When Lightning Strikes Twice (19 page)

She followed Laurel into the kitchen, watched her open the freezer portion of the refrigerator and stare at the contents inside.

“Everybody else in the world might have plans for Friday night but never Professor Gerald Lynton. Oh no, he wants to stay home on Fridays and have his dinner served to him on a tray so he can watch C-SPAN while he eats. That’s his idea of kicking off the weekend—eating dinner in front of the TV set watching Congress doing nothing. Wow! Really wild, huh, Rach?”

“You two had a fight,” Rachel surmised.

Laurel sneered. “Duh!”

Rachel studied her sister closely. Laurel was something of a drama queen. She and her husband used to fight a lot but in the past year, their quarrels seemed to have diminished in number and ferocity. Rachel had been frankly relieved. It seemed to her that Laurel and Gerald were heading toward a higher realm, a comfortable mature companionship.

Now it appeared the couple had relapsed and were back in the lowlands of fighting and tears. Except Laurel’s eyes were dry, not even slightly red-rimmed. She had not been crying, an observation that filled Rachel with trepidation. Laurel always cried!

“You don’t have any ice cream.” Laurel closed the freezer and turned to Rachel to flash her adorable smile, the one that Wade often joked she should patent because it worked so well. He had a similar version of his own.

“I know what, Rachel. Let’s go out for ice cream. Please!” Laurel caught her sister’s hand. “We can go to Richman’s in Cherry Hill and we’ll get banana splits, like we used to. Oh let’s, Rachel. It’ll be fun!”

Was it destiny or a peculiar coincidence that bananas seemed to be play an integral part of this evening? First, Brady with his video, now Laurel with her demand to go to the ice-cream shop. Scarily enough, Laurel was acting a bit like Brady, clutching Rachel’s hand, practically jumping up and down … ready to throw a tantrum if thwarted? All of that was perfectly normal for a two-year-old, but Laurel was a married woman, the mother of a three-year-old girl.

Rachel thought of her small niece and her heart clenched. “Laurel, I think you should go home and make up with Gerald right now. Does he know where you are? I didn’t see your car outside. How did you get here?”

“Gerald wouldn’t let me have the car keys, so I ran out of the house.” Laurel pouted, all traces of adorable amiability gone. “I decided to walk over here, and who should be driving along Lake Avenue but Wade, so I hitched a ride with him. He was in a horrible mood—he just about bit my head off when I asked him why he was alone on a
Friday night—but he dropped me off here.”

“Did you tell Wade you’d had a fight with Gerald?”

“I told him what I told Gerald, that I was sick and tired of acting like I was forty instead of twenty-three. I want to have some fun, I want to have a life!”

“You have a life, Laurel. You’re married and a mother; it’s what you’ve always wanted.”

“You sound just like Wade!” Laurel snapped. “Well, I’ll tell you what I told him. It’s not enough! I don’t have any friends, I don’t have anyone to talk to or do fun things with. Gerald expects me to hang around with those dull faculty wives and most of them have kids as old as me or even older! Well, I have nothing to—”

“What did Gerald say when you told him all this?” Rachel made herself ask.

“Oh, the usual. He tried to tell me what to think and what to do and how to feel; he acted like he’s the brilliant master and I’m the nitwit slave.”

Rachel was very nervous indeed. She remembered Aunt Eve predicting this outcome,
this very argument
, during Laurel’s engagement to Gerald Lynton, the professor who taught the required freshman course Government and the Constitution at Carbury College. Eighteen-year-old Laurel had found the subject boring but the bachelor professor fascinating. She and Lynton carried on a secret romance for a year before gossip reached the administration, forcing the taboo relationship into the open.

Aunt Eve wanted to press sexual-harassment charges against Professor Lynton for violating teacher-student strictures, she wanted him fired from his faculty position, tenure be damned. Laurel wanted to get married and her mother, though expressing a few reservations about the couple’s age difference, was eager to begin planning the wedding.

