Mulberry Park (12 page)

“I have two birds and a cat at home, and I’m afraid they’ll die with no one to care for them.”

He cleared his throat. “I…uh…took care of them yesterday. And I went back to check on them this morning.”

“You went to my apartment?”

“Only because I saw your grocery list and was afraid your pets might be out of food completely.” Walter stroked his chin, felt a small swatch of stubble his razor had missed this morning. “I hope you don’t mind me doing that without your permission. But when I was trying to give the hospital your information so they could admit you, I went through your purse. Your address was on your driver’s license.”

“You’d make a good PI.” She didn’t exactly smile, but her lips turned upward. “I suppose you now know my age and weight, too.”

She’d be seventy-two on her next birthday, which wasn’t far away. She also stood five-feet-two and weighed a hundred and ten pounds. But Walter knew some women were fussy about folks knowing that kind of information, so he blew off his knowledge with the snap of his fingers. “Darn. I should have paid it more mind. Of course, I suspect most women lie about that stuff anyway.”

“Not me. That paperwork at the Department of Motor Vehicles makes it clear that you sign under penalty of perjury.”

Even though Margie had hated to admit she’d put on weight and was pushing a hundred and sixty-five pounds, which she’d thought was too much for her petite frame, she’d been truthful, too. “You remind me of my late wife.”

“How so?”

“Margie was so honest she didn’t feel right about taking a shortcut home.”

Hilda managed a full-on grin. “I probably would have liked her.”

“Without a doubt.” Everyone had. “By the way, while I was at the market, I picked up everything else on your list, too. Now you won’t have to worry about anything other than getting well.”

“You’re a good man, Walter.”

He didn’t know about that, so he shrugged off the compliment.

“How were my pets?” she asked.

“They were fine, although the cat didn’t much like me being there.”

“Her name is Precious, and I’m afraid she’s a bit old and crotchety.”

“Like us, huh?” Walter shot Hilda a grin, and she lobbed it right back.

“Yes, I’m afraid so.” Her smile didn’t last long, although he suspected that was due to the medication she was on and the pain she was in. “Thanks for all you’ve done for me, Walter. I really appreciate it.”

“Yeah, well…” He cleared his throat. “If there’s anything else I can do, just let me know.”

“All right.”

He took a seat in the chair next to her bed, wondering whether she’d tell him to skedaddle. She didn’t, although she soon lapsed into silence. He tried to think up something clever to say, but couldn’t come up with anything. So instead, he turned toward her with a smile, only to see that she’d dozed off.

For a while, he just sat there, waiting for her to wake up. When she didn’t, he slipped out of her room, planning to return before they took her to surgery.

There were some things a body shouldn’t have to face alone.

After Sam left for work, Claire took Analisa to Pacifica General Hospital to visit Hilda.

“There’s a good chance they won’t let you in,” Claire had told the child before they’d left home.

“But I want to give her the card I made.”

When Analisa had looked at her with those puppy-dog eyes, Claire had found it tough to say no. So she’d agreed to drive her to the hospital.

Once inside the lobby, they stopped at the information desk, which was manned by a pink-smocked hospital volunteer.

“We’d like to see Hilda Richards,” Claire said.

The silver-haired woman smiled, then, when she spotted Analisa, said, “I’m afraid the hospital doesn’t allow children under the age of thirteen to visit unless it’s in the maternity ward. The rule is for the protection of our patients, as well as our visitors.”

Analisa handed the homemade card to the woman. “Then could you give this to her?”

“Of course.” The volunteer carefully studied the child’s artwork, a folded sheet of yellow construction paper adorned with glitter and glue. “How beautiful. And so thoughtful. I’m sure she’ll feel much better when she sees this.”

Claire certainly hoped so. She took Analisa by the hand and led her out of the hospital. “Why don’t I take you to the playground while we’re out and about?”

Ten minutes later, they pulled into the entrance of Mulberry Park.

Walter wasn’t there today, but Trevor was. He had on the safety gear, which made Claire glad she’d given it to him. He also sported a red T-shirt that was at least one size too small, a shirt she’d seen him wear several other times this week.

Was his wardrobe limited to just a few outfits? Or did he, like Erik, have favorites that he chose time and again?

While Claire took her purse from the car and locked the doors, Analisa joined Trevor on the sidewalk. Another vehicle pulled into the lot, and at the sound of a grinding engine, she turned and watched Maria park her minivan a couple of spaces away.

Rather than continue toward a shady spot near the playground, Claire waited for the pregnant woman. The little boy—Danny, if she remembered correctly—was the first to open the door and exit the van. As Maria proceeded to remove the toddler from the car seat in the rear, the boy joined Analisa and Trevor.

