In The Forest Of Harm Read Online Free Page B

She wanted to take us to New York to see
Tosca
.”
    Mary laughed. “My only plan is to forget all about Cal Whitman and enjoy the woods.”
    They drove to another of the thousand condos that ringed Atlanta, where Joan Marchetti sat perched on the bumper of her car, cutting the price tags off a new, black all-terrain fleece-lined anorak. An equally new black backpack lay on the ground, resting beside her barely broken-in black boots, while a new black camp watch marked the time from her left wrist. Joan’s only garment over two weeks old was a battered black Yankees cap that shielded her eyes from the sun.
    â€œWow!” Alex hooted as she pulled the BMW up beside her. “New York goes Primitive.” She got out of the car and sniffed the air extravagantly. “But you still smell like the perfume counter at Saks.”
    â€œThank God.” Joan brushed cigarette ash off her black jeans. “I could’ve bought three new pairs of shoes for the money I spent on this camping gear.”
    â€œYou look terrific, Joan, but you’re supposed to wear old ratty clothes when you camp,” Mary told her. “Not go out and buy new ones.”
    â€œOh, yeah?” Joan wrinkled her nose at Alex’s tattered flannel shirt. “Well, I guess my wardrobe doesn’t extend to ratty.”
    â€œThat baseball cap looks pretty ratty,” said Alex, turning and unlocking the trunk of the car.
    â€œIt may look ratty, but it’s my lucky cap.” Joan had stuffed her dark curly hair under the cap, exposing a slender neck the color of fresh cream. “My dad sent it to me the first time the Yankees beat the Braves in the World Series.”
    â€œSounds like you’re ready to camp to me.” Mary hoisted up Joan’s new backpack and put it in the trunk.
    â€œBut I wasn’t ready to spend so much money.” Groaning, Joan climbed in the backseat and waggled the anorak’s price tag. “This better be a great weekend, you guys.”
    â€œWhen have our road trips ever not been great, Joan?” Alex laughed as she lowered the top of the convertible. “You’re too much of a homebody. If it wasn’t for Mary and me, you would just hole up in this condo every weekend, reading briefs and baking lasagna.”
    â€œI need to read my briefs. And I like baking lasagna. I especially like having Hugh Chandler over to eat it!” Joan protested ferociously, but she knew that Alex was right. Even though she’d lived in Atlanta for nearly nine years, she still felt intimidated by the hot, sprawling city with its honey-drip accents and countless Peachtree streets. Were it not for these two women, she probably would spend most of her time cocooned with Verdi and Puccini in the icy cool of her apartment.
    â€œYou can have Hugh Chandler over next weekend, Joan,” promised Mary. “This weekend is Mother Nature’s gift to girl attorneys who labor in the trenches of the law!”
    â€œAll right, already.” Joan rolled her eyes. “Let’s go!”
    Alex pulled out of the parking lot and drove north. The morning begged for escape. The hot muggy fist of summer had loosened its grip on Atlanta, leaving behind a dry warmth that would linger until the first cool damp of fall inched its way down from Canada. With the CD player blaring, the three women sped along a chalk-colored interstate until it became U.S. 19, the ancient two-lane that connects the red clay hills of upper Georgia to the mountains of North Carolina.
    The women drove on, Alex and Joan singing along to a Lucinda Williams CD. Mary smiled, listening as Joan’s voice soared while Alex croaked along, struggling to stay in the right key. As their ears began to pop from the altitude, they crested a steep hill at the little town of Dahlonega, and the Grange-calendar landscape abruptly vanished. The clipped-green farms and sloe-eyed cows suddenly gave way to hazy blue mountains