Edgewater

CHAPTER 1
BAILEY COLEMAN SAT STONE still, eyes fixed on the front of the church, marshaling all of her strength--and all of her anger. She knew she would need every ounce of it to keep from breaking down. The service was almost over. She'd made it this far. If she could just stay angry with him she could make it through.
Yes, anger was the key.
And if anyone had a right to be angry with Michael, with that brother of hers, it was Bailey. How could he leave her like this? Didn't he know how much she needed him--how much she'd needed him ever since that day fifteen years before when their parents died on a rain-slicked mountain pass? Didn't he know he was her anchor? That just because she was grown now, her need for him was no less than it had been when she was sixteen and he was twenty-three--when, overnight, he'd become not just her big brother but her brother, mother and father, all rolled into one.
What right had he to risk his life like that? She'd pleaded with him to give up his crazy sports. Helicopter skiing in theTetons. Mountaineering. White-water kayaking. He was, after all, approaching forty. It was time to settle down. But not even his love and sense of responsibility for Bailey--and now also for his newfound daughter, Clancy--could break Michael's spirit, his need to experience life on the edge. It had once been something she'd admired and envied in him--that ability to throw caution to the wind. To live fully in the moment, without regrets, without worry. But ultimately, it had cost him his life. Ultimately, it had cost her Michael.
When he'd called her in Seattle two weeks earlier, she'd asked him to reconsider this outing. She'd just seen a piece on the evening news about the record-setting spring runoff. Northwest rivers were higher, and wilder, than anyone could remember.
"Don't worry, Sis," he'd said. "I've kayaked the Moyie a dozen times. I know every rock, every hole, on it. Little Jimmy floated it last week and said it was unbelievable. You don't really want me to miss out on something unbelievable, do you?"
Michael could bring just about anyone around with his boyish charm, and as his little sister, Bailey had always been especially vulnerable to it.
And so, she'd finally relented, wished him good luck, and reminded him that she was driving over from Seattle the next Sunday. Spring break at the University of Washington Law School was only days away, and she was looking forward to spending it in Coeur d'Alene with Michael and Clancy.
The last thing he said to her, the last words she would ever hear in that rich, melodious voice of his, were so typical of Michael, so full of the love and humor that always radiated from him.
"Just think," he'd said, "a whole week together. I'd better go rent a couple of old movies, stop by the bakery, pick up a good merlot ... oh, yeah, and a case of Kleenex." He'd always teased her about how readily she cried at movies,especially once she'd had a glass of wine and gotten some chocolate under her belt.
Then he'd grown serious.
"Be real careful on the drive over. Okay?"
He always worried about her driving over Snoqualmie Pass alone.
"And Bailey," he'd said, as he always did before taking off on one of his adventures, "don't forget. I love you."
And just as planned, she'd come to Coeur d'Alene. Just as planned, she'd spent her spring break from her second year of law school at her brother's condominium.
But what she hadn't planned--for who can ever plan for a life to be turned upside down in the space of mere minutes?--was the call she'd received two days after her last conversation with Michael. The call in which she'd learned that her beloved big brother had apparently drowned when his kayak overturned in the treacherous rapids of North Idaho's Moyie River. The body had not yet been found, but there was little doubt of Michael's fate. His new kayak, its nose crushed, had washed ashore just one mile past the incomplete Civilian Conservation Corp dam--a dam that drew thrill-seeking kayakers like a magnet. Spanning half the width of the river, even at low water the decades-old structure created treacherous currents and eddies that required equal parts skill and daring to negotiate around it. With record-setting runoffs, only the most experienced boaters would dream of attempting a run that included that segment of the river.
Michael had not only attempted it but had apparently--in contradiction of every principle he'd espoused regarding wilderness safety and, even more significantly, his promise to a friend--attempted it alone.
And so, instead of spending her spring break enjoying Michael's company and getting to know little Clancy, Bailey had spent it in a shocked daze, walking the shores of the Moyie; waiting for word from search parties, which were out in full force both on foot and in helicopters; answering phonecalls from grief-stricken friends of Michael's; and finally, making decisions about his memorial service.
She had never planned this--to find herself sitting in a strange church in a strange town, trying with all her might to avoid breaking down, trying to maintain her anger, while hundreds of people, mostly strangers, looked on.
