Notorious Page 6

  Standing over her with her arms crossed militantly beneath her breasts, Haley returned a cool stare. One, unfortunately, that did not completely hide the sense of betrayal at its core.

  Kurstin drew in a deep breath, then blew it out in a gusty sigh. And shed her posturing. "Okay," she said. "I truly am sorry. I knew it was underhanded, but the job seemed tailor-made for your needs. So I just...went ahead and did it anyway.”

  Hayley sank to sit cross legged on the corner of the towel. "Move your butt," she commanded. When Kurstin promptly made room for her, her life-long BFF made herself more comfortable.

  And conceded, "It’s a good job. I made a killing on tips last night."

  "Does that mean I'm forgiven?"

  "I suppose. But do not get in the habit of manipulating me, Kurstie, or we will have an issue."

  "I won't. I swear I was not proud of how I handled the situation and, honest-to-God, I must have started to 'fess up a dozen times." Water lapped against the pilings beneath them as she watched Hayley wrap her hands around her ankles and slowly butterfly her knees up and down. She hated that her bestie's face was averted, but Hayley determinedly kept her gaze on the lake. "So, will you come to Sunday dinner?" Kurstin finally asked again. "Please?"

  Hayley groaned deep in her throat, undoubtedly remembering the formal, stifled affairs of the past.

  "Please," she reiterated. "I invited Patsy and Joe Beal. I know I should have cleared it with you first, but Patsy has been bugging the hell out of me. I have no idea why she seems to think you’re her best bud all of sudden, but since your schedule precludes most evenings it seemed like a good time to get everyone together. Not to mention that if enough people are there, perhaps my dad and brother will be on their best behavior for a change instead of trying to rip out each other's throat."

  Okay, Hayley admitted it: she could not resist the chance to find out what was going on there. She swiveled to face Kurstin, bringing her knees in toward her chest. Hugging her shins, she propped her chin atop her kneecaps.

  "What’s the story with those two?" she demanded. "Being at each other's throat is not exactly hot-breaking news, but I thought things between them were all hunky dory these days. Last I heard, Jon-Michael joined the fold when he went into the business, which I gotta tell you, Kurst, knocked me for a loop. Now I find him playing his sax in a lounge on Eighth Street."

  "Jon was great at his job," Kurstin retorted as if she had somehow implied otherwise. "He was innovative and had a versatile, enterprising approach to work. But he resists anything that smacks of hierarchy."

  "And hierarchy is Richard's middle name."

  "Precisely." Kurstin sighed. "Some things never change. Put those two together and they are still like vinegar and baking soda. Dad just can’t resist micro-managing every aspect of the business. It doesn't matter that Jon-Michael gets results with his methods; they are not Father's methods. Dad is extremely task oriented and he wants things done a certain way. Jon-Michael's way is more fluid and he questions everything. They butted heads at every turn."

  "They must have known going in that was a distinct possibility.”

  "You would think so, right? And for all their clashes it actually worked for a while. Then all of a sudden it fell apart. Jon-Michael left in a huff and Dad has been unrelentingly furious ever since that an Olivet has been–and I quote—'throwing his life away in that iniquitous dive.'" She smiled slightly. "Good word, iniquitous. I will give him points for that."

  Clearly, something specific had occurred to bring the situation to the flash point and Hayley wondered what it was. Jon-Michael was outspoken and strategy minded, and she could see him fighting tooth and nail to stave off Richard's attempts at imposing a bureaucratic structure to his methods and relishing every minute of it. So what had made him stomp off in anger? Not only did Kurstin not seem to know, she apparently didn't even suspect a deeper motive for the split.

  Hayley suspected like crazy and privately acknowledged that her cynicism had been honed to a fine finish over the past couple of years. Maybe she would snoop around in someone else’s life for a change and see what it was like from the other side.

  "But you are not getting me off subject." Kurstin said, waving the current topic away with an impatient flip of her hand. "Are you going to be here for dinner or not?"

  "You bet. I wouldn't miss it for the world."

  "Sherry?" Richard Olivet asked the following Sunday as long fingers of early evening sunshine crept across the parlor’s hardwood floors.

