Mulberry Park

by Judy Duarte

  “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?

  Chapter 12

  Claire 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 hand
s, 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.

  Too stunned to react at first, Sam had merely stood in shock, watching as the police cuffed his drunken father and the paramedics made a valiant effort to rush his dying mother to the hospital. Then he’d slammed his fist into the garage door. But the throbbing pain in his body couldn’t lessen the pain in his heart.

  For a while, he’d thought he’d busted a couple of bones, but he’d refused to see a doctor. In his adolescent mind, he’d hoped that being crippled and hurting was a form of penitence that would somehow make things right. Yet in the end, the swelling had gone down and the scrapes had healed.

  Sam rubbed his left hand over his right, then stole a glance at Claire. The compassion in her eyes turned him every which way but loose.

  “You’ve got to stop blaming yourself. It wasn’t your fault, Sam.”

  “In my heart, I know that.”

  “Your father is the only one responsible for her death.”

  He nodded, as if accepting the truth. But it wasn’t Claire who could offer him absolution. It was his brother.

  And Greg hadn’t uttered a word.

  Hilda’s surgery had gotten off to a late start, so it was nearing eight o’clock when Dr. Singh had come by the waiting room to talk to Walter. “Everything went as well as could be expected. Barring any unexpected complications, she can expect to make a full recovery, but we’ll need to keep her here a few more days.”

  Walter nodded. “Thanks, Doc.”

  “We’ll let you know when she’s headed back to her room.”

  “I’d appreciate that.” Walter would pop in just long enough to say hello to her, then he’d head home and get some sleep. In the meantime, he would call Sam Dawson and let him know that Hilda was going to be all right. Of course, no telling when she would be able to go back to work. So even though her health issues had been solved, he suspected finances would be a new concern.