Not Quite Clear (A Lowcountry Mystery) (7 page)

She sees my conflict, my hurt, but pushes me forward toward the decision we all know must be made. Mel doesn’t shy away from things because they’re hard.
 

“She does. She said she’s slept like a baby the past two nights. No nightmares. She hasn’t set off the alarm we had installed, either, so that means
no sleepwalking.” The pain expands, pulsing in my veins like a heartbeat. “I know we have to go to Mama Lottie for help, agree to her terms. I’m just not ready to give Beau up yet.”

Mel’s hand covers mine, holding on tight in silence for a few minutes until our plates of sandwiches, chips, and pickles arrive. “Let’s talk about something else. Aside from the lawyer’s questionable ethics as far
as your relationship goes, how do you think she’s feeling about Amelia’s case?”

I swallow half my sandwich before answering. As hard as Mel tries, there aren’t any positive subjects to land on, today. “Not good. The first thing she said was that we need Amelia to look healthy and happy and completely fine with everything that’s happened.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means she has to stop seeing
what Phoebe referred to as ‘that quack therapist in Heron Creek,’ for starters.”

Mel flinches. “That’s too bad. Amelia tries to act like it’s no big deal, but that guy’s a godsend. She lives for those hours in his office.”

“I know. For what it’s worth, I think the lawyer is right. No matter how many people say they understand mental illness and how many people it affects, the truth is that the
majority would call it a weakness.” I take another bite, wash it down with my water. “They’ll use it against her. Call her unfit, wonder if she’ll hurt herself or Jack.”

Mel shakes her head, putting away the rest of her sandwich. It’s unbelievable how fast she ate it, and the longing in her expression as she stares down at the crumbs strikes me as comical.
 

“Do you want the last quarter of my
sandwich?”

“Are you sure?” she asks, her fingers already closing around my food. Then it’s down the hatch and I’m hiding my grin behind a handful of chips. “What’s her plan, then? Anything besides cutting Amelia off from her lifeline?”

“Yes.” I try to come up with a way to frame Phoebe’s comment about needing dirt without making it sound like I’m about to go all cat burglar on a United States
senator’s house.
 
But this is Mel. If Travis saw straight through me, she’s going to do the same in half the time. “She thinks we need some dirt on the Middletons.”

“Yeah, that would be nice.” Her gaze narrows. “And just how to do you plan on getting said dirt?”

“Who says
I’m
getting it?”
 

“Come on, Graciela. I’ve known you since we were seven years old and you’ve never stopped wanting to be
Nancy Drew. You’ve been compiling a rap sheet for about as long, and now you’ve even got your own Ned Nickerson, except with a working penis. Plus, you’ve got contacts all over town. You’re going to try.”

“Fine, I’m going to try. And she wasn’t specific as to what—evidence that they were abusive parents to Jake, bad business dealings, really anything that proves their moral fiber isn’t stitched
as tight as they want the world to believe.”

“Hmm. Are you going to eat your pickle?”

“Have at it.”

She snatches that, too, and we’re silent as she eats and the wheels turn in my head. The truth is that short of cat burgling or figuring out how to send ghosts on mission à la Frank Fournier, I don’t have any ideas on how to snoop on the Middletons. I feel sure that they
do
have plenty to hide,
because all families do. Not to mention their only son turned out to be a physically and emotionally abusive twat and that sort of shitbag rarely comes out of a stable, loving home.

“Did you know the Middletons are Harrington’s clients?” Mel asks, slowly, as she uses a finger to pick the leftover chip pieces off her plate.

“No.” It takes me a moment to switch gears, to follow her train of thought,
but then my head starts to shake with so much vehemence my brain protests. “You’re
not
getting involved with this, Mel. My shenanigans already cost Will his job and you guys are just getting back on your feet after all that. You can’t risk it. There’s another way.”

She cocks her head, giving me a look. “What way?”

“I don’t know yet, but I’m going to find it.”

“Hmm.”
 

We pay the bill, splitting
it down the middle, and agree to have some girl time after she and Will get back from church on Sunday. The sun is warm, the air faint with the smell of burning leaves, once we’re out on the sidewalk ready to go our separate ways for the evening.