  "Chablis, please," Hayley responded. “I’ve never really cared for sherry." As he turned away, however, she had the distinct impression he hadn't listened to her reply. He had given her a brief critical inspection, then dismissed her. The practiced tactic left Hayley feeling as if she should be the one serving the drinks. Richard had always had that effect on her.

  She discreetly checked her hem to make sure it wasn't sagging anywhere and plucked a loose thread from the bodice of her sundress and rolled it into a little ball she surreptitiously tucked beneath a Limoge dish of chocolate truffles. She smiled politely when Richard returned and handed her a glass. Lifting it to her lips, she took a tiny sip and hid her grimace.

  Sherry.

  She inspected him for the odd wrinkle, unsurprised to find him as impeccably groomed as ever. It was not particularly warm this late June day, but Hayley had no fear her bare arms and legs might court goosebumps within the lavishly appointed, temperature controlled room. So, if she were comfortable in a skimpy sundress, she could only believe Richard, dressed in a summer-weight wool, must feel downright stuffy.

  But then stuffy was his default mode. He was all tricked out in an exquisitely cut suit and London tailored shirt and tie, with his crisply laundered pocket handkerchief arranged just so and not a silver hair on his expensively barbered head out of place. No weekend Dockers and casual, rolled shirt sleeves for this man.

  This was the first time their paths had crossed since she moved in, and she dragged out her manners. "I have not had the opportunity to thank you for opening up your home to me." Her mother may have been an assembly worker in Richard Olivet's factory, but she hadn’t failed to teach her daughter etiquette.

  And she had been ten times the parent Richard Olivet would ever be.

  He responded with impersonal civility, leaving her with the impression, as he always had, that his mind was on weightier, more important considerations than conversing with a friend of his daughter's. Then he bestirred himself to say, "I understand you have a Master's degree and you have been hired by the high school. As a psychologist-counselor, Kurstin said?"

  "Is that the story you're spinning these days, Hayley, honey?" a lazy voice inquired.

  Hayley and Richard stiffened and turned as one to stare at Jon-Michael, who was indolently propped against the doorjamb. He, Hayley noticed, was wearing weekend Dockers and a rolled sleeve yellow shirt of richly textured cotton.

  "It's not a story, Olivet—it is fact. My job at Lincoln High starts the last week in August." Her chin elevated proudly and her gaze was level when it met his. "Unlike you, rich boy, I don't have a trust fund to fall back on until then."

  Turning to Richard, she explained coolly, "What Jon-Michael is obviously dying to tell you is that I took an additional job at Bluey’s over on Eighth Street, tending bar. It’s how I made my living while I worked toward my Masters." She graced the two men with an impartial, polite stretch of her lips. "Now, if you will excuse me," she said distantly, "I really do not care for sherry. I believe I’ll get myself a glass of Chablis."

  Kurstin joined her at the antique tea caddy doubling as a portable bar. "Big help you're going to be," she murmured as she plucked ice cubes out of the silver bucket with a pair of tongs and dropped them in her crystal tumbler.

  "Yes, I can tell already this is going to be monstrous fun." Hayley gave her friend a sidelong look. "Tell me again how I let you talk me into it."

  "I think the turning point was when I said tha
t for all their clashes Dad and Jon-Michael's working relationship seemed to be working out for them...right up until some inexplicable thing happened to destroy it."

  Hayley turned to stare at her. "Oh. You are good. So much for your vow not to manipulate me, but you are clever, I'll give you that."

  "That wasn’t manipulation," Kurstin disagreed. "That would be if I knew something you don't and used it to my own advantage. But I really do not know what happened between Dad and Jon-Michael. I wish I did." She raised her eyebrow at Hayley. "Being clueless exonerates me of all charges. All I did in this case was appeal to your love of solving puzzles."

  "To get your own way," Hayley interjected.

  "Well…yeah. What's your point?" She grinned and gave Hayley a nudge. "Come on, admit it. It was the perfect ploy. Tell me the truth. I’m the ultimate wit, yes?"

