The Last Invitation (17)
Retta smiled. “The call took longer than expected. I apologize. Come in, Jessa.”
Jessa followed Retta inside the library . . . or an office. Jessa wasn’t sure what the official name might be for a room filled with bookshelves with a desk at one end and a plush seating area at the other. A conservatory. A den. One of a rich person’s many spare rooms. Who knew?
“You’ve had a few difficult weeks,” Retta said as she sat in an oversized chair, wearing a bold red-and-black geometric-print dress, along with full jewelry and makeup.
She was not an informal, dressed-down kind of woman. Jessa couldn’t remember a time when Retta didn’t look perfect. She preached dress for success and lived it.
In her midfifties with twin boys away at prestigious Ivy League universities, Retta showed no signs of winding down. Everything about Retta screamed power and determination. She was outspoken in her belief that women could have it all and rolled her eyes whenever anyone mentioned a glass ceiling. She fought for what she had, and she held on to it with an unrelenting grip.
Jessa didn’t pretend to be confused by Retta’s comment. “You somehow know about my week even though the Bartholomews’ PR team kept the car crash out of the news.”
Jessa had waited for a scandal to break or word of Darren’s being arrested to leak out, but neither happened. In a phone call this morning, his attorney insisted the driveway incident was a misunderstanding. Ellie’s attorney wasn’t saying much of anything. Jessa still waited on a return call from Detective Schone with an actual explanation.
Retta reached for the water pitcher and a glass on the tray on the table between them. “Covington called me. He’s worried about you.”
Jessa never understood the ongoing Retta-Covington friendship. Their personalities didn’t match except that both excelled in their fields. Jessa assumed being law partners before Retta’s appointment to the bench forged some sort of bond.
“He’s upset about the case.” Jessa took a sip of water, impressed with her ability to tiptoe through the truth.
“True.”
“He’s actually worried about the firm’s reputation and potential fallout as the Bartholomew family grows more frustrated by this custody case.”
Retta laughed. “Very astute. I’m happy you see his concern for what it is.”
“That doesn’t make it any easier to stay on the case.” But withdrawing meant letting Darren win, having Tim be right . . . suggesting to Covington and the rest of the partners that she couldn’t hack the pressure. Jessa hated all of those options.
“Sometimes you need to hold your ground, Jessa. No matter how difficult that may be. That’s what you’re paid to do. You were appointed by the judge to protect that little boy.” Retta’s words echoed through the long room. “You put your body in front of his. You take the heat. You give him the best chance possible. And if you can’t handle those objectives, then you find another job.”
Retta never minced words. She didn’t pretty her thoughts up and make them easier to swallow by delivering them with a spoonful of tact. Not ever.
Retta sighed. “Why do you think we bought this house?”
Jessa’s gaze shot to the desk then to the French doors lining one wall and the lighted patio outside. She knew a fountain, stone walkways, and a dazzling pool all sat just out of sight. “Because you like to entertain or—”
“We bought it because we could. Not that many decades ago we wouldn’t have been allowed to own it.” Her words rang out as if she were lecturing a lawyer from the bench. “This house has a rich history. Powerful people have paraded through here. The structure and its lineage demand respect.”
All true, but Jessa wasn’t sure how any of that related to the Bartholomew topic. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s obscene, but it’s better than the gaudy mess it was when we first moved in.” Retta swore under her breath. “Everything was gold, white, and over-the-top. Not a clean line in sight.” She topped the description off with an eye roll. “But the point is my husband wanted to own a house some people didn’t believe we’d earned or deserved. He wanted to send the message that strong, successful Black couples exist and deserve to be in every space. To dare anyone to contradict him.”
“I can’t imagine.” Jessa guessed some neighbors and a few people at the country club Retta and Earl belonged to likely questioned their right to be there. Jessa didn’t have any personal experience with that sort of biased, unfair scrutiny. Back at Georgetown, some students had sniffed out how she only owned four shirts and a ripped, too-small winter jacket and made snide comments, but this was a completely different thing.
“The angry whispers flew when we won the bidding war for the estate, but we’re still here,” Retta continued. “People couldn’t question if we had money. Earl’s transportation company had grown. He bought land other people undervalued and didn’t want and built there. He made his services enticing and created the infrastructure to support his plans. He had the power to smother the stray grumbling.”
Jessa thought about Earl and his gray beard. That big smile. His watchful eyes didn’t miss much. “He’s never been anything but kind to me.”
“He’s very giving to the people he cares about. Loyal and fierce. But he’s ruthless in the way he walks through this world. He’s had to be.” Retta lifted an eyebrow. “You should take a lesson.”