Rachel remembered Laurel’s big elaborate wedding—she’d been a reluctant maid of honor—with mixed feelings. She couldn’t forget Aunt Eve’s prediction of disaster for the couple whom she descibed as “criminally mismatched in age and in every other way.” But Laurel had been a
lovely happy bride, Gerald seemed very much in love with her, and their mother was genuinely thrilled. Professor Whit Saxon, as usual, had little to say. He believed daughters were the main province of their mother and rarely offered opinions or advice to either Rachel or Laurel.

Since Snowy’s birth, Rachel’s doubts about the couple’s future had begun to fade, she’d even taken a liking to her sometimes pedantic brother-in-law. She was certain Gerald loved his wife and child, and that elemental fact was what really mattered, wasn’t it?

But now, here was Laurel claiming that her husband was old and dull while she was young and wanted to have fun.

Rachel didn’t know how to deal with this new strange version of Laurel, who talked about having “fun.” Was fun a euphemism for something as simple as Laurel taking tap-dancing and aerobics classes at the community center, which she’d once signed up for, then quit because Gerald deemed it a waste of her time? Or did this rebel-Laurel equate fun with the ominous concept of sexual freedom?

Rachel gazed assessingly at her sister. A reality check was definitely in order. “Laurel, this alleged
fun
you think you want to have is vastly overrated. You’ve been involved with Gerald since you were eighteen, and you went with Brian Collender for four years before that. You’ve been protected from the sadistic dating hell that’s been misnamed
fun
. You already have what every woman wants, Laurel. A husband who loves you, an adorable child who—”

“Every woman doesn’t want that, Rachel.
You
don’t,” countered Laurel. “Aunt Eve sure doesn’t. And I can finally see why. Both of you do important, interesting things, you have exciting lives. You take trips and buy cool cars and don’t have to ask anybody’s permission to go where you want or get what you want. You don’t have anybody hovering over you telling you what to do and say and wear.”

“Your life isn’t like that, Laurel,” Rachel argued weakly because her sister’s marriage was a lot like that. Gerald was the dominant partner; his word was final, no matter what.
Aunt Eve had said from the start it would be that way. But it was what Laurel had claimed she wanted more than anything else in the world.

“Yes, it is and we all know it!” Laurel’s voice rose, and she spoke with a force and an intensity that was totally out of character for her. “I’m miserable, Rachel! It’s been building and building inside me. I haven’t said a word to anybody, but this past year I realized that marrying Gerald was a big mistake!”

“Oh, Laurel, no!” Rachel gasped her dismay.

Which incited Laurel even more. “It’s true, and I can’t take it anymore! I want what you have, Rachel. I want a life like yours and Aunt Eve’s. It’s not too late for me to start over, is it? I’m only twenty-three, I can go back to school and—”

The telephone began to ring and Laurel paused in mid-sentence. “Aren’t you going to get that?” she asked when Rachel remained immobile, not bothering to take the three necessary steps to pick up the receiver.

Rachel shook her head, and the answering machine automatically clicked on at the sixth ring.

“Rachel, this is Quint. Pick up, I know you’re there,” Quint’s voice came over the line. “Misty is gone, and we need to talk.”

“M
isty?” Laurel’s eyes widened with interest. “Does he mean Misty Tilden? Is—Is that Quinton Cormack, the lawyer?” she added incredulously.

Even Laurel, who had always been uninterested in the goings-on at Saxon Associates, knew about the good-vs-evil Pedersen case and who had been on which side.

“Quint Cormack and Misty Tilden can wait, Laurel,” Rachel murmured. “Right now it’s more important for you and me to—”

“I’m not going to hang up, Rachel.” Quint’s disembodied voice sounded amused. “You might as well bite the bullet and pick up.”

Laurel made a move toward the receiver but Rachel blocked her way. “No, don’t, Laurel.”

“I want to thank you for putting Brady to bed and getting him out of the cross fire,” Quint continued, seemingly perfectly at ease with his one-sided conversation. “He’s sleeping peacefully, thanks to you. Rachel, please pick up.”

