“You ever tell him that?”
She fell silent, while Mac finished with the dishes.
“Mac’s here!” Luis banged in the door, already swinging his backpack off his bony shoulder. “Are the horses OK?”
“They’re fine,” Mac said.
Sid got to her feet and hugged the boy.
“What’s that for?” Luis asked.
“Because you’re fine too.” She messed his hair with one hand. “Mighty fine. You want a grilled cheese? MacKenzie’s making his secret recipe.”
“Sure, make it two. We’re doing spring track in gym.” He disappeared up the steps, and Mac started getting out all the sandwich fixings he’d just put away.
“Get over here,” he said, “and I’ll show you the secret recipe, or today’s version. The result varies with the supplies on hand and my mood.”
“A caveman of moods.” Sid put her mug in the sink and stood right beside him, close enough that he could catch the clean scent of her shampoo.
“You should be going for whole, multigrain bread. More fiber, a bigger dose of phytochemicals, and less gluten.”
“Another caveman lecture.” She leaned her cheek against his shoulder, and everything inside Mac turned up happy, savoring the contact she’d initiated. “I thought the average caveman only lived about thirty-five years.”
“If he’d been relegated to eating the junk we eat, the race would have died out,” Mac growled. The cheese slicer caught, and he about shredded the entire brick of cheddar on his next pass.
Sid was still leaning against him, her expression wistful, and twice in the past five minutes, she’d addressed him not as Mr. Knightley, or Knightley, but as MacKenzie.
When was the last time somebody had addressed him by the name his parents had given him? When was the last time Mac’s insides had turned up happy, all at once, and all over the simple act of a lady leaning on his shoulder?
* * *
Sid sat on the porch swing, watching, while out in the pasture, Luis hefted a bag of plastic things that kept the electric fence wire from shorting out on the fence posts.
Insulators. Seemed there was science to everything, and as MacKenzie Knightley explained something to Luis, the boy leaned in, examining an object in Mac’s hand. The horses had come to inspect, and stood a few yards off, lipping grass and occasionally looking up to see what Mac and Luis were up to.
The peace of the scene seeped into Sid’s bones. A pretty day, warm in the sun, the green hills and fields coming to life all around, the beasts at pasture. She would not have chosen this variety of therapy, but the simple beauty of the surroundings put her tantrum over the raccoon in perspective.
The raccoon was not an adult human with AIDS. Not her brother, in any but the most metaphysical sense, and MacKenzie had done what Sid didn’t know enough to do for the animal.
But God in heaven, what if she’d picked the raccoon up, with some vague notion of getting it to a vet, extended a hand for it to bite and scratch? Where would Luis be then?
MacKenzie Knightley had taken off his shirt. He slid an arm through a roll of wire, and hefted it up to his shoulder to walk along the fence line, playing out line as he moved.
Holy everlasting…God. Shoeing horses must put the muscles on a man like no gym routine ever could. He was male beauty on a grand scale, striding along in his jeans and boots, while his back, arms, and shoulders were a visual symphony of strength and competence.
Sid shamelessly ogled and wallowed in the sight of him. Had she ever seen a man who looked that genuinely good with his shirt off? Tony and Thor had had plenty of well-turned-out friends, guys who worked out regularly and took a lot of pride in their appearance and health. Tony had too, at least up until…
Seeing a guy that healthy restored some cheer to Sid. People died of AIDS and even worse ailments every day, but there were also guys—there was at least one guy— in blooming, natural good health.
And that guy was right here on her farm. Those arms had scooped her up as easily as if she were a sack of feed, had held her as securely as if she were precious to him.
The sound of wheels coming up the driveway cut off those oddly gratifying thoughts. A white compact with state plates made an awkward job of negotiating the bumps and ruts of the lane.
Mac and Luis looked up too, and Mac snagged his shirt off a fence post and shrugged back into it.
Social workers never did have much of a sense of timing.
A trim, petite young woman got out of the car, her hair cut in a no-nonsense bob, sensible shoes on her feet. Under a jacket, a denim jumper showed that made her look about fourteen years old. If she was trying to look nonthreatening, the electronic notepad she cradled against her left side ruined the effect completely.
“Mrs. Lindstrom? I’m Amy Snyder.”
She stuck out a hand, and Sid shook it, noting from the corner of her eye that Mac and Luis were climbing over the fence.
“Nice to meet you, Amy. Luis is joining us. He’ll be relieved you’ve come to visit.”
“I didn’t review his medical chart. Is he medicated for anxiety?”
The question took Sid aback, but she tried to hide her reaction. “He functions well, but he suffers the normal anxiety of a kid whose future is in the hands of strangers. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“No, thank you.” Already the idiot woman was making a note on her pad.
“Hi, Luis!” She extended her hand again. “I’m Amy Snyder, your caseworker from Damson County DSS. How are you?”
“Hello.” Luis took off a leather glove and shook the lady’s hand. “We were just stringing some electric fence for the horses. Do you know when my hearing will be?”
Ms. Snyder retrieved her hand, and eyed Mac up and down. “I don’t believe I know this gentleman, though I have to say, you look familiar, sir.”
