One Night With You

“Part of the building collapsed, injuring a number of people. The builders swore in court that they followed my design to the letter and brought numerous witnesses who attested to their competence. One man could not stand up to some of the most exalted building firms in this part of the country, at least two of which were owned by Worley’s cousins. I lost a class-action suit, my home, my wife and every dime I had.”

“Especially not one black man,” she said under her breath, but he heard her.

“That, too.”

“How long ago was that?” she asked him.

“A little over six years.”

“Did you know at the time that the witnesses were Worley’s blood relatives?”

“No, and neither did my lawyer. I discovered it a couple of months ago while surfing the Internet for anything that would help my case.”

“Did you print out what you found?”

“Yeah. Of course I did.”

“Then you can reopen the case, but you have to do it within a year of the date on that printout. You may claim the Discovery Rule, which says you may appeal on the basis of new and relevant information. If you were bankrupt when the statute of limitations applied, you may appeal as soon as you get funds.”

“Thanks. That’s good to know. Mind if I ask how you happen to have this information?”

“I’m a judge.”

His whistle split the air. “Where do you preside?”

“Beginning Monday, I will be the presiding judge at the courthouse up the street. I’m looking forward to it. Would you like some more coffee? I made a full pot.”

“Thanks.” He drank the second cup quickly.

“I expected that, in a town this size, people would be friendlier,” she said and related to him her experience with the store clerk who resented being asked if she lived in Queenstown.

“They’re hospitable, Ms. Rutherford, but you walked into a problem.”

“What do you mean?” she asked him, and at the memory of her neighbor’s comment about the group that marched up to Albemarle Gates, its members beating drums and blowing a bugle and a trumpet, fear seemed to settle in her.

“This building is sitting on sacred Native American burial grounds, and sixty percent of the people in this town and the surrounding areas think you’ve sided with the builders who committed this sacrilege.”

“What will I do? I didn’t know anything about it.”

“Be careful, especially when you’re out at night.”

She sank into her chair, unaccustomed to the feeling of defeat that pervaded her. With a deed and a mortgage, she couldn’t walk away from the house. “Thanks for the warning. I’ve been here barely two weeks, and I’m in trouble. I don’t like the sound of this. Tell me, what do you do now?” she asked him.

“I just got a job with Marks and Connerly, my first job as an architect since that debacle, and I’m lucky to have it. I’d better be going. Thanks for the coffee and cake. Both were delicious.”

She wanted to detain him, but she knew instinctively that it would be the wrong move. Reid Maguire was a loner, and every sentence he uttered seemed to struggle out of him. Grudgingly. “Thanks for the company,” she said as she walked to the door with him, “and for the help.”

He glanced down at her from beneath his thick, curly lashes and smiled with seeming reluctance. “It was my pleasure.”

He left without saying another word. Didn’t he know how to say goodbye, or did he have some kind of superstition about it? Holding a conversation with him was as easy as getting a politician to tell a straightforward, uncoated, denuded truth.

She raised her right shoulder in a limp shrug. Damned if she was going to let him bamboozle her every time he rearranged his face into a provocation for female capitulation. She’d like to meet the woman who walked out on that man. She watched his lilting strut as he crossed the street on his way home. Maybe he wasn’t sex personified, but, to her, he was a tantalizing tidbit. Or, perhaps she’d been working in the boondocks too long. However you sliced it, Reid Maguire looked to her the way upstream salmon looked to a hungry bear.

A judge! Was fate playing games with him, putting him on his honor? If Kendra Rutherford presided in Queenstown, chances were fair that she would hear his case against Brown and Worley, provided he managed to bring it to trial. She hadn’t been reluctant to give him good advice, and he meant to follow it, but the less he saw of her, the better it would be for both of them. He’d spent six long years on Philip Dickerson’s estate, during which time he hadn’t wanted a woman and hadn’t touched one. Before Myrna walked out of his life, he hadn’t been celibate or even considered it since he was thirteen, but his disappointment in Myrna had so embittered him that he couldn’t have made love with a woman if his life had depended on it. Yet, the minute he saw Kendra sprawled out on the ice, relaxed and yielding to her inability to get up, much like a dying man submitting to the inevitable, his libido had returned with a vengeance.

It wouldn’t have concerned him too much—after all, a man wanted to know that he could cut the mustard if he wanted to, but she knew he was there, and she knew it the minute she looked at him. That made the nagging desire that afflicted him when he saw her more difficult to ignore. But he had a long way to go before he could consider tying up with a woman; he meant to clear his name and reestablish himself, both of which could take years. By that time, Kendra Rutherford would have long forgotten that Reid Maguire existed.

He walked into his bedroom, pulled off his jacket and hung it up. He wouldn’t mind having some more of that wonderful coffee she’d made. “Oh, damn. I left my drawing pad in her house. Too bad. It’ll just stay there. I’m not going to give her the impression that I left it as an excuse to go back there. I’ll use some plain bond paper.” He remembered that a former classmate had settled in Caution Point and telephoned him.

“Marcus, this is Reid Maguire.”

“Great guns! How are you, Reid? It’s been years. Are you in town?”

He explained where he was, where he’d been and the reason for his call. “I can’t even begin work, because I know nothing about Caution Point. What kind of place is it?”

“We’re right at the edge of the Albemarle Sound, a sleepy town that looks old. You wouldn’t want to put anything like the Sydney Opera House here. New buildings are usually dark-red brick or cement, and almost none are glass-fronted. Trees everywhere, park benches and wide streets. The tallest building is around eight stories, and we have only a few of those. I’m glad to know you’re back in business, man. When you come here, I’d like you to meet my family.”