by Judy Duarte
“If you promise not to ride that again until tomorrow afternoon,” she told him, “I’ll bring you some knee pads and a helmet.”
He gazed up at her in disbelief—or perhaps skepticism. His hair, damp from perspiration, was almost as curly as Erik’s had been. He managed to muster a grin. “Thanks.”
The offer was on the table, and she couldn’t very well take it back, even if a battle still waged inside. Yet truthfully, she couldn’t live with herself if she was able to prevent a serious injury to the boy and failed to do so.
She supposed Ron would be proud to know she would finally be parting with something of Erik’s, but she wouldn’t tell him. They rarely spoke anymore; they had no reason to.
As she led Trevor to the restrooms, she placed a hand on his shoulder and guided him to the ladies’ side.
“Oh, no you don’t. No way.” He balked, digging in his heels. “I’m not going in the girls’ bathroom.”
Well, they were in a bit of a quandary. Claire couldn’t very well go into the men’s room.
Or could she?
“Okay, I’ll make the sacrifice. You go in first and make sure the coast is clear, then I’ll come in.”
“I can do it myself,” he said.
She suspected he’d been doing way too much for himself as it was. “Wounds can become infected if they’re not cleaned properly, Trevor. Why don’t you let me help?”
When he reluctantly agreed and made sure the bathroom was empty, she supervised the cleansing of his elbow. Then they returned to Mrs. Richards, who had a handy-dandy first aid kit of Mary Poppins proportions. Before long, they’d applied antiseptic, an antibacterial salve, and a gauze bandage.
Claire watched Trevor trudge toward the playground carrying his board. She wondered if she should have asked to keep it, just to make sure he didn’t break his promise.
“You know,” she said to Mrs. Richards, “I’m going to run home and get the helmet and pads for Trevor.”
“All right, but before you go, what did you want to talk to me about?”
Claire tore her gaze from the boy. “I had a question to ask you. I wondered if you knew that Analisa has been writing letters to God.”
“Yes, I’m aware of it. Her uncle is a bit concerned, but I’m not. With time, I’m sure she’ll grow tired of waiting for a response and stop.”
Okay, so maybe Claire shouldn’t have answered any of those letters, but she had. Did she dare admit it?
If she did, she’d feel compelled to defend her actions.
Hilda crossed her arms, yet relaxed her pose. “Most children have very active imaginations. Analisa’s interest in angels and Heaven is sure to wane. Why, next week, she could easily change her focus to unicorns and fairies.”
Claire wasn’t a psychologist, but she, better than anyone, understood how a child could turn to fantasy as a coping mechanism. When she’d been a little girl, living with a disabled mother and an alcoholic stepfather, she’d created two imaginary playmates to help fill the days until she was old enough to attend kindergarten.
“I’m not an expert,” Claire admitted, “but it might be a good idea if Analisa spent more time with her uncle.”
If Hilda wondered how a stranger had come to know about the letters or the child’s living situation, she didn’t mention it.
“My employer is a very busy man. In fact, his office is nearby.” Hilda nodded toward the professional building adjacent to the park. “Mr. Dawson is working today, but he’ll be coming soon. He promised to meet us here for lunch.”
Realization struck as Claire stared at the building that housed the law firm she’d recently visited.
Was the attorney Claire had consulted Analisa’s uncle? She held her questions at bay, but scanned the nanny’s craggy face for answers.
“He’s a lawyer.” A stray silver curl had plopped onto Hilda’s forehead, and she brushed it aside, smiling. “And a very good one.”
Claire couldn’t argue. Sam Dawson was not only a competent attorney, but he seemed to have it all together—a partnership in a prestigious firm, apparent wealth, professional success.
Yet Analisa thought Sam needed an angel to look after him, and Claire couldn’t help but wonder why.
Sam glanced up from the open file spread across his office desk and looked at the clock: 12:49. Uh-oh. He’d promised to take lunch across the street to the park and eat with Hilda and Analisa today, but he’d almost let the time get away from him.