But most of all, what she hadn't planned, as she sat in the front row of Saint Thomas's Cathedral on this blustery spring day in Idaho, was feeling Clancy's little fingers reaching for hers and curling sweetly, protectively, around Bailey's larger, clenched fist. No, she hadn't planned on that at all.
And in that one instant, with that one sweet and loving touch from this frightened little girl who Bailey hardly knew--her brother's only child--Bailey Coleman's carefully constructed wall of anger crumbled.
And, finally, the tears began to fall.


Bailey met with Tony Pappas, Michael's attorney and close friend, three days later. Arriving for her appointment several minutes early, she sat in the corner of the waiting room, staring out the window at the intersection two stories below. When the big Greek emerged from behind the closed door of his office, he enveloped her in an emotional hug.
Bailey had already seen Tony numerous times since Michael's accident. For days, he had walked the shores of the Moyie by her side, refusing to give up hope even after the official search had been called off.
Tony's obstinacy was fueled by grief. And guilt. It was Tony to whom Michael had made the promise not to kayak the Moyie alone. Michael and Tony had been kayaking partners for years. They had planned to kayak the Moyie together, but the evening before the outing, Tony had called Michael and backed out. His wife, Rhonda, was chairing a fund-raiser for their children's school the next day. In a fit of husbandly conscience, Tony--whose freewheeling lifestyle at times put a strain on the marriage--had decided to stay and help out. Michael, characteristically good-natured aboutit, had told Tony not to worry. He did, however, still want to try out his new kayak, and speculated that he would probably get up first thing in the morning and head out.
"Hey, man," Pappas had said to him, "you know better than to do the Moyie alone. Just hold on. Wait a day or two and I'll be able to go with you."
According to Tony, Michael had responded by promising not to attempt the Moyie. He would instead put in on the upper Spokane River, a tame stretch of water--even this year--just ten miles outside of Coeur d'Alene. Appeased, Tony hadn't given Michael's plans another thought until his phone calls the next evening had gone unanswered. When he still could not reach Michael the following morning, he'd stopped by Edgewater Place, Michael's condominium project, on his way to work. There was no sign of Michael. Or his red pickup.
Before heading to Barker Road, where Michael would have put in had he been kayaking the Spokane, Tony placed a call to the Kootenai and Spokane County sheriffs' offices. The Kootenai County Sheriff, in turn, placed a call to the Bonner County Sheriff.
It was the Bonner County Sheriff who, at four P.M. that afternoon, reported finding Michael's truck on a gravel road outside Bonners Ferry. A road that ran alongside the shores of the Moyie River.
Before nightfall, Michael's kayak had also been spotted, just beyond the dam. It was wedged between the shore and an outcropping of rock, its nose crushed by the force of the raging waters. It was too late to call out the helicopters, but at dawn the next day an aerial search of the Moyie's waters was initiated in conjunction with a ground search conducted by trained search-and-rescue teams and a posse of Michael's friends.
When Bailey arrived, near the end of the first day of the search, Tony Pappas, recounting his last conversation with Michael, had broken down.
"I'm so sorry," he'd said, his big shoulders heavy withguilt. "This would never have happened if I hadn't backed out."
Bailey had reassured him that it wasn't his fault.
But why would Michael, an experienced outdoorsman--one who consistently, dutifully, took the precautions that minimized the risks of his dangerous sports--have done it? Why would he have kayaked a river like the Moyie alone? Especially after giving Pappas his word that he would not. Bailey could feel no resentment toward Tony for his decision to stay and help Rhonda with her fund-raiser. But as she slipped and climbed along the rocky shoreline of the Moyie, as she witnessed firsthand the awesome power of its frothing white waters, boiling furiously as they tumbled over and crashed against huge boulders and fallen trees (creating logjams under which a body might well be trapped until the spring runoff receded), she did begin to feel a resentment toward her brother for having made such an irresponsible decision. What in the name of God had Michael been thinking?
Finally, when all hope was gone, when the experts had, with considerable delicacy, convinced her that with the upcoming hot, dry weather the waters would recede and the body--"the body"; it was no longer Michael for whom they searched--would inevitably break free from its entanglement and surface, she had agreed to a memorial service. They all needed closure--Clancy, Michael's friends. Bailey. Perhaps a service dedicated to Michael's memory would allow all of them to experience some measure of closure.
