Retribution: The Second Chances Trilogy Book Three (2 page)

“First Laurel came in the house and then Colin followed a few minutes later. Tell me
that
wasn’t prearranged and who could blame them? I mean, they’ve been surrounded all day, even when they took an earlier break out by the terrace where they appeared to be in their own little world and unaware of the onlookers.”

“Where are they now? Where are you?”

“I’m in Laurel’s office, on her private line and they’re in the kitchen all engrossed in each other again. I don’t think they even noticed when I tiptoed by on the way to the back stairs.”

“How are you holding up?”

“Other than for missing you a whole lot, I’m fine, but I don’t think I’ll have trouble sleeping on the flight back tomorrow.”

“Do you know yet whose plane you’ll be on?”

“Whichever one leaves earliest and that’ll probably be David’s.”

“You’ll let me know.”

“You have my promise, boyfriend. I’ll call back as soon as I know for sure.”

“I’m counting the hours.”

“So am I. I
so
wish you had been here today—been nearby in London. I’d be so happy if I knew I was going home to you in a little while.”

“Amanda . . . honey . . . you are. Now go back to the party and enjoy yourself. That’ll make the time go faster.”

“Nate?” she says after a noticeable pause.

“Yeah, babe.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about the balloons? In advance, I mean.”

“I wanted you to be surprised too. I wanted to imagine the dazzled look on your face.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“Do I need another one? I love that face of yours and how it looks when you’re all stirred up about something, so indulge my imagination.”

“I will,” she says, “especially the next time I see you.”

He smiles broadly at what that innuendo must be doing to her cheek color. “I love you,” he says as easily as he’s ever been able to say it. She replies in kind with the sparkle returned to her voice.

Beer forgotten, Nate completes a legitimate workout, ignores the strictly functional shower on this level in favor of the luxurious one adjoining the master bedroom, where he last engaged in water sports with Amanda.

Relieved in a way he can’t yet identify—not just by workout-generated endorphins—he’s in unusually high spirits when he puts on pajamas last worn by Amanda and returns once more to the kitchen. Here, he has to rummage through two freezers before he finds a meal that fits his mood, then make another trip to the lower level for a wine that will complement beef bourguignon.

While the meal heats, he takes the wine and a glass into the library and drinks to Gustav Klimt and all things erotic and aesthetically realized. After a second glass of wine he decides to eat in here, but has no idea where the small portable dining table is stored. So he returns to the kitchen, and just as well, because the library is too conducive to going overboard.

He corks the wine and opens a bottle of mineral water to see him through until dinner. From the recycling bin in the back hall he chooses a previously unread periodical at random and would seem to have all elements of his solitary meal under control when the phone rings.

Although only two hours have passed since Amanda went back to the party, that’s long enough to firm up travel arrangements, isn’t it? And she could be calling now to let him know exactly how many more hours he has to wait, couldn’t she?

There’s no mistaking her voice when she responds to his hopeful hello, but the effervescence is missing; her delivery is as flat as warm champagne.

“
Please
do not say that plans have changed and you won’t be home tomorrow.”

“All the plans have changed. Everyone’s plans have changed,” she says without inflection.

“Shit,” he mouths before asking her to just get it over with—to just tell him what happened.

She takes an audible breath. “You know when I said earlier that first Laurel, then Colin, sneaked off to the house and were having a little breather from all the attention?”

“Yeah. So?”

“That wasn’t the case at all. What was really going on . . . Laurel had just learned that her father died this afternoon and Colin was doing his level best to hold her together.”

“Dammit! I
am
sorry. Jesus . . . the timing.”

“Yes, the timing could not be worse. For obvious reasons. And because no one’s in charge. Yesterday was David’s last day as counsel and interim manager. That effectively ended my stint as buffer and—”

“And miracle worker. But that aside, you
have
heard of volunteerism, haven’t you?”

“You think I should?”

“Take charge? Absolutely. The sooner the better. You know what the priorities are and you’re damn near legendary for making things happen. Use David, use me, use anyone you have to. Meanwhile, what about the wedding guests? Did you make a general announcement—stop the music, close the bar, turn off the lights?” he wonders aloud.

“No. Nothing that dramatic. Laurel insisted no one be told until absolutely necessary and that included her brothers and sister. She and Colin rejoined the festivities shortly after I did. They danced, he sang to her—heartbreakingly, I now realize—and then Verge performed a set just before the fireworks were set off and no one had any idea anything was wrong.”

“But you knew.”

“No. I wasn’t told until the celebration wound down naturally and the buses were leaving . . . wait . . . hold on, here comes Laurel. Do you want to talk to her?”

He’s not given a chance to refuse because Laurel comes on the line sounding as self-possessed as ever. Eerily so.

He thinks to express sympathy instead of congratulations and recite the offer standard to any condolence call. “I mean it, Laurel. If there’s
anything
I can do, anything at all—”

“There is, as a matter of fact,” Laurel says. “Tomorrow, if you could go to the nursing home and collect my father’s personal belongings, that would be a great help. I’m told the room won’t be reassigned for forty-eight hours, so there’s plenty of time.” She goes on to express particular concern over the family photographs displayed on a windowsill, where they seldom got more than a blank stare. “I’d hate for those to fall into the wrong hands and I’d take care of it myself if I thought news of his death wouldn’t get out and I wouldn’t be besieged if I went there.”

“Consider it done. And if there’s anything else, do
not
hesitate to ask,” he says.

“I won’t, I promise,” she says.

Amanda comes back on the line, choked up and weepy. “I feel
so
bad for Laurel. She’s blaming herself . . . she keeps saying over and over that she waited too long.”

