Forever Beach (10 page)

That stopped her for a second. “Why wouldn't she be serious?”

“She might be. She might really have turned over a new
leaf. But it's just as possible that she has a new boyfriend who is pulling her strings. It wouldn't be the first time.”

“No, and I was lucky to even have gotten Leila back after both failed attempts. Usually they just send you to wherever there's a bed.”

“I know, hon. You'll figure it out. And you've got a whole crew of people in your court. Your family, like you said. So try not to worry and make this the best time ever.”

In case it's soon gone forever,
Sarah finished for him.

After a brief skirmish over Wyatt's buying lunch, which he won, they left the air-conditioned restaurant for the heatpulsing sidewalk. Two blocks later they parted at the corner, Wyatt to return to his store, Sarah to hers. They'd seen each other more in the last few days than they had in a while.

In the back of her mind, Sarah was afraid it wasn't a good idea. It didn't seem fair for Leila to be sent back to Carmen just when she was getting along so well with Wyatt. There were bound to be repercussions when she returned. Either afraid of him or mean to him. He'd make himself scarce for a while and the cycle would continue. Or she wouldn't come back at all.

But Sarah wouldn't contemplate that yet. It would all work out. It had to.

She walked around to the backyard, where she retrieved her briefcase and the box of documentation from the car. It wouldn't hurt her to organize what she had and review some of the incidents she may have forgotten.

After letting herself into the shop, Sarah deposited her briefcase and the box on the floor and walked through to the front room. She normally loved Mondays, when the shop was closed
and she could come and go as she pleased. Work all day if she wanted. Or just sit in the quiet.

She stepped out to the center of the room, breathed in the scent of wood and wax and oil. There were no lights on. A few dust motes were suspended in the air near the window where a ray of sunlight sliced to the floor. But that was all. Just her. Alone. And in the silence she could hear it. The ticking of the clocks, steady as a heartbeat.

Could she really contemplate selling this to keep Leila? Could she give up what Sam had loved most in the world? She could still repair clocks without having a retail space, but the store brought in the bulk of her income. And the building was paid for, along with the house; she wouldn't be able to find a place cheaper without leaving the area. And that's not something she wanted to consider.

This is where she had learned to be human. To stop hating and being afraid, to trust and to love. She wasn't sure she could keep all those in her heart if she had to give up her soul, which was forever a part of Sam and his shop.

Sarah smiled for a moment, thinking of Sam, could swear she could hear his monotone humming as he worked in the back room.

She walked around the perimeter of the room, letting her hand run over the carved cabinet of the old Bavarian cuckoo clock, the beveled glass of the grandmother clock that she and Sam bought from an estate sale. It had been in terrible repair but together they had brought it back to life. It was not for sale.

She should have asked Reesa just what amount of money she would need to hire Ilona Cartwright. She'd pay whatever it took, but the cottage and the store were more than buildings;
they were her center, her soul. Surely the sale of a couple of clocks would be sufficient.

I
LONA MANAGED TO
concentrate for about an hour while her coffee grew cold and she tried not to think about the Hargreave folder sitting unopened on her desk or to be impatient with the intern who was taking a hell of a lot of time researching something that was probably easily found by googling. She could have done that herself.

After an hour, she'd satisfied herself that she really didn't have to open the folder and convinced herself that it was mere curiosity about the case that let her hand slide over and open it.

She'd prepared herself for seeing the name again—she knew right where it was on the page. She steeled herself and read the initial removal report. Birth mother, Carmen Delgado, history of drug and alcohol abuse. Known prostitute. Father, Sonny Rodrigues, deceased. Leila Rodrigues. Seventh of eight children, different fathers, all in foster care. The future didn't look bright for Carmen Delgado.

Like Reesa said. A no-brainer.

In a few years Carmen would probably be dead. Leila would forget her, hopefully.

Ilona didn't remember either of her birth parents
.
But she'd had Aunty. Aunty was good; she'd made sure Ilona went to school and learned her lessons and her manners. As it turned out, Aunty wasn't really her aunt, but she didn't care. Ilona had thought it would last forever, but the only thing that lasts forever is misery.

Aunty starting forgetting things; sometimes she couldn't remember Ilona's name. She forgot to buy milk, didn't know what the salt was for. She got afraid of Ilona, thought she was
trying to steal her social security check. Wandered off and one day the police found her. Alzheimer's, they said.

