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His explanation of the Fieldings allegations sounded plausible, too, yet something still gnawed at me. The way he told the story, the Fieldings family members had been undecided over whether to sell to McKnight Corporation. Sean had had a talk with Walter Fieldings, the founder and eldest family member, and convinced him that it would be in the family’s best financial interests to sell. Walter Fieldings had, in turn, convinced the rest of the family, and the deal went through. Yes, McKnight said, there were some grumblings that he had pulled some kind of trick. The authorities had even questioned him, but everyone realized the blackmail allegations weren’t true, and nothing came of it. He’d never been charged with anything, and he made the Fieldings family very rich.
“And that’s it?” I said, the incredulity slipping into my tone despite myself. “There’s nothing more to the story? You just had a talk with Papa Fieldings, and the deal fell into place?”
“Essentially, yes.” McKnight leaned forward on his elbows. His eyes held mine, and I wondered for a second if he was one of those older guys who hit on every woman under forty. For some reason, that thought didn’t strike me exactly right. There were a handful of those types in my office, and they were much more overt—staring at your breasts, letting their hands run over your back as you passed them.
“Are you doubting me?” McKnight asked.
“I’m trained to doubt everyone.”
“How interesting.” He sat back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, as if waiting for me to make the next move.
“Look,” I said. “I’m not trying to antagonize you, but if you want to avoid a trial, we need to win this week, and if we’re going to win, we need to make sure you sound credible.”
“Are you saying I don’t seem credible?” McKnight’s tone was low and, to be honest, scary.
“I’m simply saying that in case they’re allowed in, you have to be ready for some intense questions on this issue. Your story needs to be perfect.”
McKnight’s gaze never left my face. “Well, Miss Sutter, what part of my ‘story,’ as you put it, don’t you believe?”
I reviewed the notes I’d taken. It was a good question, because I couldn’t exactly find fault with his rendition of the events. He was the problem, I realized. I didn’t trust him, and that made me very anxious. Any lawyer’s worst nightmare is a client you can’t trust, who might hold things back or take matters into his own hands. McKnight struck me as that type, but I couldn’t very well tell him that. In one month, the Gardner, State & Lord executive committee would vote on new partners. If I lost the McKnight account right before the vote, I might lose the partnership. I’d worked too hard to let this guy ruin it for me.
“It’s nothing precise,” I said, raising my head to meet his eyes again. “As I mentioned, I just want you to be ready.”
“If there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s this. I am always, always ready.” He closed the file folder in front of him as if the subject were also closed.
“All right then. Let’s review what’s going to happen this week.”
I took them through what I expected of the arbitration step by step, and when we were finished, McKnight stood from the table and began moving toward the door. It was twelve o’clock, one hour before the arbitration started.
“Please call if you want lunch sent up,” he said to me. “You do eat, right? You do require regular human sustenance?”
I blinked a few times, confused at his hostility. “I’ve been known to eat once in a while,” I said wryly.
“Good to hear it. I’ll see you at the arbitration.”
“I think we should walk over together so that we can talk some more about your testimony,” I said.
He stopped and turned around. “I think you’ve taken up enough of my time.” With that, he sailed out the door.
I looked at Beth. “What the hell?”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t take it personally. Supposedly, he wasn’t always like this. I’ve heard that he used to be a decent guy until he got a divorce years ago. He was never the same after that.”
“A divorce made him such a jerk? Are you kidding me?”
She shrugged. “You never know what can push a person over the edge.”
A few days later, I sat at a scratched wooden table, alone in the arbitration room, getting ready to present McKnight’s Web designer as my next witness. Since everyone else was at lunch, the room was cool and quiet. The proceeding was being held in a stately old government building near the federal courthouse, the place where McKnight Corporation would find itself in approximately six months for a trial if the arbitration didn’t go well. The arbitrators had barred members of the press from the room, but journalists were always stationed outside, like vultures waiting to swoop, so most of the time I stayed put until I had to leave for the day.
