With a Herculean effort, Paul forced the bite of steak down his throat. “I was beginning to think I’d need dentures before the age of forty.” Jimmy laughed harder, and Paul found himself joining in.
It was like the old days, when he and Jimmy had pulled the best pranks ever seen at the high school and only been caught twice. Of course, Jimmy had charmed his way out of any punishment, while Paul had spent weeks in detention. It had been worth it to see the principal’s face when he found the goat on his desk, eating the school budget papers.
That was before his brother had screwed up his marriage, slid into alcoholism, and nearly lost custody of his son.
A buzzer sounded from the kitchen, and Jimmy bolted out of his chair. “Oh shit, I forgot about the apple pie.” Reappearing with a steaming pie held between two oven mitts, he said, “Don’t look so worried. It’s Mrs. Smith’s. All I did was heat it up,” he said, putting it down on a doubled-up dish towel.
Paul forced a chuckle. “I guess it’s vegan night.” He speared a baked potato and dropped it on his plate.
“Just trying to keep you healthy,” Jimmy said, serving himself a potato. He sliced it in half and shook a liberal dose of salt over it. “So I hear you had a meeting with some bigwig from New York about your pro bono legal project.”
The flaky potato turned to ashes in Paul’s mouth. He put down his fork and leaned back in the chair. “We discussed how to put together funding from various sources.”
“Did he think you could get all the money you need to start it?”
“He’s sure of it. The big law firms are already on board. And there are a couple of foundations looking to support an initiative like this.” He sounded like an infomercial, but he couldn’t make himself speak casually about this.
His pro bono work had kept him sane. A few months after he returned to Sanctuary, he was so tired of wills, real estate closings, and divorces, he called up a classmate who worked at a large corporate firm in Richmond and offered to do research for pro bono cases at a reduced rate. He knew the big firms often struggled to donate the hours the American Bar Association recommended, partly for financial reasons and partly because their lawyers didn’t have the right background or experience. His friend had consulted with the firm’s senior partners and come back with an enthusiastic acceptance.
Paul found the work satisfying on both an intellectual and gut level; he believed every accused person was entitled to the best legal representation available, and his research gave the defending lawyers tools they wouldn’t have otherwise. His reputation spread, and soon he couldn’t handle the amount of work offered to him.
So he had come up with the Pro Bono Project, a databank of small-practice lawyers like himself who were willing to do the legwork at reasonable rates. His job as director would be to recruit them, evaluate their qualifications, match them up with the right cases, and monitor the quality of work they were doing, as well as tracking hours and payment.
Now he wouldn’t be doing any of that.
Jimmy cut a tablespoon-size chunk of butter and dropped it on his potato. “It must be a pretty good idea if so many people want to pay for it.”
“Ben thinks so, and he’s the president of the American Bar Association.”
Grabbing his glass, Jimmy took a gulp of iced tea. “That’s for lawyers all over the whole country?”
Paul nodded.
“I thought you were just going to talk about West Virginia.” Jimmy’s hand shook, making the ice rattle in his glass as he set it down.
“I did too, but it seems he wants to roll this out on a national level right from the start.”
“I guess he wants you to work on it.”
“He offered me the job of director.”
“That’s impressive. My big brother, a director.” Jimmy picked up his fork and began to mash the soft butter into his potato. “Where will this project be located?”
“Washington, DC.” He knew he was dragging the conclusion of the conversation out unnecessarily, but he wanted to give Jimmy the benefit of the doubt. He always hoped his brother would surprise him.
For a moment Jimmy lifted his eyes from the potato he was mauling, and Paul saw the fear in them. “You remember the promise you made to my ex,” Jimmy said in a low voice. “You said you wouldn’t leave again so I could be with Eric.”
Taking a deep breath, Paul blew it out toward the ceiling. “I remember, and I’ll keep it because Eric deserves to have you in his life.”
The sear of disappointment when he said the words out loud shocked him. He must have been fooling himself that he might be able to take the job. Jimmy had brought him back to reality.