“Good morning,” Claire said.

Maria glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “Hi. I see you still have Analisa. How is Hilda doing?”

“She’s a bit better. From what I understand, her gallbladder surgery has been scheduled for this afternoon, barring any unexpected complications.”

Maria reached for two plastic grocery bags, both chock-full, then took the toddler by the hand. “I’d really like to visit her, but my sitter options are limited these days.”

Claire wasn’t sure how to respond. For a woman who’d been avoiding kids for the past three years, volunteering to watch Analisa had been a big step in itself. She certainly couldn’t offer to babysit for everyone in town. Nor was she up to the task.

As the adults began the short walk to the playground, Maria’s breath caught, and she stopped.

Claire slowed her steps, too. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. The last month or so can be pretty uncomfortable.”

Claire remembered. She stole another glance at Maria, who’d furrowed her brow and stroked her distended womb.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Claire asked.

“Yes. It’s just a cramp. It’ll pass.”

The toddler pulled her hand free of her mother’s and ran toward the playground. Apparently focused on the “little cramp” that made her breathe as though she was in labor, Maria let the girl go.

“How often have you been having those?”

“For several months, actually. Nothing regular. Just a painful twinge now and again.” Maria straightened. “Like I said, it’ll pass.”

One of these days, it wouldn’t. “When are you due?”

“In about six weeks.”

That was still considered too early. If it had been Claire, she would have been worried. But then again, Maria had been through this sort of thing twice already. She probably knew whether she should be concerned or not.

“Who’s going to help you when you have the baby?” Claire asked.

“I have a cousin who lives up in the Los Angeles area. She agreed to come down and stay with me for a few days. I’m supposed to give her a call when I go into labor.”

From what Claire had heard, second and third babies came a lot quicker than the first. And that was a long trip on short notice. She hoped this baby gave Maria fair warning.

Still, a woman needed someone to hold her hand through that sort of thing. A husband, a mother, a friend.

Claire could find fault in Ron for a lot of things, but he’d been a great expectant father. She remembered him standing beside the commode as she’d heaved and heaved each morning until the only thing left was that awful yellow bile. Then, afterward, he’d stood ready to wipe her brow with a cool, damp washcloth.

Ron had been as excited about the first heartbeat and the ultrasound image of Erik as Claire had been. And he’d stuck by her side all during labor. She didn’t know what she would have done without him.

Once they reached the playground, Maria pulled some plastic toys from one of the bags so her toddler could dig in the sand. While she did so, Claire turned to check on Analisa, who was no longer chatting with Trevor. Instead, she and Danny were making their way toward the playground, leaving Trevor to practice on his skateboard.

But instead of turning her attention to the child she was supposed to be watching, she couldn’t take her eyes off Trevor. There was an aura of sadness surrounding him, and it didn’t take a bleeding heart to sense it.

Maybe she ought to offer to drive him home again when it came time to leave. If she did, she might invite him over to play with Analisa. That way, she’d get a chance to talk to his guardian, to meet the woman and learn more about the boy who was too young to be a loner.

So several hours later, while Maria rounded up her children to take them home, that’s exactly what Claire did.

If Trevor knew what she was really up to, he didn’t let on. Instead, he rode in the backseat next to Analisa.

“Has that big boy bothered you anymore lately?” she asked, as she turned onto Applewood.

“No. I’ve been going another way home. It takes longer, but I don’t care.”

The fact that he’d been avoiding the kid didn’t make Claire feel any better about his safety. “Promise me that you’ll give him the skateboard if he ever finds you alone and starts harassing you.”

“But it’s mine.”

“I realize that, and if you have to give it up, I’ll buy you a new one.”

“Really? How come?”

Because she felt sorry for him, that’s why. “Because I’d rather buy you a new skateboard than see you tangle with someone bigger than you.”

Trevor didn’t have an answer to that, so she let it drop while she maneuvered the car through the traffic on Main, took a right near Paddy’s Pub and headed toward the apartment complex where the boy lived.

“I hope your nanny lets you come over and play at my house,” Analisa said.

“She will. But Katie’s not a nanny. She’s my guardian.”

“What’s the difference?” Analisa asked.

Trevor paused for a moment, as though not entirely sure.

Claire could have easily jumped in and helped with the explanation, but she thought she might learn more about his home and his situation if she kept still.

“People pay a nanny to take care of you,” the boy said. “But your parents can always fire her and get you a new one.”

“And parents can’t fire a guardian?” Analisa asked.

