Page 129 of Secrets Along the Shore
I might be headed to Washington, D.C.
When James first told me about his plans, I wondered if it might be the end of us. I couldn’t fathom leaving this place. Then he explained we wouldn’t have to leave. At least not entirely. We’d keep the house here and only be in D.C. when necessary. He also suggested that I could open a “satellite branch,” asking if I “could imagine the kinds of cases I would land there?”
That part actually sounded…well, fun. Grace also pointed out to me that change, however unwelcome, is inevitable. Sometime, somehow, things always change, one way or another. She said if I ever wanted to move on with my life, I would have to be open to it and trust God would pave the way.
As usual, Grace was right.
When I reach the dining room, the tuxedoed host is standing at attention behind his podium. “Ms. Walsh, lovely to see you. May I escort you to your table?”
“Hi, Phil. Yes, that would be great. Thanks.”
The dining room continues the hotel’s emphasis on elegance—more crystal chandeliers, flickering candles, intricate molding along the ceilings and walls, and two dozen round tables swathed in white linen. More than half are occupied, but no one pays me any mind as I weave between the tables to keep up with Phil. He’s leading me to the largest table beside the expansive glass windows overlooking the pond garden and natural spring. When I see James, his father Edward, and several other members of the Calder clan seated there—James, Edward, James’s older brother Matthew, his cousins Alice, Ginny, and Chandler, his Aunt Jessie and Uncle Bill—I recalibrate, pushing down the urge to groan. Usually, I’d be all over this. I love his family. But it’s been a long week.
So much for a simple celebration.
James stands, his father following suit, a grin splitting his face.
“The guest of honor!” Edward says, pushing in front of James and throwing his arms wide. I walk into them and he folds me into a bearhug, squeezes, then releases me to look at my face. “We are so proud of you!”
“You did an amazing job, Soph, making sure Fogerty got locked away,” says Matthew, raising a glass.
“Thank you, but the prosecutors are the ones who sealed it.”
“All right, all right, give me back my fiancée.” James gives me a quick kiss, then pulls out the seat between him and his father. “Glad you made it.”
“Me too,” I say, as I sit.
“We’ve been missing you,” Edward says, winking.
Edward is sixty-three, with rounded features, and a full head of gray hair. James favors his mother—or at least the photos I’ve seen, as she died when he was twelve—with his dark blond hair, angular jaw, and sharp cheekbones. Matthew inherited Edward’s facial features and the light brown hair of Edward’s youth. All three work for Calder Industries—Edward is the COO, Matthew, the CFO. They aren’t perfect, but they’re mine—or at least they will be soon.
“So, tell us everything,” Aunt Jessie prompts, her eyes sparkling with interest. “I want to hear all about the trial.” The rest of them chime in, agreeing. Over appetizers and salads, I walk them through the last week, detailing witness testimony and the evidence. I share the story, settling into the meal, the warmth of the modest fire in the stone fireplace making it cozy without overheating us.
“Were there any famous people?” Ginny asks.
Alice leans in. “Any news people we would know?”
Chandler’s an introvert by nature and has no questions for me. I think he’s spoken directly to me four times since I met him. He’s on his phone most of the night, his Rolex thudding repeatedly against the table, which he leans on while typing.
When I get to the part where Fogerty is found guilty on all three murder counts, Edward claps once, loud enough to catch the attention of other diners, whose heads snap to us. I try my best not to smile, given I’m discussing multiple homicides and the sentencing of a man to life in prison—or death.
“Then there’s the body from this morning,” Edward says, slicing into his prime rib. Turns out, thanks to the leak, not only was informationabout the discovery circulating in the jail, but it made its way to the local news, which aired the story during a mid-afternoon report.
“I didn’t say a thing,” James is quick to say.
“No, no”—Edward waves the idea away—“this came from other sources.”
So, not the news? Have we circled back to the leak?
I don’t bother to ask, because Edward won’t tell me where he heard it. If he was willing to share his source, he would have mentioned a name already.
“Yeah, well,” I say, “it’s an ongoing investigation?—”
“So you can’t say,” Matthew interrupts. “Dad, leave her alone.”
“No, it’s fine.” I shrug. “There isn’t much to say at this point.”
“But is she another one of Fogerty’s victims?” Edward presses. I’m not surprised. The man’s curiosity is insatiable. He knows everyone and everything that’s happening in this county, and if he doesn’t, he’ll make sure to find out. Fogerty’s murder case has been no exception.