The service came and got Ilona; she scratched and kicked and screamed, begged them to let her stay and take care of Aunty, but they wouldn't. They pushed her into a car and drove away. Aunty went to a home. Another home that wasn't a home.

Ilona jumped when the intercom buzzed. She reached for it and knocked over the cup of cold coffee. The coffee spread out over the desk blotter. She grabbed all the folders she could muttering, “Dammit, dammit.”

She dumped the folders on the chair Sarah Hargreave had sat in and punched the intercom. “Inez, bring some paper towels, pronto. There's a bit of a spill.”

It galled her to have to admit it. She never did things like that. Wasn't clumsy. Didn't make messes. Never.

“I
LONA, WHAT IS
wrong with you? How many times do I have to ask you not to run through the house like a hoodlum? Look what you've done.”

Ilona looked down at the shards of the coffee cup on the white tile floor, the coffee making a puddle at her feet and the grotesque stain down her mother's white wool skirt. She'd been so excited, she'd forgotten to pay attention to how she was behaving. Stupid. She'd been so stupid.

“So what do you want?”

Ilona hung her head and thrust out the soggy report card without looking up. “I made all A's.”

U
sually Sarah could lose herself in her work, but not today. Today she was alternately bombarded with replays of the morning's meeting with Ms. Cartwright and worrying about having to tell Leila about the supervised meeting on Wednesday.

She couldn't put it off any longer. By the time she left for the bus stop Sarah was sick with fear that this would be the time that she would lose Leila forever.

Maybe she shouldn't have taken the book out. The
Everyone Loves Me
book. Photos of Leila with her two families. Sarah had made it when Leila came for the first time. So one day when she became curious about her past, there would be a sympathetic record of her early years. Sarah had put it away after the last failed visit. And it hadn't been out since. Maybe she should try to hide the book when they got home. Talk about the visit then bring it out. She just didn't know what was best.

Sarah was suddenly second-guessing everything she did
or thought and that wouldn't get her anywhere but tied up in knots.

She was smiling when Leila climbed down the steps of the minibus. The bus driver waved and the door closed. Sarah took Leila's hand and they walked back to the cottage, Leila chattering about school and McDonald's and Sarah thinking about the big scrapbook waiting for them on the kitchen table.

They reached the porch steps all too soon. They went straight to the kitchen, where Sarah emptied the contents of the backpack onto the table and washed out the plastic containers of fruit she'd sent for snack. Then she reached into the cupboard for some graham crackers.

When she turned back, Leila was sitting in her booster seat looking at the book.

Sarah put the crackers on a plate and placed them on the table in front of Leila.

“Remember this?” she said brightly, moving the book around for Leila to see.

Leila looked up, took a square of graham cracker, and bit into it. “Milk, please.”

Sarah poured milk and put the glass on the table. She pulled a chair close to Leila and slid the book closer.

“Can you read this?”

Leila glanced at the scrapbook. Shrugged.

“Everybody Loves Me,” Sarah said, pointing to the words as she spoke. “Remember who's in here?”

Leila shrugged again. Sarah's stomach tightened even further. She opened the book to the first page and a photo of the three of them, Sarah on one side of Leila, Carmen on the other, back in the first days of her fostering, when Carmen was clean for a moment and Sarah was doing her best to be understanding.

Leila was just a toddler.

“See, that's you.”

Leila shook her head.

Don't read too much into it,
Sarah warned herself. “That's you.” She pointed to a much younger, much frailer Leila and quelled the anger that rose inside her. “That's me.” She pointed to herself, a little over two years ago; she looked much younger . . . and optimistic.

“And that's Carmen. Your bio mother.” She didn't know if Leila even remembered what that meant, though she'd tried to explain it several times. But to Leila, Sarah was her mommee. And Sarah hoped she had no memory of the squalid conditions child services had rescued her from, or the deplorable situation they'd returned her to, twice.

“Mr. Noyes is going to take you to see her on Wednesday.”

“I don't want to.”

“It's just for a couple of hours. You can take Mickey Mouse. And when he says it's time to go, Mr. Noyes will bring you home.”

“I don't want to.”

And I don't want you to,
Sarah thought. “What color sticker shall we put on the calendar?”