“No. The court says guardians get to tell you what to do, and only the judge can change that.”

“What’s a judge?” Analisa asked.

“It’s a guy who wears a black robe.”

“Oh,” she said. “You mean a priest or a pastor?”

“No, a judge is more like God.”

“
No one
is like God, Trevor.”

Claire glanced in the rearview mirror and decided the boy’s scowl was evidence of his disagreement.

Was he unhappy with a judge? Disappointed by the person chosen to be his guardian?

After they arrived at the apartment complex where Trevor lived, Claire parked along the curb in front of his unit. “Is Katie home?”

He scanned the carport. “No, not yet. This is her early day, but that doesn’t mean much. There’s always a reason why they make her work late.”

“Then why don’t you give me your telephone number. That way I can give her a call later and invite you to come over and play with Analisa someday soon.”

“Okay. But I can just come over. Katie won’t care.”

That was too bad. Claire had been fussy about who Erik went to play with, whose car he rode in.

She reached into her purse and withdrew a notepad and pen. After she’d done so, Trevor recited his number, and she made note of it.

“I was just wondering,” Claire said. “Why do you have a guardian?”

“Because my mom died and my dad works in another country.”

“Oh,” Claire said, as if that made all the sense in the world. It did, she supposed, but people who worked out of the country usually made good money. And Katie and Trevor didn’t seem to be reaping any of the benefits.

Something didn’t ring true.

But how involved did Claire want to get?

C
laire stopped by the market on the way home and picked up everything she needed to make tacos for dinner. Sam hadn’t asked her to, but it didn’t make sense for them to eat separately when it was no trouble at all to prepare a meal they could share.

Now she stood in the middle of Sam’s kitchen, making herself at home amidst the forest-green walls, mahogany cabinets, and black granite countertops. Once upon a time, she’d enjoyed cooking, so she had to admit, working in a modern and functional room that had to have been designed by someone who loved to cook was a real treat.

While Claire grated cheese, Analisa sat at the table in the nook, coloring a picture. Her back was to a big bay window that looked out into a spacious backyard.

The meal was coming together nicely as Spanish rice, beans, and meat simmered in three different pots on the stove. As a result, the blended aromas of tomato sauce, onions, chili, and cilantro wafted through Sam’s house.

Claire hoped he liked Mexican food.

Just minutes ago, she’d taken a seat at the built-in desk in the kitchen and called the number Trevor had given her. The boy had answered on the second ring, and when Claire had asked to speak to Katie, she’d learned the woman hadn’t gotten home yet.

“I’ll call back another time,” she’d told Trevor. But she couldn’t help feeling uneasy about his lack of supervision.

Outside, a car engine sounded, alerting her to someone’s arrival. As doors began to open and close, she realized Sam was home. Once he entered the kitchen, his gaze lit on Claire and a smile broke across his face. “You’re going to spoil me.”

“Didn’t Hilda ever cook for you?”

“Sometimes. When she knew I’d be late. But I hated to ask more of her than was expected.” Sam made his way to the stove and lifted the lid off the pot of meat. Then he glanced at the package of corn tortillas resting on the countertop. “Mmm. I love tacos.”

“Do you ever fix them yourself?”

“No, I’m not much of a cook.”

“With a kitchen like this? That’s surprising.”

He chuckled. “Not really. I bought this house from a guy who used to be a prep chef at Antoine’s before getting a better position at a restaurant in Sonoma.”

Before Claire could respond, the telephone rang. Sam strode to the desk and answered.

“You’re kidding.” His brow furrowed, and his expression sobered. “All I can say is ‘Wow.’ But I’m not surprised. Thanks for letting me know.”

After hanging up, he turned and slowly shook his head. “I’m sorry about that. You know, even when I do my best to leave my work at the office, it seems to follow me home.”

“Good news?” she asked.

“Yes and no. That was one of my law clerks. The judge assigned to one of my cases had a heart attack and is in the hospital.” Sam walked to the kitchen table, pulled out a chair, and sat next to Analisa.

“That’s too bad,” Claire said.

“For the judge it is. But since he’s a real…” Sam glanced at Analisa, who was bent over a picture of a rainbow and a puppy dog in a field of flowers. “Let’s just say he’s not the least bit sympathetic toward women. And since I’m representing a victim of domestic violence in divorce proceedings, I’d been worried about an unfair ruling. So I’m glad to hear that we’ll be getting another judge.”

Analisa looked up from her drawing. “What’s a heart attack?”

“It means his heart wasn’t working very well,” Sam told her.