“MacKenzie,” he said, taking the proffered hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m a neighbor to Sid and Luis, and they’re boarding my horses for me.”
“Do you want to meet the horses?” Luis asked. Sid gave him points for patience, because Ms. Snyder hadn’t answered his question about the hearing.
“Perhaps another time. If we might get the house tour out of the way, that would be helpful.”
“I’ll put away the fence tools,” Mac said, nodding at the woman in parting.
“And, Luis,” Ms. Snyder said, “I’ll just take your picture out here where we have good light.” She fished a camera out of her shoulder bag, and Luis stood, his expression impassive, while he was subjected to the regular indignity of having his picture taken by a complete stranger for the benefit of her “files.”
“Kitchen’s this way,” Sid said, leading the way. She did not so much as glance at Luis, did not intrude even more on his limited privacy while they trooped into the house. He hated having his picture taken, hated it, and there was nothing Sid could do to prevent it.
“How’s school going, Luis?” Ms. Snyder started on the usual litany: school, summer plans, physical health, mental health, social health. Luis had never laid eyes on the woman before in his life, and he was supposed to tell her who his girlfriend was so DSS could run a background check on the young lady’s family.
Right.
“The house looks very spacious and well kept,” Ms. Snyder—Amy—said when she’d stuck her nose into every room and closet. “Do you know how old it is?”
“Mac says it’s on the battle maps at Antietam,” Luis said. “It dates at least from the 1850s, or the old part does.”
Interesting. Mac hadn’t told Sid that tidbit.
“Old houses can require a lot of maintenance,” Amy replied, making another damned infernal note. “I should look at the rest of the buildings.”
So they strolled from one outbuilding to the other, with Sid learning from Luis which shed was the summer kitchen
, which was the smokehouse, which was the hog house.
Damned if the woman didn’t open every door, peer into every space, and come to an abrupt halt at the back of what turned out to be the hog house.
“I think I’ve seen enough.” She closed a door, and hustled out of the cobwebs and gloom. When they got to the bright light of day, she was scribbling notes on her pad nineteen to the dozen. “I’ll discuss this with my supervisor, and get back to you. We might have a problem.”
When a social worker started with the “might have” and “possibly” and “potential” talk, they were setting up the bad news for painless delivery.
Painless to them. “What problem would that be?” Sid asked.
Call-me-Amy put her notebook to sleep. “Nothing major. The most common reason why a home is denied a foster care license is the physical facility. Doors that don’t lock, windows that won’t open, fire escapes that don’t work, that sort of thing. When that’s the case, the Department always gives the family a chance to rectify that situation first, and we put our request in writing so you know exactly why your license was revoked. If we have to revoke a license, the decision can be administratively appealed.”
Sid heard footsteps behind her, but they were drowned out entirely by the roaring in her ears that started with the words, “exactly why your license was revoked.”
“Perhaps you can be more specific, Amy,” she managed. “What is the problem, and when will you and your supervisor make a determination about it?” Sid kept her voice calm, but beside her, Luis had gone tense.
“We can discuss this later, Mrs. Lindstrom. It might be nothing at all.” A furtive glance at Luis, a warning glance.
“Tell us,” Luis said. “The sooner you tell us, the sooner we can start fixing it.”
The worker bit her lip and glanced around the farmstead. “This building has an outhouse at the back of it. That is clearly out of code. There are families in this county with no indoor plumbing, and the Department can’t do anything about that, but we can’t permit that sort of thing in foster homes. Any outhouse is just too unsanitary, particularly if your water comes from the property’s well.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake…” Sid heard the incredulous note in her voice, but couldn’t reel herself in. “Nobody has used the hog house, much less the two-seater in ages. You saw the dust.”
“With all due respect, Mrs. Lindstrom, you’ve only recently moved here. You have no idea what the previous owners did on this property or with that, that facility. I’ll discuss this with my supervisor, and you’re within your rights to retain counsel. Luis, I’m sorry.”
Somewhere in the past thirty seconds, a large hand had landed on Sid’s shoulder. How could such a big man move so silently?
“The problem is the outhouse at the back of the hog house?” MacKenzie asked.
“This is a confidential discussion,” the social worker said, slipping the notebook into a gray case labeled “State of Maryland.” “I’ll be in touch shortly.”
“I’m waiving my confidentiality,” Luis said, crossing his arms. “Call my lawyer if you need to hear it from him. You want his number? Mac’s a friend.”
Oh, Luis…
“That won’t be necessary,” MacKenzie said, his other hand landing on Luis’s shoulder. “You need to tell the nice lady I was just asking about demolishing that entire building, including the outhouse. Builders in the city will pay good money for seasoned barn lumber. Then too, I’ve lived in the area all my life, Ms. Snyder, and I can attest as a neighbor that no part of this building has been put to its intended uses for at least thirty years.”
The worker must have realized she’d been outflanked.
“I will bring this up with my supervisor tomorrow. The outhouse might not be unsanitary, but it’s still unsafe, and if you’re doing foster care on this property, small children have to be taken into account.”
When Sid would have railed that she never accepted small children, Mac’s hand gently squeezed her shoulder.
