Someone Like You (4 page)

Okay. Better. She wasn't going to cry. Not here. She
wasn't sure why she thought she shouldn't give in to tears. It wasn't as if someone had told her not to cry. The message came from inside her—that scary dark place that got bigger when she thought about the summer with her dad and her mom going away and how nothing had been right for a long, long time.

She could hear noises from downstairs. Something clanged onto the stove. Before, she would have giggled at the thought of her dad cooking. He'd done it sometimes, on Sunday morning or when she'd been sick and he'd stayed home with her. Then he'd made fun stuff, like grilled-cheese sandwiches cut up into the shape of a boat, or caramel corn they'd baked in the oven. He'd always let her help. He'd—

The burning came back. Emily sucked in a breath and willed it away. She wouldn't think about before. About when things had been good and her dad had tossed her in the air and told her he loved her and her mom had laughed all the time. She wouldn't think about that, or how one day she and her mom had gone away and her dad had never, ever found them.

She walked to the bed she'd made so carefully and picked up Elvis. The worn rhino fit into her arms the way he always had and that made her feel better.

“Mommy left us,” she murmured into the bare spot behind his ear—the place she always whispered her secrets. “She left last night after she tucked me in bed and I'm mad at her.”

Emily didn't want to be mad at her mom, but mad was safe. She liked being mad right now because when she was mad she didn't care so much.

“We have to stay the whole summer and be with some lady because my dad has to work. He's the sheriff.”

She didn't know what being the sheriff meant. He'd been a policeman before. She'd liked how he looked in his uniform—big and brave and she'd known he would always keep her safe. But then he'd let her go away and daddies weren't supposed to do that. They were supposed to be with their little girls always.

She didn't want to be here, Emily thought as she stared at the door to her room. She'd begged her mother to let her stay home. She'd promised to be good and clean her room and not watch too much TV, but it hadn't mattered. Her mother had brought her here and had left her.

Emily's stomach growled. She was hungry because she hadn't eaten much dinner the night before.

Slowly, carefully, she opened the door and stepped into the hallway. The house was old, but nice. Big, with a second floor and lots of big trees. Her mom had told her that the ocean was real close and that her dad would take her to play on the beach. Emily had liked that but hadn't said anything.

The stairs creaked as she walked downstairs. She could still hear her dad in the kitchen. She smelled bacon and maybe pancakes and her mouth began to water. Her grip on Elvis tightened until she was afraid she would pop him like a balloon. Finally she hovered at the entrance to the kitchen.

The room was big, with lots of windows. Her dad stood by the stove. He looked so tall and strong and just like she remembered him. For a second she almost ran
over to be picked up and hugged. She wanted to feel his arms around her, holding her close. She wanted him to tell her that she was his best girl always.

Her throat got all tight and her stomach felt squishy instead of empty. And when he looked up and smiled at her, it was as if her feet had somehow glued themselves to the floor.

“Hey, kiddo, how'd you sleep?”

“Okay,” she whispered.

She waited for the hug, or a wink or
something
to tell her that he still thought she was his best girl. She leaned forward to hear him tell her that he loved her and he was glad they were together. That he'd missed her and looked for her every day but he hadn't been able to find her.

But he didn't. Instead he pulled out a chair at the table in the center of the room.

“Have a seat. I made pancakes. You always liked them, right? Oh, and bacon.”

Emily felt very cold on the inside, as if that dark, scary place inside of her had just frozen over. She didn't want pancakes, she wanted her
dad.

He waited until she was seated, then pushed in the chair. Emily put Elvis on the table next to her place set ting and waited while he slid three pancakes onto her plate. Bacon was next. She looked from the food to the glass of orange juice just to her right.

Funny how she didn't feel hungry at all. She didn't feel anything.

“Here's some strawberries,” he said, putting a bowl of the cut-up fruit on her left.

Emily squared her shoulders and carefully pushed the plate away. “No, thank you,” she said in a voice that was so small she wondered if she were starting to disappear.

“What? Aren't you hungry?”

She wanted to grab Elvis and hold him close, but then her dad might guess she was scared and sad. Instead, she squeezed her hands together so tight that her nails dug into her skin.

