time you were coming by,” he said. “Your mother convince you to stay for supper?”
Trey grinned. “You should know I never take much convincing.” Concern lurked behind the smile as he pulled up a rocking chair next to his father’s recliner. Dad was still looking too pale, too drawn, since the scare he’d put them through a few months ago.
His father seemed to see past Trey’s casual manner. “Something on your mind?”
“As a matter of fact, something has come up I’d like your advice on.” Maybe it would do his father good to be involved in the business of the firm he’d spent his life building. “I had a new client come in today—a woman who was referred by a Boston attorney I met a couple of years ago. She had a rather odd story to tell.”
“I’m retired, remember?” But he was leaning forward, obviously interested.
Trey reached in his pocket, pulled out a couple of ones and put them on the lamp table. “There. Consider yourself a consultant.”
“Right. So what am I consulting on? You can surely handle whatever it is.”
“My memories don’t go back far enough to be helpful, and I figure yours do. And you won’t go blabbing it around town.”
“Thanks for the compliment. So tell me.” In spite of the sarcastic words, he looked pleased.
But as the story unfolded, Trey saw his father’s expression change. He seemed to freeze up as he looked into the past, as if he’d seen something he’d rather not look at.
Trey faltered to a stop. His mother had been on a campaign to keep anything worrisome away from Dad, and he seemed to have tripped right into it.
His father leaned back in the chair, his mouth tight. It took a few minutes for him to speak. “If I were you, I’d tell the woman you can’t help her.”
“That was my first instinct,” Trey admitted. “But she struck me as the kind of person who doesn’t give up easily. If I don’t help her, she’ll go around town asking questions on her own. It seemed to me...”
Dad waved a hand tiredly. “No, you’re right. That would be worse.” He mused for another moment. “If you’re looking for a death in 1989 that is related to the falls, there’s only one I can think of that fits. Elizabeth Winthrop’s granddaughter was found dead at the base of the falls sometime in the spring.”
“Winthrop,” Trey repeated. It was like saying “Rockefeller” by Echo Falls standards. The Winthrop family had established the town, lumbered the surrounding hillsides, built up a thriving business that still provided employment to half the town.
“Exactly.” Dad’s eyes met his. “The story was hushed up, of course. If people knew, they were generally sensible enough not to talk about it, but word got around, of course.”
“So what was it? Suicide?” That was the first thought that came to mind. Elizabeth Winthrop was an elderly autocrat who would find it unthinkable that such a thing could touch her family.
“It was ruled accidental, of course. Still, not even the Winthrops could eliminate all the speculation, especially since Melanie Winthrop had left town suddenly some months earlier. She’d have been about seventeen at the time, I suppose.”
“Pregnant or an addict?” Those were the obvious answers.
“Pregnant,” his father said reluctantly. “She was sent off to have the baby and put it up for adoption.”
“So that may be Amanda Curtiss’s answer. There must be records...”
“It’s not as simple as that. Melanie didn’t go through with the plans. She disappeared, and as far as I know, she wasn’t seen or heard from until the day she was found lying on the rocks at Echo Falls.”
He leaned back in the chair, breathing as if he’d been running, his face gray. Alarmed, Trey clasped his wrist. “Dad...”
“Now that’s enough talk.” Trey hadn’t realized his mother was standing at the doorway until she hurried to his father. “Ted, you know you shouldn’t tire yourself that way.” She picked up a glass of water and held it to his lips.
“I’m sorry.” Guilt had a stranglehold on Trey’s throat. “I shouldn’t have kept him talking so long.”
“Nonsense.” His father pushed the glass away fretfully. “Don’t fuss, Claire. I’m fine.”
“Supper will be ready in five minutes. Trey, you can set the table.” She shooed Trey out of the room ahead of her.
“I didn’t mean...” he began, but his mother shook her head.
“You couldn’t have known it would affect him that much.” She didn’t bother to deny she’d been listening. “But he wouldn’t want you to keep it from him.”
“I don’t get it. Why should it upset him that much? It’s not as if you were close friends with the Winthrops.”
“Your father was the family’s attorney in those days.” His mother stirred gravy vigorously with an air of not knowing what she was doing. “They fell out over this business of Melanie’s pregnancy. He thought they were making a mistake to handle it that way, disregarding the girl’s wishes. That was the last thing he did for them, and I remember that his partner was furious that he gave up such a lucrative client. But when it comes to principles, your father is a stubborn man.”
Trey wasn’t sure what to say. “I didn’t know he’d ever represented them.”
His mother handed him a pot of mashed potatoes. “Put that in a bowl.” She gave him a half smile. “I’m sure your father never regretted losing them.” She hesitated. “I’d like to tell you to drop the whole thing, but I know better. You’re just as stubborn and principled as your father. You’re going to help this woman, aren’t you?”
He paused, but there really was only one answer. “Yes. I guess I am.”
AMANDA WASN’T QUITE sure how she’d let Trey Alter talk her into changing the plans she’d made. She had no particular reason to trust him. Just because Robert had recommended him, that didn’t mean she should let him dictate what she did.
But after telling herself all that, here she was, getting into Trey’s car in front of his office the next day.
“Somehow I thought this was the kind of car you’d have.” She snapped her seat belt.
Trey sent her a startled glance. “What’s wrong with my car?”
“Nothing. Nice, conservative sedan, tan, sedate—just the thing for a family lawyer to drive.”
Instead of taking offense, he grinned. “Stodgy, in other words. If it’ll make you feel any better about me, I also own a beat-up, four-wheel drive pickup. Red.”
“With a gun rack behind the seat?” she inquired.
“You bet. Now you don’t know whether I’m a good ole boy or a stuffy lawyer.”
She couldn’t deny that he’d intrigued her. “So which is it?”
“Both. Or neither, depending on your point of view.”
“Sorry. I guess I shouldn’t succumb to stereotypes.”
He shrugged. “No problem. We all do it sometimes.”
“Yes.”
People had thought that because Juliet was an artist, she couldn’t possibly have been a typical soccer mom. Maybe she wasn’t, but she’d been there for every single event in Amanda’s life, including being a room mother and chaperoning school trips.
They