Unlawfull Alliances Page 5

  Apparently Amy and Scott’s baby had awakened from his nap. His proud grandmother, Rosemary, was ushering him from group to group. From where I stood, he looked quite tiny for an eight-month old. In fact, I would have thought he was six months at the most.

  Rosemary titillated all the admirers with glimpses of the baby, but she refused to allow anyone outside of the immediate family to hold him. At one point Scott took him from Rosemary’s protective grip. He provided a gentle but firm cradle in his arms for his son. When Anthony reached out to take his grandson, Scott somewhat reluctantly passed him over. Was there anger in the look he gave his father, or was it distrust? Did he not trust his father to know how to care for his infant son? But when Anthony’s complexion softened as he held his grandson, it occurred to me that affection in the Morrison family was exchanged every other generation.

  It was not until the baby’s mother came to claim her child, that Anthony was willing to give him up. Amy would no doubt continue on the tour of the crowd that her mother-in-law had started. No guests should miss the opportunity to offer appropriate accolades for the wee infant who was dressed in his designer jammies and totally oblivious to all that was going on around him.

  But Amy did not hold onto her baby for long. She passed him along to his nanny and gestured for her to take him back into the house. Perhaps it was an effort to protect him from all with which she was too familiar. But as I observed her handing off her child as if he were nothing more than a rugby ball, I realized that it was the baby’s mother who seemed the most uncomfortable holding him.

  With Amy back in conversation with a group of women more her mother-in-law’s contemporaries than her own, I took the opportunity to detour by the bar. I needed a drink, the cool and refreshing kind.

  “Root beer?” I asked the bartender who was actually alone for a change.

  “Ah, you like the hard stuff.” He smiled, and I noticed a dimple in each cheek. The man was adorable. I could see why the women were gathering around the bar. I turned and searched the garden for Joe. He was deep in conversation with Hugh Fleming for the moment. He missed the chance to see his wife regressing to teenagerhood.

  “Actually what I’d love is a Belhaven, but I don’t suppose you have any.”

  “A lady after my own heart. ‘Fraid we don’t.”

  “A Guinness?”

  “Sorry.”

  I nodded and took the root beer bottle before he could pour it into a glass. I took a long sip, smiled and said, “So, do you come here often?”

  He chuckled. “Whenever the Morrisons entertain actually.”

  “Ahh. So this is your day job.”

  “One of them.”

  “Do you have a card?” I asked. “I’m thinking of having a party for my husband’s birthday.” A lie, but I wanted him to know I wasn’t really interested, just in case I was coming across as a middle-aged flirt. And I wanted his name.

  “Sure.” He pulled a card out of his rear pocket and handed it to me. Jake Holbrook. Bartender, weight lifter—an observation I had confirmed at closer range—stud, all around ladies’ man. One for Charlie to check on.

  As I turned away from the bar, Rosemary scurried up to me, a grin across her face. “Do you think we could persuade Joe to sing ‘Danny Boy’?”

  “You’ll have to ask him,” I said, reasonably certain that if she smiled, she would have instant success.

  She grabbed my hand. “Come with me to ask him?”

  “You’d do better to ask on your own,” I said. “If he thinks I put you up to it—”

  She understood. Letting go of my hand, she continued on her mission. I followed, a safe distance behind.

  To my surprise, my husband turned her down. “Another time,” he promised.

  “Soon?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “But if I ask the musicians to play some dance music for us, you’ll join in, won’t you?”

  Joe smiled and glanced over at me to make sure he had a guaranteed partner. Didn’t he realize that any woman in the joint would have tossed aside her man to dance with him? Humility—another trait I appreciated in my husband.

  “I know how you and Jenny love to dance.”

  “Of course.”

  Rosemary clapped her hands together with the glee of a small child. “Good! I’ll talk to them now.”

  Within five minutes, a section of the patio had been cleared and declared a dance floor. Rosemary motioned for Scott and Amy to start off the dancing, then grabbed her husband’s hand, refusing to take his definitive no for an answer. I would have bet that didn’t happen very often.

