________
ACCORDING TO the bulletin handed to Nate by the elderly usher, the Rector was Father Phil Lancaster, a short, wiry little man with thick horn-rimmed glasses and curly hair that was red and gray. He could’ve been thirty-five or fifty. His flock for the eleven o’clock service was old and thin, no doubt hampered by the weather. Nate counted twenty-one people in the small sanctuary, and that included Phil and the organist. There were many gray heads.
It was a handsome church, with a vaulted ceiling, pews and floors of dark wood, four windows of stained glass. When the lone usher took his seat in the back pew, Phil rose in his black robe and welcomed them to Trinity Church, where everyone was at home. His voice was high and nasal, and he needed no microphone. In his prayer he thanked God for snow and winter, for the seasons given as reminders that He was always in control.
They struggled through the hymns and prayers. When Father Phil preached he noticed Nate, the sole visitor, sitting in the next to last row. They exchanged smiles, and for one scary moment Nate was afraid he was about to be introduced to the small crowd.
His sermon was on the subject of enthusiasm, an odd choice given the average age of his congregation. Nate struggled hard to pay attention, but began to drift. His thoughts returned to the little chapel in Corumbá, with the front doors open, the windows up, the heat drifting through, the dying Christ suffering on the cross, the young man with the guitar.
Careful not to offend Phil, he managed to keep his eyes fixed
on the globe of a dim light on the wall behind and above the pulpit. Given the thickness of the preacher’s eyeglasses, he figured his disinterest would go unnoticed.
Sitting in the warm little church, finally safe from the uncertainties of his great adventure, safe from fevers and storms, safe from the dangers of D.C., safe from his addictions, safe from spiritual extinction, Nate realized that for the first time in memory he was at peace. He feared nothing. God was pulling him in some direction. He wasn’t certain where, but he wasn’t afraid either. Be patient, he told himself.
Then he whispered a prayer. He thanked God for sparing his life, and he prayed for Rachel, because he knew she was praying for him.
The serenity made him smile. When the prayer was over, he opened his eyes and saw that Phil was smiling at him.
After the benediction, they filed past Phil at the front door, each complimenting him on the sermon and mentioning some brief bit of church news. The line moved slowly; it was a ritual. “How’s your aunt?” Phil asked one of his flock, then listened carefully as the aunt’s latest affliction was described. “How’s that hip?” he asked another. “How was Germany?” He clutched their hands and bent forward to hear every word. He knew what was on their minds.
Nate waited patiently at the end of the line. There was no hurry. He had nothing else to do. “Welcome,” Father Phil said as he grabbed Nate by the hand and arm. “Welcome to Trinity.” He squeezed so tightly Nate wondered if he were the first guest in years.
“I’m Nate O’Riley,” he said, then added, “From Washington,” as if that would help define him.
“So nice to have you with us this morning,” Phil said, his big eyes dancing behind the glasses. Up close, the wrinkles revealed that he was at least fifty. His head had more gray curls than red.
“I’m staying in the Stafford cottage for a few days,” Nate said.
“Yes, yes, a lovely home. When did you arrive?”
“This morning.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then you must join us for lunch.”
The aggressive hospitality made Nate laugh. “Well, uh, thanks, but—”
Phil was all smiles too. “No, I insist. My wife makes a lamb stew every time it snows. It’s on the stove now. We have so few guests in the wintertime. Please, the parsonage is just behind the church.”
Nate was in the hands of a man who’d shared his Sunday table with hundreds. “Really, I was just stopping by, and I—”
“It’s our pleasure,” Phil said, already tugging at Nate’s arm and leading him back toward the pulpit. “What do you do in Washington?”
“I’m a lawyer,” Nate said. A complete answer would get complicated.
“What brings you here?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Oh wonderful! Laura and I love stories. Let’s have a long lunch and tell stories. We’ll have a grand time.” His enthusiasm was irresistible. Poor guy was starved for fresh conversation. Why not? thought Nate. There was no food in the cottage. All stores appeared to be closed.
They passed the pulpit and went through a door leading to the rear of the church. Laura was turning off lights. “This is Mr. O’Riley, from Washington,” Phil said loudly to his wife. “He’s agreed to join us for lunch.”