Shoving his chair back from the table, he picked up his plate. “I’ll help you with the dishes.”
The drive to his house took seven minutes, even though he forced himself to keep the ’Vette at the speed limit. He pulled in the driveway and killed the engine, but he couldn’t get out of the car. A wild restlessness roiled inside him, a rebellion against the ropes of need and guilt his brother tethered him with.
He smacked his hand on the leather-covered steering wheel as he thought of making the phone call to Ben Serra and saying he couldn’t accept the position as director of his own goddamned brainchild. The Pro Bono Project was his; he had developed the concept, put together the plan, and outlined how to fund it.
He brought the big engine back to life and backed out of the driveway with a squeal of tires, pointing the car’s hood toward the interstate, where he could turn it loose. He hoped a cop had his radar gun on because he was in the mood to outrun anyone who gave chase.
As he rumbled along the main street, he saw the Traveller Inn, and a different sort of restlessness seized him. He swung into the parking lot and leaped out of the car, taking the front steps two at a time.
“Is Ms. Castillo in her room?” he asked the receptionist.
“Let me call up and see.” The receptionist reached for her phone.
“It’s all right. I’ll just go find out for myself.” He pivoted on his heel and headed for the stairs.
Rapping on Julia’s door, he stood still to listen for movement and was relieved when footsteps creaked across the old floor-boards.
“Paul!” She stood in jeans and a fancy printed T-shirt, her feet bare, her hair a red cloud around her shoulders. She had some smudgy black marks on her face. “Is something wrong?” she asked. “You look…strange.”
He grimaced comically in an attempt to wipe away whatever expression she found disturbing. “I just need a drink. Care to join me?”
Her face lit up. “Sure. Let me clean up. I’ve got charcoal all over me.”
“Is that what this is?” He stepped in and threaded his fingers into her hair as he rubbed his thumb over a blotch on her cheek. Gratification whipped through him as her eyes went wide and incandescent at his touch. “I think I made it worse,” he said, giving her cheek a little brush.
She reached up to touch the smudge, her eyes locked on his. He had to twine his fingers together behind his back to keep from seizing her by the shoulders and backing her onto the couch so he could crush his body against hers.
“Scoot!” he said to keep himself from scaring the bejesus out of her. “I’m thirsty as an opossum in the Sahara Desert.”
She cast him a dubious look. “I’ve never heard that expression before.”
“That’s because I just made it up.”
Laughing, she backed up. “Should I change my clothes?”
He took the opportunity to do a slow scan of the hip-hugging jeans and figure-outlining T-shirt. She flushed and shifted slightly under his gaze, so he lifted his eyes to her face. “Nope, you meet every rule of the Black Bear’s dress code. Except for the lack of shoes.”
“You enjoyed doing that.”
“Damn straight.” He felt about ten times better already.
A blast of Willie Nelson hit Julia as she walked ahead of Paul into the Black Bear. Neon beer signs cast a rainbow
of colors over the packed-in denizens of the dimly lit bar area. Then Willie was nearly drowned out by the chorus of greetings shouted at her escort.
Paul smiled, nodded, and exchanged gibes, putting a hand at the small of her back to move them through the crowd and toward a larger room filled with booths and tables.
As they broke free of the bar crowd, a waitress walked up to them. “Hey, Paul, honey, you want the usual?”
“You know it, Debbie.” He dipped his head so his mouth was beside Julia’s ear. “What’s your tipple?”
“Er, Budweiser?” It was the only beer she could think of, since she usually drank wine. This didn’t look like a chardonnay kind of place.
“Give her a Sam Adams.” His breath brushed her ear again. “I have a reputation to uphold.”
“There’s a two-top in the back room with a Reserved sign on it,” the waitress said. “It’s all yours.”
He saluted his thanks with a touch of his fingers to his forehead and steered Julia between the tables. The press of his palm against her waist made her feel claimed, the possessive gesture sending a shimmer of nerves dancing up her spine. Several people invited them to join their parties, but Paul slid past them with a wave and a joke.