  “Almost makes it worth coming,” Joe said, leading me onto the dance patio, “to get to hold you in my arms.”

  “Smooth talker.” I snuggled against his chest.

  Joe took pride in being a self-taught dancer, a natural. I knew that with every step and twirl. An air of superiority overtook him when he spun across a dance floor, be it wood or stone. The others, after all, were either less proficient or moving mannequins, the result of social dance studios.

  Jane and Howard, although awkward, had the spirit of dance. I admired their inhibition and lack of concern for appearances. It was refreshing to see Joe’s serious senior partner let down her hair and give in to childlike spontaneity.

  Consistent with her manner, Erica Stratton’s movement wreaked sensuality as she slid her hands up and down her body, at moments seemingly unaware that she had a partner. If I was reading Richard Stratton’s facial expression accurately, he was not bothered by this, absorbed in his own dancing. The smile on his face convinced me that he believed himself to be an expert, no doubt willing to teach any ingénue who twirled his way.

  Hugh and Meredith looked in perfect harmony, bodies swaying in rhythm to the blues. Meredith, I suspected, was more accomplished than her steps revealed, but sensitive to the male ego, she found contentment in the pleasure of her husband’s arms. Hugh was a cautious dancer, unwilling to risk embarrassing himself. The type to wear a three-piece suit when lounging in a hammock, I decided, if he ever would lounge in a hammock, that is. I wondered if Meredith loved clothes and the latest fashions as much as she professed, or if she was striving to keep up with the urbane Hugh.

  Rosemary and Anthony’s steps were precise and timed perfectly.

  “They’re counting,” Joe whispered in my ear more than once, and in reference to more than one couple, pride and superiority well-grounded in his voice. I was starting to rethink the humility attribute.

  Scott and Amy took a couple turns around the dance floor. The gleam in Scott’s eyes revealed his adoration for his wife who looked like a delicate flower, afraid to open and embrace life.

  When the quartet took a well-earned break, I mingled my way across the lawn. I was quite amazed by the number of homogeneous groupings. It reminded me of the dances that so many of us endured in junior high school. I closed my eyes for a moment, observing the differences. The sounds echoing from the women were high-pitched and filled with laughter. The men were more serious, somber even—shop talk, no doubt.

  Eventually I made my way to a rare heterogeneous group of which Anthony Morrison seemed to be the center. Others came and went, but it was definitely Anthony who was holding court. With an easy glance, I could assess that men respected him and women were enamored by him. One slightly seductive smile and they were swooning. Yes, I had to admit, the man was charming, but he had nothing over my Joe who could charm the fuzz off a duck.

  By the time I reached the table nearest the senior partner of Morrison, Gimble, Stratton, and Morrison, he was being attended by Joe’s partners, Jane Hunter and Hugh Fleming. Richard Stratton was lingering in the background, quite in a world of his own. Just as I sat down at the table beside the group, Scott Morrison came over to check on the bunch to make sure their drinks were filled.

  “Congratulations on the Jenson case,” Jane told Scott.

  Scott’s skin turned rosy, and I figured this case must have been the sor
e subject between father and son that Meredith had mentioned.

  “Thank you.” It was a cordial response.

  “I hear you handled it very well,” Hugh said.

  Scott dared to look up at his father. “There are others who might disagree with that assessment.”

  “You must be very proud of Scott,” Jane said to Anthony, missing the blatant exchange between the Morrison men. Not particularly perceptive when it came to people, corporate law was definitely a good choice on Jane’s part. “It must be wonderful having a son follow in your footsteps.”

  Bite your tongue, Jane.

  Anthony cleared his throat and folded his arms tightly against his chest. I had a feeling this was a common stance.

  “A fine lad,” Hugh offered. “Graduated Bolt didn’t you, Scott?”

  Anthony answered for him. “I urged him to apply to Harvard, but you know how kids are. If you suggest it, they do the opposite.” He laughed self-consciously and his voice took on a light-heartedness that betrayed his meaning. “Or too timid to face the competition.”

  “Bolt isn’t exactly for the faint of heart,” Hugh said.