Leila crossed her arms. Scowled. When Sarah got up to get the stickers, Leila threw the book onto the floor.

I
LONA SPENT THE
evening googling Sarah Hargreave and reading the dossier the intern had compiled that afternoon. Unfortunately he hadn't been able to obtain her foster and adoption record.

But she did find the name of the family she lived with. Gianetti. Sam Gianetti owned a clock retail and repair store. How
quaint. And a house next to it, both of which were now in Sarah Hargreave's name.

They must have left her both the house and the business. Not a spectacular outcome, but it sounded comfortable.

All this time, she had been living right here, less than ten miles from where Ilona had lived. For a while after she left the group home, Ilona had consoled herself with thinking Sarah had been taken away to another state, maybe across the country even. That in the move she'd lost Nonie's—Ilona's—address. She'd written to the group home and asked them to send it, but they never had.

She'd imagined all sorts of scenarios. One was that Sarah had been fostered to someone who killed her; then Nonie would cry and say she was sorry that she couldn't save Sarah after all.

Sometimes she imagined Sarah living with people who loved her and she never thought about Nonie. Maybe even wanted to forget her. And then she'd get angry and hope Sarah was dead, and then she'd feel guilty and cry herself to sleep.

Ilona shut down her computer, turned out the lights, and stood at the window, looking out. Beyond the window the sky was black; below it the ocean was blacker; not even the sliver of a moon lit the swell of waves.

            
Dear Sarah,

                
Sometimes I wonder where you are. Did you find a family? Are you somewhere where they are kind? Do you give them shit? You could always dish it out for such a scrawny little thing. Remember when you first came? Are you somewhere
where they won't let you write? Where they watch your every move? Maybe it's so you won't embarrass them, maybe it's worse.

                
Are they mean to you, Sarah? Do they hurt you? Is that why you don't write? I write you every week, like we promised.

                
Do you think about me? Wonder where I am? I didn't go far. You could probably visit me, except they don't want me talking about before I came. They don't understand, that's who I am, who I'll always be.

                
Well, I hope you haven't forgotten about me. I haven't forgotten about you. Hang tough. Don't let them get to you. One day we'll be together.

                
Don't forget, you're my sister.

Nonie

I
LONA DIDN'T SLEEP
much that night and she arrived at work gritty-eyed and aching the next morning. She had several clients scheduled for the morning. Two new clients and three continuing clients were scheduled for the afternoon. Olivia Sobrato, her newsworthy and embarrassingly gay divorcée, was due at four.

She had to force herself to concentrate during the morning. Her mind kept wandering to that damn clock shop. She'd looked at photos on the Internet the night before until she could remember every little architectural detail.

The morning droned on, while Ilona forced herself to listen to her clients' woes. It wasn't easy, and even though every good sense gene she had was screaming
Stick to your client list,
she knew she could never be free to concentrate until she had seen for herself.

She buzzed Inez and told her she was going out and to reschedule all her afternoon appointments, except for Olivia's. She'd be back by then—way before then.

Inez hesitated for a second before saying, “Yes, Ms. Cartwright.”

No wonder. Ilona never did things like that. Unplanned things, spontaneous things, not for a long, long time. The fact that she was contemplating it today was unsettling. The fact that she had a pair of flat-heeled shoes on the backseat told her she wouldn't back down.

Still, as she slipped her heels off in the office parking lot, she gave herself one last chance to act rationally. But Ilona Cartwright was way past rational. Nonie Blanchard had raised her nearly forgotten head and wouldn't go away. She was smothering Ilona with unhappiness, with anger, with hate. That had been the only way Nonie had known how to cope with the world, until little Sarah Hargreave had dropped into her life and she was given a reason to care.

It made the betrayal all that more devastating. And if Ilona had her way, Sarah would pay for her deceit, and where it would hurt the most.

Ilona found a parking place a block from the main street in the quaint town where Sarah lived. An auspicious start to her intentions, since it was the beginning of the summer season and already the streets were crowded with summer people and their cars. Ilona never came down this way. Too many memories, most of which she wished to forget, and some she had cherished until they'd finally been buried with the rest of the things Nonie had loved.