“Gracie, Will’s happier now. He loves his job at the police department, but that’s not even the point. The point is that you and Amelia are like family
to us. That means you’re more important than jobs or finances or comforts. I know what it feels like to be a mom, to have a little human growing inside you and be overwhelmed by love.” Mel swallows, fire burning brightly in her gaze. “We’re not going to let those people take Jack away, not if we can help. We’re all going to do what we have to do, no matter what it costs us. Got it?”

I nod. Mel
nods. We part ways, neither sure what exactly we’re going to lose in this fight for my cousin’s life, for Jack’s, but my gut says it’s not going to be a short list.

Chapter Six

Beau’s big hand lays flat on my bare belly, raising gooseflesh even though we’ve tangled the sheets twice since we woke up at some unholy hour. Amelia might be sleeping better since Mrs. LaBadie died—or Mama Lottie killed her—but my nights grow shorter and shorter.
 

At least Beau was with me when I woke up at five this morning, and he is quite good at providing distractions
of many kinds. Now it’s after seven, and we both need to get moving. Yet neither of us has budged an inch, even though our skin sweats under the covers and my bladder is complaining.
 

“What’s wrong, Gracie Anne?”

The question startles me. We’ve been quiet for a while, my thoughts entirely somewhere else. “What?”

“There’s something on your mind.” His fingers brush my skin, sweeping softly over
the surface. “Are you still thinking about what Brick said last week? About us?”

I drop my head to the side until it presses into the pillow, the prickly end of a down feather scratching my cheek. His hazel eyes are soft, loving, and they feel as though they’re caressing my insides with the same care his fingers give my outside. The fact that he cares about me is written in bold, scrawling ink
over his face, his expression, and it fills my lungs. I reach out a hand and cup his cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. Don’t avoid the question.”

I sigh. “I guess I’m still thinking about it. It’s hard to believe this is going to last sometimes. It’s too good.”

“Relationships can’t be
too
good, and anyway, we’ve got more than our share of troubles. Starting with the fact that we’ve got
to shoehorn time together around so many stressful situations and ending with the rift between our families, but I don’t want you to worry.”

“How can I not? I’ve got a wonderful boyfriend. It’s pretty natural to worry about messing it up and losing him.”

“You’re not going to lose me.”

“Well, I don’t think Phoebe Rice would cry any rivers if I did,” I say, purposely changing the subject before
I start confessing all the things that are really weighing on my mind.
 

It’s been a week since Mama Lottie made her offer. A week since Mrs. LaBadie turned up in the river behind our house, and I haven’t been back to Drayton Hall to give her an answer. Daria’s texted me twice, more and more anxious to get this over and done with, but it’s too hard. I’m not ready.

At the moment, my distraction
works. Embarrassment slides across Beau’s handsome, strong features and he flinches. “What did she say?”

“She called me ‘interesting.’”

“You
are
interesting.”

“And insinuated that she’d be willing to do
anything
Beauregard Drayton asked.” I waggle my eyebrows, telling him I’m not seriously questioning him.
 

“You’re terrible.”

“Spill, Mr. Mayor. Just how good of friends are the two of you?”

He sighs and sits up, giving me a glorious view of the tanned, corded muscles in his back. The hours he spends running shirtless along the river are definitely well spent. “We’re
friends
friends. Ran with the same group all the way through law school. I think she wanted more.”

I roll out of bed, grabbing for my shorts and T-shirt on the floor. “You
think
? Come on, handsome. You’re perceptive
enough to know when a woman’s hot for you.”

“That’s true. I knew I needed to double buckle my belt the day I met you on the street.”

“Oh, good night nurse.” Despite everything, I laugh. My whole life changed that day, between meeting Beau and the note from Mrs. LaBadie on my car, so the fact that the memory brings a smile to my face proves just how much I have to lose.
 

We’re all going to do
what we have to do, no matter what it costs us.

Mel’s words sober me, and I turn away and head toward the bathroom before Beau notices. He’s still stuck on the conversation about Phoebe, though.
 

