Once in a Blue Moon (35 page)

“If you’d rather go with another lawyer, I understand. No hard feelings. I could even give you a few names—”

“No, it’s not that. I don’t think there’s anyone who could’ve done a better job.”

“Be sure and tell that to your boyfriend,” he said in a weak stab at humor.

If I could find him
, she thought. Whatever last-minute crisis had detained Grant, for which he would no doubt have a perfectly good explanation, the fact was that he was once again a no-show. Thank God for Ollie and Kerrie Ann. Lindsay looked around, and there they were, separating themselves from the stream of spectators emerging from the courtroom and heading toward her. Kerrie Ann’s face was red, like it got when she was about to lose her temper. “Son of a bitch,” she muttered under her breath. Lindsay didn’t know if she meant the judge, the attorneys for the county, or the Heywood Group. Probably all of the above.

Dwight took advantage of the opportunity to excuse himself. “I’d better run. I have to get back to my office.” She thanked him once more for his efforts on her behalf, which only caused him to grimace. “Save it for when we win on appeal,” he said as he dashed off.

“I’m sorry, boss,” said Ollie, eyeing Lindsay woefully. “Seriously, this sucks.”

“That it does,” agreed Lindsay.

“What your lawyer said just now? He’s right, you know,” said Kerrie Ann. “It’s not over till it’s over.”

“Frankly, I’m not sure I have the stamina for another round.” Lindsay drew in a deep breath and let it out in a long, ragged exhalation. “I think it’s more likely we’ll be looking for another place to live.” It pained her, but she had to face facts. She couldn’t go on like this much longer.

Kerrie Ann gave her a bolstering smile. “Don’t worry. I’m an expert when it comes to that. I’ve changed addresses so many times, half the time I don’t even know what zip code I’m in.”

“As long as you’re with me, you always know who to ask. Mine is engraved in stone along with my birth date and Social Security number,” joked Ollie.

Kerrie Ann turned to smile at him, leaning into him when he slipped an arm around her waist. Lindsay was glad they were here, even if her cheering section had become a Greek chorus.

“It’ll be all right,” she said, putting on a brave face. “Anything is better than having this hanging over me.”

“I know the feeling,” said Kerrie Ann, and Lindsay knew she was thinking about her little girl.

“A miracle could still happen,” said Ollie. “Like the Heywood Group could go down like Enron, or, like, they could discover your property is actually an old Indian burial ground.”

Lindsay smiled. “I’m afraid neither of those things is likely to happen.” A rabbit out of a hat was more likely.

Just then the lawyers for the county strolled into view. They’d briefly shaken hands with Dwight as he and Lindsay were leaving the courtroom but now were so busy congratulating each other that they breezed by without so much as a glance in Lindsay’s direction.

“We should go,” muttered Kerrie Ann, watching them retreat down the hallway, “before I start kicking some serious ass.”

That was what finally broke Lindsay out of her torpor. “The last thing we need,” she said, taking her sister’s arm and steering her toward the exit, “is for you to get into trouble with the law.”

Outside, the three of them descended the granite steps of the courthouse. Built in the late 1800s, it was one of the downtown’s more venerable old buildings and boasted a dome, stained-glass windows, and interior oak wainscoting hewn from the canyon oaks native to the region. It was a bit rundown and showing its age, however, and there had been talk of converting it into a boutique shopping mall once more tourist traffic was flowing into the area and of building a new, more modern courthouse adjacent to the county building on Ocean Street.

Nothing was sacred, Lindsay thought.

The house in Woodside had an interesting history. The onetime retreat of billionaire industrialist Bertram Goodwin, it was grand in the
fin de siècle
style, with turrets, fancifully carved pediments, and a stately entrance with a Doric-columned porte cochere. Goodwin had been eccentric in one respect, however: An avid naturalist, he’d collected exotic animals, which had been housed in a small zoo he’d erected on the property. So it was that as Randall Craig pulled up to the scrolled iron gates of his father’s estate, he could see, nestled among a copse of oaks in the distance, the stone lion’s cage, nearly as large as the gatekeeper’s cottage he’d just driven past. It seemed a fitting touch. Long abandoned, it nonetheless seemed to represent everything Lloyd Heywood stood for: Eat or be eaten. It was also a reminder to Randall of what he was up against.

