Under Currents Read online

  “I know. Eighteen years, Zane. It’s a long time. Maybe not long enough for you and me, but a long time. She’s never come back, not once. Lee would know if she had, and he’d have told us. There’s no reason he’d come back.”

  “She still visits him, every week.”

  “She loves him.” At Zane’s instinctive sound of disgust, Britt pushed on. “She does love him. Remember the way—even after she’d rolled over to get a reduced sentence for herself—she testified for him at his trial? Swearing under oath what they had between them wasn’t violence but passion. It’s not healthy, it’s not genuine, but it’s real to her, maybe to them.”

  “It’s obsession.”

  “Yes.” As she spoke Britt turned her wedding band around her finger with her thumb. A gesture, Zane thought, he’d seen her make before when they spoke of their parents. “Yes, it is, and they have a terrible, destructive dependence on each other. We were just by-products, just status to them.”

  “It was always about them,” Zane added. “About how they looked to outsiders, and their own sick connection.”

  “Oh yeah. I doubt they give either of us a thought.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “Did you come back, now, because you believe he’s going to get out?”

  “That’s part of it.”

  “Protecting me again?”

  “Always will.”

  “That goes both ways.”

  When Britt went back to work, Zane wandered around the empty office space. He could probably use some of his condo furniture, currently in storage.

  His desk would work in the reception area. Once he hired a receptionist, or paralegal. Once he had actual clients.

  Christ, what was he doing?

  He’d worked as a prosecutor his entire career. Sure, he’d handled a few outside legal matters for friends, and he’d taken care of whatever Emily or Britt needed, but his focus had been making sure bad guys paid the price for bad acts.

  And he’d been good at it.

  Now? Wills, divorces, DUIs, civil suits. Well, there was a need. But who knew if he’d be good at it?

  He walked to the window, looked out at the shops, the restaurants, the people taking advantage of a pretty spring day. Some he knew; some he didn’t. He didn’t know the guy on a stepladder over at the Breezy Café hanging baskets of flowers.

  Did he need to do that? He had the nice little porch, so maybe he needed, what, a bench, a flowerpot, or something?

  A good way for Darby to trade off the settlement work—then he wouldn’t have to think about it.

  Maybe he’d put his leather sofa in reception—or in what he’d use as the law library or conference room. He supposed most of his condo furnishings hit the same note as his car.

  Single guy.

  Maybe he’d buy himself a seriously lawyerly desk for his office, get some lawyerly art for the walls—walls he had to have painted something besides investment property off-white.

  He’d worked in a tight, overworked space for so long, he wasn’t quite sure what he’d do with so much room. Or time.

  He’d just have to find the way to fill them both.

  He watched a woman—really pregnant—with swingy blond hair push a kid in a stroller down the sidewalk. He started to turn away, get back to the business of figuring things out, when it struck him.

  He rushed to the door, stepped out on the porch. And thought: Holy shit!

  “Ashley Kinsdale!”

  The woman glanced toward him, did a double take. Her version of Holy shit, he supposed. “Zane!”

  He strode down to the sidewalk, and into her laughing hug. She smelled like baby powder, he realized, and weirdly, the one inside her gave him a little kick.

  “Jeez, Ashley, look at you!”

  “Baby boy coming your way this April.”

  “You look great. Seriously.”

  “I’m fat, but I feel great. And you, I’ll just say mmm-hmm. You grew up just fine. Oh, Zane, it’s so good to see you. I heard you were coming home.”

  “I didn’t hear you were. Didn’t you move to Charlotte?”

  “Yeah, and it’s been good. But I really missed home, missed my family, and realized I really, really wanted to raise my kids here. Nathan—that’s my husband—got right on board.”

  Pretty as ever, he thought, her eyes still a laughing blue. “You’re happy.”

  “Stupid happy. We just opened Grandy’s Grill. I’m Ashley Grandy now. Nathan’s a chef, and when we decided to move back, we decided we’d go for the dream of opening our own place. You have to come have dinner one night. Remember The Pilot?”