“The color's wrong,” she said, trying to speak a little louder. “I'm wearing purple.”

He looked at her T-shirt and shorts. “So?”

“If I'm wearing purple I can only eat purple.”

His mouth got straight and his eyes narrowed. He didn't look happy anymore and she was afraid. But she didn't give in. She couldn't.

“Since when?” he asked. “How long have you been color-coordinating your food with your wardrobe?”

“A while now.”

“I see.”

It was barely after eight in the morning and Mac al ready felt tired. Damn it all to hell—he didn't want to let Emily win this battle. It would set a precedent, forcing him into a corner.

“Wait there,” he told his daughter as he walked out of the kitchen and headed for the small den at the front of the house.

He'd set up an office in the narrow space, sliding a desk between built-in bookcases. Now he grabbed the phone and punched in Carly's number. Couldn't she have warned him what was going on with Emily?
They'd had the whole evening. Was it too damn hard to say “Gee, Mac, the kid only eats the color she's wearing.”?

Still caught up in his temper, he barely noticed when a man answered the phone.

“Hello?”

“What?” Mac started to say he'd dialed the wrong number when he realized that maybe he hadn't. “Is Carly there?”

“Sure. I'll get her.”

“It's Mac,” he added, not sure why.

“Just a second.”

There was the sound of the phone being set down, then a low rumble of voices too quiet for him to hear the words. Obviously Carly was seeing someone and the man in question had spent the night. Mac turned the idea over in his brain, then shook his head. He didn't care if she slept with the entire NFL as long as she didn't do it in front of his daughter.

“Mac? What's wrong?”

“Why didn't you tell me she won't eat a color she's not wearing?”

From a couple hundred miles away, he heard his ex-wife sigh. “Is she doing that? I'm so sorry. I'd hoped she'd let it go. We talked about it.”

“You and she talked about it. You didn't say squat to me.”

“I should have.”

“How long has she been doing this?”

“About six weeks. I talked to the pediatrician. She thinks it's a way for Emily to have some control in her
life, and maybe a way to get us to do what she wants. She didn't get a say in the divorce or having you gone. She's punishing us.”

“Couldn't she just throw a tantrum and be done with it?”

“Tell me about it.”

He sat on the corner of the desk. “So how does this work? She ate last night.”

“Sure. She wore red. I brought spaghetti, a salad made of red-leaf lettuce and we had strawberry short-cake for dessert. What's she wearing this morning?”

“Purple. I made pancakes and bacon. So far she's ignoring it.”

“Blueberries are good on purple days. Al though…when I saw the doctor last week, she pointed out that if we were willing to hold out against her and not give her what she wanted, eventually hunger would force her to eat.”

Starve his daughter? He couldn't imagine it. “Did it work?”

“I was too chicken to try.”

“Great. So I get to be the bad guy?”

“It's only a suggestion. You have to do what you think is right.”

His gut told him that the doctor was on to something—Emily would eventually get hungry and eat what was served. But was that how he wanted to start their summer together? There was also the matter of the social worker. He could only imagine
that
interview as Emily complained that her bully of a father hadn't fed her in two days.

“How the hell am I supposed to know what's right?” he asked, more to himself than Carly.

“You were always a good father, Mac.”

“Absolutely. Right up until I disappeared from her life. Some kind of hero, huh?”

Carly was silent for a couple of seconds, then she said, “Emily doesn't know I'm seeing anyone. Brian and I have been dating about two months, but I haven't introduced them. I want to be sure it's going to last.”

He didn't care about his ex-wife seeing a guy, but he hated the thought of his daughter having another father in her life.

“I won't tell her,” he said.

“Thanks. I wish I could be more helpful on the food thing.”

“I'll deal with it. I suppose in some courts, the judge would say I earned it.”

“You need to give both of you some time,” Carly told him. “That's what this summer is about.”

“I know. I'll send you an e-mail in a couple of days and let you know how things are going.”

“I appreciate that. Take care, Mac.”

“You, too.”

He hung up the phone and returned to the kitchen.

Emily sat where he'd left her. The only change was the stuffed rhino in her arms.

“Elvis have any advice for me?” he asked.