It’s going to be a long weekend
, he thought.

He was greeted at the door by his father’s second wife, a pretty, petite woman in her late forties with the unlined face and loosely tossed-and-buttered tresses of a woman half her age. She wore designer jeans and a cashmere sweater. A diamond tennis bracelet sparkled on one wrist. “Randall! How lovely to see you. It’s been
ages
.” She kissed him on both cheeks, continental style. Which was amusing, he thought, since Victoria Heywood had grown up Vicky Blunt, from Danbury, Connecticut, and had never even been to Europe until she’d married his dad.

“Thanks for having me,” he said.

“Well, you picked the perfect weekend. The weather is supposed to be glorious. In fact, I thought we might all go riding on Sunday. If you didn’t bring any boots, I’m sure we can find a pair that’ll fit you. Don’t you and your father wear the same size?” She ushered him inside, where the housekeeper, a trim, middle-aged Mexican woman he recognized from his last visit, took his bag. “Thanks, Maria. Why don’t you put that in the guest room? Then we’ll take our coffee out on the terrace.”

His father’s wife led the way through the oak-paneled foyer into a living room the size of a ballroom, done up in contemporary style that merely paid homage, with a scattering of antiques, to its beaux arts roots. Beyond was a sitting room cozily decorated in chintz and Ralph Lauren plaids, with a set of French doors opening onto a wide, semicircular terrace. It was adorned with statuary and stone urns spilling flowering plants, and stepped down in a series of smaller terraces—three in all—to the Olympic-sized pool below.

“How are the kids?” Randall asked dutifully as they settled into wrought-iron chairs at the patio table on the uppermost terrace. The last time he’d seen them had been five years ago at his half-sister’s sweet sixteen.

“Tammy’s in France for the summer. She starts law school in the fall. Did Lloyd tell you she got into Columbia?” She flicked away an oak leaf that had drifted onto the table, leaning back in her chair. “And Brett’s still at Swarthmore—just finished his sophomore year. Can you believe it? Seems like just yesterday they were in diapers, and now here they are, practically grown.”

Randall might have been catching up on the lives of distant relations. It was hard to keep in mind that Tamara and Brett were his closest kin after his parents and little brother (also a half-sibling, but they’d grown up together, so they were as close as full-blood brothers). “I guess you and Dad must be pretty proud of them,” he said.

She beamed. “It’s easy when you have such smart kids.” Just then came the sound of a car pulling into the drive. “That’ll be your dad. I sent him to the store to pick up some things.”

Minutes later Lloyd joined them on the terrace. “Hello, son.” He shook Randall’s hand before dropping a kiss on his wife’s cheek. “Sorry for the delay, my dear. Next time you ask me to buy olive oil, you’ll have to be more specific. There had to be at least twenty different brands.”

“Well, I’m sure whatever you got is fine, even if it’s not our usual brand. You like variety, don’t you, darling?” There was a caustic note in her voice, though her expression remained sweetly smiling.

Trouble in paradise?
wondered Randall.

“So how’s our crusader? Still tilting at windmills?” Lloyd asked Randall in a faux-jovial tone. “Nice piece in the
Chronicle
, by the way. Could’ve used a bit more perspective, but overall very well written.”

Randall bristled at his father’s faint praise. “Thanks.” It was an effort to maintain an even tone. “But I don’t know how much good it’ll do.” He’d read in the paper about his father’s victory in court. “Congratulations, by the way. You always get what you want, don’t you?”

“If I do, it’s because a lot of other people want the same things.” The maid arrived with the coffee tray just then, and Lloyd glanced at it dismissively before suggesting to Randall, “What do you say we head inside for something stronger? I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink.”