With the memorial behind them, Tony had called and asked if she felt ready to deal with Michael's business affairs. Yes, she'd told him. It was time. But as Tony led her into his inner office, Bailey's unsteady legs had her wondering about her response.
Once they were seated, it was Bailey who first breached the silence.
"Now," she asked, "what is it you wanted to see me about?"
From behind his oversized mahogany desk, Tony Pappascleared his throat and, in a voice too big for the room, began to speak.
"As you know, Bailey, until just six months ago you were all the family Mike had. Or at least all the family he thought he had."
Bailey nodded and remained silent. Tony was referring to the fact that six months earlier Michael had learned that he had a daughter. Clancy.
"I'd always bugged your brother about writing a will, but it wasn't until after he found out about Clancy, after she came to live with him, that he asked me to write this." He held a large, very formal looking envelope in his hand. "Fatherhood--especially sudden fatherhood, I would imagine--does that to you, makes you think about this kind of thing."
"Of course," he continued, "it's premature for a reading of the will. But when I explain the situation, I think you'll understand why, as Michael's attorney and a family friend, I am discussing it with you now."
Tony placed the envelope on his desk and pushed it toward Bailey, who did not move to pick it up.
"Basically, Michael's will provides that his assets are to be split between you and Clancy. Clancy's portion is to be put in trust. He appointed you trustee."
Ironically, Bailey's classes this semester included one called Wills, Estates and Trusts. The material had all seemed so remote. So impersonal. Until today.
"I'm not certain why you're telling me this now," Bailey said. She didn't want to be rude, but she found talk of her inheritance not only premature but in extremely poor taste. When Tony called, she had assumed he wanted to talk to her about who would run Michael's project, Edgewater Place, in his absence and who would be responsible for Clancy. She just didn't care that she stood to inherit Michael's wealth. Money had never mattered to her. It certainly didn't matter now.
Tony hesitated.
"The truth is, I struggled with whether or not to tell youabout the will before ..." His words drifted off. Bailey knew that Tony did not want to say it: before Michael's body is found. "But I finally decided that the sooner you knew, the better the chances of salvaging as much as possible."
Bailey's brow furrowed.
"Knew what?"
Pappas shook his head slowly from side to side, as if trying to convey to Bailey his disbelief at the situation.
"I'm afraid there just isn't much of an estate to dispense. In fact, at the time of his death, Michael's liabilities may well have exceeded his assets."
"What?" Bailey learned forward. Surely he hadn't just told her Michael had died penniless.
"As you know, four years ago Michael invested everything he had--all of the estate your parents left him and the money he'd made in Seattle in real estate--in the development of Edgewater Place. Well, Michael's will leaves you the condominiums."
There was something in Tony's voice.
"You mean his condominium," Bailey corrected, referring to the luxurious penthouse unit that Michael, and now Clancy, resided in.
"No," Tony responded. "I mean condominiums. Forty-seven of them, to be exact."
Bailey gasped. "Forty-seven!"
The building only housed eighty units. How could Michael own forty-seven of them? There had to be some mistake.
But before she could voice the myriad questions that had begun racing through her mind, Tony continued.
"The project has been somewhat troubled from the start." Then, seeing the bewildered expression on her face, he grew more candid. "Hell, Bailey, the truth is, the project's been on the brink of disaster since the day ground was broken. It's been one thing after another. Michael never wanted to admit it, but Edgewater Place was a lousy idea. This area just wasn't ready for it. Coeur d'Alene's still a small, unsophisticated town. The concept of condominium living isentirely new to the people who live here. These are folks to whom land means everything. Acreage, trees. That's what these people want to own. Not some fancy notion of shared ownership of common areas. Then there was the matter of the prices Michael was asking. Your brother went all out. Insisted on everything being the very best."
Bailey knew that years ago, in Seattle, Michael had established a reputation for the quality of his construction. The best materials, best architect, best interior designer. That was Michael. That was why he'd been so successful in the Seattle condominium market. His projects housed many of the city's movers and shakers, from well-known Sonics and Seahawks to high-profile politicians and TV personalities.
