The Art of Crash Landing (5 page)

I
wake, sweating, the sun shining straight on my face. I check the time; it's almost eight. Grabbing the pillowcase that holds my toiletries, I climb out of the car and look around. I'm on what seems to be the outer edge of one of those quaint, redbrick downtowns. The kind where it looks like you're in a
Leave It to Beaver
episode until you notice that all the shop windows are covered in paper, and the only thriving businesses are attorneys, bail bondsmen, pawnshops, and payday loans places.

Other than my Malibu, this parking lot is empty, as are all the other lots adjoining the similar office buildings nearby. But across the street there's a church with a car parked outside. I walk over.

The main door of the sanctuary is open and I step inside. It's cool and dark and has the familiar blend of candle musk and lemon wood polish I've come to associate with some of the longest Sunday mornings of my life.

A man is standing near the altar, his back toward me, but at the sound of my footsteps he turns and heads in my direction. As
he gets closer I notice both that he is wearing a white-tab in his collar and that he is movie-star handsome.

“I'm Father Barnes,” he says, holding out his hand.

The priest's voice is deep and his hand warm as it envelops mine. He's even better looking up close. Remembering that it's been twenty-four hours since I've last brushed my teeth, I try to angle my dragon breath away from his lovely face. “Mattie Wallace. I'm sorry to bother you, but no place else seems to be open this early. May I use your restroom?”

“Certainly, right this way,”

He leads me through a small door at the front of the chapel, down a narrow hall to the restroom. When I emerge a few minutes later, I walk back down the hall and find the Father in his office a couple doors down.

I poke my head in and say, “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“No problem.” He glances up from his computer. “Anything else I can help you with?” Again with the sexy little half smile. His thick dark hair and long eyelashes are killing me. He doesn't look much like Richard Chamberlain, but I still find myself getting all
Thorn Birds
about the man. What is it about forbidden fruit that makes it so very, very tasty?

“Do you have any idea when the law office across the street opens?”

“Any time now. But I'm pretty sure Charlie Franklin is out of town.”

“Maybe I can see Smith or Barber?”

“Smith moved to Florida six months ago.”

“And Barber?”

“Went to be with the Lord a few years back.”

“Really? Wasn't he a lawyer?”

The priest's lips curl into a smile. He's heard the joke before,
but he's going to humor me anyway. “I've only been here for a few months, but from what I've heard, Randall Barber was a good man. Honest, kind. Not your typical . . .” He pauses here, seeming to search for a word.

I'm waiting for
lawyer
, but instead he says, “Presbyterian.”

I laugh a little harder than politeness requires. This man is beautiful and clever. He's the perfect blend of completely out of my league combined with entirely unavailable, that in my experience guarantees a broken heart. In other words: exactly my type.

My stomach is empty, and I can feel the queasiness revving up, my mouth starting to water. At this point my only two options are getting something into my stomach immediately, or running back to the bathroom. Luckily, there's a candy bowl on the corner of the priest's desk, and luckily again, Father Barnes takes note of my rabid interest in said bowl.

“Help yourself,” he says.

I take one of the tiny obviously Halloween-themed candy bars, only fleetingly concerned about how many months there are between October and June. I rip open the package, stuff the candy in my mouth, and then reach back in and take as many more as I can hold with one hand.

Father Barnes gives me a worried look as I power-load another candy bar into my mouth, and then he reaches into a desk drawer and pulls out a business card.

“I hope we see each other again,” he says.

I want to answer “me too,” but my mouth is so full that I opt for nodding enthusiastically. He's probably just being polite, but if Adonis really wants to hang out with me, I'm all about making sure that happens.

“And if I can help you with anything else, please let me know,” he adds.

Never make an offer you don't want accepted
. I swallow the wad of candy in my mouth. “You know,” I say, “there is one thing . . .”

