A Soft Place to Fall (32 page)

The sense that Sam Butler was hiding
something was too strong to ignore. So was the certainty that Annie
was going to be hurt. He knew there wasn't any hope for him but
he'd be damned if he stood still while some other guy broke her
heart. If he couldn't have her, the least he could do was make sure
a better man did. And there was no way in hell that Sam Butler was
the better man.

What could it hurt to fax the clipping to
some of his friends and colleagues down in New York and see what,
if anything, he could uncover. Susan said the guy was some kind of
bean counter on Wall Street. That was a good place to start. He had
failed Annie once with his silence. He didn't want to make that
mistake a second time.

#

Sam spent his days at work in Warren's barn
and his nights in Annie's bed, moving easily between heaven and
paradise. The first of the canoes was almost finished. All that
remained was the time-consuming job of stretching the canvas over
the frame and securing it at one-inch intervals. Most people would
have found the work tedious and repetitive but not Sam. He loved
everything about the process. The sharp-sweet smell of freshly cut
wood. The graceful curve of the shell. The symmetry of the bench
seats. The taut crispness of canvas stretched to its limit.

Canoes were wonders of maritime construction,
elegant and efficient, the perfect example of the "less is more"
philosophy. They glided silently through the waters same as they
had two centuries ago when the Penobscot still outnumbered the
white man. Canoes were rich with the history of the place and Sam
found himself drawn more deeply into the process with every day
and, by association, more deeply drawn into lure of the region and
its people.

Both Annie and Warren were of this place. The
rugged shoreline and fertile waters had helped shape them. They
were both strong and honorable and fiercely loyal to the people and
things they loved, old-fashioned virtues he understood even if he
fell far short in applying them to real life.

Warren and some of his old friends were up in
Canada on their annual mid-October fishing expedition which
coincided with Pete and Nancy's week in Rhode Island with their
daughter and new grandbaby. Sam said he would take in the mail and
keep a casual eye on the house but except for an occasional FedEx
delivery, nobody ever drove past the mailbox at the foot of the
driveway. Solitude of this richness and magnitude was new to Sam
and he was surprised to discover how much he liked it. He was able
to sink deeply into his work to the point where the rest of the
world fell away. Annie was that way too. He had noticed the way she
blocked out everything but the project at hand when she worked,
sailing away deep into some interior world that was hers alone.
Further proof, as if he needed any, that they were meant to be.

Warren had been elated when she told him that
she'd nailed a concept for the front of the museum and he had faxed
her list of materials to a friend who promised to fulfill the order
within the next two weeks. Annie alternated between excitement and
terror, convinced one minute that she was about to make her mark
and equally convinced the next that she was doomed to failure.

She fascinated him, delighted him, made him
feel anything was possible. She understood the deep loneliness that
never quite went away because she felt it too. Losing both parents
was like being cast adrift in hostile waters without a compass. It
marked you, changed you forever in the most primal way possible.
Life would never again seem safe or easy. He was glad she'd had the
Galloway family to drew her into their circle and made her one of
their own. He wished his own brothers and sisters had been half
that lucky. He had done his best but more often than not these days
it seemed as if his best hadn't been close to good enough.

He began to close up shop around six o'clock.
Max, who had been sleeping peacefully in a quiet corner of the
barn-turned-workroom, barked twice and took off through the open
door.

"Max!" Sam bellowed. "Get back here now!"

Warren's house was situated deep in the woods
and neither he nor Max had a good sense of direction. He could be
out there half the night looking for the yellow Lab if he didn't
grab him right now.

Night came early these days. The side lawn
was bathed in shadow and he caught a glimpse of Max's form as the
dog raced around the corner of the house. Sam picked up speed. Max
was headed for the driveway which meant it wouldn't be long before
he was down on the main road.

Except there he was, barking his brains out
at a strange car parked right behind Sam's Trooper. The cars lights
were on but the engine was off.

"It's okay, boy," Sam said, scratching Max
behind his ear. "I'll take it from here."

The dog did one of those fast-footed dog
dances that no human on earth could imitate then, still barking, he
ran toward the front door of the house.

Sam did a quick check of front and back
seats. A woman's purse lay open on the passenger's seat. Papers
spilled from purse to seat to floor. Checkbook, pen, some stapled
pages filled with typing, one of those Adam Winters brochures.The
keys dangled from the ignition. The perfume was rich and a little
too strong for his taste. Definitely not Annie's.

He heard Max's hysterical barking from the
front of the house and a woman's high-pitched call. To hell with
the car. Moments later he bounded up the front steps and found
himself face to face with Annie's former mother-in-law who was in
what seemed to be a state of near hysteria.

"Where is he?" she demanded. Her face was
streaked with tears. "I need to speak to Warren right now."

"He's up in Canada on his fishing trip," Sam
said. "Can I help you with anything?"

"That old fool is never here when I need
him." Her voice was ragged and she brushed tears off her face.
"What am I going to do?"

"You'd better sit down," Sam said. "You're
swaying on your feet."

He put a hand on her arm and she pulled
away.

"I'm not senile yet," she snapped. "I can
stand on my own two feet."

"Sorry." He backed away, palms held outward.
"Why don't you come in and sit down."
Lady, you're acting like
it's a Prozac moment.

He pushed open the door and ushered her into
the front hall. He gestured toward the living room. "Sit down," he
said, risking another outburst. "I'll get you some water."

She ignored him and headed toward the back of
the house. "I know this place like the back of my hand," she said
over her shoulder. "I'll get my own water."

"Whatever," he muttered, as he and Max
followed close behind. It was clear she didn't like him and at the
moment the feeling was mutual.

She fumbled in the cabinet over the stove,
looking for a water glass. "Wineglasses on the bottom shelf. What
is Nancy thinking of?" Her hands shook as she reached for a chunky
little glass on the second shelf.

