Life Support (21 page)

“You're winning. I'm going to walk back to the office,” she said.

The older lawyer was busy making notes and didn't turn around. “Go ahead.”

Alexia stepped into the afternoon sun and looked up into the blue sky. She always learned something from watching Ken Pinchot. He didn't call the other lawyer a shyster for knowingly interposing a lame objection; he aimed the judge in the right direction and watched him blast him. And he didn't seek to be the constant center of attention when his case was better served by bringing the jury's focus onto his witness.

Alexia could conduct a good direct examination, but she wasn't sure she could have exercised the same restraint when dealing with an improperly manipulative lawyer on the other side. As she walked back to the office, she carefully filed the day's lesson in her mind.

18

Fair stood the wind for France.

MICHAEL DRAYTON

R
ena wanted Jeffrey to talk immediately with his father about terminating Baxter's life support. Jeffrey counseled restraint as they walked from the parking deck to the hospital.

“Be patient,” he said. “I have a lot of experience dealing with my father. No one can read his moods better than I can. If I sat down with him now, it would only cause him to harden his position. We don't even know if a decision is going to be necessary.”

“But in the meantime, Baxter continues to suffer,” Rena responded with frustration.

Jeffrey stepped closer to her and spoke softly. “Rena, calm down. Baxter doesn't know what's going on. You heard the doctors this morning. He doesn't feel anything. His condition is critical but stable.”

Rena glanced away and stood still with her arms firmly folded. “Maybe, but I can't go on like this indefinitely.”

Jeffrey touched her arm. “It won't. When the time is right, I'll speak up.”

After Jeffrey left, Rena stayed outside the hospital and sat on a bench near the entrance. From her vantage point, she could watch people leave without being noticed herself. She dialed the number for the lawyer from Charleston who had helped Jeffrey cancel the power of attorney. She identified herself as Baxter's wife and asked for Rafe Grange. In a few seconds, a deep, southern voice came on the line.

Rena told him what had happened to Baxter. With each telling her twisted version of the events at the waterfall became more convincing.

“I'm very sorry,” the lawyer responded with obvious concern. “How can I help you? Although I know Jeffrey better, I consider your husband a friend.”

“It's about the power of attorney that Mr. Richardson made Jeffrey and Baxter sign when they turned eighteen. Did Baxter ever ask you to help him cancel it?”

There was silence on the other line for several seconds. Rena began to wonder if it had been a mistake to call. There was no guarantee that the Charleston lawyer wasn't connected with her father-in-law.

“Uh, hello,” she said. “Are you still there?”

“Yes, sorry. I was checking my computer for a file. I remember talking with Jeffrey about a power of attorney, but I don't show any contact with Baxter. I never opened a file in his name. Do you want me to check with the other attorneys in our office?”

“Did any of them know Baxter?”

“I'm not sure, but I can find out.”

Rena gave him her cell number and hung up. The sky grew darker in concert with her mood. Rafe Grange was a dead end, and based on Jeffrey's comments, she wasn't sure she could rely on Alexia Lindale. As she brooded, Ezra came out of the building and lit a cigarette. Rena stayed in the shadows. When he disappeared into the parking deck, she went back into the hospital to continue her solitary vigil.

The Friday before her departure for France, Alexia arrived at the office at 6 A.M. Attorneys didn't take vacations, only prolonged continuances from work that had to be done when they returned. Eight hours later the wooden surface of her desk was bare except for her blotter, the brass cup from Madagascar that she used to store extra pens, and a pale green stone paperweight from Peru. After a week's absence, Alexia knew that mail would be stacked across the front of the desk like paper battlements awaiting her assault. She walked from her office to Gwen's desk.

“What am I forgetting?” she asked.

“Plane tickets, passport, camera, sunscreen?” the secretary responded. “I think it's sunny in southern France. Don't forget an extra suitcase in case you meet the perfect man and want to bring him home as a souvenir.”

Alexia smiled slightly. “Everything is covered except the extra suitcase. You know one reason for the trip is to get rid of any remaining emotional baggage from Jason.”

