Cynthia Thomason - The Women of Bayberry Cove

“And I don’t?” Good God, if there was one trait that clearly defined Louise Duncan, it was confidence, not pretended or fleeting, but real, no-nonsense confidence that Ed Bennett could only dream about.

Roger remained calm, his tone of voice even. “You do, of course, and for the most part your work in the courtroom is exemplary, but…” He rolled one shoulder, resettled his bulk in the chair. “Frankly, Louise, we’ve had complaints. You come across as somewhat intimidating, forceful.”

“I’m an attorney, Roger. It’s my job to be forceful.”

“To an extent, yes. But you shouldn’t necessarily act that way toward our own clients. Ed is dignified, solid, almost courtly. He’s stable and reliable, the picture of old-company trust. In the field of corporate law, Louise, his demeanor is most impressive.”

“You’re saying I’m not stable?”

He had the nerve to smile. “I’m certainly not suggesting you need psychiatric help, but to a client who’s contemplating putting the future of his empire in our hands, you come on a little strong.” He threaded his fingers together, resting his hands in his lap. “Let me put it this way. Ed Bennett bonds with the clients. He’s both compassionate and capable. And while there’s no doubt that you’re a top-notch litigator, Louise, you do have a tendency to bully everyone around you.”

Louise couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Ed Bennett was a complete toady in his perfectly tailored black suits, and shirts starched to such gleaming stiffness that he crackled when he swung his arms. And he was getting this promotion over her. Her pride was wounded beyond repair. Her dreams were shattering like old crystal. And so she heard herself utter words of self-betrayal and corporate capitulation. “I can change,” she said. “I can listen to stories about backyard barbecues, and kids’ educations, and family vacations to Aspen. That’s what Ed does. I can do that, too. I can be nice.”

“Of course you can, Louise, but not by nine o’clock this morning.” He stood, effectively dismissing her. “I hate to cut this short, but Arthur Blackstone is due at eight-thirty, and I have to do this one more time. It’s not something I enjoy, I assure you.”

She stood up. “If you expect me to sympathize with you, Roger, you’re going to be disappointed.”

He chuckled a little. “I don’t expect that at all. But please consider some advice. Take a break from the firm, a vacation. A couple of months. You’ve earned a mountain of personal days over the years. Sanders and Martin can take over your workload for a while.”

“You’re suggesting I run off to some Caribbean island and sun myself for weeks?” The thought was ludicrous.

Apparently oblivious to the absurdity of his idea, Roger said, “Yes, that’s a great plan. We want you on board, Louise. But take some time for yourself. Come back refreshed, renewed.”

And more in tune with Oppenheimer Straus and Baker, Stepford attorneys. “Fine,” she said, opening the door to the hallway. “I’ll see you in a few weeks, Roger.”

She passed Arthur Blackstone midway down the hall. He stopped her with a light touch to her elbow. “Did you just come from Oppenheimer’s office?” he asked.

“I did.” A worried frown tugged at his lips. “Don’t worry, Art,” she said, empathizing with his soon-to-be-victim status. “It’s not me.”

He exhaled. “Sorry, Louise, but if not you, then who…”

“Just one word of warning. If Roger offers you coffee, you might want to lace it with a shot of bourbon.”

AT NINE O’CLOCK that night Louise polished off a pint of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream, licked the carton lid and tossed the empty container across the room into the wastebasket. Then she leaned forward on her sofa and reached for a cardboard box on her coffee table. Roger Oppenheimer had made it clear that her job wasn’t in jeopardy, but she’d thought it advisable to clear her desktop of personal effects, since she might be gone for a couple of months.

She felt around in the box until her fingers grasped a chrome picture frame. Pulling it from the box, she stared at the portrait of her parents, both of them dressed in the white coats of their medical profession. Linda and Fritz Duncan had wanted their daughter to study medicine and join their successful OB/GYN practice. Louise had staunchly refused, and followed her heart into law. Her parents had supported her decision and had always remained proud of her accomplishments.

“You should see me now, folks,” Louise said to the glossy image. “I deserved that promotion. I worked hard for it.” Through a hiccuped sob, she added, “And now I think I might be just a little bit drunk.” With her bare toe she rolled an empty wine bottle across the floor.

Still holding the photo, she stood up, crossed the imported-tile floor of her fourteenth-story condominium and went out on the balcony. A breeze from the ocean, less than a half mile away, washed over her. Revived, she looked across the rooftops of nearby buildings and settled her gaze on the silvery black sea, rippling to shore from the distant horizon. “Damn it. What the hell am I supposed to do for two months? Where am I supposed to go? I already live in a freaking paradise.

“Where do people go when they are told to mellow out and become one of the good guys?” A bark of bitter laughter came from her throat at the inanity of Roger Oppenheimer’s advice. Louise was a powerhouse in the courtroom. Aggressive, unyielding. Wasn’t that what a lawyer was supposed to be?

If not, maybe she’d chosen the wrong profession. But she loved the law. She couldn’t give it up now. So where did a person go to learn to be a nice, people-person kind of lawyer?

And suddenly she had the answer. She’d go to that little town in North Carolina where her best friend lived. What was the name? She struggled to remember it through a haze of muddled thinking. Bayberry Cove. That was it. A homey little burg on the edge of Currituck Sound near the Outer Banks. Vicki had moved there six months ago and now, deliriously in love and pregnant, she hated to leave the town, even to check on her antiques store in Fort Lauderdale. Endlessly praising the quiet virtues of the place, Vicki had repeatedly invited Louise to come for a visit, but Louise never had time.

She turned away from her grossly mortgaged view and went into the apartment to call Vicki. You’ve got plenty of time now, honey, she told herself. And if Bayberry Cove can’t turn you from a lioness into a pussycat, I don’t know of any place that can.

TWO DAYS LATER, on a spectacular May afternoon, Louise drove her black BMW down Main Street, Bayberry Cove, North Carolina. To her right was a row of two-story buildings with granite cornerstones proclaiming each of them to be over a hundred years old. To her left, a typical town square with ancient trees dripping shade over brick sidewalks and cast-iron benches. A perfect place for people to stop and enjoy the simple pleasure of a picnic lunch or lazy afternoon chat.

The only problem was that while Louise could admire the pastoral solitude of a leafy town green, she wasn’t a picnicker, and she wasn’t much for small talk. She was a woman to whom every minute was precious and not meant to be squandered. She pulled into a parking space and approached an elderly man seated on the nearest bench.

As she came closer, he shielded his eyes from the sun and grinned with obvious interest. Accustomed to such blatantly admiring looks, Louise settled her ball cap low on her forehead and flipped her long black ponytail through the opening at the back. Then, since she could plainly determine the focus of the old guy’s attention, she tugged her halter top so it covered the slash of midriff above the waistband of her Liz Claiborne stretch capris.