“Let us know what your supervisor has to say,” Sid managed. “We’ll fix it.”
“And you never said when my hearing is,” Luis added.
“I’ll get back to you on that,” the worker said. “We have foster care court mostly on Tuesdays in this county, so it will be a Tuesday.”
Not another word was spoken until the little white car had bumped down the lane and then turned onto the road. They stood there, the three of them, Mac with an arm over Sid’s and Luis’s shoulders.
“Into the house, you two,” he said, moving them along as he started walking. “We have a demolition to plan.”
Chapter 8
“I’m not calling that woman to find out when my hearing is,” Luis said. “She should have at least known that before she came out here snooping and taking pictures.”
“Do you know why she takes your picture?” Mac asked, filling the teakettle at the sink.
“Because she’s a nosy twit,” Luis said.
From the look on Sid’s face, Mac gathered that was a polite version of her opinion on the matter.
“A few years ago, there was a family of children who got caught between the foster care systems of two neighboring states. The case was transferred from one jurisdiction to the other, but nobody followed up, and nobody picked up the ball. The children died in their second placement from the neglect of their court-ordered care providers. The details are hazy—maybe a worker fudged the files, saying he or she had gone to see the children, when in fact, they hadn’t—but the reality is, the children died on the state’s watch.”
He put the kettle on the stove, giving Sid and Luis a chance to absorb his words.
“Taking your picture does several things,” Mac said. “It assures the supervisors that you’re alive, that the worker laid eyes on you, and that you are where you’re supposed to be. It also lets the DSS know, from one worker to the next, what you look like, so nobody will trot out any old teenaged boy and say he’s Luis Martineau when he isn’t. Those pictures are for your safety. Who wants tea?”
“I do,” Sid said. “Generic decaf will do. Luis?”
“Nah. How come none of my workers have explained this to me? They just whip out their cameras and snap away.”
“Have you asked?” Mac put the question casually. Luis was bright; he didn’t need to be hammered on cross-examination.
“I will,” Luis said, grinning. “See if she even knows.”
“Get-the-social-worker,” Sid said, frowning. “We agreed we weren’t going to play that game, Luis.”
“You going to call your lawyer, Luis?” Mac asked, setting out two mugs. Mac considered letting them know that he himself was a lawyer, then discarded the idea on the basis of bad timing. More important issues were on the table, and he wanted to drop that detail on Sid when he had her to himself.
“I don’t even know who my lawyer is.” Luis scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “I was bluffing. You go to the hearing, and some dude comes bouncing up to you in a suit, talking fast, calling you Louis, and shuffling papers. That’s your lawyer. I am not calling her to find out who my lawyer is.”
“I can call her,” Sid offered. “See what her supervisor said.”
Her tone was preoccupied, worried, and Mac hated that.
Well, damn.
“Let her call you. I heard her say she would, and we have a hog house to dismantle.” Mac took a seat at the table. He’d purposely taken the chair across from Sid, which left him beside Luis. Less chance he’d be tempted to touch her in front of the boy.
“What’s involved in dismantling a hog house?” Sid wrapped her hands around the mug of tea as if they were cold, and she still had that distracted look in her eyes.
“It can’t be that complicated,” Mac said. “It’s only a hog house.”
* * *
“It involves heavy equi
pment,” James said. “Hang on. I have to get rid of another call.”
Mac hung on until James came back on the line.
“At least a dozer and a grader, if you want to do it right, and about eighteen guys swarming over the place with claw hammers and trucks, and making a racket. From what my clients tell me, about half a side of beef and a cold keg might be in order too, if you want a break on the price. It’s one long, tiring day. Why not burn the damned thing down? Get the fire department to use it as a teaching exercise?”
“Because the owner needs to sell the weathered lumber,” Mac said, kicking another rock out of the ruts in Sid’s driveway. “DSS would likely say any open burning is contrary to their almighty code.”
A silence, while James’s legal brain added up the evidence and Mac mentally started on an estimate for grading and paving the lane.
“This is at the home place, isn’t it, Mac? It’s the foster mom with the teenage boy who rides at Adelia’s.”
“The very hog house where we dropped cherry bombs down the two-seater. The one where I caught you trying to smoke oregano in ninth grade because your buddies said it would get you high. The two-seater makes the hog house a public health hazard, according to Miss Amy Snyder.”
Who would have thought a guy could get sentimental about a hog house, much less a two-seater privy?
“Never dated Amy Snyder. She’s likely new.”
“She’s about twelve years old,” Mac replied on a sigh. “They’re all looking like children to me anymore, James. It’s depressing.” Such were the admissions a man could make on the phone to his baby brother when contemplating the demise of a perfectly good hog house.
“Let me call in a few favors, make some calls. I gather sooner is better than later?”
DSS could be one of those “snatch the kid now and ask questions later agencies,” though Ms. Snyder wasn’t about to make a move without consulting her superiors.
“This weekend would do nicely, and I’ll spring for the keg and the steaks. You can bring the potato salad, and because they have children, we’ll let Hannah and Trent get away with condiments and snacks.”
Kiss Me Hello (Sweetest Kisses) Page 12