Randall gave a nod of assent. For once he and his dad could agree on something.

A short while later he and his father were ensconced in the den, Victoria having gone off to organize supper. Here the original baronial touches survived intact. It might have been the library of an exclusive turn-of-the-century men’s club, with its oak paneling, original brass chandelier, and built-in glass-fronted bookcases displaying Goodwin’s collection of rare volumes. The stuffed and mounted heads of trophy animals lined the walls. Goodwin, it seemed, had been an avid hunter as well as a naturalist; in those days people apparently hadn’t seen the irony in being both.

“Have you spoken with your girlfriend recently?” Lloyd asked as he settled, whiskey and soda in hand, into the oxblood leather chair opposite Randall’s.

“No,” he replied tersely.

“Too bad about that.” The old man shook his head with what seemed genuine regret. “But there are always bound to be casualties—one of the downsides of this business. Nothing to be done about it, I’m afraid. And she has only herself to blame, really. I gave her every chance.”

“Is that so?” Randall’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. “You mean if someone were to make an offer on this place”—he gestured about him—“you’d be willing to give it up? Just like that?”

The old man chuckled. “I suppose it would depend on the offer.”

“Are you really that mercenary?”

“Call it what you like. To my mind, it’s just good business. I owe it to my shareholders, if nothing else.”

“Where do you draw the line, Dad?”

“The same place we all do: when we’ve pushed the boundary as far as we can.”

Gazing across the room at his dad, Randall recalled Lindsay’s parting words:
Every time I looked at you, I’d see him
. Were he and his dad more alike than he cared to admit? He had his father’s drive as well as a pit-bull tenacity when it came to achieving his goals. It was those qualities that had made him such an effective trader, and they were also what had brought him here today. He knew his father thought he’d come to repair relations and perhaps forge an alliance that would get Lindsay to accept the offer on the table and thus spare him any further legal woes, but the opposite was true: He intended to thwart his father any way he could. Since he knew persuasion wouldn’t work, he was merely keeping his eyes and ears open for the time being. If he could trick Lloyd into thinking he was willing to join forces with him, if only out of duress, the old man might reveal something he wouldn’t otherwise. Something that could prove helpful to Lindsay.

Victoria called them to supper. Despite his lack of affection for his father’s wife, Randall was touched that she’d gone to the trouble of making the meal herself—filet and roast potatoes, a green salad on the side. Somehow he and his father managed to get through it without any more tense exchanges. They spoke instead of the Napa winery Lloyd had invested in and the merits of various wines, one of which, a vintage merlot, had been opened in honor of the occasion.

Over dessert Victoria gushed to Randall about how much she’d enjoyed his book. “I got so caught up in it, I didn’t get a thing done that day. I even forgot I had a doctor’s appointment.”

“Believe me, that’s the best compliment you can pay an author,” Randall replied.

“I cried at the end. Not because it was sad but because I hated saying good-bye to the characters.”

Lloyd looked up from spearing a forkful of the plum tart on his plate to remark, “Vicky tends to take everything to heart.” He smiled indulgently at her. “You’re too sentimental for your own good, my dear.” It was becoming obvious that she’d also had a bit too much to drink.

She tossed back, “Well, at least I
have
a heart.”

The jab was met by stony silence on Lloyd’s part. Victoria flushed, falling silent as well, and for a while the only sound was the muted clinking of cutlery on china. Clearly they were having marital difficulties. Ordinarily it wouldn’t have been of any concern to Randall, but it occurred to him that there might be a way to use it to his advantage. When his father suggested they head to the den to watch a golf tournament on TV, he seized the opportunity to help clear the table instead. He was carrying his second load of plates into the kitchen when he found Victoria at the sink, staring out the window with tears rolling down her cheeks.

She turned to him with a sheepish look. “I’m sorry. You must think I’m a terrible hostess.”