by Lynn LaFleur
Several inches of fresh snow had piled up on the walkway. More was expected before dawn. Flakes fell in slow, steady, mesmerizing silence. He didn’t know how long he’d sat there, his mind blank except for the pain in his stomach and the burning at the back of his eyes. He looked at the pine branches now bowed with snow. He should move from under them. At any time, a branch could break.
He didn’t care if every branch broke and buried him in snow.
He looked back at Mary Beth’s doorway and that’s when he saw movement. He blinked to clear his vision. The snow was moving, not swirling. Hell, there was barely any wind. The snowflakes fell in a straight line.
When he looked again, his stomach lurched. Not swirling snow, but a couple of the kittens. How did Mary Beth leave without taking a head count?
He saw the little lumps huddled together, with only a small piece of the walkway’s overhang shielding them. Reacting rather than thinking, he kicked back the stand and headed down the hill.
By the time he reached them, the lumps had stopped moving. From inside the house, he heard the caterwaul of a mother cat who knew her little ones were in danger.
“Don’t worry,” he shouted at the door, knowing that somehow she’d understand. “They’re going to be okay.”
Frantic scratching met his assurances.
He picked up the two little kittens. He felt their weak heartbeats and knew they were still alive. He looked around. Mary Beth had given him a key that morning, but he’d left it in his jeans. He’d stopped in the cabin only long enough to grab his leather jacket and the keys to his bike.
Rico brushed the snow off the kittens, unzipped his jacket and tucked them inside. He shivered when their freezing-wet fur soaked through his shirt right to his skin. In a few minutes, his body heat would warm them. That trumped the chill he felt now.
He looked around again. Mary Beth’s car was gone, the garage locked. She always threw the deadbolts on the doors, and the wooden shutters closed from the inside so she could open them on a sunny day without climbing through snow drifts.
He knew he had to do something with the kittens. They’d slip out of his jacket if he tried to take them back to his cabin at the café. Besides, if he took them home, he’d have to see Mary Beth when she came to get them. He shook his head. Ain’t gonna happen.
With his hand pressed against the front of his jacket to secure the kittens in place, he walked around the house. He tried every door and window, even the sliding glass door Mary Beth left open when she was home. Nothing. Then he walked around to the side again, the one that faced the summit and stood on pier and beam. The window to the bath in Mary Beth’s bedroom, ten feet above him, was open a crack.
He glanced over his shoulder. No ladders, nothing to stand on, and he couldn’t jump ten feet straight up.
Several pines grew close enough to climb. From there he could swing onto the roof. How stupid was that? The house had a metal roof that was slicker now than the highways. Besides, he couldn’t climb a tree or swing like Tarzan while he held a couple of cats inside his jacket.
He walked back to his bike and removed the metal flashlight from the small storage compartment behind his seat. He’d soon know if it was sturdy enough to break a hole in the sliding glass door. He’d shove the kittens through and take off.
As if the rest of Mary Beth’s feline family read his mind, they stood waiting at the sliding glass door, lined up like choirboys. He had to whack the safety glass several times before it broke. When it did, a large chunk popped, sending shards inside the house and out. He swore loudly, reached through the hole and opened the latch.
While he swung the flashlight, the kittens dug their claws into his stomach and started wailing in squeaky voices. He couldn’t tear his jacket open quickly enough. Once free, they shook their tails indignantly and ran. The rest of the herd followed. “You’re welcome,” he called after them.
Rico rubbed the sting they’d left with their claws, then tucked the flashlight in his waistband and looked around at the mess he’d made. Even if they were cats, he didn’t want them to cut their little paws on the glass. Muttering in Italian, he walked to the kitchen and grabbed the broom and dustpan. He’d clean up the mess, and then he was out of there for sure.
He stepped on some of the glass and drove it into the carpet. It took longer to free the shards than he thought it would. He also thought he remembered Mary Beth saying the doors were alarmed. He glanced back at the snow steadily falling. He doubted a SWAT team was headed his way.
