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Ruffling Feathers Chapter 16 - After the Fall
Amy fully expected to see Paul in the courtroom when she delivered her testimony. She had steeled herself to endure his gaze. She had coached her body not to turn to him as she knew she instinctively would. He wasn't there. Where else on earth would he be? This was the truth he had sought. This was the path he had chosen. She assumed he would want to face Greg Hansen every day, silently willing the verdict he required. Jenn's frequent emails to Amy while she was in London had never mentioned the trials, except for updates on Lisa's situation. Jenn focused on old friends and small town news. Tom Thompson's meadery was up and running and he had already won some medals for his honey wine. Kris Cox was actually dating Bill Wyatt, the smarmy Delisle Group real estate hack who had sold Amy her condemned house at twice its market value. Dave and Maria Gilcrest's younger son was in Jenn's morning kindergarten class and Maria was not a cooperative parent—like that was a surprise. Jodie Gilcrest was getting married in November, and Queen Anne was doing the wedding. The Royal Court was officially disbanded and Annie Edgerton was looking around for another band to play at her weddings. Jenn was thinking about getting a harp. She never mentioned Dave Landry or Paul Donovan or even Gina. Martin's weekly emails had been crammed with existentialist poetry and movie reviews and even a treatise on Fermat's theorem. Actually, Amy wasn't quite sure that her brother had stayed abreast of the meteoric changes that had slammed into Piñon and the Hutchins family of late. Self-absorbed as ever, she thought grimly. Ed Hutchins's less frequent, but still regular missives were even less instructive on the topics Amy wanted most to hear about. Ed missed his second daughter. He missed her witty ways and laughing eyes. He missed her earnest interest in politics and nature and the foibles of her neighbors. His letters were full of poli sci department chat and the machinations of the deanery. He asked dozens of questions about London and England and Europe and the Green parties. He never mentioned Donovan Industries or its CEO. He never mentioned Two Forks or Governor Gil Brannon or the aborted strip mall project. No, Amy had to read how the Pinon's melodrama had played out via the Denver Post Online. Her own family was mute on the subject. And so she came back to Colorado, prepared to turn away from Paul again and be strong in her own conviction of what was right and fair and decent. Except that he wasn't there anymore. Not after his last press conference when he apologized for the ruse he had fabricated surrounding Donovan Park and the Douglas county acquifer. She studied his picture on the Internet. With Governor Brannon on one side and Dennis Brown on the other, Paul had put on a charming show. He had convinced the world that the ends he had gone to justified the means he had taken. To the public, he was a wronged son fighting for justice for his parents. Amy half expected him to be named People magazine's "Handsomest Man on the Planet" as his popularity surged. Then, quietly, without a ripple, he slipped under the surface. Her day in court over, Amy stood on the sidewalk outside her little house in Piñon and gazed in wonder at its transformation. It was pretty. Trim. Tight. Annie's gift basket of fixer-up chores from Amy's friends had worked magic. When she had left for London in early October, the house was still the bedraggled condemned house she had bought. She never expected her friends to continue working on the house in her absence. But they had. It was painted. It sported a new roof, new rain gutters, new sidewalk, and even new brass numbers and a shiny new door knocker with Hutchins House etched proudly on its face. A green moat of lawn hugged the house. The sod Jenn had laid last fall was greening up nicely. Amy stooped to examine tender crocus shoots peeking through muddy earth. The smell of decaying mulch under dirty patches of old snow seeped through Amy's layers of business suit and trench coat. A cool, crisp March breeze slid deliciously down her back. Melting snow dripped from the north roof, tapping out a rap. Amy closed her eyes and surrendered to the heady romance of springtime in the Rockies. When she opened them, she knew she would be resigning from her London job in the morning. It had been interesting to live abroad, but this was home. She wanted her column back. Maybe NPR would let her do a weekly radio column on the national Green movement. With Piñon as home base, she would expand her horizons beyond the West. She would make a difference—she would fight the bad guys with a vengeance—she would...Amy stopped and mentally slapped herself. Here we go again. She thought about Greg Hansen standing trial and the others who were already convicted. She remembered that this wasn't a game—real people, real passion, real consequences, real accountability. A slamming car door jolted Amy out of her reverie, and she spun around to find herself caught in her father's bear hug. Then he held her at arm's length, ruffling her now closely cropped curls. "It suits you, but what were you thinking?" Then Ed Hutchins eyed her narrowly, "You're not wearing a hair shirt too are you?" "No Dad." Amy replied with the requisite eye roll. "This isn't penance, really. I just thought long hair wasn't hip enough for Europe. I wanted a new look." She couldn't help the dimple from denting her cheek any more than she could keep the glint from her eye. "Do you think I should be wearing a hair shirt?" "Yes, for leaving your poor old dad with no one interesting to talk to. Jenn's a sweetheart, but she doesn't get riled up enough." Amy slipped her arm through her father's as they walked up to the house. "You staying to dinner?" "Of course." "You buying?" "Tell you what. I'll pop over to the market and get us a couple of cans of Dinty Moore and some frozen breadsticks." "Don't threaten me. Actually, I will cook for both you and Jenn tonight." Amy took off her coat and put on the kettle for tea. As she and her father settled in for a nice comfortable talk to make up for six months of separation, she continued, "I have been horribly out of balance in London. Partly it was all the people and all the buildings—I'm not used to cities. Partly it was the lack of sunshine—I'm convinced my body requires four out of five days to be sunny or it goes haywire. Partly I was so busy learning the job that I didn't cook, didn't want to figure out how to garden—although