Saturday Morning (42 page)

She was wide awake now.

“He confessed to taking ten grand from Blakely’s CEO to plant drugs on the property.”

“Wow! They must have really wanted J House to do something like that.”

“J House sits on some prime property, honey. You know that. A savvy developer could make a fortune.” Taking her hands in his, he smiled into her no-longer-sleepy eyes. “Blakely Associates is in serious trouble. Korchesky has a warrant and will be bringing all the company’s officers in for questioning this morning. He also has a warrant to search their headquarters and their personal homes.”

“What about Watson?”

“He’s behind bars, and I imagine that’s where he’ll be staying for quite some time.”

Hope stared at him a moment, her thoughts whirling. “So my instincts were right,” she said, recalling the letter she had taken to Peter.

Roger raised up and kissed her nose. “I should have paid closer attention to your instincts and been more watchful. You can go back to sleep now. I’m sorry I woke you up, but I wanted to tell you so you wouldn’t be afraid anymore.”

“Ah, if that were the only thing I’ve been afraid of.”

“Other than a forced closing of J House, what else?”

“Isn’t the forced closing of J House enough?”

He got out of bed and tucked the covers around her. “Sleep tight.”

“You betcha.”

Hope woke to fog-shrouded windows and the penetrating chill of a cold wind tossing the tree branches and seeping in like a bad odor. The clock said nine. How had she slept through the bedlam of breakfast and people getting off to school and work? Roger must have threatened a slow and painful death to whoever woke her up. It wasn’t
like she hadn’t been up and down half the night anyway, with a baby lying right on her bladder, or at least giving it a good kick now and then. And she still had three months to go.

She threw back the covers and headed for the bathroom and a shower. With the hot water pounding down on her, she thought back to Roger’s news.
Thank God for Adolph. If not for him, we might have been facing more than the closing of J House. A lot more.

Dried and dressed, she sat down on the bed to rub dry and braid her hair. “This is the day, this is the day, that the Lord has made, that the Lord has made, I will rejoice, I will rejoice, and be glad in it.” She sang the song softly, when she’d rather be shouting it aloud. But if she made any loud noises, everybody would think something was wrong and come running.

She needed to sing the song in church on Sunday. Funny how you could forget one of your favorites for a while, and then the Holy Spirit would bring it back. Singing Bible verses always made her feel better.

Hope left her apartment and went to the kitchen, where she poured herself a cup of decaf coffee. Sipping her coffee, she walked down the hall to find Celia hard at work. “Good morning.” Celia mumbled something that might have been a reply without taking her eyes off what she was reading. “Do you know where Roger is?”

“Nope.”

Hope set her coffee on the desk and tried to see what it was that Celia was working so hard on. “What are you doing?” she asked, her curiosity getting the best of her.

“Studying.”

“Studying what?”

“Word processing.”

Hope recalled that Celia had asked Clarice to teach her word processing so she could write a book.
Thank You, Father. You did it again.
Admittedly, for a while she’d begun to think that peace and harmony between Celia and Clarice was an impossibility. “You can always use word processing, just like you can always use typing,” she said, being careful not to make too much of it, or else it would embarrass her. “Now, is there anything that I need to know this morning?”

“We got another call for Julia, but the caller wouldn’t give her name. And the Dragon Lady, she didn’t press her.”

“Celia!” Hope shook finger at her. “Does Clarice know you call her that?”

“Of course. Why would I do something behind her back? She thinks it’s funny.”

What could she say to that?
Let it go, Hope. They’re working it out their way.
“How did Julia’s classes go last night?”

“That Julia get more out of those girls than I ever thought possible. They sayin’ ‘yes ma’am’ and ‘no ma’am’ and wearin’ longer skirts and buttoning up blouses.” She indicated her own rather obvious cleavage. “I like the part where they answer the interview questions she fires at them.”

Hope sighed. “I just wish we could accommodate everybody who wants to take her class, but we just don’t have the resources. Someday, maybe.” She looked at the phone messages Celia had taken and put them in the order of who needed to be called first. “I just had a thought. Tell Julia I want to see her when she comes in. What do you think about having graduation exercises for the girls who complete Julia’s training?”

“Sounds good to me, but she’s already here. She’s been here since real early this morning.”

“Oh, good. I can’t wait to tell her my idea.” She started to leave, then turned back and asked, “How are Thanksgiving preparations coming?”

“We have pies made and in the freezer. Tonight we’re baking cookies. That Fawna, she’s turning into a real good cook. I showed her a thing or two about spices, and the Dragon Lady gave her some baking tips. Now, she’s got it in her head that instead of goin’ to school to learn nail art, she wants to learn how to be a chef.”

Hope laughed, then shook her head. Every day there was something new, something exciting, and most times, something wonderful happening at J House. Again, she started to leave, only to have Celia call her back.