The stores were all small and overcrowded. Not the shopping experience Ilona enjoyed, but they must be lucrative be
cause they were all crowded. Ilona strolled down the sidewalk, stopping to look in windows, wondering if she would actually catch sight of Sarah today.

Of course, she could walk right into her shop, but she didn't intend to do that. She just wanted to watch, see how Sarah lived. See what kind of kid she was fostering.

Catch her doing something that would indicate that the foster child should be taken from her? Not even Ilona would stoop to entrapment. Would she?

Ilona smiled. The barracuda was out. Of course she would. She'd done more outrageous things to win a case. Nothing illegal, not even anything that wasn't true. But truth was a tangled road, and interpretations were as varied as the interpreter.

Ilona had no scruples using those interpretations to her clients' advantage. Or to her own.

And yet . . .

She didn't remember when she'd finally given up hoping Sarah would write. But she had given it up and she wouldn't—couldn't—forgive. And that made her crazy. It had been a long time since she'd thought of Sarah or of her life in the system.

One moment of not paying attention and the past had slid into her office like the serpent it was and posed expectantly before her, as Ilona watched her world quietly unravel. But no longer. It ended here.

The shopping district consisted of two short blocks of stores housed behind quaint Victorian façades. She knew the clock shop was located on the next block, compliments of Google street view. She'd walk by, careful not to be seen.

Being raised in the social services system had taught her so many skills that she hadn't needed in years, but she had
no doubt they would come in handy now. Ilona slowed as she passed the window of the clock shop.
Clocks by the Sea.
How quaint. She gave the window a cursory glance. Saw someone move inside the store. Not Sarah.

She walked past the little house next door. It was all just too damn cute. Perfect for a fairy-tale life. She liked that scenario. She'd be the witch. She'd been called that before, many times, and worse. But she would enjoy being the witch—no, the evil queen—in this tale.

She stopped several houses down, then turned back toward the shopping district. She was starting to perspire. She couldn't continue to stand out in the sun in the height of the day waiting for Sarah to appear. Maybe the coffeehouse she'd seen when she was walking through town had air conditioning and a decent café au lait; she bet she could even see the sidewalk in front of the clock shop from there.

And sure enough, she could. Ilona was contemplating ordering a second coffee when the front door of the clock shop opened and Sarah stepped out. The sight stabbed Ilona right in the gut. The reddish-blond hair, which they'd learned was called strawberry blond, caught the sun, and there was Sarah, the clueless, lost little girl. And Nonie—Ilona—felt a swell of anger and longing so powerful she forgot to take a breath. But not for long.

She threw a dollar bill on the table as a tip and headed for the door.

Sarah was coming toward her, and Ilona had to quickly look in the nearest store window, a toy store, with old-fashioned toys that grandmothers on vacation probably bought for grandchildren back home. Grandchildren who would barely look up from their Androids to receive the toy. Maybe mumble a
thank-you, though Ilona doubted it, before going back to their e-world.

Sarah turned when she got to the corner, and Ilona sauntered after her. It took an amazing amount of control not to run after her, shake her until she recognized Nonie, and she'd . . . what? Beg Nonie to forgive her? Hell, she probably wouldn't even remember her. She certainly hadn't recognized her when they were face-to-face.

Sarah crossed the street and Ilona saw a yellow mini school bus pulling to a stop halfway down the block. Ilona smiled slowly, the smile she showed before she cinched a case. It was known in legal circles as her “predatory smile.” She was flattered by the nickname from other lawyers, but today it didn't sit well. Still, this was an opportunity she had hoped for.

Sarah was picking up the kid, Leila, Leila Rodrigues.

In a minute the kid would be getting off the bus; there would probably be hugs and kisses, or maybe there wouldn't be. Just because Sarah wanted to adopt the child didn't mean she was a loving mother. She'd been trusting and loving when she'd first come to the system. But the system—hell, life in general—killed trust and love.

Ilona moved closer. They would be returning to their home; they'd pass right by her. She should cross the street, but then their meeting would be hidden by the bus. She'd take her chances. Wait and then cross to the other side where halfway down the block there was a walk-through to the next street. The perfect getaway if it came to that.

The bus driver got off, then he lifted a child down to the sidewalk. She was small for a four-year-old. But sturdy. Sarah had at least been feeding her. Sarah bent down and hugged her, a little desperately, Ilona thought.