The Night We Met

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  I longed for the days when I was in control of every bite the kid put in his mouth and knew every single time he went to the bathroom.

  The summer of '94 brought another challenge my way. I was in the common room at the shelter, supervising a man who was installing a more intricate security system—one that would go off at the first sign of movement anywhere near the windows—when the front door opened. The security man and I were the

  only two people in the room. Our current residents were all having lunch.

  A woman wearing sunglasses peeked inside but didn't enter.

  "Come in," I said to her, leaving the technician to his job. I opened the door farther.

  She looked over her shoulder, then quickly stepped inside, moving out of view of the still-open door.

  She was a pretty woman—in her early thirties, I guessed, and probably Hispanic. She was also, in midsummer, wearing a long-sleeved turtleneck shirt with a pair of lightweight cotton slacks.

  "I've only got a minute," she said, speaking perfect English. "My sons are playing T-ball and I don't want to leave them for long."

  "What can we do for you?"

  I had two counselors on staff that day. And a housemother who, just at the moment, was having her lunch.

  The woman shrugged, her sunglasses stil perched on the bridge of her nose. "I heard about this place last week and I've been thinking about it ever since. I wanted to stop by."

  Our address wasn't common knowledge. It had to be that way to protect those we served. Usually women found us via referrals—through a hospital emergency room, more often than not. Or the police station when doctors reported suspected abuse.

  "I'm Eliza Grady," I said, holding out a hand.

  "Nice to meet you." The woman took my hand, gave it a steady shake. I thought the top of her hand was bruised, but couldn't tel for sure. She didn't tel me her name. She was looking around and I couldn't tell if she liked what she saw or not.

  I just knew she'd been led to me and I wanted to help her.

  If I could.

  "Would you like to come to my office?"

  "Maybe for a minute."

  I ushered her to the small room that served as my office before she could change her mind. Offered her a cup of coffee, which she refused. She was slim, a bit tal er than my five foot five.

  "This is a private facility and I'm the owner." I said the words that came to me. "There are professionals on staff who can assist you with just about any problem you might have. There's no charge for our services, but we do ask for donations if you're ever in a position to help us."

  The woman's nod was jerky. But she said nothing, and, by her own admission, we had little time.

  "Would you like me to get one of the counselors to speak with you?"

  "No." Wringing her hands, she raised her head. And then removed her sunglasses. As I'd suspected, they'd been hiding a black eye. The fist-size bruise was stil blood-red in parts. This wasn't an old injury.

  "Who did that to you?"

  "Doesn't matter."

  "Of course it matters."

  "Listen, I don't think you can help me. I don't think anyone can, but...um...I was wondering if I could tell you some things—confidentially—just in case...."

  "Of course. Whatever you say won't leave this room. Unless you authorize me to take it elsewhere."

  She nodded. Glanced at her watch and frowned. "My youngest guy is only four. He gets upset if I'm away from him for very long."

  I smiled, remembering when my own sons were little.

  "My name is Maria. My husband's name is Robert. We've been living in the States for seven years.

  Robert's a mechanic and has been at the same job ever since we came here. He makes good money. And.. .I'm pregnant."

  I nodded. Waiting. That perfect little story wouldn't have brought her to me. It also didn't explain the bruises I could see—or the ones I couldn't but suspected were there. Ninety-degree weather didn't usually cal for long-sleeved shirts.

  "Robert came here with the help of his older brother. That's how he got his green card. Juan runs guns. And probably drugs, too. Because it's his brother, Robert sometimes helps him."

  "Did Juan give you those bruises?"

  She seemed about ready to nod, but at the last second shook her. head. "Robert did that." The words were bitter. "He doesn't get mad often, but when he does, he's got a horrible temper."

  I sat forward, possible solutions already tumbling through my mind. "How long has he been hitting you?"

  "About five years."

  A few years ago that might have shocked me.

  "I'm used to it." She winced as she shrugged. "But last night, he threatened to hit our oldest boy."

  I swallowed. Maintained calm when my stomach was roiling.

  "We have a room available right now," I told her. "It's got a twin and a set of bunk beds. You and your sons are welcome to it."

  For a moment it seemed as though hope passed through her expression. Then her face fel .

  "Robert and I are not legal y married," she said. "I mean, to us, we're husband and wife, but technically we aren't."

  "That should make it easier for you to get away from him."

  She shook her head, and I decided to let her finish before I said another word.

  "You don't understand," she said. "Robert is here legally. I'm not. He's the father of American-born children. He's got a job—an income. I do not. If I leave, he'll get the kids and I'l get deported."

  I was out of my league.

  But a name came instantly to mind.

  "I know someone who might be able to help," I told her. "If you'll give me your permission to talk to this person—no names, I promise—and then come back here tomorrow, I'll see if there's anything we can do."

  "I don't have any money."

  "I understand that." That was a concern I could handle for her. "It won't cost you anything." Maria stood. "You promise no names?" I did. And with a tentative smile, accompanied by a frightened nod, she hurried away.