English gardens are fantastic—and I haven't done any singing in I don't know how long. All work and no play and I'm duller than dishweed." "I think it's 'dishwater.'" "Or 'ragweed.'" "Amy, if you're going to speak in cliches you need to get them right." Amy playfully kissed her father's forehead. "I've missed you too, Professor." She donned an apron and started rummaging through the pantry while Ed made tea and found a box of cookies. "Actually, it sounds like you have been wearing a hair shirt." "Why? Because I worked hard to learn a new job? You take that as self-flagellation?" Ed's raised eyebrows indicated that she read him right. "You ran away from a messy situation. And then you felt horribly guilty about running away and taking a job under false pretences so you worked yourself until you were almost sick. I'm just saying it's a blessing you had to come back here to testify so that I could talk some sense into you." Amy's cheeks flushed hotly, "That's quite a speech. Have you been rehearsing it for a long time? Or am I benefiting from a sudden inspiration of pop psychology?" "There, there honey..." "Don't 'honey' me. I didn't run away." Amy sat down and hugged her arms across her stomach. Her lower lip protruded and tears filled her eyes. "Oh Dad, I did run away," she admitted. She stared at the ceiling as she collected herself and then continued, "Did you know that Paul actually proposed to me? Can you believe that? I mean, is that brain dead or what? We had this huge fight after I went to see Greg in jail, after you got him a decent public defender, and I told him that I wasn't sure Greg was guilty of anything other than being a colossal jerk. And then, rather than working things through in the normal way that normal people do, he asks me to marry him, after he told me not to talk to Greg again. Of course, I told him that he was the last man on earth that I could ever be prevailed upon to marry...and the conversation went downhill from there," Amy concluded wryly. "And then the job from NPR opened up," Ed said sympathetically. He really was working hard to keep from smiling paternalistically as he knew that Amy would probably throw something at him if he did. "Yep, my escape hatch. I can admit it, I took the easy way out. I didn't want to hang around Piñon and watch Paul and his FBI friends do a hatchet job on Greg, nor did I want to be with a man who loved me but didn't trust me." "So now that Paul's no longer in Piñon, you think it's safe to come home?" "That's pretty harsh. But yeah, I guess that's about the size of it. I'm just a coward. I talk big, but then I run away, and then I get homesick." She shook her head sadly, "I don't know how I can live with myself." "Come on, Amy, cut the melodrama. You're being too hard on yourself, child. Take a leaf from my book. Recognize your shortcomings, acknowledge your faults, dry your tears, and get back in the game. If you love this man, go and find him and tell him so. If you don't, then stop whining about it." "Did you tell Jenn the same thing?" Amy asked softly. Her father held her face in his hands and gazed into the beautiful, dark eyes that glistened back at him. "I did indeed. Waiting in Piñon for Dave Landry to return is a fool's game." "I can't believe you would approve of Paul as a son-in-law." "What difference does that make? Honestly, Amy, think for yourself." Ed leaned back in the couch and propped his feet on the coffee table and slowly put his hands behind his head. "But if you want all the information, you ought to know that he's the one who got Lisa off. They were ready to let that girl have it with both barrels, and he made them plea bargain and use her testimony against the others. Your Mr. Donovan is the reason Lisa is not in the state penitentiary." Spring became summer and Jenn and Amy quietly slipped back into their old routines. Jenn gently guided kindergartners into the brave new world ahead of them while Amy worked on her weekly column, now audio as well as print. They played with Kris, talked with their father, humored their mother, and supported their siblings. Greg was convicted of conspiring to destroy the Albuquerque building and nothing more. Not the Foundation building in June, not the murders of Anne and George Donovan, not the stalking and kidnapping of Gina. He was handed a light sentence and a heavy lecture. Amy breathed a sigh of relief and braced herself for publicity from the Donovan camp. Again, nothing. No statements. No quotes. No comment. Piñon slowly refound its grooves as well. Animosities that had sprung up over the proposed strip mall healed as Donovan Industries became part of the fabric of the town and shelved the proposal. The company replaced the building that had been destroyed with a new, more modest building that now housed the Foundation. They planted trees and sponsored baseball teams. They helped out with the volunteer fire department chili supper fundraiser and had a dunk tank at the elementary school carnival. Then, one bright day, Amy opened her morning email to find a request from her old friend and mentor, Jay O'Brien, from the Daily Camera. He needed her to cover a global warming conference in Portland. Could she go? Absolutely. Amy wrote back that "Portland is a great town and it's always a treat to visit Oregon, hardly like work at all." "Portland, Maine" Jay wrote back. Amy swallowed hard, screwed up her courage, and sent her reply, "Absolutely. Portland is a great town and I'm sure it'll be a treat to visit Maine, hardly like work at all." Amy pulled out her atlas. There was Portland, Maine. It looked to be about a hundred miles north of Boston. She would fly into Boston, rent a car, drive to Portland, do the conference, and then backtrack. There would be no reason to head north out of Portland, though she had heard the Maine coast was spectacular. It took awhile, mainly because there were so many names crammed onto the map, but she was able to pick out Carlisle Point, perched on the end of what looked like one of a hundred fingers jutting out into one of what looked like a hundred bays. What a complicated shoreline. Then Amy laughed softly to herself as she remembered Annie Edgerton's saying that geography is destiny. They don't come any more complicated than Paul Donovan. So, she had plan. A good plan. A simple plan. She got her tickets—she would fly into Boston, rent a car, drive to Portland, do the conference, and then backtrack. Yep, no reason at all to head north out of Portland and get lost in the complicated Maine shoreline.
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