The child’s eyes grew wide, apprehensive. “I didn’t mean for him to get sick. Is he going to get better?”

Sam cocked his head to the side. “What are you talking about, honey?”

“Don’t you remember? I told you I would pray about it.”

Sam raked a hand through his hair, then glanced at Claire before returning his gaze to his niece. “You didn’t have anything to do with the man’s heart attack, Analisa. He had a health problem because he’s overweight, doesn’t exercise, and drinks too much. And God didn’t have anything to do with it, either.”

Analisa nibbled her lip. “But it’s not good that he’s sick.”

“Actually, maybe it is. Now the judge is under medical care. He’s been told he’ll have to change his bad habits and make healthier choices from here on out. So that part’s good. And since another judge is going to understand my client’s side in this case a whole lot better, then that’s good, too.”

She pushed her picture to the center of the table, then picked up her crayons. “I’m going to put these away in my room.”

When she walked out the door, Claire turned to Sam and crossed her arms. “What just happened?”

“Analisa overheard a conversation I was having with a law clerk in my office and picked up on my frustration with the judge who’d been assigned to one of my cases.”

“And so she offered to pray about it for you?”

“She told me she would ask God to ‘fix things.’ And now, she’s apparently worried that she might have been responsible for Judge Riley’s heart attack.” Sam raked a hand through his hair again. “I would have never guessed that such a cute, sweet little kid could be so…challenging.”

“All children can be a challenge at times.” Claire’s thoughts drifted to the letter she’d received that mentioned Juj Rile. Analisa had come to believe her uncle was in “trubel,” and now Claire understood why. “But I have to admit, her faith is becoming worrisome.”

“Tell me about it.”

Claire studied the man seated across from her. He appeared to be burdened by something. And she suspected Analisa’s belief in God and in the power of prayer was only part of it.

She leaned her hip against the counter and crossed her arms. “Attorneys sometimes get a bad rap. I didn’t realize some of you take your cases to heart.”

“I try not to.”

“But this one is different?”

He nodded.

“How so?”

Sam glanced down at the table, where his clasped hands rested, then looked up and snagged her gaze. “My client, Deanna Danrick, has a nine-year-old son. He’s the one who won my sympathy.”

“Because he’s close in age to Analisa?” she asked.

“No.” Sam studied his hands, but Claire didn’t think he was actually looking at them. Instead, his mind seemed to drift far away.

About the time she suspected he wasn’t going to explain, he continued. “It’s because I know what it feels like to watch your father morph into an ogre who is three times your size, to be scared spitless, to feel your gut turn inside out in fear. And to feel compelled to defend your mother no matter what the cost.”

Claire remembered him saying his father hadn’t set a good example, but she wouldn’t have guessed he’d been raised in an abusive home. She had the urge to reach out to him, to question him about it. Yet because she also knew how it felt to wrestle painful memories, she decided not to press him.

When silence was his only follow-up response, her heart not only went out to the little boy he’d once been, but to the man he’d become.

After dinner, Sam helped Claire wash the dishes and put the kitchen back in order. He hadn’t meant to allude to the past earlier in the evening and had to give her credit for not quizzing him further.

“Thanks for watching Analisa for me and for making such a great meal.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m going to owe you—
big time
.” Maybe he’d offer to take her to dinner some time. To Antoine’s, a fancy steakhouse located on the top floor of the Fairbrook Inn. She’d probably enjoy a five-star meal with a view of the city at night.

“You don’t owe me anything. I used to enjoy cooking, so it was nice to have a reason to be in a kitchen again.”

Sam knew that was his cue to extend an invitation or to say good night and start walking her toward the door, but for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to do either. “It’s nice outside this evening. Would you like to have a cup of coffee or a glass of wine on the deck?”

Her movements stilled, and he wondered if he ought to figure out a way to renege on the invitation, but then she surprised him with a smile. “Sure. I don’t have any reason to hurry home. And wine sounds good. But just pour me half a glass since I have to drive.”

“All right. I’ll open a bottle of pinot grigio. Why don’t you let Analisa know where she can find us.”

Ten minutes later, under a starry sky, they sat at a glass-topped, wrought-iron table, wineglasses in hand.

The scent of night-blooming jasmine laced the evening air, and a couple of crickets chirped near the pond Sam had stocked with goldfish.

“I’m going to take Analisa to the library tomorrow,” Claire said. “They’re having a puppet show during story hour.”

“Good. She ought to like that.” Sam took a drink of the chilled white wine.

“Do you mind if, one of these days, she and I invite a little boy over to play?”

“Of course not. I’m glad she’s making friends. What’s his name?”

