“It won’t come together unless we see it all through your eyes. We need to understand your commitment, your rewards. People want to find out how it fits into their world, whether it’s something they could do, too. And don’t tell me anybody can do anything they want,” he preempted her.
“I wouldn’t dream of it. We’ve all got our limitations. That being said, many things are like yoga—it’s not a matter of doing the pose perfectly but trying for your best position.”
“And in a career like yours, that’s a crock. You can’t do it halfway. People need a social worker who’s doing more than their best pose. They deserve someone like you.”
Amusement flickered in her eyes. “A compliment? I thought journalists weren’t supposed to get involved with the subject.”
“That’s kind of a moot point with us already, isn’t it?”
“An interesting question but I think we can discuss it tomorrow.” She dug in her desk drawer for her purse. “It’s time to go home.”
“When do I get my interview?”
“Later,” she said, echoing her response from the morning.
Outside, the afternoon was mild, the sky dotted with clouds. “I’m parked over here,” Gil said. “How about you?”
“You drove? Where do you live?”
“See the corner of that building?” he asked.
She frowned. “Where?”
He leaned in close to point over her shoulder to the condo building, renovated from an old brick-and-iron factory building.
“That close? You could have walked here.”
“I suppose. Where do you live?”
“Is this the start of the interview?” she asked in amusement.
“Is later finally now?”
“No. I have to get home.”
“Where’s home?”
“You are persistent, aren’t you?”
“First thing you learn in journalism school—if the subject doesn’t answer the question, ask it another way. And I’m going to keep asking, Jillian. That’s one thing you should know about me. I don’t give up.”
He wasn’t talking about the interview, she realized. Something fluttered inside her. She needed to do it, for Robbie. And maybe, just maybe, for her. She moistened her lips. “I live in Ladd’s Addition.”
“Nice. I guess you can’t walk from there.” He looked her up and down. “You don’t look much like a bicycle commuter.”
“I’m not sure whether I should take offense at that.”
He grinned. “Hardly. Bus or car?”
“I take the bus. Plenty of people do.”
“I can give you a ride, then.”
She gave him a long, measuring look. A ride home with him wouldn’t be relaxing and it wasn’t a place she was ready to go with him just then. “Remember how you were just asking me how I deal with compassion fatigue?” she asked. “Part of it is taking the bus. I can be on it with all those other people but nobody knows me, nobody talks to me. I can just sit there and let the day bleed away.”
“You can let the day bleed away with a glass of wine and a shoulder massage, too,” he commented.
“I like my space,” she said.
“And why is that, Doc? You want to talk some more about that?”
She resisted a smile. “Our session’s over for today,” she told him.
Chapter Seven
“I walked,” Gil said as he stepped into Jillian’s office the next morning.
She jumped, he saw in satisfaction. Her expression, when she looked at him, was calm and composed. But he saw the little flicker of uneasiness in her eyes.
Good. He was glad he made her uneasy. It meant he was getting to her. Even if it was like picking away at a brick wall with his fingernails, he was starting to pry loose a few flakes. Make that chunks.
He was enjoying this.
“You walked?”
“To get here. I walked this morning.” He felt expansive, energized as he set down his laptop case.
Her lips twitched. “Let me duck in back and get you a medal.”
He could think of a few things he’d rather have than that, but he figured she probably wouldn’t want to hear it. “So what’s on the docket for today?” he asked instead.
“The rest of a little boy’s life, I hope.”
“The rest of a little boy’s life?”
She gave him a serene smile. “First, I need to do e-mail and paperwork and update my files. I told you not to show up until ten-thirty.”
“I figured I could sit here and absorb the atmosphere, maybe talk to a few of the other folks in the clinic about you.” And have a chance to watch her while she worked. “So what about the little boy?”
“I’ll tell you on the way to getting him.”
His name was Pedro and he was seven. He’d lost his mother at three, leaving him with memories that were just impressions of warmth and safety; his father had disappeared before Pedro had ever been born. For a while, the boy had lived with his mother’s younger sister but Tia Essie had kids of her own. More to the point, she had a husband who hit the bottle on a regular basis. And then hit Pedro.
Even before Pedro had gotten into his first foster home at five, he’d learned that the world was a dangerous place for a child. And an even more dangerous place for hope.
By the time Jillian had begun working with him as part of the agreement the Children’s Connection had with the state, Pedro had acquired an expressionless mask for the world, the same kind that long-term prisoners acquired. She could see the real boy looking out from behind it, though, like some little lost wild thing hidden in a copse.
She remembered what it had been like.
So she’d spent hours with him, finding him a good foster home, always working to break through. And she’d consulted with Lois, trying to find the key, trying to decide which adoptive parents would be the right ones for him. After that, it had been the slow, gradual process of introducing him to Kathy and Dan Collins, letting him get to know them. Trust? That was going to be an even longer process.
“It’s a good place for you,” Jillian said to Pedro now as they drove through the Portland streets to the neat southeast neighborhood where Kathy and Dan lived. “You’ll have your own room. You’ve seen the pictures.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s nice. You like Kathy and Dan.”