  “No.” Jane agreed, raising her eyebrows.

  “Had he attended Harvard, he would have had the pick of almost any law firm in the country.”

  “I would have thought you’d be happy he chose yours,” Jane said.

  “How about a tennis match tomorrow morning, Hugh?” Anthony swung an imaginary racquet. “Ten o’clock?”

  Jane too had been dismissed by a member of the Morrison clan. A moment later, she and Hugh excused themselves, leaving father and son alone.

  “It’s going well, don’t you think?” Anthony put a hand on his son’s shoulder as if they were the best of friends. “Your mother will be pleased to be bringing in so much money for one of her charities.”

  I wondered if he knew which one it was. I also wondered where he had been during the prior conversation.

  Scott certainly had been present. “Why do you do that?” he asked his father.

  “Do what?”

  “Embarrass me like that.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Scott exhaled as much exasperation as one body could hold. “You try to diminish me in front of people, Father.”

  Anthony’s arms crossed in front of him, his defensive stance. “Nonsense. Why would I want to diminish my own son?”

  “You tell me,” Scott said.

  Anthony waved one hand in the air in a discounting gesture, then back it went across his chest. “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “Right, you didn’t insinuate that I did a lousy job on the Jenson case? You didn’t criticize me for choosing Bolt and claim that I was afraid to go to Harvard?”

  “Well, it’s true, isn’t it? You’re soft. Thanks to your mother’s spoiling you. I still regret not taking charge of your upbringing. Sending you away to school, away from your mother’s constant coddling.”

  “Why, so I could be like you?”

  “Would that be so bad?” Anthony glared at Scott as if daring him to hit him.

  I was tempted to do it for him.

  “Maybe then you’d have grown into something a father could be proud of.”

  Something?

  “I had no interest in going away to school. I preferred being home.” He spoke quietly, with regret in his tone.

  “You don’t have to remind me. We couldn’t even get you to go to summer camp until you were ten! My God, I went away to boarding school when I was seven years old! Seven! And I wasn’t given a goddamned choice. It was your mother’s constant coddling—”

  “She didn’t coddle me. She loved me.”

  Anthony laughed. He set his glass down on a table and walked over to a garden statue of an angel. Or was it a fairy? He studied the statue for a moment, brushed a fallen leaf from its ear, smiled, then turned his attention back to his son.

  “My mother loved me enough to do what was best for me. By the time I was ten, I was a man. I could stand up to anyone and hold my own. By sixteen, I had graduated high school—with honors. You don’t know what it means to work your goddamned ass off! I’ve had to work to get where I am! You had it handed to you! Didn’t lift a finger. Skated through law school on your father’s coattails. You think you’d be where you are today if it weren’t for me!”

  “I’d be a damned sight happier! If you’d had your way, you’d have handed me the same painful childhood you had.”

  “It would have been a gift. It might have made you a man, a son I could be proud of.”

  “Instead of a son you despise and resent?”

  Anthony Morrison walked away, leaving his son to assess the damage. Had I detected a flicker of vulnerability in the man’s eyes? But it was his son to whom I could relate. All too easily.

  “Well, Jenny likes to think she’s an artist.”

  “I am an artist, Mother,” I said through gritted teeth.

  My mother patted me on the head and smiled at her bridge club members. Then she rolled her eyes, the gesture that made me feel so crazy I wanted to slap her upside the face.

  “Crazy making,” my third therapist told me. She was the one I had stayed with the longest. She was the one who convinced me that it wasn’t my fault, and that there was nothing I could do to make it better. I had done the best thing I could have done, leaving home at thirteen and finding sanctuary and sanity in my father’s home.

  I left my undetected ringside seat and went over to Scott who was sitting in a lawn chair, his hands folded in his lap. He looked like a little boy, waiting to be thrown a scrap of praise from his father. I wouldn’t recommend that he hold his breath.

  “It isn’t you,” I said softly.

  He looked over at me, realizing that he’d had an audience for his family spat.

  “He sure tries to make me feel like it is.”