"The only way a builder can afford that kind of quality," Tony continued, "is by pricing the units accordingly. But as a result, Michael was only able to sell to wealthy out-of-towners. The locals can't afford to live in Edgewater Place. So almost two years after the doors opened, only thirty-three units have been sold. That's exactly forty-seven units below the projections Michael used to obtain financing."
Bailey was stunned. At first glance, the tall, willowy beauty's unruly blond tresses and attire of jeans and sweatshirt gave her a youthful appearance. But her face, heavy with grief, now showed each and every one of her thirty-one years.
She sat silently for a long while before finally saying, "Please, go on."
"Well, over the past few months Michael's fallen delinquent on the construction loan. He's been in serious danger of the bank's initiating foreclosure. Now, with him gone, I'm very concerned. The bank had been pretty good about working with us in the hope that to do so would be the most likely way to get this project back on track and help them recover their twenty-two million dollars--"
"Twenty-two million dollars! How much has he paid back?"
"Principal?" Tony asked. "Maybe eight million, tops. Which, practically speaking, is nothing. If payment isn'tbrought current soon, the bank is sure to give formal notice of default. Then if we fail to cure, their next step would be to foreclose. And without Michael here to steer this thing in the right direction, I'm afraid that's just what they'll do."
He reached for a letter he'd received from the bank's attorney. A letter expressing concern over the delinquencies. It had been faxed to his office the very day that Michael disappeared.
"If you want my opinion ..." he began.
But Bailey was no longer listening. Instead, she was thinking about the day several years before when Michael had first approached her about his concept, about Edgewater Place. He had been so enthusiastic, so hopeful. Years earlier, while he was still living with her in Seattle, he'd fallen in love with the town of Coeur d'Alene, Idaho, which sits nestled on the north shore of spectacular Lake Coeur d'Alene. While Michael was amassing a small fortune as a developer in the Seattle area, his dream of moving to north Idaho had only intensified. And when he finally made the move, four years earlier, he'd been very happy. He'd never lost his enthusiasm for the town or for his project. She could still hear it in his voice when he described Coeur d'Alene's beauty, his vision for Edgewater Place's future. Had he known how hopeless it was? Sitting there, aware that Tony was still talking to her but no longer hearing what he said, Bailey knew that Michael had never lost hope. He hadn't given up on Edgewater Place, on his dream. It was not in Michael's nature to give up.
"If you want my opinion," Tony repeated, "at this point, foreclosure might just be the best thing that could happen. Even though ..." His voice trailed off.
"What?" Bailey asked. "Even though what?" Something in Tony's tone had recaptured her attention.
"Well, it could be nothing, but recently Michael had been upbeat about things again. He told me he was sure he could save the project now."
"What made him think that?"
"I don't know. He wouldn't tell me. At least, not yet. Buthe promised me that he'd explain it all soon." Pappas's dark brow furrowed. "To be honest, he was a little mysterious about the whole thing. Which wasn't like Michael."
Seeing the flicker of hope in Bailey's eyes, he hurried to add. "But I'm afraid he wasn't being realistic. I've been involved with this project with him from day one, and as far as I've been able to determine, there's nothing, absolutely nothing, that can salvage it now. I hate to be so fucking negative--excuse my language--but I'd hate it even more if I were to give you false hope. I'm afraid Michael just got in over his head on this one. Even Michael couldn't turn this situation around."
The room fell silent. Then Bailey, her voice soft but steady, finally spoke.
"Did Michael tell you I'd loaned him money I inherited from our parents' estate? That he invested it in Edgewater Place?"
Tony shook his head and grimaced. "How much?"
"Over two hundred fifty thousand dollars."
He let out a low whistle. "How much of the estate did you keep?"
"None of it. I gave it all to him. He promised to pay my way through law school and then, when Edgewater Place took off, he was going to repay me and cut me in on the profits."
It was Tony's turn to look stunned. "You mean Michael was sending you money?"
"Yes. Each month. And he was paying my tuition. That was our deal." Bailey tilted her head and squinted at Tony out of the corner of her eye. "He still has money in his bank account, doesn't he?"
"Yes," Tony said. "But ..."
