“I’m gonna grab a smoke before my brew gets here.” Cleo’s chair grated against the wood floor as she pushed it back and stood, fishing her pack from her pocket. “This is one weird fucking state—let wild men with crowbars run free, but criminalize smoking indoors.”
Cleo shucked the collar of her jacket higher around her neck, and Mac noted she studied the men at the bar again as she passed them on her way out.
Abby sat across the table, her hands folded gracefully on its scarred surface. Her face was slightly turned as she watched two men settle in a corner booth, and a weak sunbeam from a small stained-glass window fell across her features.
Mac’s gaze traced the delicate planes of Abby’s face, the taut curve of her throat. She could read the sadness in Abby even now, in the unguarded wistfulness in her hunched shoulders as she stared into the distance. Mac didn’t know what memory of loss or grief pulled at Abby at times, but she did know she had survived it with her compassion intact. Abby’s private pain, apparently, had only deepened her capacity to understand the pain suffered by others. She had turned her sorrow into a gift, a talent for giving solace to those in her care. Her very presence was soothing. Not that Mac found Abby’s proximity particularly soothing at the moment.
Forcing her gaze away from Abby’s face, Mac curled her fist into the small of her back. She knuckled the tense muscle, amused at herself. Two years with Hattie had not exactly whetted Mac’s appetite for romance, and now that her long-dormant pheromones had finally kicked in, they were perversely skewed toward straight women. Her attraction to this gentle woman was growing, to a degree that was beginning to make Mac uncomfortable.
Her skin had developed a preternatural sensitivity to Abby’s presence, signaling her arrival into any room with a low, tingling welcome. Abby’s velvet-sheathed voice, with its mild British inflection, sent small flurries of warmth down Mac’s spine. Even now, in the innocuous public milieu of this odd little tavern, Mac was keenly aware of the curves of Abby’s breasts beneath her cotton shirt, their slow lift and fall against the soft fabric. She remembered their sweet fullness against her chest, the day Abby had introduced her to her office.
How long can it take Cleo to smoke one cigarette? Mac got to her feet. “Abby?”
It took Abby a moment to turn her eyes from the corner booth, but then she smiled up at Mac.
“Thought I’d make a stop.” Mac nodded toward the restrooms, then hesitated, torn between the cowardly urge to get away and a more courtly reluctance to leave a lady seated alone in a bar.
“Go ahead, Counselor.” Abby encircled Mac’s wrist in two fingers and shook it gently. “I’ll be fine.”
“Thanks.” She swallowed, certain Abby could detect her pounding pulse, and walked away with as much dignity as she could summon.
*
Abby watched Mac weave through the smattering of tables, and she could easily imagine her sauntering down a red rock canyon, lithe and easy under a desert sun. There was something in the laconic grace of Mac’s movements that often drew Abby’s gaze. She shivered, then returned her attention to the two men seated in the corner booth.
They looked so much like her father and Michael. The same age difference, the same evident closeness, even the same silhouettes, the respectful incline of the younger man’s head as he listened to the elder.
Abby was lost in memory, a sad nostalgia for her father’s company, familiar now after six years’ mourning. And another kind of grief, she realized, in the rueful admission that she did not miss Michael at all.
They had both known her father was dying when Abby accepted Michael’s engagement ring. Phillip Glenn, a lifelong activist for social justice, had been Michael’s professor and mentor through his college years. Abby no longer knew how much of their marriage had been founded on Michael’s wish to honor his hero, or her own desire to atone for past sins before it was too late.
In any case, their union unraveled steadily after Phillip’s death, leaving less than a pale bond of vague goodwill. Abby had failed to inspire in Michael any of the passionate loyalty he had felt for her father—or passion of any kind, for that matter. It seemed, as her mother had pointed out more than once, that Abby was simply not the kind of woman capable of arousing strong feelings in others.
She wondered, sometimes, if a life without real love was the sentence fate imposed for that long-ago night when she had betrayed her father’s trust, almost fifteen years in the past. If so, she would accept without protest. Life had its checks and balances, and she had a debt to pay.