“We hooked up once. Like a drunk, stumble-home-from-the-bar, end-up-staring-at-each-other-awkwardly-in-the-morning hookup.” His shame makes me frown.
 

This isn’t us.

“No one’s judging you for having
a life before we met. Phoebe’s freaking hot, but she’s also a stone-cold bitch, so I can see why you would hook up with her but not date her.” I shrug. “We’ve all had those mornings.”

“You’re a very
interesting
woman, Gracie Anne.” He winks.

I stand in the bathroom door and glare. “You’d better watch yourself. Maybe you’re not as cute as you think you are.”

“Are you sure?”

I slam the bathroom
door, giving away the fact that he is, in fact, that adorable. The warm shower water sluices over me, trying to do its best trick—wash away the worries of the world—but failing.
 

Beau joins me halfway through, rubbing a loofah full of scented bubbles across my back before resting his chin on my shoulder. “Is Amelia ready for the deposition today?”

My muscles go tight at the question. We’re due
at the Draytons’ firm for the inquisition at nine this morning. Mr. Freedman agreed to watch the front of the library until noon, which is quite the concession. It not only means he has to be there on
time
this morning but he might have to speak to actual people. He’s doing it because he loves Amelia, and everyone knows what hell she’s been through. To lose baby Jack, too… It wouldn’t be fair.

It’s not only the past six months of my
own
troubles that have taught me life isn’t fair. Studying history and archives, tracing the heartbreaking lives of my ghosts, there’s not a single thing that would lead me to believe life owes us anything. Least of all fairness.

I spin in his arms, taking the loofah and working it over his chest and shoulders. “She’s as ready as she’ll ever be, I guess.
I don’t suppose you’ve got any hints as far as what he’s going to ask?”

“No. We haven’t discussed the case at all, for obvious reasons. I’ve only seen him at Mother’s during dreaded tea.” Beau steps around me and into the water, rinsing off. It’s impossible not to stare, not to gloat a little that I get to touch him whenever I want. “If it were me on the opposite side of that courtroom, I’d go
after her mental competence. Phoebe knows that will definitely be a focus.”

“Don’t you find it ironic that Brick’s going to use someone else’s mental health against them as a weapon after everything he’s been through?”

“I guarantee he doesn’t like it, no matter how he comes off. But being a lawyer isn’t that fun sometimes, Gracie Anne. You have to compartmentalize your emotions away from what
needs to be done. The law is the law. The right thing to do is often something else entirely. It’s one of the reasons I had no interest in practicing. Still don’t.”

“Because you have a soul,” I tease, then feel badly. The last ghostly case I solved seemed to suggest that even Brick Drayton could have a soul, and a tortured one at that. “I’m sorry. I know your brother has had a tough time.”

Beau kisses my nose, then gives me the water. “He has. But that does not excuse the way he treats the woman I love.”

He steps out of the shower, grabbing a towel off the rack. I stay under the spray a few more minutes, letting the conditioner work and my heart enjoy these moments of pure happiness. Who knows how many more we have left?

Everything about the Draytons’ law office makes me uncomfortable.
They likely designed it that way, at least the conference rooms, since that’s where they meet with the majority of their non-clients.
 

This particular room is a study in grays. The table, the carpet, the chairs, the paint—all gray. No windows, no A/V equipment. Just two attorneys, four clients, a bunch of file folders, and a digital voice recorder in the center of the table.

We’ve been here
the better part of an hour but the questions go on and on and on. Amelia spent several of those minutes detailing exactly why she believed the Middletons would not be good guardians for her child. Her cold, monotone recounting of the abuse she suffered at the hands of their son did nothing to move either of her in-laws, who looked as though they were barely paying attention.
 

They
did
appear
to be wondering, as was I, why their attorney would give my cousin so much time and leeway to share her side of the story.

When last we spoke, Brick had insinuated that he knew his clients were terrible people who didn’t deserve their
own
child, never mind anyone else’s, but the idea that he might be going out on any kind of a limb in order to help us felt absurd. Like Beau said, being a defense
attorney meant doing the right thing for your clients no matter what, and Brick was, by all accounts, a very good attorney.