“Felt sorry for me, I guess. I’d just come from Hollywood and my way of handling things was physical. I had trouble even remembering my law training.”
“But Mrs. Pendergast took you under her wing and mothered you?”
Travis snorted. “She kicked me fifty times a day. Made me think. Made me put my anger at my father aside enough so that I could do the job. That first year was hell. Do you like that?”
“That your first year was bad?”
“No. I mean that shirt. Those pants. I think you’d look good in them.”
“And trying them on would stop me from interrogating you, wouldn’t it?”
“I never want to go against you in a courtroom.” His hand was on her back as he urged her toward the doorway.
They spent two hours going from one store to another. For all that Travis had said he didn’t like such things, he was a dream to shop with. He sat down and waited while Kim tried on clothes, and he gave his opinion on each one.
But for all that he seemed to give his full attention to her, twice he was on his phone, and each time he erased a frown when he saw her. She asked what was going on.
“Closing up business. You ready for lunch?”
As Kim turned away, she was reminded of all that was still facing them, especially the court case for the divorce. “Sure,” she said as Travis opened the door for her.
But as soon as they were outside, his phone rang again. “Damn!” he muttered as he looked at it. “It’s Penny. I . . .” He looked at Kim in question.
“Take it,” she said. “I’ll meet you at the diner.” But she saw a flash of movement in the window of an antiques shop across the road. It was Mrs. Pendergast’s arm, and she was waving at Kim, a phone to her ear.
Kim looked at Travis’s back, then at Mrs. Pendergast. She was motioning for Kim to come to the store. They did need to talk.
“Thirty minutes, the diner,” Kim said to Travis, and he nodded as he frowned at the call, and Kim hurried across the road.
Joe Layton took a couple of deep breaths as he picked up the phone receiver in his office. He was a believer in land lines. Their connections were better, less likely to fade out, and since the call he was about to make would change his—and Lucy’s—life, he wanted to hear every word.
It had been simple to get the number of the headquarters of Maxwell Industries, but getting the man himself on the phone wasn’t going to be easy. Joe thought maybe he’d tell whoever answered the phone that it was a matter of life and death. That way he’d keep the truth between him and Maxwell. But the snooty woman who was at the end of the line of a long succession of secretaries brought out the truth in Joe.
“You can’t just call and expect to speak directly to Mr. Maxwell.” Her tone was patronizing, but at the same time amused. It was obvious that she saw herself as Big City while Joe was Country Bumpkin.
Joe was fed up with all of them. “Tell him I’m the man who wants to marry his wife.”
The secretary was silent for a moment, then her tone changed to brisk efficiency. “I’ll see if he’s available.”
It was only moments before Randall Maxwell was on the line. “So you’re Joe Layton.”
“Looks like nobody’s kept a secret from you,” Joe said.
“Not if I want to know what’s going on, they can’t. So what’s Lucy up to now?”
“I want to settle this thing between you and me.”
“By ‘thing’ do you mean a divorce?” Randall asked.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”
“Layton, you weren’t born yesterday,” Randall snapped in a voice that often intimidated people. “There’s more involved in this than just a few grand.”
Joe wasn’t intimidated in the least. “Keep your money,” Joe growled. “Keep every goddamn cent of it.”
“That’s an interesting concept. What about the money she stole from me?”
“You mean the money you so conveniently left for her to find?”