“I guess.” The words were elaborately disinterested but there was an undercurrent of tension.
The kid had to be crazy with nerves; at least, Gil would be in his spot. Gil glanced back to where Pedro sat buckled into his seat. “You like baseball, huh?” he asked, studying the kid’s ball cap.
Pedro looked out the window. “I guess,” he said tonelessly.
“Who’s your favorite player? Ichiro?”
Pedro flicked a disdainful glance at him. “Ichiro hits like a girl. I like Adrian Beltré.”
“Ichiro won a batting title and a world record hitting like a girl,” Gil observed mildly.
“Beltré’s my man. He’s a slugger.”
Confident, now, Gil noticed. So he continued to push. “You play, yourself? Little League?”
Pedro watched the houses pass by. “Yeah.”
“What was your team?”
“The Red Sox.”
“What position do you play?”
“Third base,” Pedro said.
“The hot corner.”
Pedro dipped his head. “Kind of.”
It surprised Gil. Most kids liked first base, where all the action was. “Are you good at it?”
A reluctant grin tugged at the corners of the kid’s mouth. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m good.”
The car slowed and they pulled to a stop in front of a tidy yellow ranch house that was straight out of the fifties, with bricked-in planters and a neat flagstone walk. A couple stepped outside onto the front porch, beaming and nervous, the woman in a flowered shirt and walking shorts, the man in jeans and a T-shirt.
And a baseball cap.
> “I guess we’re here, buddy,” Gil said. “You ready for it?”
Pedro was slow getting out of the car, careful walking up the front path, looking all around him as though determined not to miss a detail. When he reached Kathy and Dan, he gave a small smile.
“Hey,” Dan said.
“Hi,” Pedro returned. They didn’t hug or touch, Gil noticed. The kid looked stiff enough that if you bent him, he’d break.
“Come on in,” Kathy invited, some of the tension leaking over to her.
Pedro brought the same watchful, serious attention to the inside of the house, walking through it as though he were somewhere he wasn’t allowed to be, as though he expected to be booted out any minute. It was interesting. Gil had expected a boy with the kind of background Jillian had described to be excited about a real home. Maybe life had taught him that a smart guy didn’t bank on anything.
Gil had to hand it to the couple, they let the kid wander, let him take his time looking around. No matter that it obviously disappointed them and cost them. Even when Kathy showed Pedro his room with a kind of nervous pride at the fresh paint and new dresser, the reaction was guarded. The conversation grew more and more constrained, even with Jillian doing her best to guide it. They walked out to the kitchen.
And then Gil saw it by the door to the garage: a glove and bat tossed up against the wall. He knew the exact moment Pedro realized it was there. The kid came to absolute attention. For the first time, that mask of calm and distance slipped.
He walked to it, staring down.
“Dan plays city league softball,” Kathy said, picking up the bat.
Something flickered in Pedro’s eyes. “Softball?”
Dan nodded. “Third base.”
“The hot corner,” Pedro said.
Dan grinned. “Maybe not when I play it. It’s a little more lukewarm. Hey, you want to see the backyard?”
Pedro reached the sliding-glass door to the backyard, a sweep of emerald grass. At the far end was chain-link fence with wood slats fed through it to create a solid-appearing barrier. Pedro shot an inquiring glance at Kathy, who nodded, and he stepped outside.
He walked across the grass, more relaxed now. There was a pole stuck in the ground with a ball on ropes, one of those gizmos for hitting practice that let you wind the rope up so that the ball came flying back around like a pitch. Pedro walked over to unwind the ball and rope from around the pole and give it a whirl.
“I use it to practice my swing,” Dan said. “If you want, we could go get the bat and hit a few. Or there’s a batting cage I know of.”
Pedro was starting to move more freely now, crossing the grass to the fence. And then he put his eye to the gaps between the slats and saw what Gil could already see over the top—the elementary school playground beyond, complete with basketball hoops, swings, tetherball poles…
And a baseball diamond where a group of kids were playing a hotly contested game of pickup baseball.
For just an instant Pedro smiled, really smiled. And it was brilliant. “They play baseball there?” he said.
Dan nodded, the smile contagious. “Little League, during the season. That’s just a bunch of the neighborhood kids out there playing. Jeremy next door, some of the other kids on the street. Why, do you play?”
“Oh, yeah,” Pedro breathed. “Oh, yeah.”
“What position?”
Pedro’s eyes flicked to Gil. “The hot corner.” The kid’s lips twitched. Just a flicker, but suddenly Gil knew it was going to be all right.
Jillian’s face was just luminous.
He’d never thought much about family. Sure, he had his, but they’d been a challenge as much as a support. And he’d been honest with Jillian when he’d told her that he figured on probably having kids someday, but he’d never figured on someday being anytime in the immediate future.
Watching Dan and Pedro as they took turns using the ball on the rope to practice their swings, though, he was beginning to think that someday might just be sooner rather than later, after all.