“Brady?”
Laurel gaped at Rachel, agog. “Little Brady who was with you at my house? He belongs to
Quinton Cormack
, the lawyer?”

“Didn’t I mention that?” Rachel looked sheepish.

“You know you didn’t! You let me believe his parents were law-school friends of yours. But forget about that for now, Rachel. He wants to talk about Town Senior’s trashy widow, doesn’t he? That’s got to be really important!”

Laurel pushed Rachel aside and grabbed the telephone receiver from its cradle. “Hi, this is Laurel, Rachel’s little sister. Hold on a sec, she’s right here.”

Laurel shoved the phone into Rachel’s hand. “Talk to him, Rach.”

She strode into the living room and Rachel heard the television set switched on. Was Laurel matchmaking—old instincts died hard—or had her newfound interest in having a career inspired her to promote Rachel’s?

Rachel gripped the phone and faced the inevitable. “Hello, Quint.”

“You sound upset. With me or with your sister?”

His perception annoyed Rachel. She hadn’t thought she’d given anything away with her noncommittal hello. “Why would I be upset with Laurel?”

“I’ve found that adults who refer to themselves as
little
have a knack for upsetting those around them. So why is Little Sister at your place at this hour? Is Snowy there, too, or was she left at home?”

Quint’s insight unsettled her, irritated her, too. “Can’t my own sister visit me on a Friday night by herself without something being wrong?” Rachel was startled to hear herself using Laurel’s own argument. Unfortunately, it seemed as unconvincing coming from her as it had from Laurel.

A fact the ever-intuitive Quint instantly divined. “You sound a lot like I do after listening to Carla’s litany of complaints. Am I on the right track here, Rachel?”

Rachel leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. He’d caught her at a weak moment, she conceded, and he understood without her having to explain. “Yes.”

“Has she reached hysteria and tears yet?”

“Not yet.” Rachel peered into the living room, where Laurel was staring at the TV screen, her expression mutinous. “But it wouldn’t take much. One more mention of Gerald would probably do it,” she added, her voice low and tense.

“Then may I recommmend not mentioning him?”

“Thanks for the advice. Are you going to bill me for your professional expertise?”

Quint chuckled. “For you, it’s free. Rachel, about Misty—”

“Don’t apologize for not introducing us, I don’t have a death wish. If she was willing to rip out my ovaries because she thought I was Brady’s mother, she’d probably go for my jugular vein if she knew I’m the Tildens’ attorney.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” Suddenly Quint sounded grim. “I need to talk to you, Rachel. I was hoping you could come back over here tonight so I could—uh—bring you up to speed on some developments in the Tilden case. We really can’t do it over the phone.”

Heat flared through her, making her body feel heavy in some places, tight in others. Her instantaneous sensual response thoroughly unnerved her. He was speaking professionally, but she was reacting to him on an entirely different level—even reading a double entendre into “We can’t do it over the phone”!

Were there really developments in the Tilden case urgent enough for an impromptu Friday night meeting, or did he want her to come to him for reasons that had nothing to do with Misty Tilden?

All thoughts of the Tildens dispersed as Rachel imagined being alone with Quint in the dark quiet house. Sarah Sheely would not arrive to interrupt anything and Brady, that dogged little chaperone, would be asleep and unavailable to protect her from …

Rachel felt herself blushing. She needed protection from herself, from what she wanted to do with Quint.

And that was totally unacceptable.

“I can’t,” she said quickly, her voice betraying an embarrassing breathlessness. “Laurel’s here, and if you want to—to discuss the Tildens, Aunt Eve should be present.”

“All right. Don’t say I didn’t try, Rachel.” Quint cleared his throat. “How do you intend to handle your sister?”

“What do you mean?” Rachel felt a ridiculous disappointment
that he’d so easily dropped the idea of meeting tonight.

She immediately took herself to task for idiocy unbecoming a lawyer, a state Quint Cormack seemed to induce in her. She should hang up now and focus on the fact that this man was her professional archenemy.

But she didn’t.

