Life Support (32 page)

“There's no real choice. Everyone involved lives in Santee and that means the local court will have jurisdiction.”

“But Baxter will still be in Greenville.”

Alexia had been rattling along and spouting her opinions as if discussing a hypothetical question in law school. She stopped and spoke slowly.

“At that point, Baxter may be dead, and we'll be fighting over his estate. Even if he's alive, his residence for purposes of jurisdiction and venue is here in Santee. And don't worry about the judge. There will be a different rotation of judges coming into the area in a week or so. We may get someone from Columbia or Aiken who has never heard of Ezra Richardson.”

“But the people on the jury will know him.”

“I did some research about that earlier today. I think a jury would likely rule in your favor because Ezra didn't use the power of attorney until after your marriage while Baxter was lying helpless in the hospital. Anyone with a conscience will consider Ezra's conduct incredibly selfish. If Baxter is dead when we go to trial, I can ask the jury to protect you as his widow from the greed of your father-in law.”

“That makes sense.”

Alexia could see Rena calming down as her confidence in the lawyer increased.

She continued. “But there is a problem. It may be hard to get a jury involved. Legal interpretation of the validity of a durable power of attorney is up to the judge, not a jury. Only if there are questions of fact about the events that led to the signing of the power of attorney would a jury be required, and I'm not sure I can come up with any evidence of wrongdoing when Baxter signed it. The misuse occurred after Baxter became comatose—an event anticipated by specific language in the document. We may have to invoke the equitable power of the court, which puts us at the mercy of the judge.”

“I'm not following you.”

“Just know I'm researching the issue. We'll have time later to decide the best strategy.”

Alexia took a bite from her sandwich. “Do you have any other questions?”

“When are you going to call Dr. Draughton?”

Alexia looked at her watch. “Tomorrow morning. I have some things to do this afternoon and need to prepare for the interview. I'll let you know how it goes.”

After Alexia finished eating, they walked outside to her car. Rena sat in the passenger seat, and Alexia took the money from the large envelope. She'd been paid in cash before but not such a large amount. Seeing the stacks of hundred-dollar bills made her realize how much money she was charging as a retainer.

“Are you going to open another checking account?” she asked Rena.

“Yes, but just in my name.”

“Where did you get the cash?”

Rena turned away and looked out the window. “Does it matter?”

Alexia stopped. “It might.”

“A friend.”

Alexia cocked her head to the side. “A very good friend?”

“Yes,” Rena said with exasperation. “It was a gift from someone close to me who knows my problems. Are you going to keep it or not?”

Satisfied she'd gotten enough of the truth to appease her conscience and the code of professional responsibility, Alexia said, “Yes. I just needed to ask a few questions. Please watch me count it.”

Rena barely paid attention. She kept looking out the window and pulled down the sun visor to check her appearance in the mirror. Alexia neatly lined the bills in stacks of one thousand dollars each across the bottom of her briefcase.

In a few minutes, she said, “Ten thousand. I'll bill my time against this amount. If I have to withdraw because of the conflict of interest, I'll refund the balance to you so you can find another attorney.”

Rena flipped up the sun visor. “I don't want another lawyer.”

Alexia handed Rena a receipt and snapped shut the briefcase. “And I hope you don't have to get one.”

Alexia and Rena left in opposite directions. A blue car followed Rena; a tan van fell in behind Alexia.

27

The longest part of the journey is said to be the passing of the gate.

MARCUS TERENTIUS VARRO

A
lexia went to the only bank in Santee that wasn't partially owned by Ralph Leggitt or represented by Leggitt & Freeman. With a sense of accomplishment, she opened a business checking and trust account in the name of Alexia Lindale, Attorney at Law. She then stopped by the office of the vice president of the commercial lending department and talked to an older, gray-haired woman who looked more like a retired schoolteacher than a bank executive. Forty-five minutes later she left, confident that there wouldn't be any hitches in approving her loan to buy the King Street house for a law office.

Relieved, Alexia walked out to her car. As she was opening the door, she saw Ralph Leggitt and Ken Pinchot drive by. Leggitt glanced in her direction before quickly looking away. Alexia knew that soon her former bosses wouldn't be able to avoid her gaze. Rena Richardson would guarantee close contact, and she began to relish the thought of combat that would vindicate her and liberate Rena. She mulled over different lines of attack as she drove to Sandy Flats Church to discuss the house renovation with Ted Morgan.

When she pulled into the parking lot of the church, she put aside her plans of war. Once inside the narthex, she heard a succession of slow, quiet notes drifting from the sanctuary. Other melancholy tones joined them. She quietly entered the room so that she was out of Ted's line of sight and sat down in a back pew to listen. She didn't recognize the piece. It was simpler than most classical works for piano but filled with haunting pathos that could only flow from the soul of a Russian composer. Ted finished and let his hands fall to his sides.

Alexia cleared her throat. “Hello.”

Her voice sounded high and tinny after the deep, somber sounds that had reverberated in the church. Ted looked over his shoulder.

“How long have you been here?” he asked.

“Several minutes. I'm sorry. I should have let you know.”

“It would have been polite.”

Alexia had grown so used to eavesdropping that she hadn't thought twice about failing to announce her presence. Unlike the time when she interrupted his prayer time, the minister seemed irritated.

“Do you want me to leave?” she asked.

Ted paused. “No. You said you were going to stop by. I should have remembered.”

Alexia walked to the front of the sanctuary and sat down on a pew. Ted stayed at the piano bench. The late afternoon sun was shining in the windows on the left side of the building. The serious mood of the music lingered.

“I didn't recognize the music you were playing, but it sounded very Russian,” Alexia said.

“Russian?”

“Yes. Who wrote it?”

“I did,” Ted responded simply.

Surprised, Alexia said, “I didn't know you were a composer, too.”

