Chapter Two, Part 3

An Accidental Woman
by Barbara Delinsky

(Page 6 of 7)

At first he didn't move. There was a split second when he thought of the part of Heather's past he didn't know, the knapsack he had stashed away and the words that the federal agent had said. We have evidence that her real name is Lisa Matlock, and that fifteen years ago she committed murder in California. If Heather was hiding something like that from him, it would explain the fear in her eyes.

Then again, if she was innocent of the charges and feeling overwhelmed by something that was out of her grasp, her fear was justified.

He focused on that thought. She had no sooner stepped into the room when he crossed the floor, pulled her into his arms, and pressed her face to his chest. He didn't want to see those fear-filled eyes. But he could feel her trembling, which was nearly as upsetting. His Heather had always been calm and even-tempered. She had always been brave, as sure of herself as anyone could be who was a newcomer to a town as insular as Lake Henry.

He remembered thinking that about her the first time they'd met. It had been fall. With the syrup season long done, he was in carpenter mode. Charlie had hired him to install a wall of windows in the café to open it up to the birches. During the course of the job, he was in and out of the kitchen a dozen times a day. Heather was working there, first as a dishwasher, then helping prepare the food for cooking. She hadn't said much. To this day she wasn't a big talker — but neither was he. He remembered her being quiet, even shy, but self-assured. She had seemed comfortable with what she was doing, at peace, certainly not like a woman who was on the lam and had something to hide.

The guard stepped out into the hall and closed the door, leaving them alone with Cassie.

Micah said the first thing that came to mind, murmured against her hair. "Did you have breakfast?"

Heather shook her head against him and whispered, "They offered. I couldn't eat."

He held her tightly for another minute, then lowered his mouth to her ear. "Where'd this come from?"

She lifted a shoulder in a muted shrug.

"Did you tick off someone in town?"

Another headshake.

"Have you ever heard of that other woman?"

Heather started to cry. Micah didn't know if that meant she had or she hadn't, but he looked at Cassie in desperation. "She isn't that person. What do we do?"

Cassie had stayed on the far side of the small room, giving them these few seconds together. Now she came closer. She touched Heather's shoulder, the gesture of a friend, but didn't say anything. After a minute, she exerted the smallest pressure to make Heather look up.

"I need to ask this, honey," she said, "because I wouldn't be doing my job as a lawyer if I didn't. Are you Lisa Matlock?"

Heather's eyes were wet. "I'm Heather Malone."

"There," Micah said, annoyed. "You have it. What now?"

Cassie continued to study Heather's face. After what felt to Micah like an unnecessarily long time, which riled him all the more, she exhaled and looked at him. "Now we fight."

He set his annoyance aside. "How?"

"We go into that hearing in a little while and contest the proceedings. That's basically saying that Heather is innocent of the charges and that we will not waive extradition."

Heather made a frightened sound. Micah verbalized the source of her fear. "Extradition?"

"If we were to waive it," Cassie explained, "she would be immediately taken to California to answer the charges they've lodged."

"Would that be admitting she is Lisa Matlock?"

"No. It would be saying that we'll let the courts there prove that along with the other charges."

"Since she isn't Lisa Matlock, the charges don't apply."

"Right, but what I think and what you think and what she says is one thing. What the people in California think is apparently something else."

"Well, they're wrong. I want the charges dropped."

Cassie smiled sadly. "If it were as easy as that, I wouldn't have much work. Our system of criminal justice functions in roundabout ways."

"Innocent until proven guilty," Micah reminded her.

Cassie hesitated several seconds too long. "Not always," she said, shaking her head.

With those words, Micah had the awful fear that the trouble was just beginning.

* * *

Poppy had no calls to take for a while, which was typical of a Lake Henry morning in winter. During other seasons, when fine weather beckoned, people were out and about doing whatever tickled their fancy. Rainy days, snowy days, cold days tended to keep them at home. They were answering their own phones. They were reading the paper, cleaning up breakfast, stacking wood, hacking ice from the eaves, and if not that, they were starting to think about getting geared up to settle down to work in the easygoing way that Lake Henryites had.

She built the fire in the stone hearth to a blaze, made a pot of coffee, and sat back with a steaming mug of it to look at the lake, all the while wondering where Heather was, and what she was doing — and it wasn't just a nominal interest. Poppy had other friends she'd known longer than Heather, but Heather was the one she liked best. She felt closest to Heather, had from the first time they met. Poppy had been a sophomore at the state university, and Heather, who spent her work week inside at Charlie's, loved the great outdoors. Each weekend, a group of them went mountain climbing, and though Poppy had more in common with the college students in the bunch, Heather was the one she talked with the most.

Thinking back, Poppy realized that she had done most of the talking. Heather was a good listener, and Poppy, who felt constrained by the town in general, and her family in particular, had needed to vent. Then Poppy's accident happened, and, through the nightmare of recovery, Heather had been there for her. She seemed to know what to do without being told. She didn't dole out pity or offer patronizing words of solace. Her underlying attitude was to accept what had happened and move on. That quiet approach had been a relief.

Poppy was thinking about that quietness — about listening rather than talking, and whether there had been a reason for it that went beyond Heather's basic nature — when a light blinked on the phone bank before her. Pushing that unsettling thought from her mind, she put on her headset, pressed the appropriate button, and said, "Lake Henry Library."

"Leila Higgins, please," said an unfamiliar woman.

"I'm sorry. The library doesn't open until noon on Wednesdays. Who's calling?"

"This is Aileen Miller. I'm with the Washington Post. I understand that Heather Malone worked at the library. I was looking for a comment from Ms. Higgins."

Poppy was dismayed, but not unprepared. When it came to handling the media, she had gone through trial by fire the fall before. Now she said, "Tell you what. If you give me your number, I'll pass it on to Ms. Higgins when the library opens."

"Who is this?"

"The answering service."

"Do you have a home number for Ms. Higgins?"

"Tell you what," Poppy offered sweetly. "Give me your home number, and I'll pass that on to Ms. Higgins."

There was a pause, then a magnanimous, "Oh, I don't want her having to pay. I'd be happy to call her."

"I'm sure you would," Poppy replied.

After another pause, Aileen Miller responded with resignation. "She can call me at work."

Poppy wrote down the woman's name and number, then disconnected the call and made one of her own.

Copyright © 2002 by Barbara Delinsky

About the Author

Barbara Delinsky is the author of many novels, including, most recently, Looking for Peyton Place and The Summer I Dared, which is now available as a premium mass market paperback. Published in twenty-five languages worldwide, her books regularly appear on bestseller lists. She lives with her family in New England.