It was hard when the room was so still. I wasn’t as focused as I should have been. My thoughts kept straying from the notes and deposition transcripts piled in front of me to the letter tucked at the bottom of my trial bag. I kept counting the days until I could leave Chicago and drive to Woodland Dunes. Only two more now.
So far, the arbitration had been an odd mix, some parts better than I expected, others decidedly worse. I’d been pleased with my opening argument. I went into that zone where I wove my words easily, where I could read the arbitrators’ faces and change my course when their interest waned. The only thing that threw me was the constant feel of Sean McKnight’s eyes on me. It didn’t seem like the lustful watch of a man interested in a May/December romance. That would have been simple, because I knew how to handle come-ons. No, his stare felt more like an ever-present evaluation. Every time I saw him observing me from the corner of my eye, I had to force myself to concentrate so that I could keep on the path of my statement.
Luckily, after the opening arguments, McKnight did as he said he would and disappeared until it was time for his testimony. Once he was on the stand, he became the charming person customers associated with McKnight department stores. I was surprised when the plaintiff’s attorney, Evan Lamey, didn’t hit McKnight hard with questions about the Fieldings takeover. I would’ve liked to think that Lamey was entranced by McKnight’s good looks and smooth talking, but I knew better. Lamey was trying to cast a shadow of doubt over McKnight with his cross-examination, all the while saving his real zingers in case a trial was needed. As a result, McKnight finished his testimony at the end of the day with a smug look on his face.
“You see,” he said, leaning toward me so the others wouldn’t hear, “I didn’t need the practice.”
I clicked my trial bag shut. “Don’t kid yourself. He went easy on you.”
A flicker of doubt crossed McKnight’s face, then disappeared. He didn’t ask what I meant. Instead, he simply said, “When do I have to be back here?”
“Closing arguments. Friday at one o’clock. Unless of course you want to show support for your employee, who will be testifying tomorrow.”
“And what do you do with your evenings here in Chicago?”
“I…” I faltered for a second, startled at the shift in topic. I wondered if I’d been wrong before, if he might be hitting on me. But his eyes were cold, and he had taken a step away, as if he found it difficult to be in my proximity.
“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” I said.
“I think it is. I’m paying you to be here.”
“You’re not paying me for my time after hours.”
“Yes, right.” He studied my face with that way of his. Then he swiveled on the heels of his Italian-leather shoes and walked out of the room. I decided that he was, by far, the rudest and oddest client I’d ever had.
People started trickling into the arbitration room now, and I was finally able to get my mind on track. Unfortunately, the McKnight Web designer, a Jesus look-alike named Gary Sather, didn’t fare as well as his boss that afternoon. My direct exam went smooth enough, although I had to constantly remind Gary to speak up and to respond to questions out loud instead of answering with a nod or a shake of his head. On cross-examination, he crumbled. Lamey didn’t hold back this time. He went after Gary hard, his cross designed to show that the McKnight Web site stole ideas from its competitor, Lamey’s client.
“Is it possible,” Lamey said, prowling in front of Gary like a lion stalking its prey, the tails of his gray suit coat flapping behind him with the movement, “that the Easy Click and Shop system you said you designed for McKnight was actually a copy of technology you saw somewhere else?”
Gary blinked again. He looked at me for help, even though I’d told him not to. “I don’t think so,” he said.
Lamey stopped in front of him. “You’re not sure, then?”
I tried to will the answer to Gary by mental telepathy. Say you’re sure, say you’re absolutely positive that you created it on your own, just like we practiced.
Gary missed my telepathy and lamely shrugged his shoulders.
“Let me ask it another way,” Lamey said, taking a step toward the witness. “Is it possible that you’d seen something very similar to the Easy Click and Shop system on another Web site before you designed the McKnight site?”
Gary blinked again. “I guess it’s possible.”
“So, it’s possible that you borrowed that technology and used it on the McKnight site.” Lamey flipped through some papers as he said this, a trick designed to make Gary think that he had something in writing that could verify his statement.