Sam reached over her head and took down the
glass. "Here," he said. "This is what you were looking for,
right?"

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." Who knew polite could sound
so angry.

She filled the glass from the tap then took
two noisy gulps. She sounded like Max at his bowl. He had the
feeling it was the first time in her life that Claudia Galloway
fell short of perfection.

"I'm great with cars," he said. "If you need
a tire changed or anything –"

"My son-in-law is a master mechanic," she
said through a fresh fall of tears.

"You left your lights on," he said. "I turned
them off for you."

"That wasn't necessary."

"It will be when you try to start your
engine."

She waved a hand in the air. "I don't
care."

He thought about the mess on the front seat
of her car. The spilled contents of her purse. The checkbook. The
papers that looked a hell of a lot like signed contracts. Adam
Winters's glossy four-color face staring up at him from the front
of a brochure. Her desperate need to see Warren.
I'll give it
one more shot, Mrs. G, then I'm outta here.

She was seated at the kitchen table, her slim
body curled over the stubby glass of water. She looked the way his
mother used to look when they were going to be late again with the
rent. She looked the way his clients must have looked when they
realized they were bleeding money.

"You signed a contract with Adam Winters,
didn't you?"

She looked up at him, her face a study in
despair. "How did you know?"

"Lucky guess," he said. "How bad is it?"

"Bad," she said, burying her face in her
hands. "Terribly bad."

He asked for a number and the one she told
him rocked him back on his heels. One year ago the amount wouldn't
have made him blink.

"You're right," he said. "That's pretty damn
bad."

"You tell anyone and I'll have your head,"
she said angrily. "I don't know why on earth I told you."

"You didn't," he pointed out. "I
guessed."

"Well, now you can just forget all about it,"
she ordered him. "This is none of your business."

Let it drop, Butler. You don't need this.
Lie low just a little while longer.

"You're right," he said, "it isn't any of my
business but what would you say if I told you I might be able to
help."

"You?" She looked like she'd be surprised to
find out he could count without using his fingers and toes.

He repeated the dollar figure she'd quoted
and waited a moment for its magnitude to sink in. "You're already
in about as deep as it gets. Will it hurt to listen to what I have
to say?"

#

Sam Butler insisted on driving behind Claudia
all the way home. She pulled into her driveway and gave him her
best Queen Elizabeth wave then let herself into the house. He
didn't leave until she switched on her lights and even then he
waited a minute or two just to be sure. If one of her sons had
shown such good manners she would have been insufferably proud but
this was the man who was trying to take Kevin's place and she was
not about to grant him any quarter.

He didn't have to help you, Claudia. He
could have left you to figure your own way out of this mess.

"What nonsense," she muttered as she hung up
her jacket in the hall closet then slipped out of her shoes. So
what if he wrote down some names and phone numbers for her. That
was hardly putting himself out, was it?

You're turning into a bitter old woman. He
isn't the one who signed away your life savings.

No, she did that herself. Even now, with the
evidence spread across the kitchen table, she couldn't quite
believe she had done such a thing. Roberta was usually the one who
leaped before she looked. Claudia couldn't count the number of
crazy schemes her friend had been involved in but this time Roberta
had folded up her certified check and slipped it back into her
purse before Adam had finished his presentation.

But not Claudia. Roberta's prudence had
seemed more like cowardice to her at the time. Adam Winters's
speech had been rousing and prophetic. He had promised them freedom
from HMOs and greedy children. Who wouldn't want to be
independently wealthy, able to call their own shots without
worrying about co-payments or becoming a burden later in life. Adam
understood their needs without being told. It was hard to believe
he was only thirty years old; he was as mature as a man twice his
age. He had seemed so interested in her. He had answered her
questions, almost anticipating them – or so it had seemed. He had
opened her eyes to the precarious nature of her financial
existence. Best of all, he had provided answers, a sensible way to
invest her money and double it within the first two years.

"Of course, the larger the investment, the
more spectacular the payoff," he had said. "Why put a limit on your
dreams?"

Claudia couldn't answer that. The thought of
being dependent upon her children for the basic necessities of life
terrified her. She couldn't imagine relying on Susan for groceries
or Eileen to pay the property taxes. And what if she lost the car
and was reduced to asking Annie for a lift to the flower shop every
day. She had read once about old people in Greenland or some other
cold and lonely place. When a man or woman was too old to be of
value any longer, the old person would crawl onto an ice floe and
just drift away. The first time she'd heard that story she had been
horrified, grateful to be living in the modern world with its
enlightened views on growing older. But with every year that
passed, and there had been many of them, she found herself
understanding the ice floe mentality just a little bit better.

Adam Winters had a chart for everything. He
diagrammed the Dow and NASDAQ over the last five years. He
pinpointed the growth areas of communications and pharmaceuticals.
He projected earnings off a sum of money close to what Claudia had
ultimately signed over and the totals were awe-inspiring. How could
she resist?

You fool,
she thought bitterly.
You
know that's what this is all about. He paid attention to you. He
remembered your name. He touched you on the shoulder each time he
walked by. He looked at you, really looked at you, when he
talked.

Now she was getting down to the real story.
She was a fool. A lonely old woman whose head had been turned by a
man who was almost young enough to be her grandson. It was
pathetic, that's what it was. Downright pathetic. Even Roberta, who
made a hobby of having her head turned, had been smart enough to
put her checkbook away when it was time to sign on the dotted
line.

But not Claudia. The old demons had reared
their ugly heads, whispering for her to go ahead and take a chance.
Spin the wheel. Throw the dice. This wasn't really gambling, was
it? Not when such a nice and educated young man told her it was the
right thing to do. After all, what did she have to lose but
everything she owned?