"But what?"
Tony took a deep breath.
"But it's certainly not enough to get you through another year of law school."
"That can't be." Bailey protested. "Michael's checkscame regularly, like clockwork. And he'd just assured me that he'd be paying my fall tuition."
The creases in Tony's forehead deepened.
"Michael drew a salary from the Edgewater Place account for the work he was doing as property manager, development, marketing. He must have been paying you from that salary. Most likely, he planned to pay your tuition from it as well."
"And if the bank forecloses, the salary stops."
"Yes. But until there's actually a foreclosure, I see no reason why you couldn't assume his responsibilities and earn that money. Someone has to run Edgewater Place. Since you're Michael's heir, it's only natural that it be you."
"But what about school? This year is almost over, but I've still got one full year before I get my degree."
Tony was silent for a moment.
"Maybe you could transfer to the University of Idaho. Or even Gonzaga University, in Spokane. Both have great law schools. And at this stage of the game, Edgewater Place isn't a full-time job. I don't think you'd have a problem handling both. Hell, Michael was spending as much time on the golf course as he was at work. It's just a matter of being around, overseeing things." He hesitated, then added, "However, there's another problem here."
Bailey's tolerance for problems was wearing thin. How could there possibly be any more?
"When Michael took out the loan," Tony said, "he did something that I strongly advised against his doing. He signed a personal guarantee. Of course, he was so optimistic about Edgewater Place that he felt safe signing it."
"Does that mean the bank can seize Michael's bank account?"
"Yes, once Michael's death becomes official," he said. "That's exactly what it means."
Bailey's mind was swimming. Two weeks earlier she'd been looking forward to a trip to this enchanting little town to spend some much-needed restful time with her brother and to get to know her newfound niece. Now here she sat inthis attorney's office, discussing her brother's will, feeling so totally alone, being told that she would soon inherit--how many, forty-seven, wasn't it?--condominium units, a staggering debt, and that she quite possibly had no money to finish law school or to live on. The only other time she'd experienced such a terrifying, sinking feeling was when her parents died.
But then she had had Michael. As grief-stricken as she'd been, as dazed and disbelieving as she'd felt back then, she'd at least had Michael. She'd known he would be there for her.
And he always had been.
But now he was gone. Her mind, her heart, still could not process that information. She still half believed this was just some crazy, twisted joke. Michael couldn't be dead. Michael was invincible. Michael would never leave her alone.
Yet here she sat. Alone. Alone and dealing not only with her life, with her problems, but, it now appeared, alone and dealing with Michael's problems as well. And, from what Tony was telling her, these weren't just your everyday headaches she'd inherited. This was big. This was huge.
And then there was Clancy. What was she to do about Michael's newly discovered daughter? After a conversation with Clancy's mother that left her feeling as though she had no choice, she'd sent her niece home the day after the memorial service. But ever since she'd been filled with misgivings about it. Bailey knew that Clancy's home environment was less than desirable--Michael told her that was one of the reasons he'd asked Clancy to live with him a mere week after receiving the call from her mother. The call in which he'd learned that five and a half years earlier, he'd become a father. Margo Leon, a woman he'd dated twice seven summers before, when she was in training to be a nurse at Seattle's City Hospital, had called six months ago to demand money from Michael. Michael had flown down to Los Angeles and, to everyone's shock, had returned several days later with Clancy. Though he never discussed it,Bailey suspected that Michael had also given Clancy's mother a considerable sum of money. As he did with everything else in his life. Michael had adapted to fatherhood rapidly and with great enthusiasm.
What would become of Clancy now? Bailey was hardly in a position to keep her niece, but the decision to send Clancy back to her mother had been clawing at her.
The grief had long since settled in, but for the first time since she'd received the call informing her of Michael's disappearance, the reality of its effect on her life was beginning to settle in, too.
She became aware of Tony's voice again. What was it he'd been saying?
" ... a meeting with the bank."
"Pardon me?"
Watching her closely, for a dazed expression had taken hold of Bailey's face, Tony repeated himself. "I said, I think we should call the bank and set up a meeting. We've got to show them that Edgewater Place is still in good hands to forestall foreclosure. We need to get their cooperation as soon as possible. As difficult as I know this time is for you, we can't just sit back and wait. We have to be proactive."
