her several
attempts to get the door open. Leaving it swinging wide on big brass hinges,
Lauren rushed inside to pick up the phone, heart in her mouth over the
ever-present anxiety that Lucy’s illness held over her.

What if the
evening had been too strenuous? As if to confirm her worst fears, she heard
Paul Howard’s voice, filled with tension, flowing through the line.

“I just wanted
to check that you were okay—someone saw you leave with that guy.”

Lauren reacted
with uncharacteristic anger.

“I’m a big
girl now, you know. I can judge strangers pretty well, and I’m home safe and
sound,” Lauren knew her temper was unjustified, but the call had interrupted a
scene that she longed to play again, to see how it would end.

“Do you know
who he is? I knew I’d seen that face somewhere before—it was in a newspaper
article about Rush Co. The guy you drove home with is none other than Jon Rush,
company president!” Paul’s voice carried a stain of anger.

Looking
towards the door, she frowned. Jon hadn’t followed her inside as she’d
expected. When she heard Paul’s words, she couldn’t help but think it was
probably as well.
After all,
she thought,
blood can stain and it
would be a shame to have wrecked that lovely hand-ragged rug with Jon Rush’s
blood!

“Lauren! Are
you still there?” Paul’s voice interrupted her thoughts of delightful
vengeance. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you at the meeting, but Rush’s
executive secretary phoned earlier to say that the big man himself and several
department heads would be in West River tomorrow to visit the site, and have
agreed to a meeting.

“We’re going
to get together with them at the hall again, but before that we’re going to
stage a protest by blocking the road into the Castle. The TV crews who were at
the meeting tonight were dead keen on the idea, and if they’re coming, then the
other media will, too. It’s a great opportunity for publicity.”

“Lordy, Paul,
I haven’t taken part in a demo since we did a sit-in at the Dean’s office in
university over a women’s issues course, if I remember rightly. Sounds like
fun. Are we going to chain ourselves to the trees?”

“No, not at
all, we’re going to stay exactly within the law.” Paul sounded horrified.

“Just joking,
Paul, keep your briefs straight.” Lauren heard him laugh as she used their old
lawyer joke. “Tell me when and I’ll be there with all colors flying.”
And
maybe I’ll get a chance to tell Mr. High and Mighty Rush what I think of his
underhanded behavio
r, she thought to herself.

Nevertheless,
after saying goodnight to Paul, Lauren went and stood in the open doorway,
looking out into the bitterly cold, glistening night at a set of red taillights
disappearing in the distance.

How much of
the indignation she was feeling was because he hadn’t told her he was the
enemy, she wondered, and how much because her traitorous heart thudded loudly
in her ears at the memory of his kiss?

Jon Rush
snapped his cellphone shut with an exasperated sigh, stowing the slim
instrument in his sports jacket pocket before turning to face the four other
men—all top Rush Co. officials—seated in the Jeep with him.

“That’s all we
needed,” he complained. “This damned protest committee has set up a roadblock
into the Haverford Castle site, complete with a full media circus. What more do
these people want? We’ve agreed to meet with them, full disclosure, this
afternoon. The free phone info line has been set up for over twenty-four hours,
with all available details—yet they’re still not satisfied. By the way,
Stephen, congratulations on getting that info phone line set up so quickly.”

Rush’s cousin,
Stephen, who, as head of Avalon Hospitality, also headed the company’s special
projects division and was heavily involved in all aspects of the West River
Project, smiled his lazy smile.

“All in a
day’s work, boss,” he said, turning to look out the window at the passing
scenery.

Warren Dillon,
the company’s security chief, pressed his lips together, his dislike for Rush’s
cousin momentarily displayed on his face. He had a hard time in not asking what
Stephen knew about a day’s work since rumor in the company suggested he hardly
ever did one, but knowing Jon’s protectiveness towards his only remaining
relative, Dillon kept quiet. 