It was usually quiet in the office on Saturdays, which was one reason he’d come in to work. The other was because he was fulfilling his California Bar requirement of fifty pro bono hours per year.
Since he had the telephone number of Dagwood’s Deli on speed dial, he quickly placed an order, but before he could hang up, the second line buzzed. He switched from one to the other. “Sam Dawson.”
“Hey,” Jake Goldstein said. “I had a feeling you’d be at the office today.”
“Why’s that?”
“You didn’t answer at home or on your cell.”
Sam patted down the pocket where he usually kept his phone, not finding it. Had he left it in the car? Or on the kitchen counter? No wonder it had been so quiet this morning.
Jake chuckled. “I figured you’d be knee-deep in work today, even though everyone else in Fairbrook is out enjoying the fresh air and sunshine.”
“Someday I’ll surprise all my friends and take a real vacation, away from phones and the Internet.”
“You? The law-school boy wonder voted as most driven to succeed? Never.” When Sam didn’t argue, Jake asked, “So what’s got you locked in your office on such a beautiful Saturday?”
“A pro bono case.”
“Are you still doing criminal defense work down at Legal Aid?”
“Not anymore.” Sam didn’t mind defending clients who were actually innocent or those who had screwed up and were somewhat remorseful, but his last defendant had been a real sleaze and as guilty as sin. “I got burned out and wanted a change.”
“I can understand that. So what are you working on now?”
“A divorce for a domestic violence victim.”
“Be careful, you can get burned out on those, too.”
Sam knew what Jake meant. It was tough for most people to understand the dynamics at work when a victim remained in an abusive relationship. In this particular case, the battered woman had stayed with the brute she’d married until her oldest son, a nine-year-old, felt obliged to defend her. In his haste to get to her side, the boy “accidentally” fell down some stairs and broke his arm. The cops bought the bogus explanation, but Sam didn’t.
James Danrick, the victim’s husband, might be an exec dressed in an Armani suit, but he wasn’t any better than Sam’s old man had been.
“I’ve taken a personal interest in this case,” Sam admitted. “And I want to do the best job I can representing her.”
“Is there something making this case any tougher than the norm?”
“The husband comes from money and made a mint himself, but he kept his wife under his thumb and control for years, refusing to let her work or pursue any kind of life outside the home. And her escape to a women’s shelter has pretty much left her penniless.”
“Should be a slam dunk,” Jake said.
“I thought so, too, until I learned Judge Riley has been assigned to the case.”
Jake blew out a whistle. “That’s too bad.”
It was known in legal circles that the Honorable Alfred Riley had very little sympathy for women. He’d even tap-danced around a sexual harassment suit that had been filed against him a few years back.
Sam had gotten word of the judicial assignment on Sunday evening, just as he’d sat down to dinner, and a profanity had slipped out of his mouth.
Analisa’s gasp told him he’d tumbled off any pedestal on which she might have placed him.
“I’m sorry,” he’d told her later, knowing her father wouldn’t have approved of the inapprop
riate comment, either. Sam was going to have to watch his Ps and Qs around her from now on. Or rather his damns and hells.
“That’s okay,” she’d said. “God forgives you, too, Uncle Sam.”
Yeah, well it had been Analisa’s forgiveness he’d been seeking. He figured God—if He was up there, even casually keeping watch on things down here—hadn’t been too happy to hear of Judge Riley’s assignment either and would have understood Sam’s frustration.
“Who were you talking to?” she’d asked. “And why did you get mad?”
“That call was from a woman I work with. And I wasn’t angry at her. Just upset about some news she gave me.”
“Why?”
Sam had meant to skim over the question, but the innocence in Analisa’s eyes had a way of tripping him up sometimes, and he was never sure what to say to her.
The truth, he supposed.
“The lady told me that Judge Riley was assigned to one of the cases I’m working on. And that’s not good news for me or my client.”
