One Summer’s Knight

by Kathleen Creighton

  “Well, I’m not sure she thinks it’s so wonderful at the moment. From what I understand, she had a pretty lousy couple of months with her first, and that was more than twenty years ago. Anyway, the doctors have told her to take it easy, at least for the first trimester.”

  Charly’s pregnant… Well, that’s it, then, Summer thought. I can’t possibly ask her I can’t. She felt curiously numb. Almost relieved.

  “It’s no picnic, being pregnant at thirty-seven. Believe me, I know,” Mirabella, was saying in a tone half vexed, half musing, almost as if she were talking to herself.

  Summer, finding herself in the lead all of a sudden, paused to look back at her sister. Mirabella had halted and was holding her hair back from her face with one hand clamped to the top of her head, something she’d always done, Summer remembered, when she was agitated. And there was that dewy flush on her forehead, and the purple smudges under her eyes that were not berry stains. One thing about Bella’s skin-it was so fair and fine, when anything troubled her, physical or emotional, it showed up on her skin like a video on a screen

  They were almost to the porch steps. Summer took a breath to bolster her courage; confronting Mirabella could be a daunting prospect. “Bella?” she said in a low voice. “Is everything okay?”

  Mirabella’s shoulders rose with a gusty and impatient sigh “Of course it is. I told you.” And she would have plowed on in her typical steamroller fashion if Summer’s hand on her arm hadn’t kept her from it. Having no choice then, she paused, looking much put-upon. Looking up, looking down, looking anywhere but at her “little” sister.

  Summer almost smiled; this was familiar territory, a familiar role to her in spite of their relative ages, that of confidant and sometimes surrogate mother. Their parents, loving and devoted in their own way, had been firm believers in the “benign neglect” school of child-rearing; always there when it really counted, they’d never hovered or coddled, most of the time leaving their daughters to deal with minor problems on their own. Which had undoubtedly contributed to the degree of confidence and success with which all three had eventually launched themselves into the adult world. And which also, it suddenly occurred to Summer, may have been the key to the sisters’ closeness, all those years ago. They’d learned very early two important truths: that three heads really were better than one, and that there had sometimes been safety in numbers. How had they all forgotten that?

  “Bella? Come on, now, this is Summer talking. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  Mirabella gave one more sigh, threw a guilty look over her shoulder in the direction of the open kitchen door, then lowered her voice and snapped in her typical machine-gun fashion, “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just worried about Jimmy Joe, is all. I mean, you know, his business is growing so fast, and he’s stuck behind a desk most of the time, and he has so much on his mind, and I don’t know if he’s happy-” she gulped a breath “-and I’m afraid I might be pregnant, too.”

  That almost got by Summer. Almost, but not quite. A beat late, she gasped and said, “You what? My God-Bella-”

  “Shh! Not so loud!”

  “You mean you haven’t-”

  “Of course not. I’m not even sure myself.”

  “For God’s sake! Why don’t you take one of those home tests?”

  “I’m afraid to,” Mirabella muttered furiously. Typical-there was nothing Bella hated more, Summer remembered, than being vulnerable.

  “But at least you’d know for sure,” she said in a coaxing tone. “Maybe you’re worrying about nothing.”

  Mirabella was quiet for a moment, but her eyes had gone soft and misty. And when Summer looked to see what it was that had turned her sister’s gaze so sappy with adoration, there was baby Amy, over on the lawn with her diapered bottom in the air, trying her clumsy best, with the help of her cousin Helen and big brother J.J., to negotiate a somersault Mirabella drew a quivering breath and murmured, “It’s not that I wouldn’t love another baby. But…Jimmy Joe’s got so much on his mind, and Charly’s having such a hard time, and I’m not so young…”

  “Oh, Bella, it’ll be okay,” Summer said softly, in the tone she might have used to calm a nervous animal. “You know what Pop always said: things have a way of working out the way they’re supposed to.”

  “Yeah,” Mirabella said with a shaky laugh. “Jimmy Joe says that, too.”