“You want to know why I do it?” Jillian asked as they drove away from dropping Pedro back at his foster home. “For days like this.”
She felt as if she was floating above the ground. She felt ten feet tall, giddy. Days like this made it all worthwhile—the hours, the stress, the discouraging periods, the times she left work feeling sucked dry. At a moment like this, life was beautiful. At a moment like this, she could kiss someone.
She glanced over at Gil, beside her.
He’d helped make it work, she realized. Maybe he was only getting them where they would have eventually gone anyway, but he’d helped Dan and Kathy connect. He’d known instinctively the right strings to pull. Maybe it was just the people skills of a journalist, the ability to set people at ease.
And maybe it was just him.
They sat at an intersection, waiting for a Burlington Northern switch engine to move out of the way. Caution: Remote-Controlled Engine, warned a sign.
“There’s something I always find deeply disturbing about that idea,” Gil commented.
“I know what you mean. A remote-controlled model airplane is one thing. I don’t think anything as big as a diesel engine ought to run on its own.”
He whistled. “You know this is probably a first,” he said.
“What?”
“You’ve agreed with me on something.”
“There must be a blue moon this month.”
“I think you’re going sweet on me,” he said, enjoying it when she blushed. This wasn’t the cool, self-contained woman he’d become accustomed to. This wasn’t the hostile opponent. There was a light, happy, almost incandescent air about her. He wanted to hold on to this moment, keep that young, free look in her eyes.
“How about lunch?” he suggested.
“Lunch?”
“Sure. I’ll even buy. I know a place a couple of blocks away that we can go. I think you’ll like it.”
“Well…”
“You told me yourself that you didn’t have any meetings until afternoon. Come on. You’ve got to eat.”
“I’ve got work,” she objected.
“Forget work. For right now, ride the buzz. You’re allowed. You just won the social worker’s version of the World Series. We need to celebrate.”
That earned him a grin. “Okay, you’re on.”
The Hedge House was tucked away in an old clapboard house in the southeast part of the city. The food was good pub food, the beer worth a return visit. And if the waitstaff was occasionally—frequently—irreverent, it was always in a good way.
“Aren’t we a little far from your stomping grounds?” she asked as he steered her to the back deck.
“I applied for a VISA,” he told her. They sat at one of the wooden picnic tables and soaked in the warm afternoon. “I was here one time with a buddy and the waiter came rolling by on a skateboard.”
She raised her eyebrows. “A skateboard?”
“I swear. Now, really, you have to come back to a place like that. Besides, I like the deck. We don’t get enough summer. I try to take advantage of it.”
“You wouldn’t appreciate it nearly as much if you lived somewhere where it was nice all the time. It would just get boring.”
“I don’t know, when I see Floridians on TV, they don’t usually look bored.”
“They’re acting for the camera. Anyway, you’re enough of a tough guy that a little Portland mist’s not going to frighten you off.”
His lips twitched as their waiter brought them drinks. “Are you psychoanalyzing me?”
“I don’t know, should I be? Know thy enemy?”
“I’m not your enemy,” he said. “I think you know that by now. Anyway, I assumed you therapists could figure people out at a glance.”
“Social workers,” she corrected. “And I haven’t really studied you yet.”
“I’m not so hard to figure out.”
“On the contrary. I think you’re a lot mor
e complicated than you let on,” she countered, leaning forward.
“So you have been studying me.”
She appeared endearingly embarrassed. “Well, I can’t shut off my brain entirely when I talk to people.”
“I bet. Do people shy away from you at parties because they’re worried about being psychoanalyzed?”
“I don’t go to parties.”
“Why not?”
“I see enough people in the course of my day. I like having time to myself after.”
“So what do you do with yourself when you’re not working?”
She gave him an amused look. “Is this the interview?”
“No. Just simple curiosity.”
Wariness flickered in her eyes for the first time. “This and that.”
His lips twitched. “This and that, huh?”
A hint of color stained her cheekbones. “How do I know this won’t wind up in the paper?”
“‘Outside her job, Logan spends her time doing this and that,’” he quoted. “You’re right, it is kind of a scoop. What, is it something really scandalous? Do you have a backyard fois gras operation? Do you deal in counterfeit organic tomatoes? Come on, give me something I can make a story out of.”
“You’re making me sound silly.”
“You’re being silly. How about this? The whole conversation here is off the record. Just between you and me.”
The waiter appeared—sans skateboard—and brought drinks, pausing to take their food order before disappearing.
Gil raised his pint. “Here’s to Pedro, a good kid who’s about to get his first real break. And here’s to you for bringing it to him.”
“I had a lot of help. Lois, Kathy and Dan, the foster parents he’s been living with, his Social-Services social worker. You,” she added.
“Me?”
“You got him talking. What you just saw was one of the trickiest transitions in the process. You helped him loosen up, helped him find something to fasten on to. I thought journalists weren’t supposed to get involved. Why did you?” she asked curiously.
“Hey, not so loud or I’ll get kicked out of the club,” he said.
Always A Bridesmaid (Logan's Legacy Revisited) Page 9
