Ideal Image: Snapshot, #2

by Freya Barker

  “I’m sorry,” Stacie says, suddenly turning back to me. “I don’t think you’ve met my daughter? This is Makenna, but she wants to be called Mak, so we do,” she explains with a shrug before directing her attention to her daughter. “Mak, this is Nicholas Flynn. He’s a friend of Uncle Ben’s.”

  I reach a hand over the table and shake her much smaller one. Eyes, as blue as her mother’s, regard me with some curiosity.

  “I know you,” she says, startling me. “You were at the wedding.”

  “I was.” I chuckle at her direct manner. “Nice to officially meet you then, Mak.”

  “Ditto,” she says smartly.

  “Mak!” Stacie snaps, and Isla’s uncle barks out a laugh.

  I barely manage to stifle a chuckle myself when I see Mak’s wide-eyed innocent look to her mother. Stacie sighs deeply, rolling her eyes, while she shoves her plate in front of her daughter.

  “Just eat,” she instructs her, before turning back to me with a mouthed, “Sorry.”

  “So when would be a good time for you?” I ask, steering her right back to our earlier conversation.

  “She’s flexible—aren’t you, Stace? She works from home,” Isla interjects with a smile, ignoring her husband who is growling at her. Stacie throws a glare in her direction with bulging eyes, clearly not appreciating the input, and I can’t hold back the chuckle.

  “Good to know,” seems the safest response.

  By the time I climb back behind the wheel to head over to the organic market, I have an appointment booked in my iCal and a phone number added to my contacts. I’m wearing a big grin.

  CHAPTER 4

  Stacie

  “What are you doing here?”

  I’m surprised to find Isla with baby Noah on my doorstep, as I’m heading out for my daily walk.

  This morning, Mak was actually in time to catch the bus, and I’ve already managed to get a few decent hours of work in. I want to get out for a bit before my meeting this afternoon.

  It’s tempting to just sit here at my desk all day long, but my body just gets stiff. My walks along the path by the river make for a nice break, and during the week, I hardly ever see anyone on there. Perhaps just the occasional fisherman, or once or twice a raft on the river, but overall it’s quiet.

  “I have something to show you,” Isla announces with a serious face.

  Already I’m lifting Noah from her arms as she walks past me into the house. The little guy manages to get a fistful of my hair, which is finally at a length again where I can pull it in a ponytail, and brings it to his mouth. Not that I bothered with that this morning, to Noah’s delight.

  She pulls her laptop from her messenger bag and sets it on the kitchen island, when I walk in with the baby making a wet spot on my shoulder.

  “Your son is hungry,” I tell her. “He’s starting to chomp on my shoulder.”

  “Just a minute, sweetheart,” she coos at Noah, throwing him a distracted smile before turning back to the screen. “Okay, here it is. Check it out,” she says, stepping back and taking the baby from me.

  On the screen she has pulled up some kind of graph I don’t understand.

  “What is this?” I turn to where she’s taken a seat on the couch.

  “Sales for Rebranding Beauty,” she says, Noah already happily nursing. “I check that site daily to track all my sales, and saw that this morning.”

  “This peak?” I point out a sharp incline for today’s date on the screen. “Is that since this morning?”

  “Yup. Sales are skyrocketing.”

  “What happened between last week and today?” I want to know.

  “Remember that article in the Durango Herald from last week? Apparently, it ran in a few other newspapers and this morning was picked up on USA Today. It’s all over the Internet.”

  “That’s fantastic!” I blurt out, until I see the worried look on her face. “What?”

  “They’ve added some background that was not with the original article. Ben is going to flip over this,” she sighs dramatically, as she drops her head back on the couch. “Remember how we decided to keep your name out of it?”

  A feeling of dread uncurls in my stomach. One of the stipulations I’d had in participating with the images was that I would not be listed as contributor. I may not have walked away from my years of prosecuting criminals, leaving only friends, so it had been a calculated omission to leave my name out. Also for Makenna’s protection.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “I don’t know how.”