“Which means you'll have room for the right man on the return flight. If you don't want to bring someone back for yourself, look for me.”

“You trust me to find the right one?”

Gwen shrugged. “You can't do any worse than I have for myself. Just make sure he picks up his dirty clothes and speaks English with a romantic French accent.”

Alexia grabbed a piece of paper from Gwen's desk and pretended to take notes. “The accent I can handle, but how am I supposed to find out about the dirty clothes?”

“You're a lawyer!” Gwen exclaimed. “It should be easy compared to some of the dirty laundry you uncover for your clients.”

Alexia held her pen at ready. “Very clever. Any age requirements?”

Gwen thought for a moment. “About the same as me or slightly older. I don't want to have to break in a younger man.”

Alexia put the cap back on the pen. “Consider it done,” she said.

Gwen patted the stacks of files Alexia had deposited on the floor beside the secretary's desk.

“Oh, and you forgot to stop dictating. Between you and Leonard, I have enough work to make my fingers raw from typing.”

“I'll buy you some expensive French hand lotion.”

“That would help.”

“And don't worry about my dictation. There's nothing lengthy. It's mostly correspondence to delay things until I get back. Open my mail. If anything looks urgent, ask Ken Pinchot what to do.”

Gwen made a face. “By the way, what happened in the case you helped him with the other day?”

“The other side fired their lawyer an hour before closing arguments. It was a mess. The judge wouldn't let them delay the trial, so they took a voluntary dismissal. I think it will go away. No attorney in their right mind would accept them as clients. Ken had the case nailed down tight.”

Gwen looked down at a list on her desk. “Where are your pets staying?”

“With a lady named Pat who has a small kennel on Highway 17. Boris loves it; Misha hates it. I'm taking them to her as soon as I get home.”

“Okay. That's it. Go, before someone calls. Have a great trip.”

Alexia was walking down the hall when the receptionist buzzed Gwen.

“Is Alexia there? She didn't pick up the page to her office.”

Gwen waited until Alexia turned the corner before answering. “She's gone and won't be back for a week.”

“It's Rena Richardson. Did Alexia leave any instructions if she called?”

Gwen looked again at the stack of files. “Maybe, but I won't know for a few days. Take her number and tell her Alexia is out of the country. If I find something in my dictation about Rena, I'll call her myself.”

It was dusk when Alexia arrived in Marseille via Charleston, Atlanta, and Paris. She'd practiced her French with an Italian woman on the short flight from Paris but was tired and their accents didn't mesh.

Alexia didn't experience any sadness during the flight, but when she stepped through the gate at Marseille, she had a sharp twinge of regret. A handsome man with a joyful smile on his face and a bouquet of fresh flowers in his hand should have been waiting for her. Walking rapidly along the concourse next to impersonal strangers who were oblivious to her existence was not the way she'd dreamed of arriving in southern France. Alexia let a tear escape her right eye and pressed on.

She spent the first two nights in Aix-en-Provence just north of Marseille. She learned that the picturesque city was founded by the Romans as a military outpost in 122 B.C. For Alexia, it was a place to lay down her weapons, get in touch with herself, and think about what life had taught her.

As a litigator, Alexia had to maintain a sharp emotional edge because she never knew where the next blow would fall against one of her clients, and it always took her a couple of days away from the office to relax.

Aix-en-Provence was a perfect resting place. She dozed late the first morning in one of the softest beds she'd ever slept in. Surrounded by six white pillows and an eiderdown comforter, she felt as if she were sleeping in the clouds. The inn where she stayed was on a side street, and the only early morning sounds that came through the window of the second-story room were the friendly greetings of people on the street below. Because the townspeople spoke so rapidly, Alexia couldn't distinguish the words, and any concerns they expressed didn't disturb her dozing.