Tony's words pushed the right buttons. We can't just sit back and wait.
What if--just what if--Michael were still alive?
Tony was right. She had to do everything in her power to save Edgewater Place. Giving up on Edgewater Place would be the equivalent of giving up on Michael.
"Edgewater Place was Michael's dream. We can't let them take that from him." Bailey said, leaning toward Tony, her hands now grasping the edge of his desk. "And let's face it, foreclosure means I lose everything, too. It could force me to drop out of law school. And leave Clancy with nothing."
For Bailey, the hardest thing about the past couple of weeks had been the helplessness. The waiting. The inability to do something that would make a difference. The realization that the situation might actually offer an outlet for hergrief--a way to channel, in a constructive manner, the fear, and dread, and anger that had insidiously filled every little nook and cranny of her body--was suddenly empowering--a welcome change from the sense of helplessness that had dominated her every waking moment since getting the call about Michael.
It was, as it turns out, the dawning of a crusade for Bailey Coleman. She must save Edgewater Place.
Bailey and Tony agreed that Tony would call the bank's attorney and set up a meeting as soon as possible.
"I just want to warn you," Tony said before Bailey left. "This banker is a real piece of work. I've dealt with my share of snakes in my day, but this guy ... I just wish I could spare you from having to deal with him."
"What about their attorney?" Bailey asked.
"Shep Carroll?"
Tony eyed Bailey for a moment.
"You might like him."


Shep Carroll's office was located on the twelfth floor of the Landau Building, Portland's newest and most prestigious office address. After nine years with the law firm of Emerson, Caldwell and Taylor, Shep had recently been named senior partner, and when the firm had moved next door into the newly completed Landau complex, his new status had entitled him to a large corner office with a view of downtown Portland and, just blocks away, the Willamette River. And although the prestige of earning partnership status and a prime office meant next to nothing to him, that--the view of the river--meant a hell of a lot. For Shep was a man obsessed with water. He'd already come to believe that being able to look out on that river--dreaming of the day when he would simply climb into his Mackenzie drift boat and float away, never to be seen again--might just be enough to keep him sane.
But right now, Shep was nowhere to be found as his exasperated secretary, Anna, stepped into his office to try todetermine just where her elusive boss had disappeared to this time.
On the floor next to his desk lay a rumpled pile that looked suspiciously like the jeans and denim shirt she'd seen him in just two hours earlier, before she'd left for lunch. Anna couldn't help but chuckle softly as she reached for the pile and carefully folded each piece of clothing, hoping to undo the damage that had already been done them by being left in such a heap. After four years, she still got a kick out of her unpredictable boss. While everyone else at Emerson, Caldwell conformed to the unwritten dress code that dictated conservative dark suits, Shep inevitably came in attired in jeans and Nikes. In the closet hung an expensive gray double-breasted suit, which represented his one accommodation to the formality of the legal world and which was pulled out for meetings or court appearances.
With the note containing the urgent message in hand, Anna walked to the window to look for Shep. The clothes on the floor could mean only one thing--that he'd reached the limit of his tolerance a little earlier in the day than usual. As he always did when things started getting to him, Shep must have gone running.
She instinctively looked toward the water. The sidewalks that had been so full just an hour earlier when she'd been returning from lunch were far less crowded now, but there was no sign of Shep. She was about to turn away from the window and give his nearby health club a call when she saw him. From this distance all she could make out was a form running along the river path, just approaching an intersection that would lead back toward the Landau Building. No face was discernible on the runner, but Anna did not need to see a face. There was no mistaking his size and his distinctive, strong gait. With a sigh, Anna realized that she could pick Shep Carroll out anywhere. Even in the midst of a crowd. Just as she'd done last October when she'd viewed the Portland marathon. She and a dozen other people from the office had rented a room at the Marriott Hotel to party, view the event, and cheer on several serious runners fromthe firm who participated in this annual test of endurance. They'd all been standing out on the balcony of their ninth-floor room when they saw the first surge of runners. There had to have been fifty or sixty of them, heading down the street just below them. To everyone else on that balcony, at that point they were just one big mass of moving humanity, a sea of bobbing heads, but Anna had picked Shep out from the crowd while it was still a good two blocks away. She hadn't even strained to find him. Standing at the window now, she experienced a sense of déjà vu.