Wariness filled her wide blue eyes as she shook her head.

“Just like a rhino. I can't get him to shut up when I'm
driving. He's always telling me what lane to be in and where to turn. But now, when I need some instructions, he doesn't say a word.”

Emily bit down on her lower lip. Mac hoped it was to keep from smiling.

He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Purple, huh?”

She nodded.

“Okay, kiddo. Let's hit the grocery store and get you some breakfast.”

“Can I have Pop-Tarts?” she asked as she slid off the chair. “They're purple.”

“Unless I can find some purple bacon, we may end up there.” He made a mental note to get some kid vitamins. The multicolored kind. And wondered what on earth he was going to cook on the days she wore blue.

J
ILL CAREFULLY LOCKED
the BMW before leaving it parked by the foul line of the practice fields. A quick glance at the sign-up board told her that there would be several teams practicing over the next few days. With a little luck, they could all have a close encounter with the 545.

Maybe she should look into a rental car while she was in town, she thought, as she shifted her briefcase to her left hand and began the three-block walk to her new office. If she left Lyle's car all over the place, how would she get around? Not that there were all that many places to go in Los Lobos.

The morning had dawned cool and clear, which was good. Fog was death on her hair. She'd blown it dry, used the flatiron
and
her forty-seven products to pro duce a sleek, smooth cascade of stick-straight hair be fore coiling the whole length into a neat knot at the base of her neck. In deference to working in the more casual setting of a small town, she'd put on a pantsuit instead of a skirted suit, but the label still read Armani even though she knew the elegance would be lost on her clients. No matter, it was really all for her. When she dressed better, she felt better about herself. And today she would need all the help she could get.

The law offices of Dixon and Son were on Maple Street—a road with plenty of trees but no maples. Trendy antique stores leaned up against old bookstores. There were coffeehouses, cafés and the chamber of commerce on the corner. It was quiet, picturesque and pretty much as it had always been for the past fifty years.

Jill tried to convince herself that it wouldn't be so bad—but she knew she was lying. She'd only been in Mr. Dixon's office a couple of times, but the details of his building were firmly etched in her brain. She didn't mind that the place was old, musty and in serious need of paint. What she most objected to was the fish.

Mr. Dixon had been an avid fisherman. He'd gone all over the world, fishing his heart out and bringing back trophies for his office. The fish he'd caught were often stuffed, or whatever it was one did with dead fish one did not eat, and mounted onto plaques. These plaques hung in his office. Everywhere.

They stared down at clients, frightened small children and collected dust. They also smelled.

“Please God, let them be gone,” Jill whispered to her self as she opened the glass door that led into the foyer and reception area and stepped inside.

God was either busy or chose not to oblige. Jill stopped on the scratched hardwood floor and felt dozens of eyes focus on her. Small, dark, beady fish eyes.

A huge swordfish hung up by the beamed ceiling. Midsize fish about ten or twelve inches long mounted on dark wood plaques circled the room just above the
bookcases. There were fish by the light switches, fish along the wall leading upstairs, even a fish mounted on the front of the reception desk.

The smell was exactly as Jill remembered it—an un pleasant combination of dust, pine cleaner and old fish. The lone piece of toast she'd had for breakfast flipped over in her stomach.

A chair squeak jerked her attention from the large multicolored, large-toothed creature on the front of the desk to the woman sitting behind it.

“You must be Tina,” Jill said with a warmth she didn't feel. “How nice to meet you at last.” Tina—her assistant/secretary/receptionist—stood up with a reluctance that made Jill think she wasn't the only one not happy about the change in circumstances. Tina was in her midthirties, with short brown hair in a sensible cut. She looked efficient, if not particularly friendly.

“You're in early,” Tina said with a tight smile. “I thought you might be, so I had Dave get the kids off to school. I don't usually get here until nine-thirty.”

Jill glanced at the old grandfather clock in the corner. It was 8:25 a.m.

“This is about when I start my day,” Jill said. In San Francisco, it had often started closer to five-thirty, but she wasn't on the partner track anymore.

“I have three kids,” Tina said. “They might be out of school, but I still have to get them off to their activities. Little Jimmy's in the baseball camp down by the park and Natalie is…” She pressed her lips together.
“I don't think you're that interested in my children, are you?”

