Gail Bowen - The Nesting Dolls

“It’s just the nearness of you.”

“Maybe so,” I said. “But I’m still going to buy some Aspirin and juice before the stores close.” I swung out of bed.

Zack groaned. “You can’t leave now. You just got here.”

“I’ll be right back,” I said. “Put on your pyjamas and get into bed where it’s warm. We’ll light a fire and have dinner in our room. See if we can head off that bug.”

Watson’s Guardian Drugs was crowded. It was the season for colds and flu, so everything I needed had been gathered into one convenient location. Humidifiers were on sale. Buying one for a single night was an extravagance, but Zack’s paraplegia meant he was vulnerable to attack from secondary infections, so I didn’t hesitate. As I made my way to the checkout counter, I spotted a rack of newspapers. The lead story of the Northumberland News was Abby Michaels’s memorial service, so I added a copy to my shopping cart and headed for the checkout line.

I took my place behind two ladies with silver sausage curls, sparkly Christmas corsages, lips red as holly berries, and gossip to share.

“There’s something so sad about the funeral of a young person, isn’t there, Eileen?” the one closer to me said.

“It was a memorial service, Doris,” her companion replied. “The body’s still out west. So this was just a gathering of friends.”

“Well, body or no body, it was very sad. I remember those girls walking down Walton Street together in their school uniforms. They were inseparable, Eileen. Whatever could have happened?”

“Doris, women like that are very emotional.”

“You mean… sapphites?”

“No, Doris, I mean the French. That Nadine Perrault is French, you know. Still, they make good neighbours.”

“The French?”

“No, Doris, sapphites. The two who moved in next to me have transformed that old rose garden.” She paused. “I wonder how they do it.”

“Hard pruning and organic food,” answered Doris.

Eileen leaned in to her friend and whispered, “I was talking about how sapphites have sex.”

Doris’s chuckle was lusty. “I know you were.”

When I got back to our room, the gas fireplace was on, and Zack was in his robe warming himself in front of it. I filled the humidifier, handed my husband the Aspirin, a glass of water, a bottle of orange juice, and a box of tissues, and told him what I’d learned about sapphite love, hard pruning, and organic food.

“You broaden my horizons,” he said. He rubbed my arm. “I really am sorry about today.”

“So am I,” I said. “You were in a rotten position.”

“You don’t know the half of it. When I saw Nadine Perrault down by the river, all I could think about was how I would feel if I were in her place. Loving you is making me a lousy lawyer, Jo, and I can’t afford to blow this one.” He pinched the bridge of his nose wearily. “After you left, I called Dee to let her know you and I were in for the night. She understood, of course, but she sounded whipped.”

“Nadine is the one who’s whipped,” I said. “Delia’s holding all the cards.”

Zack’s eyes turned back to the flickering flames of the fireplace. “I’m not so sure about that. The Michaelses’ family lawyer, Graham Exton, appears to know something I don’t know, and that makes me uneasy.”

“Was he hostile?”

“No. He’s a nice enough guy. He said he wished we’d met under happier circumstances – that he’d known Abby all her life, and that she was a fine human being. He offered coffee and extended all the professional courtesies, but he wasn’t exactly forthcoming.”

“Did he show you the will?”

“Sure. No reason not to. There were no surprises. Jacob gets $250,000 when he turns twenty-five. The rest of Abby’s effects, assets, and considerable property holdings go to Nadine Perrault. Delia Margolis Wainberg is designated as the person to raise Jacob in the event of Abby’s death.”

“Nothing personal for Jacob?” I asked. “No photographs or family heirlooms? I would have thought Abby would want him to have that painting of her with her parents that we saw at the house.”

Zack shook his head. “All that goes to Nadine.”

“I don’t get it,” I said. “Today Nadine told me that until three weeks ago she and Abby and Jacob were a family. They’d been through a nightmare, but they were doing what families do – they were pressing on. Why would Abby make a will that handed Jacob over to a woman who was a stranger and severed his connections with the only family she’d ever known?”

Zack sneezed percussively. He gazed at his box of tissues. “Man-size,” he said. “I’m flattered. And to answer your question with a question: Why would Abby Michaels do any of the things she did in the last few weeks?”

“If Graham Exton knew Abby all her life, surely he would realize that she was in a fragile mental state. Didn’t he have an obligation to keep her from changing her will?”

“You bet he did, and when I raised that point, he was ready for me. He said, ‘I satisfied myself that, given the circumstances, Ms. Michaels was justified in asking me to draw up a new will and that she was of sound mind.’ When I pointed out that two weeks after he had pronounced Ms. Michaels ‘of sound mind’ she walked away from her partner and gave away their baby, the situation got ugly.”

“What happened?”

“Mr. Exton told me to advise my client that if she dug too deeply into the question of Abby Michaels’s state of mind when she had him draft the second will, she’d regret it. Then he said, ‘Delia Wainberg has reaped what she sowed.’ ”

“That’s a little melodramatic, isn’t it?”

Zack raised an eyebrow. “For a guy who wears both a belt and suspenders, it’s way out there. And something else – Graham Exton can’t say Delia’s name without spitting it out. It’s as if he hates her. And she’s never met him. I asked. She’d never heard of him until she came to Port Hope.”

“As long as he keeps what he knows to himself, I guess his feelings about Delia are irrelevant,” I said.

Zack looked thoughtful. “I wonder. I hate secrets. They have a way of blowing up at a critical moment, and this adoption has to go through. My newfound empathy aside, I would hate to lose to that putz Nadine Perrault hired to represent her.”

“You don’t like Llewellyn Llewellyn-Smith?”

“We got off to a bad start,” Zack said. “By the time I arrived at his office, after my meeting with Exton, I had to go to the can. There was only one men’s room in the building. There were three regular stalls and one that was accessible. The three regular stalls were empty but the accessible stall was in use. So I waited – and waited. Whoever was in there was either reading the comics or whacking off. By this point, my need was great. So I rapped on the door, and said, ‘There’s a cripple out here who needs to be in there.’ ”

I laughed. “You didn’t.”

“I did, and the son of a bitch still didn’t come out. So I banged the door, and yelled, ‘Listen, fuck-wad, when you come out of there, you’d better be in a wheelchair or I’m going to sue your ass.’ Finally, the toilet flushed, and guess who swaggered out?”

“Llewellyn Llewellyn-Smith?”

“The putz himself, zipping up, proud as hell for having kept the big-time lawyer waiting. So that’s how we started.”

“I take it the situation didn’t improve.”

“Nope. Llewellyn Llewellyn-Smith is a banty rooster – one of those strutting guys with a whiny high-pitched voice, and he yells all the time. He’s determined to make this the case of his career. I tried to explain that I don’t have a coterie of press people following me at all times – that the only time I’m on TV is when the case involves big names or big issues.” Zack wheeled over to the waste-basket, picked it up, placed it on his knee, and wheeled back. “Hard to sink a tissue from across the room,” he explained. “Anyway, in an ideal world, this shouldn’t end up in a courtroom. Llewellyn-Smith and I should be able to sit down with our clients and come up with an arrangement that semi-satisfies everybody.”