I study her as I respond seriously, “I don’t think so, Mindy. I think you’ll treat my dolls very nicely because you like dolls as much as I do. I trust you. I’m not worried a bit.” I give her an encouraging smile.
Suddenly, she leaps up from her seat and hugs me around the knees, her head in my lap. “Thank you, Miss Kiera,” she cries enthusiastically. I gently brush her hair from her eyes. As she stands up, I see her smile for the first time. Charmingly, she is missing her top tooth and she is bouncing with excitement.
“Well, what are you waiting for ma’am? Aren’t we late for a party?” I open the juice box and lay out the cheese and crackers for her so that she can eat with one hand. I wipe down her right hand with a wipe that has been pre-moistened with hand sanitizer. “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be wearing bandages on your hand so that germs don’t get in there and make your owies worse?” I raise an eyebrow at her.
“It itches!” Mindy complains, a scowl darkening her face.
“It's part of the healing process, sweetheart. If it gets infected, everything will be so much worse. If the doctor says you need to cover it Mindy, please, please listen.”
“Sponge Bob juice boxes!” Mindy exclaims in a transparent attempt to change the subject, or so I think, until she adds, “Nana makes me drink beer, so I don’t drink nothin’ at her house.”
I can’t even almost disguise my reaction to this because the statement is so out of left field. I wrinkle my nose and shudder as I exclaim, “Eww! Beer is gross. I’m with you there, Girlfriend!”
Mindy laughs out loud at my antics, but I’d like to sic my trucker daddy on Mindy’s grandma right about now.
“Better open that box and see who’s coming to the tea party,” I encourage.
Mindy gasps as she finds four Barbie and two Ken dolls and a complete change of clothing for each. She touches each reverently. “Can I really play with ‘em?” she asks softly.
“Yes, you may,” I respond watching her delighted face, wondering when she last felt such joy.
“Why?” she quizzes with a furrowed brow.
“It’s simple,” I explain. ”You’re my friend and playing with Barbies makes you happy. I like making my friends happy.”
“Will you still be my friend — even after today is all gone?” Mindy asks wistfully.
“Of course, I will,” I assure her. “You are part of the Girlfriend Posse now. You’ll never get rid of me.” I give her my business card and write a special code on it. “If you get my voicemail, dial those numbers; I’ll get your message right away. I’ll call you back lickity-split, okay?”
Over the next 90 minutes, I have the most important, emotionally draining, heart-wrenching tea party of my life. I finish up the reams of paperwork and text the Girlfriend Posse as I wait for my van lift to deploy.
Need Panera’s 911!!!
Girl, you just got back in town! :-( Tara replies.
Hush! There’s no bad time for Panera’s. C U at 6:30, answers Heather.
<3 U See you then.
This is perfect, now I’ll get a chance to change my clothes before dinner. I take a quick shower and throw on a halter-top and skirt. I have the shortest commute to Panera’s. I am less than 15 minutes out. Tara, who is in the sign language interpreting program at Western Oregon University, is closer to 25 minutes away. Heather is the outlier. She owns a food truck that she currently has based out of Forest Grove. She is willing to drive the hour and fifteen minutes it takes to get to our Girlfriend Posse meetings, but today she didn’t need to because she is already in Salem at a culinary conference.
I arrive at Panera’s early having over-estimated the summer traffic, so I pull up to one of the tables on the patio to wait for my friends. The manager pokes his head out the door and asks me if I need anything. I tell him my friends are coming and ask for ice water. He brings me a glass. “Thanks,” I smile and nod. I sip my water as I check my email. No thanks, I don’t need any Viagra.
My phone buzzes in my hand and I practically spill my water. “Hello?” I answer breathlessly as I try to balance the phone and save my water simultaneously. “French Toast!” I spit fiercely as my water tips the other direction and sloshes out. “Just a sec — !” I squeal into the phone as it falls to the table in a crash. I’m afraid to look at the damage, but when I pick up my phone, it is fine. So, I pick it up and answer as nonchalantly as I can, “I’m sorry, hi.”