  “How bad is it?” I ask, shaking off the shock as my fingers fly over the keyboard, pulling up the USA Today website. “Shit!”

  They apparently found an editorial image that shows me outside the doors of the Bernalillo County courthouse in Albuquerque, being interviewed after a particularly harrowing case we tried, and won. This was a few years ago, and the picture shows the top half of my body and a straight on view of my still undamaged face. Next to this picture they posted one of Isla’s images, with half my face marred. I guess for contrast?

  I don’t even need to read the explanatory writing underneath, I can take a safe guess, but my name is listed clearly and in bold.

  “Can we get them to retract?” Isla asks from behind me.

  “No. The information and picture they used was previously published. Public record. They’ve done nothing wrong, other than some quick investigative journalism to find the link. Even if we had a case, it’s all over the Internet; there’s no retracting that.”

  “I’m sorry,” Isla says again.

  “Stop.” I turn around to face her. “This is not your fault and it was a risk I took knowingly. Besides, focus on the good; look at those damn sales! Amazing.”

  I’m not sure my attempt at focusing on the positive have the desired effect on Isla. When I help her buckle Noah in the car seat half an hour later, she is still apologizing.

  “Enough of that. Go home. I have to get dressed for my appointment.” That perks up her attention.

  “Appointment? With Nick? Is that today?”

  I roll my eyes at the overt enthusiasm in her voice. She’s been my biggest cheerleader when it comes to stepping out of my comfort zone: the images, the fundraising gala. If not for her, I would probably still be sitting inside the house with the curtains drawn.

  My circle is small, so to think my sister-in-law would not clue in immediately would be wishful thinking. There is no privacy in such a small community.

  “Yes, so let me get ready,” I tell her, unable to stop the smile when I look at her widely grinning face.

  “Call me after!” she yells, as she gets in her car.

  I wait until she disappears around the corner and head back inside. My walk will have to wait for another day; it’s time to make myself presentable.

  Thirty minutes later, I’m starting to panic. I’ve pulled just about every designer outfit I own from the closet, and discarded them on the growing pile on my bed. Everything looks ridiculous on me. Especially my ultra feminine suits with pencil skirts. I can’t wear any of those without wearing my hair in a chignon, and I’m not about to do that, because it would leave my face uncovered. Already it’s not going to be a picnic to walk around Cortez, I definitely don’t want to do it drawing all kinds of attention to myself with an outfit.

  Trouble is, other than my power suits, the only other things I own are jeans, yoga pants, and a handful of summer dresses.

  I guess I could wear one of those.

  By the time I get in my SUV, wearing a long navy blue tank dress with a cropped white jean jacket, I’m already running ten minutes behind, and I hate being late.

  I know my day has gone from challenging straight into fucked when a few minutes later, just outside of town, I see flashing lights in my rearview mirror. It takes everything out of me not to cry as I obediently pull over on the shoulder.

  “Officer, I—” I start as I lower my window.

  “In a hurry?” The familiar face of Drew
Carmel, Montezuma County’s sheriff, peeks in. I’d dealt with Sheriff Carmel a few times after the explosion, and he was a nice enough man. At least I hope so, seeing as he just caught me speeding.

  “I’m sorry,” I apologize. “I’m late for an interview in Cortez. Flynn and Associates? I know I was speeding,” I quickly add. Better to lay it all on the table.

  “You were,” he says, a smirk on his face. “Is he finally talking you around?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Nick. He mentioned to me months ago he hoped to talk you into joining his firm. In fact, if I remember correctly, he told me he couldn’t wait to see you wipe the courtroom floors with me.” The sheriff chuckles, and I’m not sure if he’s amused at Nick’s expense or mine. “You probably will,” he adds, still smiling. “Nothing as intimidating as having a former prosecutor at the defense table.”

  He holds up his finger to stop my almost objection and to my surprise, pulls a cell phone from a clip on his belt and dials.