He guided her through a wide arch to a small round table tucked into a corner. He held her chair and then pulled his around to sit close beside her, so their backs were to the room.
“Sorry to crowd you,” he said, “but I don’t want to make you shout across the table.”
“I’m not complaining.” In fact, she was contemplating the heat generated by his thigh brushing against hers as he shifted in his chair. “Do they save a table for you every Friday night?”
“No, Debbie just has sympathy for my plight.”
“What plight?”
“The curse of having everyone in town feel free to interrupt my conversation with a gorgeous, fascinating woman.”
She wasn’t used to being flirted with. A little ball of nervousness whirled in her chest. “So where is this extraordinary woman you keep referring to?”
He threw back his head and laughed. Then he draped his arm over the back of her chair and brought his mouth beside her ear again. “She’s sitting right beside me, making me wish like hell we were alone instead of in a noisy bar.”
“Hey, Paul, I brought you doubles in case I don’t get back here anytime soon.” The waitress plunked down two frosted mugs and four bottles of Sam Adams.
“You’re a treasure, Deb,” Paul said, shifting away from Julia so she could breathe again. For a long moment his words and touch had sucked all the oxygen out of her lungs.
Using the neck of a beer bottle to tilt one of the mugs, Paul allowed the cold brew to pour down the inside of the glass without foaming. As the mug filled, he adjusted the angle until the base sat on the table and the liquid stopped just below the lip.
“You’ve got good hands,” she said.
“Sweetheart, you shouldn’t feed a man a line like that.”
Julia felt a blush creep up her cheeks so she grabbed the mug and took a generous gulp. The crisp tang of the ice-cold beer sliding over her tongue made her close her eyes to savor it.
As she opened them, she glanced sideways. Paul was looking at her, his silvery eyes blazing hot in the dimness of the bar. When their gazes met, he turned away and took a long swig of beer directly from his bottle.
“Taggart, you son of a gun, you owe me a rematch.” A barrel-chested man in a plaid flannel shirt and a John Deere baseball cap yanked a chair over to their table, turned it backward, and straddled it. He held a beer bottle in one hand as he rested his crossed arms on the chair’s back.
Paul cursed under his breath, and his arm tightened around her back. “Dave, can’t you see I have a guest?”
“Evening, ma’am,” Dave said, nodding to her pleasantly. “I’m Dave Herndon.”
His total lack of concern at Paul’s obvious displeasure made her stifle a giggle. She held out her hand. “I’m Julia Castillo.”
“Pleasure to meet you.” He pumped her hand. When he let go, he shook his own hand slightly. “May I just say that you have a very powerful handshake?”
She smiled.
“Dave,” Paul tried again, “Julia and I are having a private conversation.”
“Then you shouldn’t have come to the Bear.” Dave grinned through his scruff of blond beard. “You know I’ve been waiting for a rematch. Since you haven’t been here in weeks, I couldn’t let the opportunity slip by.”
“Well, that may be how you treat your dates, but I’m not leaving Julia alone while I play foosball with a hooligan like you,” Paul said. “In fact, that pretty much explains why you don’t have any dates.”
Dave took a swig of beer. “Good try, but you’re not going to get rid of me with insults.” He looked at Julia. “Ma’am, did you know that Paul here is the state champeen of foosball and made it all the way to the quarterfinals of nationals?”
She shook her head. Paul’s fingers played an irritated tattoo on the back of her chair.
“You ever seen him play?”
An imp of mischief made her say, “No, but I’d like to.”
“The pretty lady wants you to play too.” Dave pushed his hat farther back with the lip of his beer bottle.
“All right, you’ve got yourself a rematch,” Paul said, tightening his arm around Julia and pulling her upright as he stood.
“Not so fast,” Dave said, still sitting. “You said you’d play with a handicap next time, to make it a challenge.”
She felt Paul’s sigh as his rib cage expanded against hers. “Fine, I won’t use the three rod.”
“I got a better idea.” He looked at Julia. “Ma’am, have you ever played foosball?”