“I almost forgot,” she said. “Peter Kent called. I didn’t put it on a message. He said not to call him, that he was gonna come by about lunchtime. Said he would like it if you could get everybody together. I told him I couldn’t guarantee that, but we’ll try.”

Lunch was clam chowder and a salad of fresh greens from Celia’s garden topped with pine nuts and sliced apple and covered with raspberry vinaigrette. The crowning glory, however, was freshly baked focaccia bread.

Peter Kent offered to say grace, after which he asked, “Since when do you have a chef here?”

“One of our girls, Fawna, wants to be a chef. We let her work in the kitchen, and Celia and Clarice have been training her.” Hope smoothed the white tablecloth.

“Has she ever worked in a restaurant before?”

Clarice answered. “She did some fast-food cooking, but she isn’t interested in getting back into that. What we need is to find her a restaurant—a good restaurant—where she can work and train at the same time. Then she can see if she really likes cooking enough to make a career of it. Ideally, the restaurant needs to be someplace close by so she can continue to take part Julia’s class and her GED classes.”

Peter appeared to ponder the situation. “Let me talk with the chef
in our building. Maybe he would be willing to take her on.” He drank the remaining coffee in his cup. “Okay, if everybody’s ready, we need to get down to business. I have another meeting this afternoon.”

Roger scooted his chair back. “I knew better than to think this was just a pleasant call with an old friend. Before we begin, though, I want to tell you our news about Blakely Associates.”

“Sure.” Peter reached down to his briefcase and pulled out a file folder. He started to look through the folder, but as Roger’s story unfolded, he put the folder down on the table and gave Roger his full attention. “That’s incredible. If it hadn’t have been for Adolph … who knows what might have happened?”

Clarice piped up, obviously eager to add to the excitement. “And Julia here has found that jerk who fleeced me! I can’t wait to go back and testify against him. I hope they put him someplace where the sun doesn’t shine!”

“Congratulations, Julia,” Peter said. “I wish we had someone like you working in our firm. If you ever decide to practice law in California, let me know.”

“I hear the California bar is a bear to pass.”

“You’re a smart woman. You could do it.”

“You’re right. I could. Thanks for the offer. Just don’t be surprised if I take you up on it.”

“Well, now,” Peter said, “in regard to the retrofitting, it looks like you’re out of options. You’re going to have to sell J House.”

Andy stared out the windows to the lights on the Bay Bridge. Even at this time of the night, she saw car lights blink as they crossed the final span from Treasure Island to the city.
I don’t care how lovely the scenery is, I want to go home.
Just today she’d read the saying “Home is where the heart is,” and she’d been thinking about it ever since. San Francisco wasn’t where her heart was, and she was doubtful it ever would be.

If only Bria had been able to stay longer, but I know she had to get back to her job. That’s one thing this family does, always gets back to the job.
She turned away from the window and chastised herself for acting like such a baby.

Okay, so she was trapped here for the time being, but it wouldn’t be forever. Only until Martin recuperated. Then she could resume her life.

She got the milk out of the fridge, poured a mug full, and stuck it into the microwave to warm. She saw Fluffy coming up the stairs from the bedroom. Fluffy hadn’t left Martin’s side except to eat and use his cat box since Martin had come home. She’d heard of dogs acting this way, but never cats. Cats were said to be too independent. Obviously, Fluffy was an exception.

She sat down at the kitchen table and gave in to her frustration by slamming her fist on the table. The doctor had warned both her
and Martin that some depression was frequently a side effect of open-heart surgery. But Martin didn’t seem to be making any effort to pull himself out of it. And why did he have to drag her down too? While she was grateful, grateful beyond measure, that Martin was still alive, he didn’t seem to care one way or another. If she’d heard it one time, she’d heard it a dozen: “You’d be better off without me. An invalid. Struck down in my prime.” The doctor had given him a regimen of exercise, which Martin had promised to do, but whenever she reminded him of it, he said he was too tired or in too much pain.

Maybe she was expecting too much. She couldn’t imagine herself acting that way, but then she wasn’t the one who’d nearly died.

Tomorrow he had a doctor’s appointment, and maybe the doctor would have some encouraging words. She glanced over at the hospital bed that she’d rolled into the corner. She needed to have it picked up. Martin had walked from the parking space, down the stairs, and into their house, then to their bedroom, where he collapsed and said that was where he would stay.

She’d been up and down the stairs a million times since then, getting him this or getting him that. Sometimes she wished she’d never thought of the baby monitor she’d hooked up so she could hear him if he called out. He didn’t seem to care one whit that he was making her life ten times harder. Was lack of common courtesy also part of depression?

The microwave beeped. She retrieved the mug from the microwave and her bottle of Tylenol PM from the counter, then she headed for the couch. If Martin needed her, he would call. He didn’t have any trouble calling for her on the monitor, no matter where she was or what she was doing. As far as she could tell, only his mouth was getting any exercise.

Her last thought before drifting off to sleep was that Thanksgiving was only two days away, and she’d not even bought the turkey.