In the kitchen, he dumped shattered glass in the wastebasket and hung the broom on its hook. Yeah, he’d left his fingerprints on the broom handle and dustpan, but so what? He didn’t plan to take anything, and how likely would she report the breakin, let alone inspire the cops to dust the broom for prints? That only happened on TV.
At the sink he washed his hands, dried them on some paper towels, then took a bottle of water from the fridge. He’d been working since four thirty this morning and could barely think straight. He pulled out a chair and stretched his legs.
Mary Beth had left the newspaper on the table. An article caught his attention on the open page. A man who owned a fishing camp in Alaska was offering a deal that seemed too good to be true. The article was in the middle of the page, not in a corner that could be torn off and not missed.
He turned the page. On the backside, Mary Beth had started to work the crossword puzzle. Shit! Reluctantly he pushed himself to his feet and out of the chair. He opened all the drawers and cupboards. No scissors.
He walked to her desk. She kept pencils, pens and sticky notes but no scissors there either. He glanced around the kitchen. She wouldn’t store scissors in the fridge or the oven, so he headed for her bedroom.
Nothing on the dresser top. He opened a drawer—some jewelry, a letter opener, a couple of envelopes, but no scissors. He pushed the envelopes aside. Under them, he found a small, polished wooden box. When he lifted the lid, he saw an expensive-looking fountain pen and pencil set, probably a gift she received when she graduated from college or passed the bar. He picked up the box and examined the pen and pencil more closely. They didn’t look like they’d ever been used. He closed the lid and started to put them back when he saw the corner of an envelope tucked under a tablet. He wouldn’t have looked twice, except he recognized the return address: 100 Fifth Avenue, 3rd Floor, New York NY.
He sucked in a breath. A chill settled over him. He’d sent dozens of letters to that address before he received the first response. He’d never forget it.
With his fingertip, he pushed the tablet aside and lifted the envelope. It was addressed to Mary Beth and postmarked almost a year ago.
She’d slit the top of the envelope. His hands shook as he spread the envelope’s sides and pulled out the letter.
Dear M.B.,
Hope life is treating you well out there in God’s Country. Manhattan’s still the jungle it always was, but you know me, I keep sticking with the gal I brought to the dance.
For once, I’m sending happy news. For three years you drove us all crazy pleading your case for Rico Anthony Zanini. I think we finally agreed to take it just to get you off our backs.
Turns out you were one hundred percent correct. Two months ago, we received the info we’d been hoping for—to a 2,000,000,000-to-1 certainty, the blood and semen found on and inside Ms. Pia Marie Sarantella did not belong to Rico Zanini. He and Ms. Sarantella’s attacker had the same blood type, B Negative, and that’s where the similarities end. Apparently, Forensics cut corners and Rico’s attorney never bothered to pursue it once Sarantella identified him as her attacker.
Since June, we’ve been firing on all cylinders trying to wrap up Rico’s case. I’ll spare you the details. You interned here long enough to know all the steps and time it takes to make this happen.
It’s my pleasure to inform you that one week from today, we’ll be going before a judge who will commute Rico’s sentence and release him. We’re petitioning
for a full pardon, and that they expunge his record.
I know you asked us never to identify you, but this man owes you a huge debt of gratitude. I’m sure he’d like to thank you personally. If not for you, he would have spent the next thirty years in prison.
We can’t give Rico Zanini back the ten years he lost, but we can give him back his future.
If there’s any chance you can arrange your schedule…
From there the letter continued with the time and date of his hearing. Rico recognized the signature in spite of the author’s illegible scrawl. The lead attorney on his case, the man who’d worked miracles in his behalf.
Rico’s knees grew weak. He stumbled back and sat down heavily on Mary Beth’s bed. Tony had convinced him he’d been the one to urge The Innocence Project to take his case. Tony had lied to him. Mary Beth, the woman he’d set out to punish, to seek revenge against—she’d been the one to set him free.