  “Yeah, Nick? I’m afraid Ms. Gustafson is going to be a few minutes late. There’s a bit of a traffic hold up just outside Dolores...No, nothing like that...Yes, she’ll be on her way shortly.” He nods at me as he tucks the phone away. “One less thing for you to worry about,” he tells me. “Now as for the speeding...”

  Minutes later I’m back on the road, with just a warning, and a much better understanding of the small-town dynamics. It looks like possibly being on opposite sides of the law at some point doesn’t create anywhere near the division it would in the big city. Prosecution and law enforcement are not often seen socializing with criminal defense lawyers, in my experience. It would be too difficult to eviscerate someone in the courtroom that you just had drinks with the night before. Not impossible, but difficult.

  “How may I help you?” The impeccably dressed, slightly older woman behind the reception desk eyes me suspiciously, but I don’t get a chance to answer.

  “Stacie?” Nick comes walking out of one of the two hallways on either side of reception. She startles at the sound of his voice, and swings around in her chair before turning back to me with renewed curiosity.

  “Hi,” I tell him. “I’m sorry I ran a bit late.”

  Late at this point is closer to half an hour, since finding parking was a bitch. The small, but tastefully decorated offices are located on the east side of town, but apparently parking here is at a premium.

  “Not a problem,” he says to me before turning to the other woman. “Hold all calls, will you? And get hold of Urquhart; tell him I won’t be able to make lunch and set something up for next week. Then call Tequila’s and reserve a booth for one o’clock? Thanks, Sheila.”

  I barely have a chance to nod at the woman before he grabs me firmly by the elbow and maneuvers me down the hall; into a spacious office with large windows, looking out on Mesa Verde in the distance.

  NICK

  “Sheila is our legal assistant,” I explain, after guiding Stacie to the small sitting area in my office, where she settles in the leather couch. I sit across from her in the single club chair, before continuing. “She basically runs the office, and probably us. She and Doug have the two other offices on this side of the building. Doug Grant is my associate. He specializes in family law, and is stuck in court all day. We also have a receptionist, who helps with some clerical work, but she called in sick this morning.” I know I’m almost rambling, but I can’t seem to help myself; I don’t want to mess this up. “Do you want coffee? Or something else?”

  “I’m fine, thanks.” She gives me a nervous little smile, and somehow that settles me down.

  “Corporate law is my area,” I explain, although I’m pretty sure she’s aware of that already. “A bit boring in comparison to criminal law, or even family law, some days.

  “Why corporate then?” she wants to know, and I have to think on that for a minute.

  “I guess when I picked a direction, I wasn’t comfortable with the amount of litigation that often comes with family, but especially criminal law.”

  “Really?” she reacts surprised. “You must know you’re charismatic; you’d make for an impressive figure in the courtroom.” The slight blush on her face is cute and I can’t hold back a grin at the compliment.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I tell her. “I probably could’ve used that ten years ago. Even at almost thirty I was a bit awkward, to say the least.”

  “That’s hard to believe.”

  “Oh, believe it. It’s amazing what laser eye surgery, a good gym, and a pair of twelve dollar clippers can do,” I confess.

  “Clippers?” she repeats, her eyebrows raised.

  I run a hand all over my bald head.

  “You didn’t think I come by this without some help, did you?”

  The resulting snicker I get from Stacie is like music to my ears. She visibly relaxes after that, and I finally get around to the reason I asked her here.

  “We only have two lawyers who practice criminal law in Cortez. One does so exclusively, and the other as part of his general law practice. Given the increase in the number of calls we receive weekly, looking for a defense attorney, I’d like to offer a third option.” I wait for a moment to see if I can gauge her reaction, but her face is pretty expressionless. Not a surprise from a lawyer who is used to sporting a poker face in the courtroom. “On the other side of reception is a second hallway that houses a washroom, a kitchen, a file room and another office with an exterior door. You’d have a quiet space to work from, close to all amenities, and you could almost slip in and out undetected.”