“I'm not really.”

“It was beautiful. Sad, but beautiful. When did you write it?”

Ted looked at his watch. “During the time it takes to send a message from my brain to my fingertips.”

Alexia's eyes widened. “It was improvisation? Yet it flowed so well. I would never have guessed you did it on the spur of the moment.”

Ted tapped a few notes in sequence. “It's nothing more than applied music theory. The transitions from one key to another are second nature to me, so I don't have to think about it. I can often go where my thoughts and emotions take me.”

“What were you thinking about when you played?”

Ted looked down at the keyboard and replayed a few measures of the haunting introduction Alexia had heard when she first arrived.

“Regrets,” he said.

Alexia's next question died before it reached her lips. Ted Morgan wasn't a player piano waiting for someone to put in a quarter or a minister without feelings or problems of his own. He was a middle-aged, divorced man who lived alone in a small town in South Carolina. Her thoughts had been on what Ted could do for her as a witness, a performer, and a contractor, not whether he had any needs of his own. As far as she knew, no one properly recognized or appreciated his extraordinary talent. Seeing him vulnerable, Alexia wanted to take a tentative step toward learning more about him but couldn't think of the right thing to say. It was an awkward moment.

Ted looked into her eyes and relieved the tension. “Do you want to ask me about my regrets?”

“Yes,” Alexia said. Then she quickly added, “But I respect your privacy. I apologize again for stopping by without a specific appointment. I wouldn't want someone barging into my office unannounced.”

Ted motioned with his hand around the sanctuary. “This place doesn't belong to me.”

“But the music and your thoughts do.”

“True,” Ted agreed. He paused before continuing. “Have you ever been married?”

Alexia compressed her lips. “No. I was engaged last year, but my fiancé broke it off and married someone else a few months later. Recently, I've come to terms with it and put it behind me.”

“What does that mean?”

“That I can go on with my life.”

“I've tried to do that, but it hasn't happened so neatly.” Ted tapped his fingers against the piano bench. “And it's been a lot longer than a year. At first, I thought it was because Roxanne and I had a child, but now that Angelica is grown there is still an ache in my heart. As a Christian, I believe my relationship with God should satisfy me, and in many ways it does, but the link between a husband and wife is unique in the universe. My wife and I became one, and the divorce cut all the way to the core of my being. Years have passed, but the regrets and ‘what if 's' remain. Neither time nor my faith has answered all my questions or healed my wounds.”

Alexia admired the way the minister could express his feelings. With all her analytical ability, she'd not been able to put words to her hurts, just tried to find a way to jettison them.

“You have more understanding about these things than I do,” she admitted. “Most of my time is spent helping marriages end, not trying to figure out what went wrong or saving them. In my own situation, I think my greatest hurt was to my pride.”

Ted shook his head. “Then he wasn't the right man for you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because the link between the two of you was in the mind, not the heart.”

Puzzled, Alexia said, “I still don't understand.”

“Our minds are offended when we're rejected. Our hearts break when we lose someone we treasure. You're right. If your primary wound was to your pride, you can go on with your life. God spared you from making a big mistake by getting married to the wrong person.”

Alexia remained perplexed. “I never thought God was involved in what happened between Jason and me. Neither of us gave religion very much thought. I mean, we would have been married in a church, but we never talked about religion.”

A slight smile returned to Ted's face. “Just because you don't think about him doesn't mean he's not thinking about you.”

The minister had a knack for bringing every conversation around to herself. Alexia decided to turn the table.

“Would you like to remarry your wife?” she asked.

“That's impossible. We're completely different people now, and she's been married to someone else for fifteen years. I'm not sure how the void in me will be filled.”

“Have you considered another relationship?”

Ted stood and stretched. “Of course. I've dated some, but nothing connected at the level we're talking about. What sort of woman do you think I should consider?”

“I'm not sure I know you well enough to answer that.”

Ted stepped through an opening in the altar rail and stood in front of her. “Go ahead, you're a woman. I'm curious about your thoughts. Consider it a request for a professional opinion.”

Alexia thought for a moment then counted off on her fingers. “She should love music, not care about money, have similar beliefs, and find delight in who you are as a person.”

“Do you know someone like that?”

Alexia shook her head. “Sorry. None of my clients would make suitable candidates, but if one comes along, I'll send her your way.”

“What about you?”

Alexia flushed. “Me?”

Ted's smile widened, and he sat down on the pew beside her. “Is that beyond consideration?”

“Uh, I love music, but I'm not sure about the rest of it.”

“Is it your goal in life to be rich?”

“No, but I don't believe in God the same way that you do.”

“That could change,” he said.

Alexia was flustered. Ted Morgan had a daughter who had graduated from college. He was probably old enough to be her father.

“I'm forty-five,” he said, reading her thoughts. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-two.”

“So, I was in the seventh grade when you were born.”

The thought of Ted Morgan at age thirteen broke the tension Alexia felt. She laughed. “Thirteen-year-old boys are scary.”

“I've grown out of it.” Ted leaned forward with a more serious look. “Would you like to come to my house for dinner Friday night? I'm going to grill steaks.”

Alexia raised her eyebrows. “I've never been invited over to dinner while sitting on the pew of a church.”

“Which means God is watching us.”

Alexia glanced up at the ceiling. “Did he tell you to invite me?”

“No, it was my idea, but I think he approves. We can eat and talk about the renovation of the house you're buying. If you like, you can bring paint and wallpaper samples.”

The conversation had moved quickly from Alexia's realization that Ted wasn't a musical automaton to a dinner invitation.

“How long have you been thinking about this?” she asked.

Ted looked at his watch. “Since the first time I met you and found out that you loved good music. But I wasn't sure I wanted to invite you over for dinner until you asked what I was thinking about while I was playing.”