  “Sure. I took you to dinner there once, before—” He broke off, winced, pressed a fist to his chest.

  “Zane! Are you all right?”

  “It just comes back on me now and then. My broken heart.”

  Her face cleared with a laugh, and she added a friendly swat. “Listen to you. Grandy’s Grill took over The Pilot. New menu, new look, new, new, new. Got us a hell of a bar, too, good selection of craft beer. You come, Zane.”

  “I absolutely will. And who’s this lovely lady?”

  “That’s my Fiona. Fi, say hi to Mr. Bigelow.”

  “It’s Walker,” Zane corrected as he crouched down.

  “Oh, I forgot. I’m sorry, I—”

  “No problem. Very pleased to meet you, Miss Fiona.”

  She smiled at him, a towheaded girl who couldn’t have seen her second birthday, then wagged the doll she held in his face. “My baby.”

  “And almost as pretty as you.” Still crouched, he looked up at Ashley, thought of a night, a kiss under a starry sky and swimming moon. “You’re a mama.”

  “I sure am. And you’re a lawyer.”

  “You don’t happen to need one, do you?”

  “As a matter of fact, we do.” Her hand circled over the mound of her belly as he’d seen pregnant women do. “With a second child on the way, Nathan and I want to make a will, and name a guardian. We just don’t want to think about it, but it’s the right thing. If anything happened to us, we want to know our babies are looked after.”

  “That’s smart and responsible, and simple. We can get it done, then you can forget about it.”

  “Can I make an appointment?”

  He jerked a thumb toward the building. “I just got myself office space this morning. I’m not set up yet.”

  “How about this? Give me your phone, and I’ll put my number in, the restaurant’s, too. When you’re ready, you can give me a call. That’ll give Nathan and me more time to talk it through anyway.”

  After she added her contacts, she beamed at him again. “Are we your first clients?”

  “Actually, after my family, you’re number two. I bagged another a couple hours ago.”

  “No moss on you. Zane, come here.” She cupped his face, kissed him softly on the lips. “You were the first boy I loved. I want you to meet Nathan. He’s the last man I’ll love.”

  “Seeing you just made my day, Ashley. That’s the truth.”

  “Then you make good use of the rest of it. Now Fiona and I, and Caleb, or possibly Connor, unless he’s Chase,” she added giving her belly another rub, “have to go earn our keep. You call me, you hear? And if you don’t come into our place for a beer, I’ll want to know why.”

  “Count on it. Bye, pretty Miss Fiona.”

  He watched her go, hair swinging, looked back at his little porch, his open door.

  What the hell, he thought. It was all going to be just fine.

  * * *

  Within a week he’d made real progress. Since both Emily and Britt held very definite opinions about paint colors and decor, he let them pick, choose, debate over shades, form, and function.

  Then went with what he wanted anyway.

  He hired painters, bought furniture in Asheville and online, debated selections of art in local shops, and asked Darby to take a look at his porch, do something about it.

  A few da
ys later, he drove up to meet Micah—his IT guy for the office system—and found his porch decked out with a bench that looked as if it had been hewn from a sturdy oak and polished by elves, and a glossy blue pot full of yellow and blue flowers, trailing greens.

  Somebody else didn’t grow moss, he thought as he stepped out of the car. And damn if it didn’t look just exactly right. He hoped to hell he didn’t end up killing the flowers.

  He walked up, pulled the folded note she’d taped to the door.

  She’d listed the names of the flowers—which he’d never remember—clear instructions for how to handle the self-watering deal, and, as agreed, the cost of the bench.

  Thanks for leaving me the key. The porch pot and flowers, the money tree with pot in reception, and the bamboo plant for your client restroom are pro bono. If you don’t like the indoor plants I added, you’re just wrong. You have that really tiny patio out the back. You should get a small umbrella table, a couple of chairs, add some small planters. Think about it.