I hear a deep chuckle. It feels like a refreshing rain on a sweltering hot, muggy night. I perceive Jeff’s pull through the phone. He hasn’t spoken a word, yet I can feel him in every nerve ending. “Evening Pip. Did you just call me breakfast food?”
I flush with embarrassment. Geez Kier, the man isn’t even here. Pull it together, woman!
“What? No! I was about to spill my water when I answered the phone. I’m a huge klutz. You caught me in the middle of all of that,” I explain, somewhat disjointedly.
“I am really sorry I caught you off guard, but that really doesn’t explain French toast,” he says with a chuckle.
“Oh, um, that’s from my dad,” I answer, smiling at the fond memory. “I was a young kid when I started going on the road with him. Well, he and his buddies couldn’t use traditional trucker’s language around me; so they came up with a G-rated version. Since I still work with kids, I’ve just kept using it, even if it’s corny.”
“Can I just say? I’ve never met your dad, but I have a whole new level of respect for the man,” Jeff admits. “By the age of eight, I was privy to a vocabulary porn stars shouldn’t know, thanks to my stepdad. My life isn’t at all enriched by the knowledge. I think your upbringing suits you perfectly, Pip.”
“Jeff, I’m sorry you didn’t have a guy like my dad in your life, though your grandpa sounds pretty great. Enough about me; how are you?” I ask, trying to deftly change the subject.
“That’s actually why I called. I’m back in town sooner than I expected. I started Tuesday afternoon. One of the other law clerks already quit. I mean; I almost get it. This kind of child abuse makes you want to punch something or someone. Even so, it’s the reason we all want to put the bastards away.”
“Butterflies,” I automatically substitute under my breath.
“Butterflies?” Jeff barks with laughter. “Okay, Pip, we lock up the big bad ‘butterflies’ because they hurt women and kids. If you want to be a prosecutor, you can’t be too much of a chicken” — he pauses — “’sausage’ to do it, right?”
I am inordinately thrilled with Jeff’s effort to please me. “So, close! Dad’s word was soufflé because he was a huge Julia Child fan.” Still, even in this moment of levity, I have an overwhelming sense of foreboding as I ask, “Jeff, you’re going to Willamette, right?”
“Yeah, I’m a 3L. Why? I told you this last week,” Jeff responds, sounding confused.
I press forward, afraid I already know the answer. “…and hypothetically, you work for a prosecutor’s office within say an hour of Salem?” I query, gently leading him to the conclusion I don’t really want him to reach.
“Also correct,” he confirms.
“Jeff, this was all a lot easier when we were on vacation.” I sigh in sadness as I ask, “Do you remember what I said I do for a living?”
“Of course I do!” Jeff responds with a touch of indignation. “I remember everything about you in vivid detail.”
“We may not have gotten around to discussing the fact that though I live in Geravis, I actually work for Yamhill county,” I reveal with a sinking feeling in my stomach.
“Well sh — soufflé, Pip. You thought the most complicated thing in our relationship was going to be your paralysis. We may have just stepped it up a notch. The good news is that I haven’t touched the child abuse case. At this point, it’s just a rumor in our office. The bad news is that for the time being, it’s a huge conflict of interest for us to be putting ‘butterflies’ away together. A defense attorney would have a field day if I came anywhere near your cases. I’ll
ask to work on adult cases only. It’s not the end of the world,” Jeff responds, as he immediately breaks the problem down to manageable pieces. “I’ll talk to my boss and have full disclosure and off hours will be a work-free zone. Pip, we can do this. I’ll transfer out of my law clerking position before I let you slip through my fingers.”
“Oh my gosh! You are persuasive, my personal PC,” I say with more than a touch of exasperation. “I am still not quite sure how you were able to take all of my concerns and dismiss them in one fell swoop. As long as your boss clears it, and we maintain radio silence regarding cases, I’m willing to continue to give us a shot. The one thing I don’t ever want to do is put your career at risk.”
“Hey, Pip?” Jeff prods gently.
“Mmm?” I make a non-committal noise.
“I’ll do my best to make sure you never, ever regret this conversation,” he assures me.