“Trevor. He’s older than she is, and normally I wouldn’t encourage it, but I feel sorry for him.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure.” She fingered the stem of her glass, but had yet to take a sip. “He gave me his phone number so I could talk to Katie, his guardian. But when I called not long ago, she hadn’t gotten home from work yet. I get the feeling that she’s never with him, and it makes me wonder who fixes his dinner and tucks him into bed at night.”

“Maybe no one. Not all kids have the kind of homes they deserve.” Sam, more than anyone, knew that.

“You’re right. And it doesn’t seem fair.”

“Sometimes life isn’t.”

She paused for a moment, then lifted her glass and took a drink. “Are you thinking about your client and her son?”

He could have been. Instead he’d been thinking about the home in which he’d grown up—something he was loath to admit. “I’m glad my client finally moved out of the house, but it’s not enough. Hopefully, I can get her fair compensation in terms of alimony and child support. Then maybe she and her son can begin to heal.”

“With a different judge, that ought to be easier.”

“I hope so. Her husband comes from money and has done well with his investments, so she’ll be okay—financially, anyway. But that kind of abuse, physical as well as psychological, can take a toll on a woman and her family.”

“I can’t imagine the horror of living in a violent home.”

Sam could, and it had been a nightmare.

Claire looked up at the night sky, at the expanse of twinkling stars and a silver-edged three-quarter moon.

He couldn’t help but follow her gaze.

“Do you believe in Heaven?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. I’ve thought about it. And I’ve often wondered if my brother is now with my mom.”

“When did you lose your mother?”

“When I was sixteen.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Sam shrugged. It was a reality he’d had to live with.

For a moment, he tossed around the idea of changing the subject to something more upbeat, but the memory had been festering inside him for so long that he hoped purging it might help him put it to rest for good.

“My old man was a Vietnam vet,” he said. “And an alcoholic who struggled on and off with a heroin addiction. Whenever he was drunk or coming down from being high, he had a nasty temper, and so for as long as I can remember, he used to take things out on my mom. Time and again, my brother and I encouraged her to leave him, but even though each beating became more and more severe, she refused.”

Sam scanned the doorway to make sure Analisa hadn’t crept up on them, and when he was convinced she hadn’t, he lowered his voice and continued the ugly story. “Greg and I took turns hanging around the house, just to remind our old man that he’d have to answer to one of us if he laid another hand on our mother again. At least that had been our strategy until one night nearly twenty years ago.

“I’d gone out to Potter’s Pond that afternoon with some friends, expecting Greg to be home that evening. So when a couple of the guys broke open a case of beer and asked me to join them, I did.” Sam sat back in his seat, wondering if he was making the right decision, if he ought to go all the way and reveal the dark secret he’d lived with for years.

In the past, he’d never opened up to a woman, especially one he found attractive. He’d never even gone into detail with the social worker who’d been assigned to him after his mother’s death and his father’s trial.

As an adult who still struggled with guilt and grief on occasion, he wondered if that had been wise.

Maybe it was the passage of time and the development of wisdom that made him lower his guard now. Or maybe it was just something about Claire.

“I didn’t know it at the time,” he admitted, “but Greg hadn’t been home that night, either. He’d gone to a church youth group meeting. In fact, he swore up and down that he’d told me about it earlier.”

“So no one was at home to watch over your mom.”

“No. And when my dad flipped out because I’d forgotten to change a lightbulb in the closet, something he blamed my mom for not enforcing, things got ugly.”

Guilt, as ragged and sharp as it had ever been, ripped into Sam, and he found it difficult to form the words. To say his mother’s last beating had been fatal.

Claire leaned forward and placed a hand on his arm, as though he didn’t need to reveal any more than he had. As though she understood every bit of emotion he’d been dealing with over the years.

The press of her fingers, the warmth of her touch, was a balm to a raw, guilt-weary soul.

“You can’t blame yourself, Sam.”

Sure he could. He’d been doing that for years. If he’d only changed that lightbulb…

If he’d only told his friends he needed to get home…

He cleared the lump from his throat. “Needless to say, that’s the day my relationship with my brother unraveled.”

And there was nothing Sam could do about healing that rift now. Over the years, he’d told himself that he and Greg would reconcile someday. That they’d eventually put their anger and grief behind them. But Greg had died before that could happen.

Sam studied his hands, particularly the white, jagged scars on his knuckles.

When he’d gotten home that night and found police cars in front of the house—their lights flashing, radios blaring—Greg had run to meet him, tears streaming down his face. He swore in both anger and frustration, then took a swing at Sam.