“I'm sure they keep you very busy,” Jill told her, trying not to stare as she noticed the other woman was wearing a polo shirt and Dockers. In a law office?

Tina caught her gaze and tugged at the front of her shirt. “Mr. Dixon didn't care if I dressed casually. You didn't want me to wear a dress, did you?”

Her tone indicated that it didn't much matter what Jill wanted. “You're fine,” she said, reminding herself that it wasn't important. Who was there to impress?

“Good. Then I'll just show you around. This is the reception area. You probably guessed that. Recently closed cases are in that cabinet back there.” She motioned to a set of dark wood file drawers.

Not even locked, Jill thought in amazement.

“The older files are all stored upstairs. Your office is in here.” Tina walked through the open door and Jill followed.

The fish motif was in full swing. Dozens and dozens of those from under the sea had been mounted on wooden plaques and hung on nearly every inch of avail able, paneled wall space. Fishing net draped across the front of the large wooden desk, where a couple of long-dead starfish hung on precariously.

Bookcases lined two walls, while two open doors led to what looked like a storage room and a bathroom.

“It's very…” Jill turned in a slow circle and searched for the right word. Or any word. “Clean.”

“There's a service that comes in once a week,” Tina told her. “The coffeemaker's in the storeroom. I guess I
could make it if you want me to, but Mr. Dixon always made his own.” Her dark brown eyes turned misty. “He was a wonderful man.”

“I'm sure.”

“The heart attack was very sudden.”

“Was he at work?”

“No. Out fishing.”

Of course, Jill thought, trying to avoid beady fish-eyed glares from the décor.

Tina took a step back toward the reception area. “The paralegal comes twice a week. She's home with twins, so sometimes she can't make it in, but she gets the work done. I'll let you know when I have to be gone. I try to bunch up things like games and doctors' visits, so I'm not always running back and forth.”

Jill had a feeling that Tina would go out of her way to make herself scarce.

“Where are Mr. Dixon's open cases?”

Tina pointed to the desk. “There are a couple of wills, that sort of thing. Oh, and you have some appointments. Mr. Harrison later today and Pam Whitefield on Wednesday.”

The latter name startled Jill. “Is this the same Pam who married Riley Whitefield?”

“That's her. She said she had some trouble with a real estate transaction.” Tina shrugged.

“I'm surprised she's back in town.” Pam had been a couple of years ahead of Jill in school and had always made it clear she was destined for a great future that didn't involve Los Lobos.

“She never left.” Tina inched toward the door. “I'll be out front if you need me.”

Jill glanced around the office. It was like standing in the middle of an aquarium for deceased fish.

“Mr. Dixon caught all of these himself?” she asked.

Tina nodded.

“Perhaps
Mrs.
Dixon would like them as a reminder of her late husband.”

“I don't think so.” Tina shifted back a bit more. “She told me she liked knowing they were here in the office. Sort of like a tribute.”

“I see.”

While Jill didn't want to get stuck with the aquatic menagerie, she couldn't blame the widow for not wanting them in her home.

“Thanks, Tina. What time is Mr. Harrison coming?”

“About eleven-thirty. I have to leave about noon to take Jimmy to the orthodontist.”

Why was Jill not surprised? “Of course you do. Will you be back?”

Tina's shoulders slumped. “If it's important to you.”

Jill looked at the fish, the paneling, the net and the long-past-dead starfish. “I'm sure we'll be fine without you.”

 

I
T TOOK
J
ILL
less than two hours to bring herself up-to-date on Mr. Dixon's open cases. She contacted the clients, offered her services and was prepared to give referrals if they preferred.

No one did. Every single one of them made an appointment to come see her, which would have been
gratifying if anyone had showed the slightest interest in his or her legal issues. Mrs. Paulson summed it up perfectly.

“That old will,” the elderly lady had said with a laugh. “I don't take it very seriously. I mean, I'll be dead. What do I care? But sure, honey, if it makes you happy, I'll keep my appointment.”