Laura smiled and shook Nate’s hand. She had short gray hair and looked at least ten years older than her husband. If a sudden guest at the table surprised her, it wasn’t evident. Nate got the impression it happened all the time. “Please call me Nate,” he said.
“Nate it is,” Phil announced, peeling off his robe.
The parsonage was adjacent to the church lot, facing a side street. They carefully stepped through the snow. “How was my sermon?” Phil asked her as they stepped onto the porch.
“Excellent, dear,” she said without a trace of enthusiasm. Nate listened and smiled, certain that every Sunday for years Phil had asked the same question, at the same place and time, and received the same answer.
Any hesitation about staying for lunch vanished when he stepped into the house. The rich, heavy aroma of the lamb stew wafted through the den. Phil poked at the orange coals in the fireplace while Laura prepared the meal.
In the narrow dining room between the kitchen and the den, a table had been set for four. Nate was pleased that he had accepted their invitation, not that he’d had the chance to decline it.
“We’re so glad you’re here,” Phil said as they took their seats. “I had a hunch we might have a guest today.”
“Whose place is that?” Nate asked, nodding to the empty setting.
“We always set four places on Sunday,” Laura said, and let the explanation go at that. They held hands as Phil thanked God again for the snow and the seasons, and for the food. He concluded with, “And keep us ever mindful of the needs and wants of others.” Those words triggered something in Nate’s memory. He’d heard them before, many, many years before.
As the food was passed around, there was the usual talk about the morning. They averaged forty at the eleven o’clock service. The snow had indeed kept people away. And there was a flu bug on the peninsula. Nate complimented them on the simple beauty of the sanctuary. They had been in St. Michaels for six years. Not long into the lunch, Laura said, “You have a nice tan for January. You didn’t get that in Washington?”
“No. I just returned from Brazil.” They both stopped eating
and leaned closer. The adventure was on again. Nate took a large spoonful of stew, which was thick and delicious, then began the story.
“Please eat,” Laura said every five minutes or so. Nate took a bite, chewed slowly, then proceeded. He referred to Rachel only as “the daughter of a client.” The storms grew fiercer, the snakes longer, the boat smaller, the Indians less friendly. Phil’s eyes danced with amazement as Nate went from chapter to chapter.
It was the second time Nate had told the story since his return. Other than a slight exaggeration here and there, he kept to the facts. And it amazed even him. It was a remarkable story to tell, and his hosts got a long, rich version of it. They wedged in questions whenever they could.
When Laura cleared the table and served brownies for dessert, Nate and Jevy had just arrived at the first Ipica settlement.
“Was she surprised to see you?” Phil asked when Nate described the scene with the band of Indians leading the woman out of the village to meet them.
“Not really,” Nate said. “She seemed to know we were coming.”
Nate did his best to describe the Indians and their Stone Age culture, but words failed to deliver the right images. He ate two brownies, clearing his plate with large bites during brief gaps in the narrative.
They pushed their plates away and had coffee. Sunday lunch for Phil and Laura was more about conversation than eating. Nate wondered who’d been the last guest lucky enough to be invited in for stories and food.
It was hard to downplay the horrors of dengue, but Nate tried gamely. A couple of days in the hospital, some medication, and he was back on his feet. When he finished, the questions began. Phil wanted to know everything about the missionary—her denomination, her faith, her work with the Indians. Laura’s sister had
lived in China for fifteen years, working in a church hospital, and this became the source of more stories.
It was almost three o’clock when Nate made it to the door. His hosts would have gladly sat at the table or in the den and talked until dark, but Nate needed a walk. He thanked them for their hospitality, and when he left them waving on the porch he felt as though he’d known them for years.
It took an hour to walk St. Michaels. The streets were narrow and lined with homes a hundred years old. Nothing was out of place, no stray dogs, vacant lots, abandoned buildings. Even the snow was neat—carefully shoveled so that the streets and sidewalks were clear and no neighbor was offended. Nate stopped at the pier and admired the sailboats. He had never set foot on one.
He decided he wouldn’t leave St. Michaels until he was forced. He would live in the cottage, and remain there until Josh politely evicted him. He would save his money, and when the Phelan matter was over he would find some way to hang on.