She shook her head, wondering why he cared.
Dave’s eyes lit up with sly amusement. “Then she’s on your goalie rod.”
“Done,” Paul said.
“What? That’s not fair,” she protested, jerking her gaze up to his face. “I don’t even know what a goalie rod looks like!”
“You don’t have to do anything but stand there with your hand on the handle,” Paul said, giving her a reassuring smile. “I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Pretty sure of yourself, ain’t you?” Dave pushed up from his chair.
“Against you? I could win blindfolded with one hand tied behind my back.”
She could feel tension vibrating through Paul’s body, and his smile had an edge, as though he were anticipating the battle. The easy, polished veneer she’d become accustomed to seemed to melt, and she could glimpse the flash of steel underneath. She might be out of her depth with this man.
He kept his arm around her as he followed Dave into a large room crammed with people competing against each other at various games. Clanging, flashing pinball machines lined one wall, while hissing air hockey platforms commanded the other side. The center of the room was given over to the slam and whack of foosball.
Julia felt a ripple of nerves as they walked to a foosball table set in a flaring circle of light cast by a heavy brass-and-glass light fixture suspended over it on long chains. It was a strange, new situation, and she was part of a grudge match that Paul wanted to win, so she was feeling pressure. She checked the edges of her vision for wavering or blackness before anger at her weakness ripped through her. She wasn’t going to have a seizure now.
Dave walked to the table and slapped a dollar on the edge. “I need this table free and clear for one game.”
“You play winners like everyone else,” one of the combatants at the table said.
“No sir, I got me a rematch against the king of foos,” Dave said.
“The king of foos?” Julia said.
Paul gave her waist a little squeeze. “You didn’t notice my crown?”
Suddenly, the cry was taken up by the crowd. “Make way for the king of foos! Clear the table!”
The two men grumbled good-naturedly as they vacated the table, thei
r game unfinished.
“Wait! Couldn’t I just watch them play for a minute?” Julia asked Paul. “I don’t want to do something stupid.”
Dave had moved to the opposite side of the table and was rocking the plastic men attached to the shiny silver rods back and forth.
“Give me a minute,” Paul said to him before guiding Julia to the end of the table and pointing to the bar closest to the goal with three red men spaced along it. “This is the goalie rod. What I want you to do is just hold it so the middle man stays in the center of the goal. I can handle the rest of the defense with the rod in front of it.”
Julia wrapped her hand around the rubber-encased handle and slid the bar back and forth. It moved with a well-oiled weightiness she found pleasing. She tried spinning the players the way Dave was doing and discovered it was harder than it looked.
“Don’t move it unless I ask you to dig the ball out of a corner,” Paul said. “That way I’ll know exactly what I have to protect.”
“What happens if we lose?” Julia asked, her knees feeling like jelly.
He pulled her against him in a reassuring hug. “We won’t lose.”
Releasing her, he shifted a step sideways and put his hands on the two rods farthest away from hers before nodding to Dave. A scuffed-up white ball went rolling across the lacquered green tabletop, and Paul slammed one rod across to send it zinging toward Dave’s goal. Dave blocked it with one of his goalies and sent it caroming off a wall toward Paul’s goal.
She positioned her rod where Paul had told her to and squeezed her eyes closed as the ball sped closer. She felt the table jerk and heard a smack. Opening her eyes, she saw the ball dancing between the men on the front rod under Paul’s control as he set up for a scorching shot on Dave’s goal. She was about to cheer when Dave stopped it again.
Pretty soon, she gave up worrying about the ball coming anywhere near her three men. Paul scored three goals in quick succession, so Julia could relax enough to enjoy the speed and confidence with which he shifted his grip from one rod to the other as he passed the ball forward.
She even had time to notice he was overdressed for the bar in his pale-blue button-down shirt, neat khakis, and polished loafers. He’d worn a suit earlier, so she began to speculate about where he had gone between work and showing up at her hotel room. She was starting to think he hadn’t planned this trip to the Black Bear ahead of time.
Country Roads Page 10