Rather than tell the woman that very little about the situation made her happy, she put a check mark next to the time and date in the appointment book and told Mrs. Paulson she was looking forward to meeting her.

“Your daddy was a fine man,” the older woman said. “A good judge. I'm sure you'll do us all proud, just like he did.”

“Thank you,” Jill said before she hung up. As her father had talked her into being here, he wasn't one of her top-ten favorites at the moment.

With all the appointments confirmed, Jill pulled a disk out of her briefcase and slid it into her computer. With a few keystrokes she was able to pull up her résumé and began to update the information.

Mr. Harrison arrived promptly at eleven-thirty. Tina didn't bother knocking—she simply pushed open the door and showed him in.

Jill stood to greet him. There hadn't been any hint as to his problem in the appointment book, but she figured she could handle it.

“I'm Jill Strathern,” she said, walking around the desk and holding out her hand. “How nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” the older man said.

Mr. Harrison was one of those thin elderly men who seemed to shrink with age. His hair was white and thick, as were his eyebrows. Wrinkles pulled at his features, but his blue eyes were clear and sharp and his handshake firm.

When he'd taken the leather chair in front of her desk and just to the right of the fishing net, Jill returned to her seat and smiled.

“I didn't find any notes in Mr. Dixon's file on your case. Had you been in to see him before?”

Mr. Harrison dismissed the other man with a flick of his wrist. “Dixon was an idiot. All he cared about was fishing.”

“Really?” Jill murmured politely, as if she wasn't aware of dozens of beady eyes watching her. “So what seems to be the problem?”

“Those bastards stole some land from me. Their fence is about twenty or twenty-five feet on my side. I want it moved.”

He spread out several large sheets of yellowed paper showing deeds and land tracts. Jill stood and leaned over the desk while Mr. Harrison traced the various property lines. She found her interest piqued.

“We'd need an official survey to determine the boundaries, but from what I can see here, you're right. Your neighbors
have
put a fence on what is clearly your property.”

“Good. Now they can take it down.”

Jill grabbed a legal pad and sat. “What kind of fence is it?” she asked as she began to make notes.

“Stone. About six feet wide.”

Her head snapped up as she stared at him. “You're kidding.”

“Nope. I'm not saying it's not a nice fence and all. It works, but it's in the wrong place.”

A stone fence? She'd been picturing chain link or cedar. “Why didn't you stop them when they started to put up the fence? A project like that would have taken weeks.”

“I wasn't around. Besides, it's not my responsibility to patrol my own borders. This isn't Iraq.”

“Fair enough.” But a stone fence. That had to cost a fortune. “Have you talked to your neighbors about this?”

His mouth tightened. “They're young and they listen to rock music. Cotton wool for brains. No point in talking to them. They probably take drugs.”

She sent up a quiet prayer of thanks that Mr. Harrison didn't live next door to
her.
“When was the fence built?”

“Near as I can tell, 1898.”

The pen slid from her fingers and landed on the hard wood floor. Her mind simply wouldn't wrap itself around the information.

“That's over a hundred years ago.”

His gaze narrowed. “I can do math, little lady. Why does it matter when it was built? It's stealing, plain and simple. I want that fence moved.”

Jill might not know a lot about real estate law, but some truths were universal—one of them being that a fence in place for a hundred years was unlikely to be moved anytime soon.

“Why are you dealing with this now?” she asked.

“I don't want to leave a big mess after I'm gone. And don't bother telling me no one will care. Dixon already tried that argument.” He glared at the nearest fish.

Jill felt the first stirrings of a headache. “Let me do some research, Mr. Harrison. There might be a legal precedent for what you want to do.” Although she had her doubts. “I'll get back to you next week.”

“I appreciate that.”

Mr. Harrison rose and shook her hand, then headed for the reception area. As he didn't close the door be hind him, she heard him clearly when he spoke to Tina.

“What were you going on about?” Mr. Harrison asked the receptionist. “She doesn't seem like she has a stick up her ass to me.”

 

M
AC CROSSED THE STREET
from the courthouse to the sheriff's office and pushed through the double glass doors. He nodded at the deputy on duty and did his best not to make eye contact as he walked toward his office in the back corner, but Wilma caught up with him in less than two seconds.