  “Why aren’t you in there then?” she asks, with a grin.

  “I was,” I admit, smiling back. “But I discovered I much prefer being close enough to Sheila so I can yell, instead of trying to master the intercom system on the phone,” I reveal, shrugging at my admission.

  “A Luddite,” she remarks, accurately.

  “So it would seem. I know how to use my cell phone, and after many hours of instruction, I can now work our office software and the email on my laptop, but I’m lost if even the smallest thing goes wrong. I’m not savvy. In fact, I paid someone to hook up my TV and program the remote; one look at the instruction sheet had me break out in a sweat.”

  “Something we have in common then,” she discloses, with an almost shy glance through thick lashes. “However, I have a nine-year-old daughter, who excels where I fall painfully short. And what she doesn’t know, she Googles. She has no fear, unlike her mother.”

  Part of me wants to disagree with that statement; Stacie is probably one of the most courageous people I know. I’d like to know more about her. I’d also dig a little deeper into the existence of her daughter and what role, if any, her father plays in her life, but decide against it. For now, at least. Last thing I want to do is come off as too interested or invasive. Too obsessed—even if I am.

  “So what are your thoughts?” I ask instead.

  “I have a commitment to a trial lawyer in Denver, I’m doing some research for from home.”

  “Is that ongoing or on a per case basis?” I inquire.

  “Per case. When I took it a few months back, I wasn’t ready to commit to anything.”

  “And now?” I jump right on that comment, making her smile.

  “I might be ready,” she says, and there’s no way I can hide the shit-eating grin.

  I WIPE MY FINGERS AND my mouth with my napkin after devouring my last tamale, and find Stacie staring at me with an amused look on her face.

  “Did I miss a spot?” I ask, doing a second swipe just to make sure.

  “No, I’m just amazed at how fast you downed those things.”

  I’m happy to see her so much more relaxed.

  It had been touch and go when I told her those reservations I had Sheila make were intended for us. I’d just finished showing her the facilities, and the empty office, when she mentioned needing a few days to think about the logistics. She was preparing to leave when I mentioned going
across the road to Tequila’s. I think maybe the mention of their tamales was what swayed her to come.

  “I was hungry,” I tell her by way of explanation.

  “Clearly,” she deadpans, grinning as she takes a bite of her own.

  I could tell when we walked in she was uncomfortable, keeping her head down and her hair covering her face. I thought she might, which is why I had Sheila ask for a booth. She shot me a grateful look when I offered her the left side of the booth. That way her scars would be facing the wall.

  “So you’re willing to give it a shot?” I ask, sitting back in the booth and watching her finish her own meal. “Six-month trial period. Three days a week to start, giving you some time to adjust. And just to clarify, I understand you have to honor your commitment to this case you’re working on, and that’s fine.”

  “Six-month trial, where either one can walk away without question?” she inquires.

  “Of course,” I say easily, lying.

  I have no intention of letting her go.

  CHAPTER 5

  Stacie

  “Can Becca stay for a bit, Mom?”

  Mak doesn’t waste any time when she gets off the school bus and comes charging toward me. No hi or hello, but straight to the point.

  I’ve dreaded this moment, where she’d ask to bring home a friend after school. Mostly I’ve dreaded the parents. Kids can be quite pragmatic and will either ask straight up, or they will quickly accept something as normal, especially at this age. It’s the parents who will tell their kids it’s rude to stare or to ask questions, when it’s their own silent judgment that is most insulting.

  I look at the little redheaded girl with glasses, who got off right behind my daughter. She’s a skinny little thing and looks about ready to bolt. My Mak has a rather powerful and strong-willed personality, and easily bulldozes over other kids her age. Not that she does so maliciously; she’s not a bully. On the contrary, she’s the collector of lost souls, my Mak is. Find her a kid who’s shy, is picked on, or is treated like a misfit, and she’ll show you her new best friend.