Near the harbor he stumbled on to a small grocery about to close for the day. He bought coffee, canned soup, saltines, and oatmeal for breakfast. There was a display of bottled beer by the counter. He smiled at it, happy those days were behind him.
FORTY
_____________
G
rit got himself fired by fax and by e-mail, a first for his office. Mary Ross did it to him, early Monday morning, after a tense weekend with her brothers.
Grit did not exit gracefully. He faxed her back and submitted a bill for his services to date—148 hours at $600 per, for a total of $88,800. His hourly billings were to be applied against his percentage upon settlement or other favorable outcome. Grit didn’t want $600 an hour. Grit wanted a piece of the pie, a healthy fraction of his client’s cut, the 25 percent he’d negotiated. Grit wanted millions, and as he sat in his locked office, staring at the fax, he found it impossible to believe that his fortune had slipped away. He truly believed that after a few months of hardball litigation, the Phelan estate would settle with the children. Throw twenty million at each of the six, watch them attack it like hungry dogs, and there wouldn’t be the slightest dent in the Phelan fortune. Twenty million to his client was five million to
him, and Grit, alone, had to confess that he’d already thought of several ways to spend it.
He called Hark’s office to curse him, but was told Mr. Gettys was too busy at the moment.
Mr. Gettys now had three of the four heirs from the first family. His percentage had dropped from twenty-five to twenty, and now to seventeen-five. But his upside potential was enormous.
Mr. Gettys walked into his conference room a few minutes after ten and greeted the remaining Phelan lawyers, gathered there for an important meeting. He cheerfully said, “I have an announcement. Mr. Grit is no longer involved in this case. His ex-client, Mary Ross Phelan Jackman, has asked me to represent her, and, after much consideration, I have agreed to do so.”
His words hit like small bombs around the conference table. Yancy stroked his scraggly beard and wondered what method of coercion had been used to pry the woman away from Grit’s tentacles. He felt somewhat safe, though. Ramble’s mother had used every means possible to lure the kid to another lawyer. But the kid hated his mother.
Madam Langhorne was surprised, especially since Hark had just added Troy Junior as a client. But after the brief shock, she felt secure. Her client, Geena Phelan Strong, detested her older half-brothers and -sisters. Surely she wouldn’t throw in with their lawyer. Nonetheless, a power lunch was needed. She would call Geena and Cody when the meeting was over. They’d dine at the Promenade near the Capitol, and maybe catch a glimpse of a powerful subcommittee vice chairman.
The back of Wally Bright’s neck turned scarlet with the news. Hark was raiding clients, chasing ambulances. Only Libbigail remained from the first family, and Wally Bright would kill Hark if he tried to steal her. “Stay away from my client, okay?” he said loudly and bitterly, and the entire room froze.
“Relax.”
“Relax, my ass. How can we relax when you’re stealing clients?”
“I didn’t steal Mrs. Jackman. She called me. I didn’t call her.”
“We know the game you’re playing, Hark. We’re not stupid.” Wally said this while looking at his fellow lawyers. They certainly didn’t consider themselves to be stupid, but they weren’t so sure about Wally. Truth was, no one could trust anyone. There was simply too much money at stake to assume that the lawyer next to you would not pull out a knife.
They led Snead in, and this changed the focus of the discussion. Hark introduced him to the group. Poor Snead looked like a man facing a firing squad. He sat at the end of the table, with two video cameras aimed at him. “This is just a rehearsal,” Hark assured him. “Relax.” The lawyers pulled out legal pads covered with questions, and they inched closer to Snead.
Hark walked behind him, patted him on the shoulder, and said, “Now, when you give your deposition, Mr. Snead, the lawyers for the other side will be allowed to interrogate you first. So for the next hour or so, you are to assume that we are the enemy. Okay?”
It certainly wasn’t okay with Snead, but he’d taken their money. He had to play along.
Hark picked up his legal pad and began asking questions, simple things about his birth, background, family, school, easy stuff that Snead handled well and relaxed with. Then the early years with Mr. Phelan, and a thousand questions that seemed completely irrelevant.