He contented
himself instead by making a mental note that Stephen would bear watching,
although he knew Jon would go ballistic at any suggestion that his own cousin
might be responsible for the troubles that had dogged the family firm. One
thing was for sure, though, Dillon was going to be very interested in what
Pippa Williams had to tell him.

Pippa, a
senior accountant with particular responsibility for special projects
accounting in Stephen’s department, had phoned him on his internal company line
that morning requesting an interview to discuss some possible problems she
thought she’d found when reviewing the Special Projects Department fiscal
reports.

“I wouldn’t
come to you with this unless I was sure,” Pippa, a sedate thirty-something
career accountant had told him. “Now I have proof and it really needs acting
on.”

She’d been
reluctant to offer any more information on the phone, but had wanted to see him
immediately. Dillon, knowing that he had to leave with Jon for the West River
meeting within the half-hour, was torn between staying to find out what Pippa
had to say and being at Jon’s side in case there was trouble in West River.

Hearing Jon’s
news about the protest demonstration, he felt that his decision to postpone his
interview with Pippa in order to accompany his boss was validated. Only later
would he learn just how much of a mistake that would prove to be.

The smart,
late model Jeep with the Rush Co. insignia drew interested stares from
passers-by as it slowed to a halt outside the West River Municipal Offices.
Stephen was to stay at the offices for a preliminary meeting with Reeve Harry
Turner to discuss the potential locations for an information booth to liaise
with the public about the Rush Co. project. 

Stephen was
also to discuss the possibility of hiring a secretary/receptionist locally. The
latter seemed like a useful public relations gesture of good faith—Jon felt
that hiring someone local would be an indicator of the company’s intention to
involve local people rather than bringing in exclusively its own workforce from
the city.

There would be
some jobs for unskilled workers, and also some training opportunities for
suitable candidates. He’d gleaned from the previous night’s meeting that any
boost for the local economy would be a key factor in the acceptance of Rush
Co.’s project.

Meanwhile Jon
and Dillon, along with construction manager Ray Wilkie and public relations
chief Bill Costello, were to go ahead to the site where they would face a press
conference and, no doubt, a barrage of input from the protest group. Jon
sighed, still tired from his late night drive back to Toronto and early morning
start to catch up on other matters before returning to West River.

But then he
thought that Lauren would probably be there and he couldn’t resist a smile of
anticipation at the idea of seeing her again. He’d been both disappointed and
relieved that their moment together had been interrupted so rudely by the
telephone. Disappointed because of the delight he’d taken in holding Lauren,
tasting her sweetness, and relief because those very same pleasures created
tumultuous feelings that had momentarily threatened to boil out of control.

But yes, he found himself looking
forward to seeing her again, and finding out if the starry night had shaped her
into a figment of his imagination, or if she had the same magical effect on his
physiology in the cold light of day as she had had on that frosty midnight
hour.

“For a man
about to face the wrath of the eco-warriors, you’re looking mightily like a cat
that got the cream,” Ray Wilkie, a sedate gray-haired oldster who’d started
with Rush Co. when Jon was just a wet-behind-the-ears youngster—and never let
him forget it—pointed out curiously.

“I’m sure the
protest will be dignified and orderly,” Jon replied with a smile. “After all,
these are all established citizens facing a change in their own backyard,
hardly your classic eco-warriors. Calm and peaceful, you mark my words.”

Words he was
soon to regret, for they’d barely stopped the Jeep when they were faced with a
chanting crowd of picket waving protesters.

“At least they didn’t chain
themselves to the trees,” Wilkie muttered sarcastically to Jon as they stepped
out of the vehicle. He was barely able to conceal his wry delight at Jon’s
discomfiture as he observed the television cameras taking the whole scene in
for dissemination to a few million viewers on that evening’s news bulletins.

Flanked by his
department heads, Jon waved away the police escort that had stepped forward to
meet them on the road.