Suddenly ten years of anger and hatred poured out of Rico, along with tears he should have shed long ago. His whole body shook, and a keening sound he didn’t recognize came with it. “Oh my god,” he cried, “oh my god.”
He flopped back on her bed, covered his face with his arms and sobbed.
Chapter Seventeen
Over Synda and Leandra’s protests, Mary Beth raced out of the kitchen. “It’s Rico,” she cried over her shoulder. “He’s the one who broke into my house.”
“How do you know that?” Leandra shouted after her.
Synda grabbed her parka and threw it over her shoulders. “Don’t worry, Lea. No way in hell I’m letting M.B. out of the car ‘til Tom gets there.”
Even in the snow, Synda drove like a maniac. Leandra cursed all the way, but managed to keep up and pulled in behind them only a few seconds later.
They parked the two vehicles fifty yards from the house, hidden by a stand of pines. Somehow Synda had convinced M.B. to stay put. Leandra guessed she used the child safety locks to keep M.B. inside.
Not five minutes later, Tom pulled up alongside them, siren wailing, lights flashing. He jumped out of his county-issued four-wheel drive and walked over to Mary Beth’s car.
Leandra stood outside, shivering.
Synda rolled the window down a few inches.
“You stay right here,” he told them. “That’s an order. Even if it is Rico, we still don’t know what he’s up to. He could be armed. I don’t want anyone getting hurt.”
Leandra knew when to argue and when to stay quiet. Especially since Tom had unbuckled his holster and had his fingers wrapped around the handle of his gun.
He held out his hand to Mary Beth. “Gimme your keys. No sense in breaking down the door.”
Mary Beth passed them to Synda, who handed them to Tom.
“I’m going to look around first. Don’t move.” He turned to Leandra. “Get in with them.”
“But—”
“I don’t tell you how to read cards, don’t tell me how to do my job.”
Synda released the safety lock. Leandra climbed into the backseat.
“If you see Rico, slouch down in the seat.”
“Tom, for pity sake, he’s not going to hu—”
He pointed his finger and silenced her with a look.
“Be careful.”
He drew his weapon and starting walking cautiously toward the house.
The minutes dragged by. Leandra kept checking her watch. After five that seemed like fifteen, she inched opened the door and climbed out.
“Where are you going?” Synda cried in a harsh whisper.
“Shhh.”
“What’s Tom doing?”
“Probably looking for evidence of a breakin.”
Mary Beth had dried her tears, harnessed her hair with a scrunchie, and gone into attorney mode. “I gave Rico a key this morning. He didn’t have to break in.”
“Maybe he lost it,” Leandra suggested.
“Maybe that’s not Rico inside.”
“Synda, don’t say that.”
“It could be a real burglar.”
“That’s a pleasant thought.”
“Maybe not,” Mary Beth said. “Look.”
They looked where Mary Beth pointed. The back door opened. Tom, with his gun holstered, waved his arms, all clear.
Mary Beth threw open the door and ran as if hounds nipped at her heels. She slipped and slid, but managed to reach Tom’s side before Synda and Leandra made it halfway.
Tom put his hand on her shoulder and said something. It looked to Leandra like Mary Beth pushed him aside and hurried inside.
When Leandra and Synda caught up to Tom, he blocked their way.
“Is it…?” Leandra started.
He nodded. “It’s Rico.”
“Is he okay?”
“His pride’s a little busted up. Other than that he’s fine.”
Leandra released the breath she’d been holding. “Thank goodness.” She moved close to Tom, who opened his arms to her. She slid inside and hugged him. “Thank you.”
Synda seconded that with a thumbs-up.
*
“Rico’s in your room,” Tom had said to her.
“He’s okay, isn’t he?”
“He’s not armed, and he’s not hurt.”
Mary Beth had never fainted in her life. Spots popped out in front of her eyes, her legs felt like she walked on sponges, and if she hadn’t braced herself on the wall of the covered walkway, her knees might have buckled.
“Don’t go all girly on me.” Tom squeezed her shoulder.