  “He’s an expert at it, right?”

  Scott nodded.

  “The truth is, it has nothing to do with you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “My mother is a lot like your father.”

  Scott unclasped his hands and turned to face me. “You can tell all this from—” He gestured with his hand. “One conversation?”

  That and the feelings it brought up in my third and fourth chakras. “Has he ever apologized to you for anything? Or to anyone for that matter?”

  Scott thought for a moment before speaking. “No, not really. No.”

  “Whenever you try to talk about something, does he bring the conversation back to himself?”

  He didn’t have to think about that one. “Except when he’s attacking me. Sometimes even then.”

  “Sounds like my mother.”

  “How do I deal with it?”

  “Protect yourself. And with help, you begin to heal.”

  Scott took my hand, holding onto it as though it were a lifeline to his sanity. “Thanks, Jenny. It’s nice to have someone understand.”

  I pulled a card out of my gingham purse and handed it to him. “If you ever want to talk.”

  He glanced at the card and smiled. “Thank you. I’ll call.”

  I knew he wasn’t just saying that.

  And I also knew why I was immune to the venerable charm of Anthony Morrison—at least most of the time. He struck feelings way too close to home.

  I still had little information on Amy, but I was certainly beginning to get a picture of the world in which she lived. I glanced across the lawn, my eyes finding the subject of my thoughts in a flash. Amy was like that, easy to pick out of a crowd. She was walking toward the cabana, looking around as if someone were watching her. Was she that sensitive, I wondered, that she felt my eyes on her?

  Or maybe it wasn’t my eyes she felt. Richard Stratton came up behind her, apparently believing that the cabana was protecting them from view. I held my breath and wished I had planted a microphone on Amy without her knowing it. I couldn’t hear their words, but their actions spoke loudly en
ough. Richard had grabbed her arm, but she had pulled it swiftly from his grip, stepping back in revulsion. No, this was not the other man in Amy’s life. At least not anymore.

  Words were exchanged, and a moment later, none other than Anthony Morrison, stepped in with a few of his own comments. Richard’s jaw tightened in contradiction to his acquiescent nod. A moment later he left the circle of three, looking the part of the dog caught sneaking a cookie from the kitchen table. My eyes did not follow him for long. I was more interested in observing the others. Anthony spoke softly, his body language revealing nothing. He said no more than a few words, shook his head, and left Amy on her own. Had he reprimanded her the way he might Scott? Did his animosity and resentment of his son carry over to his son’s wife? Or was he actually protecting his son’s interests? All questions I would seek to answer.

  I would have continued observing Amy, had my bladder not protested that thought. I left my purse on the table and headed for the house. Not being familiar with my surroundings, it took me a while to locate the bathroom.

  I walked down a corridor of family photographs. Along one wall: Rosemary and Anthony’s wedding, Rosemary and Anthony’s honeymoon, Anthony’s graduation from law school. Cutting the ribbon outside their law office.

  And along the facing wall: Scott’s birth, Scott’s first birthday, Scott’s second birthday, all of Scott’s birthdays. Scott playing a lamb in a kindergarten play—or was it a dog? Scott playing soccer, Scott playing basketball, Scott playing the Wizard in The Wizard of Oz, Scott playing baseball, Scott playing rugby, Scott’s first prom, Scott playing the king in The King and I, Scott’s senior prom, Scott playing tennis, Scott playing Romeo in Romeo and Juliet—the balcony gave it away—Scott graduating high school, college, law school, Scott playing golf. And the final two—Scott marrying Amy, and Scott and Amy holding their newborn son. I had no doubt that Rosemary was responsible for the family gallery. I also had no doubt that there was a hallway somewhere in this house that was dedicated to her grandson.

  I wondered if I had come this way in order to see these pictures. There must have been a bathroom closer to the garden door. Perhaps it was my instinct to gravitate towards a library if one exists, that led me astray. The library door was wide open, and I could not resist taking a peek inside the elegant room with floor to ceiling bookshelves. But my bladder’s desperate cry for relief did not allow me more than a moment of indulgence.