“Your goal is to get your sister to go home without lighting her fuse, isn’t it? For that, you’ll need a plan,” explained Quint.

“It sounds like you’re well versed in this area.” Rachel massaged her left temple with her fingertips. A steady pounding throb was beginning, the first symptoms of what promised to be a killer tension headache. She remembered how capably Quint dealt with Carla and Misty and couldn’t help but wish he were here to defuse Laurel.

“And it sounds like you’re not. A practical word of advice?”

“Please.”

“Don’t try to give
her
advice, not while she’s still volatile. Divert her instead.”

“Maybe by—going out for ice cream?”

“That could work.” Quint approved. “It’s hard to sustain melodrama in a place that sells ice cream. Meanwhile, adopt a supportive role, not a controlling one. Tell Laurel that you understand she’s stressed, that she needs to take some time for herself.”

Rachel was doubtful. It seemed awfully simplistic, especially in light of Laurel’s angry dissatisfaction. “And you think that’ll work?”

“It’s worth a try. That’s what Carla’s mother tells Sarah and me when she palms the boys off on us every other weekend, that Carla needs time for herself. You might have noticed Carla doesn’t handle stress very well.”

Too true; Rachel thought of Carla and the ambulance she’d taken hostage. “So Carla and her mother have arranged to get free baby-sitting every other weekend?”

“They know Sarah’s schedule and drop Austin and Dustin
off on the weekends she’s working. Brady likes having them around and Sarah doesn’t mind. Sheelys are used to a full house.”

“And what about you?”

“It’s not about me, Rachel.”

She understood what he wasn’t saying. That he had willingly assumed responsibility for his young half brothers, that he was building a relationship with them and encouraging a bond between the boys and little Brady.

“Sometimes Carla gets so stressed that she needs a break from the boys when Sarah isn’t working, like tomorrow,” Quint said dryly. “So I’m taking Brady, Austin, and Dustin to some sort of medieval fair in Bucks County.”

“Oh, a Renaissance Festival, I’ve heard of those. People dress in period costumes and there are activities and games from that era.”

Quint heaved a groan. “I was afraid of that.”

“It could be interesting. Living history, and all.”

“Austin’s teacher recommended it. Since I’ve moved here, I’ve come to realize that when a grade-school teacher heartily recommends some activity or place, it’s going to be deadly for the adult who dutifully drags the kids there.”

Rachel smiled. “I’m sure you’ll all have a wonderful time.”

“If you and Snowy want to join us, give me a call before eleven.”

The invitation caught her off guard. And then it made sense. “You—think I should offer to keep Snowy all day tomorrow so Laurel can have some time to herself?”

“Go to the head of the class, Rachel. Your deductive skills are top-notch.”

“I don’t know if Laurel will agree. Her—uh—stress doesn’t have anything to do with Snowy; she is a devoted mother and—”

“Odds are, she’ll jump at the chance to take a break from the kid. She’s probably well on the way to convincing herself that Snowy is old enough to be independent, that she
doesn’t want to be one of those smothering mothers who won’t give her child plenty of personal space.”

“Independent? Personal space?” His cynicism, so cool and matter-of-fact, riled Rachel. “Are you crazy? Snowy is only three!”

“Brady was not quite a year old when his mother spun that tale for me.”

Rachel’s breath caught. “She said she was leaving him because a one-year-old child ought to be independent from his mother?”

“That’s the politically correct version which does play better than the real one … she wanted to follow her boyfriend—who has no use for kids—around the world.”

Misty had said Brady’s mother dumped him and also mentioned a boyfriend in Eastern Europe. The politically incorrect version of the little boy’s absent mother certainly explained Quint’s cynical attitude and Misty’s hostility.

“All mothers aren’t like that, Quint,” Rachel said quietly.

“I know. But some are.”

Rachel swallowed. “I’m sorry, Quint.”

“You’re sorry Brady’s mother could justify leaving him because she found more interesting things to do than take care of him? Yeah, so am I, but her rationalization is a theme that’s been promoted for years. It’s a convenient out for those who want to believe it, Rachel.”