  Chapter 17

  As soon as Maria left, I tried to call Nate. Her story had left me shaken. I was desperately afraid I wouldn't be able to help her. I needed his reassurance— and advice.

  He didn't pick up.

  I didn't have any time to waste.

  I looked up a number, dialed and waited, hoping that I was doing the right thing.

  "Roger Kempton, please," I said to the receptionist who answered.

  "May I tell him who's calling?"

  "Eliza Grady."

  "One moment, please."

  I was sure she'd come back and ask to take a message. Roger had much bigger fish to fry than me.

  A high- powered defense attorney and partner at one of the most prestigious firms in Boulder, he couldn't be expected to give priority to philanthropic activities.

  "Eliza? Good to hear from you! Everything okay?"

  I heaved a smal sigh of relief. He'd taken my call. "Yes, of course, Roger. How are you?"

  "Fine. Busy as usual. What's up?"

  I explained my predicament. Apologized for cal ing on him like this, and asked if he had any advice I could give the woman. Knew of anyplace I could send her for legal counsel.

  "I'l need to meet with her before I can give you any answers," he final y said. "I'm just looking at my calendar. Could we meet someplace outside the city the day after tomorrow? Around noon?"

  "I don't know, but I'd guess so. This guy works during the day. She'd probably have to bring her kids."

  "That's not a problem. I'd like you to be there, Eliza. She'l feel more comfortable."

  "Roger, I never intended you to take this on yourself. You already give some of your very valuable time to the shelter."

  "I want to do it." His voice was quiet. Serious. So I didn't question him further. "But be warned, I might not get anywhere with this."

  I'd expected that.

  "There are a lot of questions here and I'll need to research case law, but I
should get some specifics from her first."

  "What are her chances? Do you have any idea?"

  "I honestly don't know, Eliza." Every time he said my name, his voice was warm, almost like a caress. I'd never noticed that before. But then, I was pretty susceptible today. I was probably imagining things. "I'l get one of my clerks to do some case research. I can only promise you I'l do anything I can...."

  At that moment, I could've hugged him.

  I had the same thought two days later when—after he'd spent half an hour putting Maria at ease—

  he'd agreed to help her. Gratis. The first step was to move her from her trailer outside town to the shelter.

  I asked Nate to help with that and he readily agreed. Keith came, too, and I was glad to have my husky son shadowing the slim woman as she moved quickly about her home, gathering essentials and a few of her children's favorite toys. Within an hour, we had Maria and her two boys safely ensconced in my last available room.

  Roger called the next day. And the next. There were some things he wanted to discuss with me before he spoke to Maria, he said, asking if I could meet him for a cup of coffee midafternoon. I did.

  Without hesitation.

  He was waiting for me at a coffeeshop near the campus. Because it was summer, the place was nearly deserted. He'd chosen a booth in the far back corner.

  I would've thought one of the tables more appropriate, but was so thankful for his help, I didn't question his choice.

  "Slide in over here," he said, moving next to the wall and patting the bench beside him. "I have a contract to show you."

  Seeing the tiny print on the long form, I sat down as he asked, careful to keep a distance between us.

  Or as much of one as I could.

  He put the contract down, sliding closer to me as he did so.

  And I remembered his voice saying my name the other day. His willingness to help a woman he'd never met, without any hope of reimbursement.

  I thought of Nate, with his graying hair, life-weathered face and agile body. He was busy at the resort, probably in the middle of an afternoon climb with a group of rowdy boys.

  "This is an immigration contract," Roger said. And spent the next few minutes going over the concerns it raised. All things he could've told me over the phone.

  None of which needed to be discussed with me before he talked to Maria. Or at all.

  When he crossed his arm over mine while pointing out a particular phrase, grazing my breast with his elbow, I didn't know what to do.

  I liked Roger. He'd been volunteering one morning a month since the beginning of my legal aid program. He was bril iant. Funny. Extremely good-looking. And ten years younger than me.

  I was forty-five years old—and flattered.

  * * *

  "How was your day?" Nate asked, coming into the kitchen after work that night. He'd left Beth at the resort for the evening ice-cream social. She was spending the night with Keith. "Fine." I meant to tell him about my meeting with Roger. But didn't get around to it. I poured us each a glass of wine instead.

  "Play for me?" I asked as soon as we'd finished the salad and French bread I'd prepared for dinner. •

  "I'd rather play with you," my handsome husband said, snagging my arm as I walked by him. He slid his hands down my sides, to rest on my hips, pul ing my pelvis against his. "We've got the whole night to ourselves."

  I did love him. So much. With more vigor than I felt, I pressed my lips to his. And for the next few hours forced myself to focus solely on him.

  Two days later Roger asked me to meet him for lunch in his office. He was getting ready to go to trial on a convoluted case and could only spare his lunch hour. He ordered in for us.

  "Here's the deal," he said, every inch the professional as he sat behind a big cherrywood desk, with his impeccably knotted tie and crisp white shirt. "Because of the full faith and credit clause, if she and Robert have presented themselves as married for the past seven years in the state of Colorado, she is legally married. By common law. We're checking a little further on that.

