35
Larimar Springs’ legal situation ramped up when Leo Paternoster filed seven more cases the week of Christmas. Trolling for victims via standard advertising was considered crass in most legal circles, but a well-connected friend working for the Express-News had proven very helpful to the ambitious plaintiffs’ attorney. Especially when a well-timed feature article with an extensive interview appeared on the front page.
Mr. Lucier proved to be quite the taskmaster, and never more than when the process of collecting documents began.
“I’m fairly old school,” he warned. “I don’t use paralegals. I learn the intricacies of my case by poring over the documentary evidence myself.”
In a document-heavy case like this, he used the services of a discovery vendor who would forensically scour all the relevant servers and extract responsive emails and files. In addition, they would create digital images of any paper files, and load disks would be provided to opposing counsel. “After I’ve completed a thorough privilege review,” he explained.
The effort to respond to what seemed like mountains of requests for production felt overwhelming and left Juliet’s head spinning. Unfortunately, there was no way out of the task.
Boxes of files retrieved from off-site storage were stacked nearly ceiling high in a room temporarily dubbed the War Room. Long folding tables lined the walls where she and Malcolm Stanford spent long hours sifting through the contents and creating an inventory, carefully following Mr. Lucier’s written instructions.
When she expressed appreciation, Malcolm simply said, “I’m as anxious as anyone to get to the bottom of all this.”
Another person who hadn’t changed his colors was Greer. He showed up at her condo on Christmas Eve, his voice thick and smelling of alcohol. He carried a bottle of champagne and a grin. “Hey, truce?” he said when she opened the door. “Neither of us should be alone at Christmas.”
Even the sight of an alcohol bottle caused an involuntary shudder. After that night at the Menger, she’d been so sick she’d spent the next morning with her face resting on the bathroom floor.
She shook her head. “Look, Greer, this isn’t a good idea.” Despite her former beau’s pitiful face, she stood firm. “Go home.”
She waited for his flash of anger. Instead, he simply slumped against the door frame. “Okay,” he said, his voice slightly slurred. “I suppose it was stupid of me to just show up like this.” He held out the champagne. “Regardless, this is for you.”
She took the bottle from his hand, more to hasten his departure than anything.
Greer leaned and stroked her cheek. “Well, merry Christmas.”
She pulled away. “Maybe you’d better let me call you a cab.”
Greer grinned. “Don’t need to.” He pointed down the hallway. “Already got one waiting downstairs.”
As soon as he turned for the elevator, Juliet shut the door and leaned against it, knowing if the cad had shown up several hours earlier, she might have been tempted to be stupid and invite him in, just to turn off the painful memories playing in her head. Memories of her mother’s salt-crusted prime rib roast and her crème brûlée—served every year. Or the traditional gift opened on Christmas Eve—flannel pajamas always decorated with reindeers or snowflakes.
She’d protested the ritual, but the antics made her father grin, especially last year when he’d taken her mother in his arms and teased, “Want Rudolph’s red nose to guide your sleigh?” She laughed and slapped him away. “Not on Frosty’s corn cob pipe.”
There was no question Juliet had made a complete fool of herself in front of him at the Menger. No doubt he was glad to spend Christmas alone this year, happy not to have to put up with his hostile offspring.
And she didn’t have to put up with Greer Latham just because he found himself all alone on Christmas Eve.
The doorbell rang. She sighed and moved to answer it, bracing herself for a second encounter with Greer. If the guy was anything, he was a salesman—never taking no for an answer.
But instead, she pulled the knob to find a guy in a FedEx uniform and a Santa cap. He grinned and pointed to a large box loaded on his hand truck. “Looks like someone’s been a good girl this year.”
Puzzled, she took the box from his hand and thanked him. After wishing him a merry Christmas, she shut the door and set the package on her kitchen counter, took a kitchen knife and sliced the strapping tape, then carefully lifted the flaps and peeked inside.
The box was filled with green Styrofoam peanuts surrounding a white container made of thermal material meant to refrigerate during transport.
She lifted her brows, now very curious.
Her fingers carefully lifted the lid, freeing it from the bottom portion of the container. Immediately, her face broke into a huge smile.
He didn’t.
Inside, the container held layers of large strips of fried pastry dough, drizzled with rich dark chocolate and smothered in white powdered sugar. Grinning, she inhaled the faint vanilla scent.
Cyril had sent her bugies—all the way from Italy.
In the hours following, she enjoyed nearly all of them, nibbling on the messy treats and drinking cups of French roast. The perfect accompaniment to hours of the televised musical White Christmas.
The thoughtful gesture got her through the holidays.
That, and attending Christmas Eve service at her mother’s church.
She hadn’t been back to Talavera Community Church since her mother’s memorial service, despite many emails from Pastor Roper inviting her to services. She almost had a panic attack walking from the crowded parking lot to the sidewalk lined with luminarias. Perhaps she’d made a mistake in believing she could do this, she told herself. But once she was inside, the overwhelming masses of potted poinsettias and lights, mixed with the smell of real pine, caused a certain peace, as if her mother, who adored Christmas, walked alongside her.
Hoping to remain inconspicuous, she slipped into a pew at the back of the sanctuary several minutes after the service started, positioning herself behind a geriatric couple with white hair and matching hearing aids. As the choir sang “Away in a Manger,” the woman leaned her head against the man’s stooped shoulder. The sight warmed Juliet’s heart, and she couldn’t help but wonder if that might’ve been her own parents if things had turned out differently.
If her father hadn’t strayed.
If she hadn’t held so tightly to her anger that day.
Pastor Roper stepped to the podium and read the account of Mary and Joseph and the birth of baby Jesus from the Gospel of Luke. When he’d finished, candles were passed and the room dimmed.
Across the aisle, a young boy about nine or so, dressed in slacks and a white button-down with a tie, helped his little sister light her candle. Their mother smiled her approval as the choir sang and the orchestra played “O Holy Night.”
The words rang out in the hushed room. Till he appeared and the soul felt its worth.
That was when she saw him. Second pew from the front. Holding a lit candle with his head bowed.
Her father.