“It’s nothing but self-serving narcissism.” And then she remembered what he’d said earlier, about her sister. “Laurel isn’t like that.”

“I hope not, for your niece’s sake. Well, good luck, Rachel. And good night.”

Rachel didn’t want him to hang up, she wanted to talk more about Brady’s mother and Laurel’s troublesome behavior. She wouldn’t even mind discussing Misty Tilden, despite the absence of Aunt Eve. She felt like she could’ve talked for hours to Quint, but he was no longer on the line.

Rachel gulped down two Excedrin tablets, then squared her shoulders and walked into the living room. “Laurel,
let’s go to Richman’s.” She pasted a big smile on her face. Divert her, Quint had advised. “I’m not up for a banana split, but I’d love some coffee ice cream.”

“With hot fudge sauce!” Laurel exclaimed. She threw her arms around Rachel. “I knew I could count on you, Rach. I knew you’d understand.”

Wade pulled his car into a space in the parking lot behind the Lake view Police Station. He saw his aunt’s Porsche parked there, along with a fleet of luxury cars that he knew belonged to various Tildens.

Maybe he should pinch himself. Wasn’t that the traditional way to discover if one were awake or dreaming? Waking up in bed to contemplate this very strange dream would make far more sense than actually being here at the police station to represent his clients, the Tildens.

According to Aunt Eve’s phone message, Lakeview’s wealthiest, most prominent family had been ordered by Chief Nick Spagna to come down to the station this morning to discuss the criminal complaints that had been filed against them.

Just for the hell of it, Wade pinched his arm hard.

Ouch! Well, he was definitely awake.

It was a sunny, balmy morning, and on the wide grassy lawn in front of the police station Eve Saxon stood with Town Tilden Junior and his son Town Three. Town Junior’s sister Marguerite Tilden Lloyd and her husband were also in attendance with their daughter Sloane, who’d been in the class behind Wade’s at Lakeview Academy, and son Tilden, also an academy alumnus, three years younger than his sister.

Every one of them looked infuriated, Wade noted, although perhaps that was too mild a term to describe their wild eyes, contorted features, and purple-faced rage. Rabid seemed more apt.

“Did you contact Rachel?” Eve asked her nephew, as he joined the group.

Wade shook his head. “I finally ended up calling Laurel,
who said Rachel took Snowy for the day. They could be anywhere, at the zoo or—”

“All right,” Eve cut in. “We can manage without her, of course, I just wanted her here as a show of solidarity.”

“Did you talk to Cormack?” Town Junior demanded.

He did not bother to specify which Cormack. Quinton had become
the
Cormack, the only one, redefining the name and rendering his inept father Frank to the ranks of irrelevancy.

“No,” Eve replied. “I got his voice mail at his office and his answering machine at his home. I even tried the Sheely girl, who works for him, but her parents claim she is unavailable.”

“She is unavailable, she’s in north Jersey,” Wade spoke up.

He didn’t like his aunt’s implication that Bob and Mary Jean Sheely were being less than honest concerning their daughter’s whereabouts, although that didn’t mean his anger at Dana had lessened one iota.

He was still furious with her for evicting him from her room, for acting like that passionate little scene between them counted for nothing. Worse, he’d spent a rotten, almost-sleepless night, so mad at her he could hardly stand to say her name yet hotter for her than he’d ever been for any woman in his life, a conflict guaranteed to derange even the sanest man.

So here he stood, deranged, defending Dana while wanting to curse her. “That’s probably where Cormack is, too. They’re working on a personal injury suit up there.”

And that had damn well better be all they were doing up there or he’d go straight to Bob and Mary Jean, who would never tolerate a liaison between Dana and the divorced Quint, job or no job. Wade felt a glowing moment of righteousness.

“Well, I’d like to make
them
victims in their own personal injury suit.” Young Tilden Lloyd was venomous. “I’d love to see them suffer catastrophic personal injuries. I want to personally pulverize—”