  It depends partially on whether or not an il egal immigrant can have a legal address in this state. The bigger concern is the criminal activity. If she agrees to testify against the brother, she won't be charged as a conspirator. But then there's the issue of criminal neglect of her children. I might not be able to make that go away. It looks like the best I can do, assuming all the other issues work out to her benefit, would be to go for a lesser charge regarding the kids. She'd get probation. And probably have a guardian at litem assigned to them."

  He'd been holding my gaze the entire time he was talking.

  "Does that mean she'd get to keep them? Under supervision?"

  "Most likely."

  "But she'd have to testify."

  "As far as I can see, it's the only way out. She knowingly stayed, witnessed criminal activity without reporting it. According to what she said the other day, this isn't a one-time thing she can come forward about. It's been going on since they came to the United States."

  He was sitting behind his desk, but it still felt as though he was touching me, as intimately as he had in the coffeeshop. It certainly was overt, and yet...

  "Won't they come after her?" It had to be my imagination. Roger didn't want me. I was merely experiencing the first signs of midlife crisis.

  "Not if they're in jail."

  "But what if they get off?"

  He lifted his hands, let them drop. "We'l ask for protection. There aren't any guarantees."

  "What are the chances they'll be convicted?"

  "Without al the facts, I couldn't say. But from what I've seen so far, I'd guess pretty good."

  Pushing away from his desk, he stood. Moved to a half-size refrigerator across the room and took out a bag.

  "I hope you like croissants," he said. "There's a shop around the corner that makes the best chicken salad I've ever had."

  He pul ed out the sandwiches in their plastic containers and set them on the coffee table in front of the couch before reaching back in for two cans of soda. Popping the tops, he set those down, too, added napkins and patted the seat beside him.

  I knew what that meant. Stared at the couch. Caught him watching me. And because I didn't have any idea what else to do, I went and sat there. I might be the owner of a battered women's shelter and co-owner of a ski resort, the mother of three children and a wife of almost twenty-six years, but at that moment I felt like a schoolgirl planning to enter the convent.

  I wanted Roger's help. Maria had been sent to me. Through me, Roger would help her.

  I wanted to feel young and attractive and desirable. What woman in her forties didn't?

  I wanted to be admired by a man who wasn't a generation older than I was.

  "You're a very beautiful woman, Eliza."

  We'd finished our sandwiches. I was gathering the trash, preparing to throw it away.

  "Thank you."

  "You have to know I admire you."

  Crushing the paper napkins, I half smiled at him. "I admire you, too."

  He shifted, perhaps with no hidden agenda. His knee was now touching the outside of my thigh.

  "Can I be honest with you?"

  I couldn't look at him, but my hands were still clutching the napkins. "Of course."

  "I want you, Eliza. I've been thinking about you for months. You keep popping into my head at the oddest moments. While I'm arguing a case in court, driving on the freeway or, here's a good one, out to dinner with another woman."

  A little thril passed through me. I had that much appeal?

  "I don't know what to say."

  He took my hand. Pried my fingers apart and pul ed away the napkins, dropping them on the table.

  With his fingers he caressed my palms. "Relax."

  "I don't think I can do that right now," I whispered.

  "Say you'll see me again. Just you and me. No business. Let's go where it takes us."

  I gave his suggestion a tho
ught. One. And, extricating my hands, I shook my head and stood.

  "I can't tell you how it makes me feel to have someone as successful and good-looking and—" I paused, even smiled "—young as you saying these things about me. But, Roger, I am so much in love with my husband I could never, ever think of another man in that way."

  Roger, to his credit, bowed out gracefully.

  I went straight to the resort. To Nate. And found him coming down the walk with Beth at his side. "We were just going home," he said.

  "I have a stomachache." Beth's voice was weak. Whiny. She was pale, too.

  "What did you have for lunch?"

  "Too much chocolate cake," Nate said, his arm around our daughter as he continued toward his car.

  I dug my keys out of my purse. "I'll meet you at the house."

  "Can I ride with you?"

  My heart seemed to melt as my little girl looked at me with such need. There were times when a mom still got to be a mom.

  "Of course. You can he down when we get home. How about if I read to you? The next chapter in Jane Eyre."

  "That would be good, Mommy."

  I agreed with my daughter. I'd made a good choice.

  Several of them that day.

  Even if I was the only one who knew it.

  * * *

  "You never told me why you showed up at the resort today." Nate came back to the living room after carrying a sleeping Beth from the couch to her bed. She'd thrown up twice, but then been ravenous an hour later. I let her have a bowl of chicken soup and some crackers while I read to her. If she kept them down al night, she could have whatever she wanted in the morning.

  Within reason.

  I'd changed from the business suit I'd worn that day into a pair of shorts and a tank top. Nate was still in the shorts and polo shirt he'd worn home from work.

  "It was nothing," I said, noticing the lines at his mouth and around his eyes. It had been selfish of me to run to him. To bother him with something I'd already taken care of.

  He sat down beside me, giving me the look that made me feel as though I were under a microscope.