W
ith a belly full of chocolate, I can now appreciate the fact that it's a beautiful morning—warm but not hot, enough wind blowing to fluff my sleep-flattened hair but not so much that I'd be afraid to wear a dress. You know, if I had a dress. I left Father Barnes my keys, and he's probably on the phone right now calling a garage with a tow truck. I should feel bad about dumping the car problem on him, but he's a priest; helping people with unwashed hair and no money is practically written in his job description. Maybe when I get my inheritance I'll surprise him with some new churchy doodad—an altar cloth maybe, or a fancy brass candlesnuffer.

There are now two cars parked next to mine in the parking lot of Barber, Smith, and Franklin PLLC, so I hustle across the street, toss my toiletries back in my car, and then push through the office's ornate wooden door. Once inside, I have to slow down and give my eyes a moment to adjust; everything about this office is the exact opposite of a sunny June morning. The room is paneled in dark wood, burgundy velvet drapes frame the windows, and the carpet is a vivid emerald and deep like quicksand. The whole place feels like a cross between a bordello and a putting green.

Cutting across the room at improbable angles are strips of hard clear plastic, forming walkways, I suppose. I slog over, step up onto one, and follow the path—with the green carpet it's impossible not to think of it as a cart path—to the reception desk near the center of the room.

Seated at the desk is an impossibly perky woman, her face lit in happy anticipation of our upcoming conversation. As I approach
she pecks a few last letters into her keyboard with her sculpted fingernails and then twists her chair to face me head-on. Her white teeth gleam in the dimly lit room.

“Good morning!” she says—exclamation point hers, not mine. “How may I help you?”

I have no good excuse for what I do next, except for the fact that I am highly allergic to perk. “I'm here to see my dear Uncle Barber. We haven't spoken in years, but he's been like a father to me.”

And just like that, her sparkle is replaced with a stricken expression that almost makes me regret just asking to see a dead guy. Almost.

“Oooooh.” The furrows between her brows deepen. “Oh my God!” Even in suffering she manages to sound excited. “Hang on a second!” She jumps to her feet and scurries, high heels tappity tapping on the plastic runner to a door in the back wall. She doesn't knock before entering.

I follow her, not really so much to overhear the conversation—I can only imagine how many exclamation points are flying around in there—but because such bright sunlight streams from the open door that I'm drawn, like a lost soul, or maybe a doomed moth, toward the light.

As I peek around the doorjamb, two heads turn to face me. Perky, standing next to a desk wringing her hands and, seated at the desk, a man with red hair cut short and freckles covering his face. The man isn't in
Mad Magazine
's Alfred E. Neuman territory, but he's definitely one of those extremely gingery gingers. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

This office has wood floors and pale blue walls and sleek blinds rather than drapes, a balm to the senses after Mata Hari's golf course out there. The man behind the desk waves me inside and without standing, gestures to the wingback chair in front of
his desk. “I'm Luke Lambert,” he says. “Please have a seat. Can I have Patty get you some coffee?”

“No, thanks, I—”

“Iced tea?”

“No, I don't—”

“It's pomegranate!” This is from Patty, practically on her toes in eagerness.

“Well, sure,” I say, sitting down in the proffered chair, “if it's
pomegranate
. . .”

Patty nods, aiming a grateful smile at me and at Mr. Lambert before hurrying out the door.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Ms. . . .”

“Wallace. Mattie Wallace.”

“But Randall Barber passed some time ago.”

“I know. I'm sorry. I was just having a little fun with your secretary.”

“Assistant.”

“Right. Anyway, I talked to Father Barnes, and he already informed me that Mr. Barber
went to be with the Lord
.”

Luke Lambert raises a brow and cocks his head to one side, saying, “Well, that's certainly the best of the options available.”

Another clever man. Excellent. “While we're on the subject of Father Barnes,” I say. “Are Episcopal priests all into the celibacy stuff like regular priests?”

He frowns and studies me for a second before asking, “
Were
we on the subject of Father Barnes?”

“Well . . . we could be.”