Gary watched him and licked his lips. “Yeah,” he said finally. “It’s possible.”
I resisted the urge to drop my head in my hands.
I opened the window and let the azure sky push a damp spring breeze through the rental car. I’d finally escaped the clog of cars that surrounded the Loop and was heading east on the Dan Ryan Expressway toward the Skyway. On the passenger seat, I had a bottle of water, a bag of pretzels and a map of the Midwest. Strangely, I didn’t actually need the map. I knew the way, as if I could sense the streets and highways that would lead me to the past, to Woodland Dunes, and maybe to the truth about my mother.
Yesterday’s closing argument had gone as well as possible, but afterward, when the arbitration room cleared, I’d broken the news to McKnight that Gary’s testimony would almost certainly make the arbitrators find for the plaintiff.
McKnight listened, his unreadable eyes watching me, and then he said, “Fine. He’ll be gone by this afternoon.”
I looked at him incredulously. “You can’t fire him!”
“I can, and I will.”
“Don’t you realize that terminating him is exactly what the plaintiffs want? At trial, they can make a huge issue of how you knew Gary had messed up, and that’s why you sacked him. If you keep him on, though, you show confidence in your Web site and your belief that your employee did nothing wrong.”
McKnight spread his lips in an insincere smile. “Point taken. He stays until the case is over. Although I suppose we could have avoided this conversation if you’d prepared him correctly.”
I felt my jaw clench. The silence of the large room seemed to envelope us, although I could hear the murmurs outside the door; no doubt Lamey was spinning his tale of impending victory for the reporters.
“I worked with him for two days before his deposition, one day last week on the phone, and two nights this week,” I said, trying to keep my voice low. “Gary is a very nice person, but he’ll never be a good witness. No amount of prep can change that.” I hefted my trial bag off the counsel’s table, wishing I could launch the thing at McKnight’s head. “The arbitrators will call me next week when they’ve reached a decision. I’ll let you know immediately, and we’ll come here together to hear it.”
He nodded, his face slightly less haughty. “You did a good job. Other than that.”
I didn’t know whether to take that swing with the trial bag or thank him, so I only nodded an acknowledgment.
“I mean that,” he said. “You’re obviously an excellent lawyer.” He looked slightly embarrassed, and, for the first time since I met him, he seemed human. It was probably more than he could bear, because he turned and left without a word of goodbye.
Don’t think about it, I told myself now, and I turned up the car radio so that it blared an Allman Brothers song. I dug my hand in the bag of pretzels and popped a few in my mouth, washing them down with a swig of water. I found that it wasn’t hard to shift my thoughts as I made my way down the Skyway, a multilane raised road that hugged the lake and formed a bridge from Chicago into northern Indiana. Through the line of smokestacks and steel mills, I began to catch glimpses of the lake, a flat, watery carpet of deep blue, the lake that was my playground until my mom died.
Once across the Indiana border and into southern Michigan, I exited and got on a small highway that would take me even closer to the lake. The highway here was more scenic, lined with a couple of rural towns and then long patches of oak trees with nothing to interrupt them. It was odd how familiar it all seemed, how recent the memory. Finally, I reached a stop sign, so faded by the sun it was almost pink. Below it was another sign, black and rectangular with white lettering that read, Welcome To Woodland Dunes.
I didn’t hesitate. I stepped on the gas and crossed the threshold. I was back.
3
I passed Franklin Park, a wide plot of green land filled with benches and swing sets and a white gazebo. On the other side of the park lay the softly lapping waves of Lake Michigan. After the park, there were small cottages on either side of the street. Soon, the houses became larger and grander, the old section of Woodland Dunes. I pulled over and checked the slip of paper where I’d written Della’s address. I’d never been to her house before.
The street that Della lived on turned east, away from the lake, and coursed through the woods. This was where people built homes when they couldn’t afford to live near the water, and as a result, the homes became smaller and closer together again.
Della’s house was a trim ranch with brown aluminum siding and a small, unfinished wood porch with a lone rocker. An old blue station wagon was parked in the driveway. I pulled in behind it.