She ventured out in the early afternoon for a leisurely walk. Because she was alone, she set her own pace and visited the Roman ruins and a famous local university. The age of buildings in Europe always had an effect on her. Two-hundred-year-old structures in America are often placed on the National Register of Historic Places. In southern France, a two-hundred-year-old house was in robust middle age and attracted no particular attention. She walked across the stone floor of the Roman court. No women attorneys donned white togas to argue in Roman courts, and Alexia was glad she'd been born long after the stones were freshly hewn from the quarry. As the first female partner at Leggitt & Freeman, she would push the liberation of women a tiny step forward in her corner of the world. She was alive at the right time.

Provence has two seasons: July/August and the rest of the year. During the two summer months, it is difficult to find a vacant table at a restaurant, the inns are full, and the roads crowded with tourists. During the rest of the year, clerks in the stores pause to chat, tractors are as common as cars, and a meal that lasts less than two hours is considered a quick bite to eat. Alexia knew a late fall visit there would give her unhurried days of exploring and quiet evenings of dining.

The first evening, Alexia ate a leisurely dinner at a restaurant recommended by the owner of the inn. Toward the end of the meal, a handsome man about her own age approached her and offered to share a bottle of wine with her. He had kind, friendly eyes, and she accepted. He was a businessman from Marseille who had lived for almost a year in Seattle. Through tentative conversation that kept them laughing at misunderstandings, they talked about life in America and France.

“May we take you places you've never been before?” he asked as he filled her wineglass with the last drops from the bottle.

“What places?” Alexia asked.

“Where Cézanne looked when he painted his famous paintings. No tourists see the places I know. We can have a meal on a sheet. What do you call it?”

“A picnic.”

“Yes. We will bring the wine and cheese and bread.”

The invitation made Alexia feel feminine and attractive but not stupid. “No, thanks,” she said.

The man's passionate appeal for her to reconsider his invitation was denied, but he left with a good-natured twinkle still sparkling in his eyes. Walking back to the inn, Alexia wondered if she had made a mistake.

The next morning she ate an ephemeral pastry for breakfast and rode a bicycle into the countryside. Beyond the bounds of the city lay a picturesque rural area whose soul was revealed in the works of the impressionist painter Paul Cézanne. She had no guide but didn't need one to enjoy the views of haystacks and hedgerows.

Each day, Alexia went shopping. In Aix-en-Provence, she bought a straw hat in the town market. The second day, she spent more than an hour in a tiny, unorganized dress shop that made up in style what it lacked in selection. She found a sleek dress with a French flair that she wore when she went out for dinner. No one intruded on her quiet meal, and she remained alone with her thoughts.

From Aix-en-Provence, she went to the Camargue, a marshy delta area west of Marseille and home to
les chevaux,
the horses who roamed in semiliberty along the coast and splashed through the blue waters of the Mediterranean. It was Alexia's first chance to see the French cowboys who guarded the herds. The men were like colorful gypsies on horseback, quite different from drab, unshaven cowboys of the American West. She picked one out for Gwen and took his photograph. The man came over to her, and they had a halting conversation in French. Alexia didn't have the vocabulary to conduct a cross-examination in French and couldn't determine if he picked up his dirty socks and scraped the mud from his boots before entering the house.

She spent the night in Les Baux-de-Provence, a small village surrounding the ruins of a medieval castle, and stayed at L'Oustau de Baumanière, a place frequented by both Winston Churchill and Elizabeth Taylor. It was very expensive, but Alexia had planned to splurge. She ate leg of lamb cooked in a salt crust and boiled squab with couscous topped with tomato vinaigrette. The wine cellar boasted ninety thousand bottles. Many were local; others were imported. Alexia learned that “imported” meant the producing vineyard was more than fifteen miles away.

One sunny morning she was sitting at a street café in Beaucaire Tarascon, drinking a cup of coffee and trying to decipher a French newspaper. The news couldn't hold her interest so she folded up the paper and simply watched the people passing by. In a few minutes, a small boy and girl, each no more than six years old, came down the street holding hands. The love and trust between the two children was so pure and innocent that Alexia couldn't take her eyes off them until they rounded a corner. It was a living memory richer than any photograph could capture.