“Am I supposed to know what that means?”

“Did I forget to tell you Laurel was bringing her father over here immediately after their honeymoon?”

“You must have forgotten because last I heard, he wasn’t stable enough to be moved.”

“Well he must have rallied because she got the go-ahead the end of July and decided to postpone because of the wedding. She’ll never forgive herself,” she says, sniffing mightily.

“Amanda, honey, get hold of yourself. You’re no good to anyone if you let this drag you down. And Laurel’s not doing herself any favors if she persists in that thinking. Listen to me—and feel free to share with Laurel what I have to say. Old Mr. Chandler obviously was
not
stable enough to cross the Atlantic or he wouldn’t be dead now, would he? And consider this possibility. What if this had happened while he was in transit? She’d then blame herself for having attempted to relocate him. Wouldn’t she?”

“Yes,” Amanda says after a long silence. “I’ll try to suggest that to her when the time’s right. Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me . . . ever.”

He hears some of her spunk return before they say goodbye with promises to update whenever possible.

Until he received word that Amanda and her charges would be boarding a plane at London’s Gatwick Airport a little after three a.m. EST, there was no point trying to sleep. And once Nate was sure they were in the air, he couldn’t sleep.

The last time he felt this way was after a night spent trying to quiet an inconsolable newborn in a Northern Michigan motel room. He wouldn’t feel more depleted if he had been pacing the floor instead of just tossing and turning all night; he couldn’t feel less like driving to New Jersey if it were in Outer Mongolia.

He takes a look at the bedside clock. Going on eight a.m. The charter flight Amanda is on won’t land for another two and a half hours at the earliest.

Two and a half hours. Not long enough to take care of things in Jersey and be back here in time to field Amanda’s arrival call. And not long enough to make a dent in his sleep deficit, so he resigns himself to facing the day at a disadvantage. But at least he doesn’t have a hangover. Or an infant to deal with.

A look at Saturday morning television discovers mainly cartoon shows and home shopping opportunities. He tries the music channels, cable news, sees and hears nothing that would either prevent or encourage his drowsing for a while.

Closer to ETA than he would have thought possible, Amanda calls from the Franklin Aviation terminal at JFK. “I’m going with Bemus, Tom Jensen, and Colin to the hotel. David and Laurel are going to her house for something she needs,” she says.

“Can’t I get it? I still have a key and I’m leaving for Jersey shortly.”

“You’re nice to offer, but I don’t think so. Laurel wants to collect a few personal items along with burial clothes for her father. It’s something she needs to do herself.”

“What about the others, her brothers and sister? Where are you stashing them?”

“They’re coming to the hotel under separate cover, so to speak. A generic minivan was rented for them even though they may not be that recognizable to the press. At least not yet.”

“I’m relieved to hear no one will be staying at the Chandler house. I guess I don’t have to say why.”

“No, you don’t, and I was relieved when Laurel agreed to the arrangements without an argument. Colin’s the only one who objected to anything.”

“To what, for chrissake? You got them all into his beloved Plaza Hotel, didn’t you? You got them across the Atlantic on extremely short notice and at no expense to him. What the fuck has he to complain about other than having to scrap his honeymoon?”

“He’s not happy about the David and Laurel pairing even though he knows it makes more sense to handle things that way,” she says.

“Okay, sounds like everything’s under control, so I’ll head out for the nursing home and catch up with you later at the hotel.”

There’s still no hurry, he realizes as he showers and shaves. Amanda won’t finish directing traffic and wrangling rock stars before midafternoon, if he’s any judge. He calls downstairs for his car to be brought around, then takes his time dressing in a tropical-weight business suit, soft shirt without tie, and tasseled slip-ons without socks—it is summer, after all.

In the kitchen, he grabs a banana and a stale bagel and is almost out the door when he remembers he’ll need something to put Benjamin Chandler’s personal effects in. The handiest receptacles are three empty recycling bins he takes from their usual place in the back hall. At the very last minute he thinks to toss in a stack of old newspapers for wrapping breakables.

At the approach to the nursing home in Wolcott, he spots a half-dozen or so paparazzi clustered near the main entrance. Word has spread, as Laurel anticipated, and that opens the door to the possibility the Chandler house is also staked out—all the more reason for David to drive Laurel there in something lower profile than a limo. Wishing he were behind the wheel of something less suggestive of the wealth and privilege associated with rock stars, he drives to the back of the building with his eye on the rear-view mirror. But no one gives chase; they must assume he’s a doctor.

He parks, grabs the bins and newspapers, and heads for the fire door—the allegedly malfunctioning fire door the Chandler clan regularly took advantage of, according to the disapproving orderly encountered on his last visit here. He can’t be sure the door hasn’t been activated since then, but he’d rather chance that it hasn’t than chance being recognized by one of the more astute paparazzi monitoring the front entrance.

No alarms go off when he slips through the heavy door, and no one’s around to challenge his presence when he enters the corridor, where Benjamin Chandler’s room is the second one on the left.

The door to the room is closed, maybe as a sign of respect, maybe because someone’s in there, already sifting through the deceased’s belongings for anything of value. Nate gives fair warning, knocks before entering.

The room is unoccupied and undisturbed. To his critical eye, everything is exactly as remembered; nothing is missing except old Mr. Chandler. The windowsill picture gallery is intact, assorted items atop the dresser are in neat array, and the flower bouquet on the nightstand can’t be more than a day old. The hospital bed is tightly made and covered with the remembered quilt; even the plastic water carafe, tumbler, and drinking straw are prominent on the roll-around tray table, as they were the day when the orderly lectured on the importance of keeping the patient hydrated.