Mr. Lambert leans forward, resting his forearms on his desk. He's wearing a shirt and tie, but something about the way that shirt stretches across his shoulders hints at a very muscular build. His eyes are a dappled green and the few lines around them look
like smile lines. I consider having a little flirt, but at the moment he seems annoyed with me.

“If I'm not mistaken,” he says. “Episcopal priests are allowed to marry.”

“Oh. Okay.” I'm a little bummed. A human wife or girlfriend isn't nearly as interesting an adversary as Jesus.

Mr. Lambert is still talking and still looking annoyed. “But since you're not here to see Mr. Barber, and I'm not here to discuss Father Barnes, perhaps you could tell me what we
are
here to discuss?”

“I guess I need to see Mr. Franklin.”

“Well, he's out of town, I'm afraid. But I'm his paralegal, and it's likely that I can help you if you'll tell me what this is regarding.”

“My grandmother died and you guys have been trying to get in touch with me. About an inheritance, I assume.”

His frown clears and he smiles, revealing nice, even teeth, a small dimple in one freckled cheek, and just a bit of a resemblance to Howdy Doody.

“You must be Tilda Thayer's granddaughter. Charlie has been trying to reach you for weeks. We must have had a wrong number.”

“No, it was the right one.”

He gives me a puzzled look. “Well, anyway, it's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Wallace.”

“Call me Mattie.”

He nods. “Then call me Luke.”

Patty steps back in the door and sets one tall glass down on the table next to my chair and the other on Luke's desk. He thanks her, and she flashes her Crest Strips smile and tap taps back out of the office. Luke lifts his glass and takes a sip of his tea. I lift my glass to follow suit, but stop when I notice several green leaves floating on the top.

Luke sees me studying the flora in my beverage and says, “It's
fresh mint. Patty picks it every morning for the tea. We have some in our little garden out back.”

“You're not talking about that weedy patch at the back of the parking lot, by the fence?”

He nods. “It doesn't look like much yet, but this spring we planted some mint, a couple pepper plants, and we hope to have some tomatoes later this summer.” He takes another sip and smiles. “Try it. The mint adds a really interesting taste.”

I set my tea down carefully. I'm pretty sure I know what it's going to taste like this morning. “I think I'll save it for later.”

Howdy pulls out a file and spreads the contents on his desk. “Here's a copy of your grandmother's will.” He holds a stack of papers out toward me.

I stand and step closer to take them from him and immediately see why the man didn't get up and shake my hand when I entered and why he's not standing now. Even the cart paths in the outer office are making sense. Luke Lambert is in a wheelchair.

“Thanks.” I take my papers and sit back down, determined to try really hard to be nice. I'm uncomfortable around people with physical disabilities. Now, with emotional cripples, it's a different story. It's only around them that I truly feel at home.

“Let's see . . .” He glances at the papers and then back at me. “The good news is, now that we've located you,” he pauses, correcting himself, “or, more accurately, now that you've located us, we can get things rolling.”

I chuckle a little before I can stop myself. Now I'm left hoping that he thinks I'm extremely happy that we're going to get things rolling, and not that I cracked up because a man in a wheelchair said
get things rolling
, which you have to admit is a little bit funny. Or maybe I'm just punchy from lack of sleep. Or maybe I'm a jerk.

He continues without missing a beat. “Your grandmother's estate isn't overly large, which will speed things up.”

I look at the clock on his wall, and say, “Great!”

He must have noticed me check the time, because he shakes his head and looks apologetic when he tells me, “Three months.”

I smile at his little joke. It takes me longer than it should to understand he's not joking.

“Sorry,” he adds.

Three months?
I examine his words from several different angles but still come up with the number
three
followed by the word
months
. As in ninety days.

I breathe in and out a few times, considering my situation: I'm knocked up, flat broke, and I've killed my car. I'm stranded in a town where I don't know anybody and with no prospect of cash for three months.