I climbed out of the car, not even pausing to check my face in the mirror or grab my purse. I hadn’t seen Della, the woman who’d been housekeeper and nanny to my family, in more than twenty years, but suddenly I couldn’t wait.
There was no bell, so I rapped on the screen door, which rattled back and forth in its casing.
An older Hispanic man dressed in jeans and a golf shirt opened it.
“Is Della home?” I said.
He gave me a kind smile. “Are you Hailey?”
I nodded.
“Well, hello. I’m Martin, Della’s husband. I met you years and years ago, but you probably don’t remember.”
“I’m sorry, I…”
“Don’t be silly, you were a little girl. Della will be so happy to see you. She went out to the store. Wasn’t sure when you’d be here. Would you like to come in?”
I tried not to show my disappointment. Now that I was there, I was impatient to talk to Della, to find out everything she knew and remembered, but I couldn’t bear the thought of making small talk in the interim.
“Actually,” I said, “I haven’t been to Woodland Dunes in a long time. Maybe I’ll just drive around, go by our old house. Do you know who lives there now?”
Martin looked a little surprised. “Oh, no one lives there. Not for a while. They call it the Marker Mansion, after the family that originally built the house at the turn of the century. It’s been converted into a cultural center for the town.”
“So I could go inside?”
“Sure. They’ll even give you a tour.”
I thanked him, promised to return in an hour, and headed for my car.
After a five-minute drive, I turned the corner and came face-to-face with the house, the image of my early childhood—its gables, its sloping black roofs, its wide dormered windows on the second floor and the tall oaks and pines that surround the house like a cape. I parked in a large concrete lot that used to be part of the front lawn.
Turning off the ignition, I stared at the house, taking in the Victorian shape and the broad porch with its white wood railing. The house was dove-gray instead of the creamy yellow that my parents always painted it, and there were tall bushes where my mother used to plant flowers. Otherwise, the outside looked much the same. It had resided in my memory for so long, a memory I didn’t often visit, that it was strange to see it in person.
I got out of the car, and as I approached the front steps, I saw a small iron sign that read:
Woodland Dunes Cultural Center.
Formerly The Marker Mansion. Built 1905.
Tours Daily 10:00, 11:30, 1:00.
I glanced at my watch. I was just in time for the second tour.
When I stepped onto the porch, I had a sudden vision of a swing that used to hang in the corner. I could almost see my sister, Caroline, sitting there, her feet on the swing, her arms wrapped around her knees, her sandy, straight hair falling around her shoulders. She was always so quiet, so still, and in the summers, she spent much of her time on that swing. She never read or even hummed to herself. She just sat. I remembered myself, years younger than my newly teenage sister, coming out of the house to peek at her, wondering what tragedies she was mulling over. Although no one had given me that impression, I always imagined Caroline as a complicated and tragic figure.
“May I help you?” A voice startled me away from the memory. I turned to see a young woman in the doorway with dark hair twisted up in a loose knot.
“Hi. I’m here for the tour.”
“Great. C’mon in.” The woman stepped inside and held open the door. “We don’t get too many visitors until the summer really starts, so I’m glad to have you.”
My first thought when I stepped into the front hall, a wide foyer with molded plaster ceilings, was that the house was much darker now. Maybe I was mistaken or simply remembering poorly, but I always thought the house had been sun-filled and airy, even in the winter. Now the house had a shuttered, impersonal feel, a museum feel, which I supposed wasn’t surprising, since it was a museum of sorts now.
“I’m Jan,” the guide said, extending her hand. She was probably no older than twenty-one. She wore little makeup and a simple outfit of khaki pants and a blue T-shirt.
“Hailey.” I shook her hand.
“Are you from around here?”
“No. New York.” I didn’t mention that I used to be from around here, that I used to live in this house. For now, I wanted to keep my memories to myself. It had been so long since I let them in.
“Let’s start the tour over here.” Jan led the way to the right, past open pocket doors and into the library.