She shook him off. “You’re sure he’s okay?”
“Physically, yes.” Tom looked up at the falling snow. “He’s pretty upset, M.B. He needs to see you.”
Mary Beth took off running and barely heard Tom say, “We’ll be out here building a snowman. Shout if you need us.”
Rico heard footsteps. Light steps, not Tom’s. Mary Beth.
He glanced at his reflection in the mirror above her dresser, grimaced and looked away. No wonder she preferred Marty Trinidad. At least he didn’t sit around feeling sorry for himself and crying like a baby.
Rico watched the doorway. His heart jumped when she stopped short of entering the room. They looked at each without saying anything. Mary Beth opened her mouth, then clamped her lips shut. He looked down at his hands.
A moment later, she crossed the room and sat down beside him.
“Hey,” he muttered, unable to look at her.
She reached for his hand. That’s when she saw the letter. She stiffened. He’d been riffling through her things. “How did you find this?”
“I was looking for scissors.”
She shook her head. Surely she hadn’t heard right. “You broke into my house because you wanted a pair of scissors?” She snatched the envelope away from him. “Tom could arrest you for tampering with the U.S. mail.”
Rico almost smiled. Not a huge smile, a little upward turn of his lips. “A good attorney would know that’s a federal offense. Not his jurisdiction.”
She didn’t smile back. “Answer my question, Rico. Why did you break into my house?”
He gestured backward with his thumb. “Because of them.”
She whirled around. Two kittens slept curled around each other on her pillow. “What? I don’t understand.”
“You forgot to do a head count when you left to meet your…” He stopped. “To go to the party.”
“What?”
“They were outside, buried in the snow. Check the door, Mary Beth. The other cats almost scratched through it. I picked up the kittens, dusted them off and tucked them in my jacket. Your doors and windows were locked. I had to break in.”
Mary Beth dropped her hands in her lap, the letter between her palms. She locked gazes with Rico. So many things, so many questions, so many emotions raced around inside her, she didn’t know where to begin.
He squirmed under her gaze. “What? Do I have piece of lettuce in my hair?”
In answer, she folded h
er arms across her chest. “Let me get this straight. You, Rico Zanini, hater of cats, rescued two little freezing kittens?”
“I swear. Look.” He opened his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. The kittens had scratched him in a dozen places. “I couldn’t let them freeze to death.”
Exasperated, Mary Beth shook her head and reached for his hand. “Rico, what am I going to do with you?”
He narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean?” Then his gaze fell on her left hand, her ringless left hand. “What does that mean?”
“It means exactly what you think it means. Marty pulled his little stunt without my knowledge or my consent. I’ve told you a dozen times, he’s my client and a friend. Apparently I hadn’t told him that often enough.”
“You mean you’re not going to…”
“Marry a man I don’t love?”
“Yes.”
“Instead of telling the man I do love that it took someone doing something as silly as Marty did to make me realize that man was my soul mate?”
Rico seemed dumbfounded. “You’re talking about me?”
“I’m not talking about George Clooney!” She raised the letter and waved it like a flag. “I screwed up at your trial. This was the only way I could make it up to you. I made the guys at The Project promise they’d keep my secret. I never thought I’d see you again, that you’d never have to know.”
He grimaced. “And I kept telling you it was Tony.”
“He knows the truth. No one can hurt you anymore.”
Neither spoke for several moments.
“Mary Beth, I love you.”
“I know that,” she whispered.
“Is there any chance for us?”
“We’re soul mates, Rico. Stubborn, pigheaded, impulsive soul mates. It’s not going to be easy, but I’m willing to try if you are.” She brushed his lips with a quick kiss. “Let me tell Tom and the gals that everything’s okay, then we’ll talk.”
*
Kindling and oak crackled in the grate, candles lit the room, and Mary Beth, who hadn’t felt so free in years, rolled to her back. She was naked beneath the covers. Rico stood beside the bed. He was naked too, and aroused as he’d been every night in her dreams.