“I don’t think
we need bodyguards, but thanks for the thought,” Jon said quietly to Mike
Ohmer, the local police chief.

“Let’s just
make sure there’s no trouble here,” Ohmer replied firmly. “West River isn’t
that kind of place any longer.”

“You mean it
used to be?” Warren queried incredulously.

“Buy me a beer
later, and I can tell you tales that will make your hair stand on end,” the
police chief promised with a grin, stepping back to let Jon and the other Rush
Co. officials by.

Jon knew this
confrontation could be crucial, not only in terms of Rush Co.’s public image as
filtered through the news media, but also in terms of the company’s long term
relationship with the townsfolk of West River. He knew their goodwill would be
vital to the comfortable success of the project, and he scanned faces in the
crowd in hopes of reading their mood accurately before deciding on how to
conduct himself.

The crowd of
about ninety people facing him certainly didn’t look welcoming. In fact,
hostility was written on all their faces—but he continued scrutinizing faces
until he found the one he specifically was searching for. He found her,
standing quietly next to the tall, gray-haired man who had chaired the previous
night’s meeting, and he could read no welcoming leap of recognition in her
eyes.

The silence
that descended was almost worse than a riot, Jon thought, as he and his
co-workers crunched along the icy gravel road towards the stately entrance of
Haverford Castle. For a moment, listening to the wind rattle through the trees
he was uncomfortably reminded of the ominously full silences that would reign
in the desert immediately before an attack upon his platoon as it was pinned
down during Desert Storm.

He shivered
slightly as he used all his willpower to pull himself back to the present.

            Then they were
standing at the tall, wrought iron gates, where the rutted road passed through
fieldstone columns. These gateposts listed slightly from frost heave acquired
over the near-century of their existence as sentinels at an eccentric
millionaire’s retreat.

            Lauren was there,
standing ramrod straight, sandwiched between Paul and Lucy, her chin tilted
proudly high.  The Wellmans and other committee members stood beside them, blocking
the gateway, flanked side and rear by a large band of neighbors who’d turned up
to add their voices to the very public protest. Jon was momentarily amused to
see Lauren was clutching a two by two piece of lumber with a large artistically
painted “
Art Before Commerce
” logo.

*
* *

Lauren herself
was wishing she’d worn warmer socks, and worried about Lucy. The older woman
should have stayed home, she thought, half-furious, half-admiring. That she
should turn out to something like this said much about her courage and
determination, but what if she should be accidentally injured in the pushing
and shoving that might ensue in the protest?

Lucy’s
constitution, depleted by her illness, simply wasn’t strong enough to cope with
further insult, but all the pleading of her various friends had only served to
stiffen her resolve that she was going to be on the front line. After all,
she’d quipped, that was where she’d spent most of her life—why let a little
thing like a bad heart stop her having fun now?

            So it was with some
anxiety and distraction that Lauren watched Jon Rush and his team walk steadily
towards them on that windy, cold March day. But the coolness of the day and all
her worries about her friend couldn’t stop that traitorously warm feeling rush
again through her veins like fine strong whisky as Jon’s eyes sought hers.

She knew, in
that breathtaking instant, as their glances locked, that he was reacting in the
same way. For a long moment, everything else seemed to fade. The friends and
neighbors, Jon’s co-workers, the police standing at the ready a hundred feet
away—nothing existed but the two of them and the wild winter wind which rattled
the trees with a song of timeless, wild excitement.

            Then everything came
back into focus as the moment slipped by and Lauren realized that the Rush Co.
officials stood just a few polite feet from the protesters. She shivered as she
heard Jon Rush’s deep, male voice. Although he was speaking quietly, even the
timbre of his voice carried an indisputable authority.

“We understand
you have concerns, and we’re willing to meet with you all to discuss them
further. A time has been set for that, this afternoon, but beforehand we want
to visit the proposed site and I would really appreciate it if you would let us
pass.”