  "You're half right." Hayley looked at her friend, who was so clearly and thoroughly tickled with herself she could not help but smile wryly. "How did you get to be such a big hotshot personnel director, Kurstie, when you still cannot resist going na-na-na-na-na when you think you've pulled a fast one?"

  "Oh, sugar, that's simple. My daddy owns the company."

  Patsy and Joe Beal arrived and shortly afterward everyone was called into the dining room for dinner. Hayley hoped to get through the meal without a rehash of Dennis's murder or Lawrence Wilson's upcoming execution. It would make such a pleasant change from the social events she had attended in the recent past.

  She was not that lucky, of course. She hadn’t really expected to be.

  It was Patsy who first brought it up. She turned to Hayley during the salad course and said with heavy-handed sympathy, "I imagine this is a very trying time for you."

  Hayley smiled politely in return but failed to comment, knowing where the conversation was headed. She’d had plenty of time to construct stock answers for these situations, but had kind of hoped they would not be necessary back here in Gravers Bend. Naïve of her, she knew. But hope truly did spring eternal.

  Patsy studied her for a moment and when it became apparent she was not going to respond, elaborated, "What with the execution date drawing near and all."

  "For God's sake, Patsy," Joe snapped and watched without visible sympathy when his wife flushed at being reprimanded in public.

  Hayley blinked at Joe’s impatience. It was a marked contrast with the low-key friendliness he had displayed at the bar.

  Kurstin smoothed over the awkward moment. "The reason Hayley moved back to Gravers Bend," she explained in an attempt to lead Patsy into other conversational waters, "was to get away from all the speculation and constant reminders of the ordeal she has been through."

  "Well, of course it was," Patsy agreed. "But we are not just anybody. We are like family and Hayley surely needs her family around her. Especially now. I am just trying to understand what it must be like for her." She turned to Hayley and appealed, "You understand, I am sure."

  Family? Her face felt stiff but otherwise composed and noncommittal. Mentally, however, her jaw was sagging. Luckily, she was saved from having to scramble for a reply by Jon-Michael.

  Lounging back in his chair, he pinned Patsy in place with his dark-eyed gaze. "When was the last time you saw Hayley, Patsy?" he inquired conversationally.

  She turned to him, pert as a robin. "Why, the day after she arrived in town, I believe it was."

  "Uh huh. And before that?"

  "Well, let me see." She looked thoughtful. "It must have been right before she left Gravers Bend for college."

  "So going on thirteen years ago. How many emails or letters or whatnot did you two exchange during that time."

  Patsy squirmed slightly. "I do not see what the point of your question is, Jon-Michael. But one."

  Which would have been the sympathy card Patsy had sent when Dennis died and her own reply.

  "Then how the fuck," Jon-Michael wanted to know, "does that make you family?"

  "Jon-Michael!" Richard rapped out coldly. "That is quite enough. Patsy is a guest in our home—"

  "And as such I apologize for my language," Jon-Michael said smoothly. It was clear to everyone present his language was the only thing he apologized for.

  "—and an Olivet does not—"

  Jon-Michael cut his father’s comment in two. "This Olivet does,” he said in a hard tone. “You just don't get it, do you, Dad? I don't care how that might make me appear in another’s eyes. Neither do I give a flying…flick about preserving the sanctity of the precious Olivet name. That is the major difference between you and me. My only real concern is if I feel I have behaved honorably."

  Hayley choked on her sip of wine and Jon-Michael turned to look at her. Studying her in silence for a moment, he ultimately gave her a wry, one-sided smile. "Yeah, I suppose that does sound like a load of horseshit, coming from me," he said and waved his father aside when he once again took exception to Jon-Michael's language in front of their guests. Softly slapping his hands down on the table's highly polished surface on either side of his place setting, he leaned forward to stare intently at Hayley. "You and I really will have to have a long talk about that night sometime, Hayley. And all the ways I have changed since then."

  "Ooh," she said, deadpan. "I can hardly wait. Of course, the conversation will be a little one-sided, won't it Jon-Michael? Considering I am the only one who can remember that night." She had the satisfaction of seeing a dull red flush climb his throat.