She watched as he neared, running with long, strong strides, his near-perfect posture not diminished by the miles he'd already run, his grace as an athlete still evident despite the four knee operations he'd undergone since his days as the University of Oregon's star running back. His dark, thick hair, usually brushed back, fell forward, matted with sweat.
What a specimen you are, Shep Carroll, thought Anna Riley for what must have been the thousandth time, as she watched him approach the building, then disappear into its front door from the sidewalk beneath her. And for the thousandth time, Anna Riley, who had been happily married for six years, silently scolded herself for her thoughts.
By the time Shep emerged from the elevator minutes later and, with the slight limp that was characteristic after his runs, headed down the hall toward her desk, Anna was able to contain her admiration and look appropriately exasperated with him.
"When are you going to start remembering to leave me a note when you disappear like that?" she scolded, reaching out to hand him the message that had prompted her search for him. "Stan Muncie has called three times now. He says it's urgent. Here's the number of his car phone. He should be on the way to the airport right about now. He's on the next plane out here."
"Sorry." Shep muttered distractedly, taking the message and heading right into his office. He waited until he'd closed the door behind him. Then, pulling his sweat-soaked T-shirtoff, he sent it flying across the room and let out a resounding "Shit!"
The morning had been bad enough already. News that Stan Muncie was heading west was the clincher.
Maybe Anna had heard Muncie incorrectly. Maybe he was headed somewhere else and he just wanted to get in touch with Shep before he left Chicago. That was the thought that Shep held while he dialed the number Anna had written down--knowing full well that Anna never got anything wrong.
Muncie picked up on the first ring.
"Carroll?" he half asked, half demanded into his cellular.
"Stan, Anna tells me you've been trying to reach me. What's up?"
"I'm catching the next plane to Spokane. I arrive at eight-fifteen. Plan on meeting me in Coeur d'Alene first thing tomorrow morning."
Shep knew better than to press Muncie for an explanation.
"And Shep, clear your calendar for the next couple of days. You may be spending a little time in Idaho." With that, he hung up.
Shep sat still for the next few minutes. What could Muncie be planning now? Muncie. was one of Shep's least favorite clients. But Chicago Savings and Loan had been paying Shep's firm big dollars to help it get a handle on its problems with a project in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho. Another loan that should never have been made, with another frantic lender trying to figure out how best to salvage things. Shep felt especially bad about this project because he liked the developer, Michael Coleman, very much. He wanted to see this one succeed. And while he found dealing with Stan Muncie distasteful, he knew that Michael Coleman's chances of success were enhanced by Shep's involvement. Also, as the partners had let it be known at the last meeting, this job was an important one to the firm. Shep's reputation as a skilled handler of distressed properties was starting to bring Emerson, Caldwell big money. But all it took was oneunhappy client in the banking world and a carefully built reputation could go right down the tubes. Recognizing Shep's feelings toward Muncie, at the last meeting the firm had cautioned Shep against letting that happen. And the firm paid Shep Carroll's bills.
He looked out the window and beyond, to the river. As it did every afternoon, Portland State University's crew team was out practicing--two five-man sculls gliding smoothly along the water, looking from this distance like a pair of centipedes, arms moving in perfect synchronization. Shep found himself daydreaming about how long it would take him to head home, throw some gear into the Range Rover and hitch the boat up. He'd head to the mountains. Maybe to Wyoming. Do some serious fly-fishing along the way. Find himself a little cabin outside of Jackson and never come back. After all, aside from a job he was losing his enthusiasm for, there really was nothing--and more important, no one--to hold him there, in Portland. How long?
But then he remembered. The boat was in the shop. Last weekend, on the Columbia River, it had died on him. He'd drifted a good two miles before someone had come along and given him a tow back to Vancouver.
So much for that plan, thought Shep. Maybe next week he'd finally do it. Leave this job, this life, that was no longer providing him with any real sense of satisfaction. Money, yes. Satisfaction, self-worth, no.
Maybe next week.
But for now, all Shep Carroll had to look forward to were a couple of days with his least favorite client.
Copyright © 1998 by April Christofferson