Last to Know: A Novel(51)

Mike rolled his eyes. He did not see a chance in hell of Bea getting what she wanted from the Osbornes, but he would drive her there, try to open negotiations, see what happened.

*

Wally had not come home, though Rose knew he’d been reprieved, albeit temporarily. Therefore she was astonished when she saw the lawyer’s car pull up in front of her house and Bea get out. She opened her front door, stood, arms folded, waiting for them to speak.

Mike Leverage went first, standing at the bottom of the low flight of steps leading into the house. “Ms. Havnel has come to apologize, ma’am,” he said, holding his arms wide as though it was he who was apologizing. “Ms. Havnel is innocent of any wrongdoing, ma’am. As innocent as your husband. They were both caught in a bad position, the wrong place at the wrong time. Ms. Havnel entreats you to let her speak, to please see her, allow her to apologize to you and your husband. Indeed, to all your family. Her life has fallen down around her ears, so to speak. She has nowhere to turn. No one to listen to her.”

“No one to take her in. Again,” Rose said, in a voice so cold it almost made Mike shiver.

Bea was staring at Rose out of the open car window. She looked young, terrified, and alone.

“Please tell your client,” Rose said to Mike, “that if she cares to cast her mind back, she might remember that not only did she accuse my husband of murder, but that she caused infinite distress to my entire family, that my husband’s reputation is clearly ruined, and that she has her own property across the lake. Burned down, of course, and with her mother in it. Murdered, they say, though Bea, who was with her when it happened, seems not to know anything about that. Nor does she know anything about the death of young Jemima, though she was also at that scene. I do not think it advisable to take in a woman with those suspicions hanging over her. Not only that, you might want to remind Bea, since she appears to have also forgotten, there is a small guest house on her own property which was not burned in that fire. I suggest she goes there, makes of it what she will. She is not welcome in my home.”

Bea heard everything. She got out of the car and went and stood next to her attorney at the bottom of the steps. Her face was pale, her mouth tight.

“Please, Rose,” she said, almost in a whisper, she was so close to tears. “Let me apologize. I came here to you when all was lost. You took me in. I’d always admired you from afar, when I would see you walking round the lake, you and your family. I wanted a family so bad and all I had…” She stopped herself, and clasped her hands together, staring down at them. “I never accused Wally,” she said. “All I said was that he was there, and so was I. We were both caught in the same trap. Both innocent. I was put in prison, Rose, just like Wally. Please, please, can you forgive me? I will not beg you to take me in, I know that’s too much to ask, but please, speak to me again, Rose. Allow me to be the person you believed I was, the person I really am.”

It was tempting. The girl seemed so truly hurt, so completely alone. All she had was a lawyer and money in the bank and a room at the Ritz. Rose thought of her own family, of her girls, of Diz who saw everything; and Wally who was going through his own hell. She found she had no emotion to spare for Bea Havnel.

“I’m sorry, Bea, but you must find your own future,” she said, and she walked back inside and shut the door.

Mike looked at his client. Her face was unreadable, completely lacking in emotion, though he guessed she had just received a serious blow to her future.

Bea caught his glance, looked away, and said, “Rose is right, I had completely forgotten the guest house. It’s on the other side of the lake. You can see it from here, next to the burned ruins where my mother died. And,” she added, “I am going to make sure whoever did that pays the final price.”





39


Later that day, Wally came home. He just walked in, said “hi” as if he’d been off on some book-signing jaunt, while they stood silently, gaping. Then he went upstairs to change.

Rose was trying to act normal, as though everything was the same as it used to be. She went into her usual kitchen bustle, attacking the stove with rashers of bacon sizzling madly in the pan, even though it was suppertime, whipping eggs into a frenzy for omelets all round, slicing leftover chicken, heating up frozen gravy in the micro, boiling water for some kind of vegetable she knew she must have in the fridge, she just hadn’t had the heart to look right now. In fact she didn’t want to be doing any of this; she wanted to be alone with her husband, to ask him what the truth was. Not that it mattered because she knew Wally would not tell her anyway.

Everyone but Wally was sitting around the table. Bottles of wine had been opened, Cokes dispensed in cans her sons crackled in their hands after they’d drained them. Seemingly unable to bear the lack of conversation Roman got up and put on FM radio, playing contemporary classics: Rod singing oldies, Bublé singing something else. At least, Rose thought, it covered the silent hole in their lives. Temporarily. Roman sat back down staring at his can of Coke, remote as always. It was as though life was being played out in front of him and he chose not to notice.

“I hate that stuff.” Diz glared at his brother, who shrugged an uncaring shoulder and answered, “Whatever.”

Rose slammed down her spatula, strode across the room, and turned off the music. “He’s right,” she told Roman. “At least put on something decent.”