  And as a diversionary tactic, it proved to be brilliant, leaving Richard confused and luring Patsy away from her pique at being publicly rebuked. Her gaze ping-ponged between Jon-Michael and Hayley, studying their expressions with avid curiosity.

  Kurstin, who must be feeling the afternoon disintegrate right before her eyes, turned to Joe. "So!" she said with slightly desperate cheer, "I understand you are an ardent bow and arrow hunter."

  "Yes," he agreed. "I've hunted deer since my father gave me my first rifle for my twelfth birthday. I discovered bow and arrow hunting about eight years ago."

  "No kidding?" Jerking her gaze away from Jon-Michael's, Hayley leaned forward, her interest sparked. "You hunt with bow and arrows like the American Indians used to use?"

  "Well, not exactly," he replied, turning to her. "People do hunt with traditional long bows but I prefer the compound bow."

  "How are they different?"

  "The compound bow is configured differently and rigged with pulleys. Drawing back the arrow is most difficult at the beginning of the pull when the bow's limbs are at their straightest. The further back you draw it, the more the bow's limbs curve, and the easier it becomes."

  She looked at him with interest. "I suppose then that a person would need a lot of upper body strength to use one, huh?"

  "Not necessarily. Patsy hunts, but her bow compensates for her lack of arm power with a lesser draw length and weight." Shifting, he shot his wife an indecipherable look before adding almost perfunctorily, "Not that she’s not in good shape, of course."

  "Patsy! You dark horse!" Hayley studied her former schoolmate with surprised curiosity. "You hunt deer?" She remembered how adamantly opposed Patsy had once been to what she’d stridently termed 'Bambi killers'. Yet giving it a moment's further consideration, she also recalled Patsy had been going with a boy at the time whose politics she had adopted. She tended to do that a lot back then: be interested in whatever her boyfriend was interested in. "Is that how you guys got together, through a bow and arrow club or something?"

  "No." Patsy shook her head. "Joe was just getting into it when we first became reacquainted, and he described it so enthusiastically I simply had to see for myself what all the fuss was about."

  Hayley hid a smile. Some things never changed, apparently.

  "She's pretty good, too," Joe said. "Last fall she brought down a four-point buck."

  A train whistle blew mournfully out on the other side of the highway, and Hayley's head snapped up, her attention arrested. She glanced down at her watch.
It was five forty-five. "Oh, my God," she said. "I don’t believe it. Is that…? No, it can't possibly be." She turned to Kurstin and found her grinning at her. She grinned back. "It is, isn't it? That is the five o'clock! And darned if it isn't—"

  "Right on time!" Kurstin and Jon-Michael chimed in, finishing the sentence with her. Hayley laughed a deep, genuine, from-the-heart laugh.

  "Who would have thought?" she said once she regained control. Looking around, taking note of the expressions of the table's other occupants, she smiled ruefully. “Sorry.”

  Richard was regarding the three of them with impatient disdain, as if they had held a farting competition in public and he could not for the life of him understand how Olivets could have participated. Joe cocked inquiring eyebrows but looked amused and Patsy was all but rolling her eyes. But then Patsy never had gotten the point of most of their humor.

  "You must think we're crazy,” she said. “I just never expected that train to still be running through Gravers Bend."

  "It doesn’t actually stop here anymore," Jon-Michael said, and their eyes met. "It just passes through." Then he grinned, his cheeks creasing into raised parentheses framing his omnipresent stubble. "But as you can see, it passes through on its long-held schedule."

  Gaze tangled with his, Hayley confronted a truth for the first time in a long, long while. She had determinedly shoved into a far corner of her mind the fact that Jon-Michael was more than just the conceited son of the town's richest man and a boy who had always drank too much. Even then he had also been humorous and inventive, clever and vulnerable. Those very qualities had led her to a blanket alongside Lake Meredith one long-ago night.

  But that was neither the subject under discussion nor one she cared to pursue. She gave herself a brisk mental shake. "It was a standing joke with us," she explained to Joe, whose expression was most receptive. "Hasn't Patsy ever mentioned it?"