  Oh, and I like your paint colors. DM

  He started to unlock the door, see what the hell she’d gotten him into plant-wise, then turned as someone called his name.

  Not Micah, but Micah’s mom. He’d had dinner at her house two nights before, really caught up with Micah, Dave, Maureen.

  “Hi! Hey, do you want to come in, see what’s what? Micah should be here in ten or fifteen.”

  “I would.”

  She wore a simple rose-colored dress, good heels. Her hair, shorter than it had been in his youth, waved around her face.

  He remembered thinking as a teenager that she was pretty for a mom.

  She still was.

  “I love that bench. What a nice entrance.”

  “The landscaper.”

  “She’s a clever girl, isn’t she? I’ve been out to see the bungalow she finished, and the one she nearly has. I might have to have a talk with her myself. Oh, Zane, this is really nice.”

  She stepped in, scanned.

  He’d done the walls in a pale gray. Though he’d yet to hang any art, he’d put his old desk so it angled in a way that whoever sat behind it could face both the door and the big window. Rather than the sofa, which he deemed better used in the law library, he’d used his living room chairs—oversize, dark gray.

  The plant—note taped to the pot—grew about four feet tall with a thick, braided trunk. It stood in a corner where the light spread over it.

  He pulled the note off. “It’s a Mexican fortune tree, or a money tree. It’ll like the light, is low-maintenance. Offices with plants are happier, have better air quality. And this one will bring me good luck.”

  “Darby McCray again?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s a nice touch. I know you’re busy setting up, and when Micah gets here … So.” She reached in her purse, pulled out a manila envelope.

  “What’s this?”

  “My résumé.”

  “Your … really?”

  “You’re looking for someone to take that desk who has some office experience, who can handle a computer, and, hopefully, has some experience in a law office. I worked at a law firm in another life a million years ago.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “A million years. In this life, I’ve helped Micah set up his IT and security business. And … it’s all in the résumé. I didn’t bring this up at dinner the other night because it wouldn’t have been fair. Now it’s just you and me.”

  “I didn’t know you were looking for a job. How about you’re hired.”

  “No, Zane, you sweet boy. You read my résumé, and you give it the same consideration you do any others you get.”

  “But I know you. I know you’re steady just like I know that sitting at that desk needs steady. People come in or call, and they’re trying to end a bad marriage, or sue the neighbor they’re pissed at, or they just got really bad news from their doctor and realize they never bothered with a will. I know I can depend on you. I could always depend on you and Dave.”

  Her face took on a stubborn look he didn’t know she had in her repertoire. “I don’t want you to give me a job because you feel an obligation.”

  “Hell, I want someone I know I can depend on. Say yes, and we’ll figure out salary and the rest.”

  “Read the résumé, contact my references. You can depend on me, Zane, so listen when I tell you to do your due diligence.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. I’ll get out of your way. And that?” She gestured toward the money tree. “It really adds to the space.”

  He supposed it did, for now.

  Alone, he carried the résumé back—glanced in the powder room, saw what he assumed was the bamboo in a little pot. The attached note proved that to be the case, and came with instructions. Low-maintenance.

  He walked back to his office, saw yet another note on his new lawyerly desk. This one told him exactly what plant he needed for that space, why, and where.

  Curious, wary, he looked in the attached full bath—full, he thought, if a closet could be considered full. But it had a skinny corner shower so the space could be rented as an apartment.

  No note.

  But he found one in what would be the law library, another in the stingy kitchen. Frowning, he looked out the equally stingy window to what only an optimist would call a patio.

  It was, to his eye, a square of concrete.

  But yeah, it could hold a small table, a couple of chairs. Might be a nice place to break the day or end it.

  Maybe.

  But for now, he went back to his office—deeper gray there, dignified, because, you know, lawyer.

  He sat at his newly purchased desk, back to the less stingy window, and opened his best friend’s mom’s résumé.