Her eyes drifted shut as that light shiver moved through her again, a touch of loneliness as familiar as her grief. But if Abby indulged in an occasional melancholy moment, she had never been inclined toward self-pity. She thanked her stars fiercely for Fireside, with its gift of ethical work. And for Cleo’s friendship, rich and solid now after almost a year together in the trenches. And of course, she was learning to trust the genuine kindness she saw in Mac Laurie.
In Abby’s experience, kindness and beauty hadn’t always gone hand in hand, but they seemed to coexist naturally in Mac. She believed Mac was honestly oblivious to the impact her striking good looks had on others, male and female. She was classically handsome, the only words that fit Mac’s unique brand of rugged beauty. If her sensual appeal could touch even Abby’s reserved and arid soul, it was a wonder every resident wasn’t half besotted with her.
“I believe these are your libations, ma’am.”
Abby opened her eyes. A large man stood beside the table, balancing a round tray of drinks on one raised, beefy hand. The corners of his bloodshot eyes crinkled as he smiled down at her, beer fumes wafting in his wake. He lowered the tray to the table with exaggerated care.
“Stan’s busy in the back. He asked me to drop these off.” The man straightened, his large belly contained behind a wide belt buckle. The thin brown hair beneath his cap was streaked with gray, and he blinked down at Abby with a kind of bleary, paternal benevolence. “Hope it’s all right if I make your acquaintance. I’m Samuel Sherrill. You’re one of the women out to Mrs. Childs’s shelter, is that right?”
Abby maintained her courteous smile. “My name is Abby Glenn, Mr. Sherrill. Do you know Vivian?”
“Oh, just by name, just by name.” The man peered at the empty chairs around the table, but Abby didn’t invite him to settle in. He laid his big hands on the backs of two chairs and leaned heavily, clocking the toe of his boot against the wood floor. “How long since you joined forces with Miz Lassiter out there, Miz Glenn? Cleo and I go quite a ways back.”
“What say you back the hell off, Sam, quite a ways back.” Cleo was suddenly standing beside Abby’s chair, and she was startled by the deadly chill in her voice.
“Well now, Cleo. A pleasant hello to you too.” Abashed not at all by Cleo’s tone, Sherrill hooked his thumbs in his belt and grinned. Abby was grateful the small table separated the two. The bristling hostility between them was palpable.
“What brings you out on this balmy afternoon, I wonder.” Sherrill appraised Cleo beneath the brim of his cap. “I’d advise you to stick pretty close to home, lawyer lady. Shouldn’t stray too far from your boss’s apron strings, you want her to go on covering for you.”
“Thanks for the limp-dick advice, sewer man. Now take off.” Cleo glanced over her shoulder, and Abby was relieved to see Mac walking toward them, her expression calm but alert.
“I just wanted to meet your nice girlfriends, here.” He turned to Mac and looked her up and down with insolent slowness. “You’d be the new one out there at the shelter, ma’am, is that right?”
“My friends have better things to do than soak up your worthless bile, Sherrill. Abby, let’s go.” Cleo tossed a twenty on the table and pulled Abby’s coat off the back of her chair, and she got to her feet obediently. She glanced at Mac, who seemed willing to follow Cleo’s lead too. Her stance was relaxed, but Abby noted she had positioned herself near the table, with room to move if need be.
“You girls be sure to tell Miz Vivian I’ll get that paperwork to her soon.” Sherrill raised his gravelly voice slightly as Cleo herded them toward the exit. “Prison records take a while to track down, but you tell her I’m on it.”
Abby turned back, but Cleo’s grip on her arm was firm. She felt heads turning to follow them as they stepped out of the tavern and into the twilight of the quiet street. The air was chilly, and Abby slipped her coat on as she tried to keep up with Cleo. They had parked a few blocks away, and even Mac’s long stride had to work to keep the pace.
“All right.” Abby curled her arm through Cleo’s, forcing her to slow a bit. “Are you going to make us ask what that was about?”
Cleo coughed harshly into her fist, her face tight and expressionless. “I think Sam Sherrill is the prick who told Ray Lee Cooper how to find his wife and kid at Fireside.”
