The Queen of Hearts(61)
The church gymnasium roared. Finn got the ball and passed to Eli, Zadie’s other son, who, although the more timid of the two, was actually the better shot. His ball sailed up and hovered tantalizingly on the rim of the basket before finally plunging through, which left Finn and Eli’s team down by one with thirty-four seconds left in the game. The other coach promptly called a time-out.
Beside me, I could feel Zadie and Drew beaming; Drew had an arm draped around Zadie’s neck, and she leaned into him. I watched as he picked up her free hand in his larger one and squeezed it. He whispered something into her ear and she smiled.
Ignoring the game, Mickie Blanchard leaned out across me to talk to Zadie. “Are y’all going to the thing at the Mint next week?” she asked, blinking her pale eyelashes.
Before I had time to fully register the social sting of not having been invited to the thing at the Mint—really, I had donated to Mickie’s committee for funding guest speakers at the Mint Museum! So why wouldn’t—
A thud of shock belted me in the stomach. Instantly, I felt my physiology change: my heartbeat sped up, my hands went cold, and my breathing accelerated. I tried to make myself look small as the intense, consuming terror of cornered prey swept over me.
Hovering alongside the first row of bleachers, Boyd Packard leaned in the direction of the coach’s huddle, dispensing loud and doubtless unwanted advice to his son some twenty feet away.
“Get in there with your elbows, Willard,” he bellowed. “You’re running like you’re locked in a damn straitjacket.” He wiped a streak of perspiration from the overworked sweat glands at his temple and advanced closer to the court. Even before I let his daughter die, I’d recognized Boyd was one of those people who generally got what he wanted. Had he not been born into spectacular wealth, he would have been successful by virtue of sheer cussedness. He was not handsome or intelligent or pleasant, but he was indefatigable.
Keeping my movements slow and nonchalant, I stood and eased myself behind the bleachers, where I gripped one of the rickety metal legs. But this offered scant protection; there were only five rows of seats, so my head and torso stuck up like a scarecrow behind the people seated in the top row. This was worse than if I’d stayed seated. A wordless bubble of dismay escaped my lips as I risked a glance in Boyd’s direction.
He was now ten feet in front of me, practically frothing at the mouth in his urgency to communicate to the coach and players that they needed to get the ball back in order to win. Tension gripped the gymnasium as the final seconds of the game ticked away. Will Packard made a desperate lunge toward the hoop, hurling the ball into the air with both hands.
It missed.
The defeated Myers Park Pres boys lined up for the postgame handshake. Most of them appeared to be handling the loss with good grace, but both Finn’s and Will’s shoulders heaved as they fought off tears. As a stream of parents, including Boyd, headed into the lobby, I saw Drew kneel down, pulling a sobbing Finn in for a hug.
“There you are,” someone said, causing me to leap backward like a startled gazelle and actually knock my head—hard—against the painted cinder-block wall. I winced.
“Ouch,” said Zadie. “You okay?”
“Boyd Packard is here.”
“Yeah,” she said calmly. “I saw him.” She gave me a speculative look. “C’mon, let’s talk to him.”
“No,” I gasped, but Zadie was already boinging away from me, her characteristic springy gait almost lost in the swell of people at the gym’s doors. I slumped back against the wall and then started after her.
Battling against a tide of incoming parents as the whistle blew for the next game, I momentarily lost sight of her. The doors of the gym opened up to the massive lobby, where we’d met before our run; apparently it served as a daylong repository for families to socialize before and after games. I dodged a conversational clump of women I recognized from Henry’s preschool, not bothering to speak to them as I barreled past. Where had Zadie gone?
Then through the large windows at the front of the room, I caught a glimpse of her outside. She and Boyd were standing in the parking lot. I assessed his body language: cocked head, torso turned, leaning slightly toward her; he seemed receptive enough. No smile, but no overt hostility either. I opened the door and walked outside.
I came from Zadie’s blind side, so Boyd saw me first.
He stiffened, his chest expanding. For a ridiculous moment, he reminded me of an angry peacock, puffing out its feathers, but the illusion shattered when he spoke.
“Get this bitch away from me,” he said.
I stopped in my tracks.
“Boyd,” said Zadie, “accord me one minute. Please. I’ve been thinking of nothing besides you and Betsy, and I know we all want the same thing here.”
“What?”
Who knows why the physical arrangement of some faces invokes trust? Zadie’s was one of those, all shining earnestness and sincerity, with her lilting, lovely eyes and the childish sweep of her snub nose and her little chin. You wanted to look at her and you liked her on sight. Boyd softened.
“We want to ease your sorrow, Boyd. And, especially, we want to make things more bearable for Betsy.”
“And how would you do that, Zadie?” Boyd asked, ignoring me.
She stayed upbeat. “Well, I know you are fond of Macon Bradford”—I recognized the name instantly: another country club pal, and Boyd’s family attorney—“but call off the dogs, at least temporarily. Give Emma a chance to sit down with you and Betsy, alone, and allow yourself the chance to hear her out.” I startled a little—my lawyer would never agree to this—but Zadie forged ahead. “Nobody except Macon stands to gain anything from going to court, Boyd. You know that. You owe it to yourself to have all the information first, and you owe it to yourself—and Betsy—to see if this is something you can understand, or even forgive.”