“I know you really mean it. Let’s hope reality doesn’t deliver love a fatal blow,” I respond carefully.
Jeff’s reply is soft, but steady, “I hope that one day I’m in a position to prove to you that I’ll love you until the stars fall from the sky.”
What does a girl that has always played every version of Disney princess known to exist, say to a declaration like that except, I hope so too. ”Thanks for calling, Jeff. I’m so glad you’re back. Good night,” I whisper, hoarsely.
“Night my Pip,” he whispers softly. I hear the phone click in my ear as Jeff hangs up. I know I had a huge bemused twitterpated grin on my face, but I can’t help it. I went pedal boating and caught a prince charming. How lucky can a girl get? I hug myself because I’m giddy. As I do a mental cartwheel, Tara and Heather come around the corner of the building.
Tara nudges Heather as she sardonically quips, “For a woman in distress, she looks mighty chipper.”
“I agree; her condition does not look dire,” Heather smirks “In fact, if I didn’t know Kiera so well, I’d venture to guess there is more than just water in her cup.” Heather makes a big show of smelling and tasting it. “Just as I suspected, it’s just plain-ol’-tap.” The only other thing that could make her look so dazed and confused is a boy. You better start spillin’ Chickie!” she demands with a twinkle in her eye.
I blush as I reluctantly admit, “I just got off the phone with Jeff. I did have a horrendous day that I can’t talk about to anyone. Still, Jeff gets it because he has the same constraints. It makes me feel better knowing I’m not the only one facing this crap.”
Tara interrupts me, “I suppose your interest in him is entirely professional and has nothing to do with the fact that the man is so gorgeous he could stop traffic in Times Square?”
“Hey now!” I protest, “I’m not exactly offended by the fact that he looks like Blair Underwood, but he is really a nice guy.”
“Uh huh,” responds Tara with a knowing look, “everybody knows where ‘nice’ guys finish.”
“I didn’t mean it that way! I like nice guys,” I declare defensively, suddenly upset at Tara because she is somehow demeaning Jeff without really knowing him.
Heather senses the tension and winks at Tara as she quips, “Methinks the lady doth protest a bit much.”
I sigh and give a small smile of defeat as I realize I have fallen in the trap they wanted me in, “Okay, fine. I like Jeff a lot. Like front porch swings and grandkids worth of a lot. But it’s really, really complicated for reasons I can’t discuss.”
Heather looks like a police detective fresh out of the academy who is eager to bust a criminal, as she peppers me with questions, “Really? When did you start to feel this way? Why didn’t you call before you took the plunge? What’s so complicated about it? Are you being stupid and making this all about your chair? Why can’t you talk about it?”
I hold up my hands in a “T” — the universal time out signal — to make the questions stop. I take a deep breath and collect my thoughts because I’m not even sure I have all the answers sorted out in my own head yet. Much to my surprise, Tara has my back as she responds, “You may want to tone down the twenty questions, Heather. A woman can’t always control her heart and what it wants even when her brain tells her a million reasons why it might not be a good idea. If I were to guess why Kiera can’t talk about it all, I’d say it probably has to do with the hell she calls a job.”
I don’t know why Tara’s uncannily accurate read of my situation astonishes me, but it does. Seriously, the woman should be a psychic because she is rarely wrong.
I shrug and nod as tears begin to well in the corners of my eyes. I’m afraid to be hopeful given all of our obstacles. A relationship does seem impossible, despite all of Jeff’s reassurances. “If this guy is half the man I think he is; he is going to rock my world,” I whisper candidly.
Heather looks shocked and remorseful at the revelation, “Sweet Pea, you need to tell me to hush. I’m like a herd of hyper Chihuahuas taking an arthritic Saint Bernard for a walk. How can I help?”
“I need a formal dress,” I admit sheepishly, “I’m almost out of the peach shampoo too.”
Heather actually claps in delight, drawing the attention of a group of people at the next table. She whips out a tape measure from the depths of her purse. “Do you trust me?” she demands as she starts dragging me toward the bathroom.