“What?” Abby struggled to shift mental gears.
“Cooper claimed he didn’t know the guy who gave him directions to us.” Mac thrust her hands into her front pockets as she strode beside Cleo. “Isn’t that what he said?”
“That’s what he said.” Cleo still looked grim. She paused at a curb barely long enough to allow a car to pass, then stalked on, pulling them along in the back draft of her anger. Abby could feel her trembling. “Cooper said he was too plowed that night to remember what the guy looked like, or even where they were drinking. But he mentioned the lava lamps. I had to check to see if Sherrill hangs out at that joint.”
“But how would this Sam person even know how to find Fireside?” Abby brushed her hair out of her eyes to try to see Cleo’s face. “He certainly knew you, Cleo.”
“Sam Sherrill is a plumbing contractor.” Cleo coughed again. “He refurbished all the residents’ units before Fireside opened. Remember the damn sink in East Two? The man’s work is crap.”
“So Sam hears Ray Lee Cooper moaning drunkenly about his wife one night at that tacky tavern,” Abby said, skipping a step to keep up, “and he gives him directions to Fireside. But why would he do that, Cleo? What’s your history with this man?”
“Sherrill came out on the losing end of a case I handled in DC several years back. Where the fuck did we park?” Cleo stopped, frowning at a side street. “He didn’t take it kindly, and his low-life type holds grudges. To this day, Sam Sherrill would jump on any chance to chap my butt.”
“Has he got something on you, Cleo?” Mac’s tone was respectful, but Abby felt Cleo’s arm tense again. “He made some threat about digging up prison records.”
“You asking me if I’ve done time, Mac?” Cleo stopped abruptly and turned to Mac, annoyance sharpening her tone again. “I’m licensed to practice law in this pitiful state. You think they allow convicted felons to practice law, even in Virginia?” She reached out and pulled Mac’s arm. “Now come on, my ass is freezing out—”
Abby felt Cleo jerk in surprise. Mac had grasped Cleo’s wrist and was holding it, tightly, until Cleo let go of her forearm.
Mac dropped Cleo’s wrist, and regarded her with an austere authority Abby had never seen in her before. She didn’t look annoyed. Just focused, and dead serious.
“I don’t want you to touch me when you’re angry, Cleo.”
Cleo stared at Mac, her mouth open. She closed it and looked at Abby, then at Mac again. “Hey, Mac.” Confusion and contrition warred in her eyes. “I didn’t mean…did I hurt you?”
“No, I’m fine.” Mac spoke from that same formal distance. “I just don’t want it to happen again. All right?”
Cleo was silent for a moment. “Absolutely,” she said quietly. “Mac, I apologize.”
She extended her hand, and Mac accepted it readily. With relief, Abby saw that familiar dimple appear in Mac’s cheek as she smiled. They stood together silently for a while under the glow of a street lamp, until lacy white flakes began to fall.
Abby moved between Cleo and Mac, and slid her arms through theirs. “Come on,” she murmured. “Let’s go home.”
Chapter Six
She liked it here okay. More than that place that was sunny and dry all the time. More than the city where it rained all the time. It was pretty here. And even more than the pretty trees and snow, she liked the other kids who lived here.
The little boy was her favorite! He was so cute and nice. His name was Waymon. She knew this because Waymon yelled out his name a hundred million times a day. He was maybe three or four years old. She remembered being three years old. Not very clear, but she remembered faces.
Waymon was playing with another little girl, but she didn’t know her name. They were building a fort out of the snow. She wanted really bad to help, but nothing moved when she touched it, so she just watched. Then she got all upset because the little girl slipped in the snow and fell down hard!
And the little girl didn’t even get scared. She just got up and covered her knee with her mittens and yelled to the big lady wrapped in the blue coat who was watching them. The big lady came over and looked at her knee and then steered the little girl toward the long building. She didn’t look scared either, but then almost everybody in the world was braver than her.
Waymon’s eyes were wide too, though. The lady called back to him and told him to stay there and Waymon said yes, he would. He watched the lady take the little girl into the building and then he went back to the snow fort.