“I’ll ask God to fix it for you.”
Her faith had merely unleashed another kind of frustration. How far was she going to take all this God stuff?
As far as he was concerned, she was barking up the wrong tree when it came to divine intervention.
“So what’s up?” Sam asked Jake.
“I heard that Claire Harper has you on retainer, and I called to ask if you’d talk to her for me.”
Sam leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking as he swayed. He knew where this conversation was heading, but asked anyway. “What about?”
“It would be nice if she’d write a letter of recommendation for Russell Meredith’s parole hearing.”
“You’re dreaming. She’ll never do that.”
“Then maybe you can persuade her not to fight his release.”
“That’s not going to happen, either.”
“If she knew how tough Russell’s incarceration has been on his son, she might. Or if she knew how sorry he was that the accident happened.”
How could Russell not be sorry? He killed a child and destroyed a family.
“Will you give Mrs. Harper a call as a favor to me?” Jake asked.
“I have reason to believe it’s a waste of time.”
“But you’ll feel her out?”
A part of Sam wouldn’t mind having an excuse to contact Claire Harper or meet with her. Yet he feared the compulsion to pick up the phone and dial her number also had something to do with the color of her eyes and the lilt of her voice.
There was something about Claire that tugged on his heartstrings, what few he had, and he found himself sympathizing with her more than he should, more than was wise.
When she’d come to his office the other day, her waiflike smile, as faint as it had been, had touched him in a way that made him feel a bit heroic, which was a little unsettling when he didn’t have anything to offer that another attorney couldn’t provide. An awkward sense of responsibility had hovered over him, making him wonder whether he should have taken the case.
“So what do you say?” Jake asked.
“I’ll give it some thought.” But he hadn’t given it much.
Twenty minutes later, after walking to the nearby deli and picking up enough sandwiches, chips, and cookies to feed three starving attorneys rather than himself, a child, and an older woman, Sam walked across the parking lot to Mulberry Park. He’d dressed casually today in a light blue golf shirt, khaki slacks, and a pair of loafers he’d chosen for comfort rather than style.
The warmth of the sun and a cool ocean breeze mocked the confinement of his office on a Saturday morning.
How long had it been since he’d spent an entire day outdoors? For the life of him, he couldn’t remember.
As he approached the playground, he saw Analisa at the top of the slide. When he and her father had been kids, they’d spent a lot of time at the park on the weekends. It had been one way to avoid going home and getting yelled at for something they may or may not have done—at least, until they’d gotten to an age and size that would allow them to yell back. To tell their old man that if he laid another hand on them or their mother that the paramedics would have to mop him off the floor.
Sam spotted Mrs. Richards seated at a bench, not far from where an attractive brunette wearing black slacks and a white cotton blouse handed a young boy a helmet and pads. The young woman stood about five-four, her hair swept up into a twist, her eyes hidden behind sunglasses.
As he drew near, the brunette turned and her lips parted.
Claire Harper?
When she lifted the dark lenses and rested them on top of her hair, the answer was clear. To say he was taken aback—albeit pleasantly so—was an understatement. He and Jake had just been talking about her. How had she come to know Hilda?
“Hello, Sam.” She reached out her hand, soft and manicured, yet devoid of polish or jewelry.
“What a surprise.” The clichéd response thudded in his ears, and he wished he’d come up with something more clever.
When she glanced at the cardboard box of deli food he balanced in one arm, he lifted it and grinned. “I brought lunch. As you can see, there’s plenty. Would you like to join us?”
A smile sparked her green eyes and dimpled her cheeks. “Thanks for the offer, but I have some errands to run—clothes to pick up at the dry cleaner, some weekly grocery shopping to do.”
“Have you eaten?” he asked.
“No.”
Maybe he ought to insist she at least take something with her. She was thinner than she’d been during the civil trial, but he doubted that was because she’d gone on a diet. Instead he imagined that she’d thrown herself into her work and had skipped meals because there was no one around to encourage her to eat.