  Ten minutes later, Micah wandered in. “Hey, man.”

  “Hey.” Zane glanced up.

  Micah wore his hair in a stub of a tail, sported a single tiny hoop in his left ear, and a little goatee that actually worked. He wore carpenter jeans and a faded Avengers tee.

  Hippy nerd, and the look suited him.

  “You got a tree out there. It’s cool.”

  “Yeah, I guess it is. News? I’m going to hire your mom.”

  “Hire my mom? For like what?”

  “For like my administrative assistant.”

  “No shit?”

  “None. You know she worked in a law firm?”

  “Yeah, sort of. Wow.” He dropped down in one of the pair of wine-colored leather visitor chairs, shot out his legs, crossed his ankles over his red Nike high-tops. “That’s cool. She didn’t say anything.”

  “I just read her résumé.”

  “My mom has a résumé?”

  “A damn good one. You’re a reference.”

  “I am?” Micah’s grin spread. “Kick my ass and call me Sally.”

  “She helped you get your business going, Sally.”

  “Damn straight. The Computer Guy wouldn’t have gotten off the ground without her. Setting up the books and all that, helping me design the website. Does Dad know?” Micah waved the question away as soon as he asked it. “Sure he does. They’re like a unit. This is totally cool news, man. I guess, now that I think, she’s been rattling around some since Chloe got married last fall. All the wedding planning kept her way busy.”

  “How’s she doing? Chloe, I mean.”

  “Good. She and Shelly dig the Outer Banks. You know, it’s still weird how I dated Shelly a couple times in high school, and my sister ends up marrying her.”

  “Things change.”

  Micah put his fingertips together, bowed over them. “Wise words, my brother. I got a gander at the bungalow the new girl and Roy did, and the one they’re working on. Man, the new girl is hot.”

  “Darby?”

  “Superhot. Not like your sister hot—and you know I say that thinking about Britt like she’s my own sister, only straight and married and a mom.”

  “Yes. Fortunately
for both of us, I do.”

  “This one’s different hot. Britt’s like head cheerleader hot. The new girl’s like kick-your-ass-if-it-needs-it hot. Like Black Widow, man—her hair’s even sort of red. She’s ‘I can do what needs doing.’ That’s hot.”

  “Huh. It is, now that you mention it.”

  “I’m totally devoted to Cassie, right? My chick’s the coolest chick in the universe of chicks. But if I wasn’t, I would offer my ass up for kicking with the new girl.

  “So, how about I set you up with some data, some communication, and some security?”

  “Yeah, let’s do that.”

  He hung with Micah awhile, answered questions about his needs, shot the bull, watched his old friend work his magic. Then he got his laptop and drafted a formal employee contract, with a full job description.

  He fiddled with it awhile, let it sit while he took delivery on more furniture, some office supplies.

  Went back to it, read it over, then emailed it to his new administrative assistant.

  Now, if he could cop himself a summer intern, he’d be in business.

  * * *

  In business herself, Darby stuck her fists on her hips to check the positioning of the chairs—sanded, painted, dry—just placed back on the porch.

  She’d sent Roy to the next bungalow on the list to start the grunt work of removing gravel while she finished the final touches here.

  The only uniform element with the first was the lamppost. It gave the cabins symmetry, recognizability to her mind. And she hoped when she finished all of them, Emily would consider names instead of numbers, have signs added to the posts.

  But the rest? Unique to the space, flowing, but unique.

  Now she only had to finish the pots, sweep up, check all the lighting one more time, and voilà.

  She turned at the sound of a car, waited when it pulled into the drive. A woman got out. Young, Darby noted, early twenties. A tough build in jeans, a soft cloud of hair around a face the color of good cappuccino.

  “Miss McCray?”

  “Darby McCray. Can I help you?”

  “I’m hoping. I’m Hallie Younger. I heard you might be hiring.”

  “I might be. You’re looking for work?”