“Of course I do. You are my best friend.” With that confident reply, I’ve just cast her in the role of Fairy God Mother in my personal Disney princess movie.
Chapter 11: Jeff
I pause outside Mr. Carter’s office as I organize my thoughts. I talked a big game with Kiera, but I’m well aware that the conversation that I’m about to have could have long-term implications for my legal career before it even begins. The analytical voice in my head recognizes that the most responsible move for my career would be to politely call Kiera and move on. It’s ironic that it’s the voice of my Grandfather that rings the loudest. “Son, everybody has somebody who’s their everything. When you meet her nothing is ever going to be the same, No-sir-ee!” No, I guess not Grandpa. I guess not. I straighten my spine and knock on my supervisor’s door.
“Sir, do you have a minute?” I ask, trying not to sound nervous.
“What’s on your mind Mr. Whitaker?” he inquires, leaning back in his large leather chair.
“Something has come up in my personal life that has professional liability ramifications,” I state, dreading the consequences.
I watch as Mr. Carter’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline. Running his hands through his hair, he shakes his head in dismay as he growls at me, “At least tell me that you were smart enough to use a condom, and she wasn’t from the vice unit?”
I stare at him blankly until I realize that he’s really serious and wants a response to those allegations.
“No, sir. It’s nothing sordid. I met a woman during my summer job that I suspect I’m going to marry one day if things go well. However, she works for Juvenile Services as a trauma intake specialist.” I clarify, trying my best to stay in one spot and not pace like a child at the principal’s office.
“Why did you pursue her if you knew there would be a conflict?” Mr. Carter demands as he levels his icy blue gaze at me.
“I work in central Oregon during the summers, sir. I just recently discovered she works in our county,” I respond, “I am willing to not work on juvenile cases to limit this office's potential liability.”
“Are you willing to jeopardize your career for a summer fling, Mr. Whitaker?” he asks as he takes his glasses off and wipes them with a handkerchief.
“If I thought she was just a summer fling, the answer would clearly be ‘no’, because I have invested far too much to get where I am today. However, I have a sense that things are going to be very serious between us. I’m willing to lay it on the line for Kiera. It’s as simple as that,” I announce with stark certainty.
“Son, are you sure?” He asks again, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Sir, with all due r
espect, where did you meet your wife?” I retort, as I glance at him with laser focus.
Mr. Carter flushes slightly and loosens his tie as he responds flatly, “On a case.”
“Under what circumstances were those again?” I push.
“She was defense counsel,” he replies with a look of resignation.
“Was it worth the risk?” I inquire, honestly curious.
“Only every damn day, kid.” Mr. Carter responds with a grin.
~*~
The next day I have some free time during my lunch hour, so I head to the little gift shop downtown. I smile as I find a mug that spells out “Hot Chocolate” as elements on the periodic table. I purchase some gourmet hot chocolate packets and candy to fill it. I top it off with a whimsical silk Gerber daisy. I choose a gift bag with pretty wild flowers and take my treasures to the check out line. A grandmotherly lady eyes my haul and gives me a knowing look. “In trouble with the wife, I see?” she comments.
“No,” I respond with a surprised snicker, “I am surprising my new girlfriend at work.”
“Oh honey! We have to do it up right then,” with that pronouncement, she closes her station and starts whipping out an entire craft aisle. There is an assortment of crepe paper, ribbons and three kinds of confetti. By the time she is done schooling me on the proper way to wrap a gift with love, I’ve signed a personal notecard with a calligraphy pen and scented the letter with potpourri. Who knew it would be so complicated to surprise someone at work?
I take my creation and drop it off with my friend, Tyler. Ty is a reserve officer with the sheriff’s office and has business in Kiera’s office today, so he is going on a secret mission for me. Time seems to be moving backwards as I Shepardize cases I’m reviewing for a legal brief I need to complete before today at five. I read the same line three times before I realize that it’s dicta and not the controlling language in the case. I am frustrated by my lack of focus because this level of distraction is so out of character for me. Finally, my phone vibrates in my pocket.
Until the Stars Fall From the Sky Page 6