The weight loss hadn’t looked bad on her, though. She was still an attractive woman.
Sam glanced down at the sandwiches wrapped in white butcher paper, at the brightly colored bags of different chips, at the plastic containers of fresh fruit. Then he shrugged a single shoulder and tossed her a playful grin. “I was hungry when I placed the order, and I forgot Analisa couldn’t eat as much as some of the attorneys in the firm. There’s going to be a ton left over. You’d be helping me out by joining us. Most of it will probably go to waste.”
She seemed to ponder the offer, but just for a moment. “All right. Thanks.”
With her sable brown hair swept into a neat twist and a calm demeanor, she appeared to be a woman in control, although he suspected that wasn’t the case. Something told him that the pain still lingered and that her life hadn’t returned to normal.
He wondered whether it ever would.
It was too bad that her husband had divorced her, leaving her to grieve alone. Couldn’t Ron Harper see what Sam could? The loss of her son, first, and then her husband had obviously taken a toll on her.
Her scent was soft and feminine, and he felt compelled to compliment her on it, to mention that he liked the way the sun highlighted strands of gold in her hair. To tell her she looked especially nice today.
Instead, he kept quiet.
If he’d met Claire Harper in a bar, he’d know just what to do, what to say. But this woman who was also a client had him feeling like a freshman geek with a crush on the prom queen.
And Sam, who’d actually kissed the high school prom queen when he’d been in the ninth grade, had never been the least bit self-conscious around women or clients in his entire life.
So now what?
Sam the Geek was in uncharted water.
Chapter 7
It had been ages since Claire had taken part in a family picnic. Ages since she’d wanted to.
As she stood awkwardly beside the fiberglass table, Sam removed the sandwiches, chips, and fruit from his box. In a way, she wished she’d declined his invitation for lunch. In another, it seemed as though it might be time to venture into the world again.
Hilda, who’d gone to retrieve Ana
lisa and take her to the restroom to wash up, returned with the child, whose pastel-colored butterfly barrettes held back the sides of her blond hair.
Yet it was more than Analisa’s outward appearance that gripped Claire’s heart, it was her sweet spirit, her innocent faith.
“Analisa,” Sam said, “I’m not sure if you know Mrs. Harper or not. She’s a friend and a client of mine.”
Claire smiled, thinking the word “friend” was pushing it a bit, yet the idea touched her in an unexpected way. “I’ve seen you playing, Analisa. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
The child, who held a dark-haired doll in her arm, wore a pair of pink shorts, a white eyelet blouse, and a sweet smile. “I saw you before. You were sitting by Mr. Klinefelter. Are you his friend, too?”
During the past three years, Claire had burrowed into an emotional fetal position, letting several friendships wither from neglect. She’d known it was wrong, but at the time, she hadn’t had the energy to do anything about it.
Perhaps she still didn’t.
Vickie had called again yesterday, leaving a message on Claire’s answering machine. “Just checking in,” Vickie had said. “I miss you and thought we could spend some time together. Maybe at the new spa in Del Mar?”
Claire hadn’t returned the call yet, although she knew she should. Vickie might stop reaching out altogether one of these days, and Claire couldn’t blame her if she did.
Friends like Vickie didn’t come along every day, but the pain of being around a happily married woman with healthy children was a bit too much for Claire to handle.
But Mr. Klinefelter? The old man who hung out at the park?
“I’ve met him a time or two,” Claire admitted to the child. “And we’ve chatted, but I wouldn’t call him a friend.”
Analisa nibbled on her bottom lip, then zeroed in on Claire. “But do you know how to play chest?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“That’s too bad.” The girl’s shoulders slumped, and her brow furrowed.
Claire suspected she’d been hoping to find an opponent for Walter. Or, more likely, she’d been expecting God to provide one, and she’d hoped Claire had been duly appointed.