And then Waymon looked up at her and she almost fell down on the ground in surprise because he looked right at her!
“What’s your name?” Waymon yelled.
She giggled because he had a cold and it came out “What’s your babe?” And he laughed back.
She thought very hard. “Ashy,” she called finally. That wasn’t quite her name, but it was the best she could remember. She could hardly believe the little boy could see her and even hear her. None of the other kids in the other places had ever heard her before. Maybe Waymon heard her now because this place seemed more than just a place. More almost like a home. A rare bubble of joy rose in her chest. “Chase me!”
Ashy spun and ran, leaving no tracks in the snow, and Waymon emitted a delighted yelp and tottered after her, his short arms waving vigorously in his padded jacket.
It started to snow again.
*
Their morning staff meetings were beginning to take on the rhythms of a musical composition, one voice answering another in easy cadence. The four women sat around the table in the breakfast nook, moving methodically from one resident’s file to the next, discussing medical needs and legal issues with practical efficiency.
They were becoming a team now, maybe the best Mac had ever worked with. A well-designed mobile, personally as well as professionally. Just as the separate elements of a mobile shifted together in tandem, staying balanced on changing currents of air, so the staff was learning to balance each other.
Mac sipped her tepid coffee. It was new to her, this half-sentimental rhapsodizing about her workplace. She had found something to like in every staff she’d worked with, but these women were starting to nudge her toward hyperbole. Mac wondered if she’d ever be lucky enough, in her travels, to find a team this solid again. Then she wondered why she assumed she would be traveling. She had promised herself she’d give Fireside a chance.
“Deep thoughts, Counselor?” Abby was refilling Mac’s mug. Cleo and Vivian were chatting about their poker night, so Mac hadn’t zoned out on any important client business.
“Oh, always.” Mac rested her elbows on the table. Abby’s eyes were shining and clear, and there was more color to her cheeks this morning. “Are you sleeping better these nights? You look well rested.”
Abby seemed mildly startled. “How did you know I have trouble sleeping?”
“I hear you sometimes, pretty late, sneaking downstairs.” Mac shrugged. “I figure you’re just after my leftover taquitos.”
“Ah, I hope I didn’t disturb you. But yes, thank you, I’ve been sleeping quite well lately.” Abby replaced the coff
ee decanter on the trivet. “I think our nightly fireside chats are better than Seconal. Two hours of good chick-talk, and I’m out like a lamp.”
“I often have that effect on women.” Mac grinned and nudged Abby with her shoulder. And then told herself to stop flirting.
They all turned as the front door opened.
“Ladies, I’m afraid we have a red alert.” Scratch led Degale down into the living room. He sounded calm, but Mac read urgency in his protective hold on Degale’s arm.
“Waymon’s gone.” Degale was breathing hard. “I can’t find him anywhere. We was in the yard, and I was only gone a minute, I swear. Inez’s girl scraped her knee—”
“Don’t worry, Degale, we’ll all help.” Vivian rose from the table, and Mac followed her gaze out the bay window. She felt an uneasy jolt at the curtain of snow falling outside, and she stood too.
“Degale tells me she last saw Waymon just about five minutes ago.” Scratch went to the closet near the entry and began pulling out jackets. “We looked around both wings and the backyard.”
“I’ll get my satchel.” Abby moved swiftly toward her infirmary’s office.
“Mac, please get the whistles from our security box,” Vivian ordered. “Cleo, I want you to go through the units and call out any women who are home to help. Take them and look between the main house and the front road. Mac, let’s have you and Abby cover the area out back, past the gardens.”
“Yes’m.” Mac jogged to the front door and opened the tin case that contained whistles, flashlights, and an emergency cell phone. She took the cell and snaked the cord of one whistle around her neck and tossed another to Cleo.
“He can’t have gotten far, Degale.” Mac injected as much reassurance in her tone as she could. Degale’s complexion was ash gray, and she was still shivering.
“Degale, I’d like you to stay here with Vivian and Scratch to help organize this search.” Abby had returned with her satchel, and apparently she shared Mac’s concern. “You look a bit peaked to me.”
Fireside Page 7
