The Pelican Brief (46 page)
She bought her first novel in a year and a half, and read it in two days while lying on the small bed under the gentle rush from the ceiling fan. She vowed to read nothing about the law until she was fifty. At least once an hour, she walked to the open window and studied the harbor. Once she counted twenty cruise ships waiting to dock.
The room served its purpose. She spent time with Thomas, and cried, and was determined to do it for the last time. She wanted to leave the guilt and pain in this tiny corner of Charlotte Amalie, and exit with the good memories and a clean conscience. It was not as difficult as she tried to make it, and by the third day there were no more tears. She’d thrown the paperback only once.
On the fourth morning, she packed her new bags and took a ferry to Cruz Bay, twenty minutes away on the island of St. John. She took a taxi along the North Shore Road. The windows were down and the wind blew across the backseat. The music was a rhythmic mixture of blues and reggae. The cabdriver tapped the wheel and sang along. She tapped her foot and closed her eyes to the breeze. It was intoxicating.
He left the road at Maho Bay, and drove slowly toward the water. She’d picked this spot from a hundred islands because it was undeveloped. Only a handful of beach houses and cottages were permitted in this bay. The driver stopped on a narrow, tree-lined road, and she paid him.
The house was almost at the point where the mountain met the sea. The architecture was pure Caribbean—white wood frame under a red tile roof—and built barely on the incline to provide for the view. She walked down a short trail from the road, and up the steps to the house. It was a single story with two bedrooms and a porch facing the water. It cost two thousand a week, and she had it for a month.
She placed her bags on the floor of the den, and walked to her porch. The beach started thirty feet below her. The waves rolled silently to the shore. Two sailboats sat motionless in the bay, which was secluded by mountains on three sides. A rubber raft full of kids splashing moved aimlessly between the boats.
The nearest dwelling was down the beach. She could barely see its roof above the trees. A few bodies
relaxed in the sand. She quickly changed into a tiny bikini, and walked to the water.
________
It was almost dark when the taxi finally stopped at the trail. He got out, paid the driver, and looked at the lights as the cab drove in front of him and disappeared. He had one bag, and he eased along the trail to the house, which was unlocked. The lights were on. He found her on the porch, sipping a frozen drink and looking like a native with bronze skin.
She was waiting on him, and this was so damned important. He didn’t want to be treated like a house-guest. Her face smiled instantly, and she set her drink on the table.
They kissed on the porch for a long minute.
“You’re late,” she said as they held each other.
“This was not the easiest place to find,” Gray said. He was rubbing her back, which was bare down to the waist where a long skirt began and covered most of the legs. He would see them later.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” she said, looking at the bay.
“It’s magnificent,” he said. He stood behind her as they watched a sailboat drift toward the sea. He held her shoulders. “You’re gorgeous.”
“Let’s go for a walk.”
He changed quickly into a pair of shorts, and found her waiting by the water. They held hands and walked slowly.
“Those legs need work,” she said.
“Rather pale, aren’t they?” he said.
Yes, she thought, they were pale, but they weren’t bad. Not bad at all. The stomach was flat. A week on
the beach with her, and he’d look like a lifeguard. They splashed water with their feet.
“You left early,” she said.
“I got tired of it. I’ve written a story a day since the big one, yet they want more. Keen wanted this, and Feldman wanted that, and I was working eighteen hours a day. Yesterday I said good-bye.”
“I haven’t seen a paper in a week,” she said.
“Coal quit. They’ve set him up to take the fall, but indictments look doubtful. I don’t think the President did much, really. He’s just dumb and can’t help it. You read about Wakefield?”
“Yes.”
“Velmano, Schwabe, and Einstein have been indicted, but they can’t find Velmano. Mattiece, of course, has been indicted, along with four of his people. There’ll be more indictments later. It dawned on me a few days ago that there was no big cover-up at the White House, so I lost steam. I think it killed his reelection, but he’s not a felon. The city’s a circus.”
They walked in silence as it grew darker. She’d heard enough of this, and he was sick of it too. There was half a moon, and it reflected on the still water. She put her arm around his waist, and he pulled her closer. They were in the sand, away from the water. The house was a half a mile behind them.
“I’ve missed you,” she said softly.
He breathed deeply but said nothing.
“How long will you stay?” she asked.
“I don’t know. A couple of weeks. Maybe a year. It’s up to you.”
“How about a month?”
“I can do a month.”
She smiled at him, and his knees were weak. She looked at the bay, at the moon’s reflection in the center of it as the sailboat crawled by. “Let’s take it a month at a time, okay, Gray?”
“Perfect.”
TO MY READING COMMITTEE:
Renée, my wife and unofficial editor;
my sisters, Beth Bryant and Wendy
Grisham; my mother-in-law, Lib Jones; and
my friend and co-conspirator, Bill Ballard
Acknowledgments
MANY THANKS to my literary agent, Jay Garon, who discovered my first novel five years ago and peddled it around New York until someone said yes.
Many thanks to David Gernert, my editor, who’s also a friend and a fellow baseball purist; and to Steve Rubin and Ellen Archer and the rest of the family at Doubleday; and to Jackie Cantor, my editor at Dell.
Many thanks to those of you who’ve written. I’ve tried to answer them all, but if I missed one or two, please forgive.
Special thanks to Raymond Brown, a gentleman and fine lawyer in Pascagoula, Mississippi, who came through in the clutch; and to Chris Charlton, a law school pal who knows the alleys of New Orleans; and to Murray Avent, a friend from Oxford and Ole Miss who now lives in D.C.; and to Greg Brock at the
Washington Post;
and, of course, to Richard and the Gang at Square Books.
Books by John Grisham
A TIME TO KILL
THE FIRM
THE PELICAN BRIEF
THE CLIENT
THE CHAMBER
THE RAINMAKER
THE RUNAWAY JURY
THE PARTNER
THE STREET LAWYER
THE TESTAMENT
THE BRETHREN
A PAINTED HOUSE
SKIPPING CHRISTMAS
THE SUMMONS
THE KING OF TORTS
BLEACHERS
THE LAST JUROR
THE BROKER
THE INNOCENT MAN
PLAYING FOR PIZZA
THE APPEAL
THE ASSOCIATE
FORD COUNTY: STORIES
JOHN GRISHAM has written twenty-one novels, including the recent #1
New York Times
bestsellers
The Associate
and
The Appeal
, as well as one work of nonfiction,
The Innocent Man
. He lives in Virginia and Mississippi. His new book from Doubleday is
Ford County: Stories
.