  “Well, then,” Summer said, taking a deep breath, “you see? Everything’s going to be fine.”

  It wasn’t that she had forgotten her own problems-far from it But as her own words settled almost gently into her consciousness, she felt a curious sense of peace. Of acceptance. She couldn’t possibly tell them. Any of them. They would worry so. So it seemed she had come once more to the place that was most familiar and, perhaps, most comfortable to her after all. She was on her own.

  “Please-sit down. Nice seein’ you again.”

  The woman sat somewhat gingerly in the upholstered chair Riley had indicated, a faint, rosy flush across her cheeks. “I’m surprised you remember me.”

  “Of course I remember you.” Riley Grogan seldom forgot a name or a face; it was one of his gifts. “I have to tell you, though, I’m a little bit surprised myself-to see you, that is.” He settled back in his big swivel chair, adopting an attitude of relaxed attention. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Robey?”

  She didn’t pick up on his cue but sat ramrod straight, which he knew wasn’t an easy thing to do in that big old chair, clutching her pocketbook in her lap as if she thought someone was about to take it away from her. He noticed that her hands looked as if they might be capable of stopping anybody who tried it, too. She had hands that could be either gentle or strong, with long bones and short, uncolored nails. No-nonsense hands. Nurturing hands.

  She lifted one to cover her mouth while she gave a soft, voice-testing cough, then said, “The last time we met, you gave me a piece of advice.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I did” He didn’t have to ask, or stop to think about it; he remembered that day all too well. It hadn’t been one of his proudest victories.

  “Yes, well…” She had the look of someone who’d taken a bite that tasted nasty but was too polite to spit it out. No choice but to swallow it. “I’ve decided to take it.”

  “I see,” Riley murmured, keeping both expression and tone neutral. “So…I’m to assume you are once again in need of an attorney?”

  A smile quivered across her lips and was gone. “A good attorney. Isn’t that what you said?”

  He allowed himself a chuckle at that “Yes, ma’am, I believe I did. So. You are in need of a good attorney. Well.” He leaned forward, inviting confidence. “That sounds serious. What sort of problem are you havin’, Mrs. Robey? You do know, if it’s anything related to that other matter-”

  “It isn’t. At least…I don’t think it is. I don’t know very much about how these things work-legally. Just because you were against me in one case, that doesn’t mean I can’t hire you for something else?” A little crease of determination lodged itself between blue eyes that had suddenly gone bright and fierce.

  A tiny shiver of anticipation worked its way down Riley’s spine. “Why don’t you tell me a little bit about the nature of your problem,” he said soothingly, “and then maybe I can tell you whether or not I’m goin’ to be able to help you out”

  She drew a deep breath and nodded. He leaned back again, giving her the full force of an attentiveness so focused as to be almost hypnotic-another of Riley Grogan’s gifts. He would listen to and hear every word she said, along with every inflection and nuance, every hesitation and stammer, at the same time he would study her gestures and expressions, every twitch and quiver and blink. And he would forget nothing.

  Her face, he decided, was interesting rather than beautiful, which he readily admitted was a subjective assessment, and dependent more on the current standards of beauty as set forth in television sitcoms, movies and fashion magazines than his own personal taste. No doubt her face wo
uld be considered too thin, the bones too sharply defined, her eyes too intense. And her mouth… ah, her mouth fascinated him, though not in the usual way, not the way of the lush, ripe-fruit, bee-stung lips that could just about be counted on to make his mouth water and his blood head south. Thin-lipped and intelligent, her mouth seemed never to be still, corners turning up in amusement or down in dismay, quirking sideways in irony, pursing in distaste, quivering and twitching, coiling around each word, molding and shaping it like a sculptor before revealing it to him with a caress of breath…

  Astonished to find that his mouth had begun to water and his blood to head south, he gave his head a quick, hard shake.

  She stopped instantly, looking nonplussed. “I’m sorry, was there something…?”

  “No, I do apologize. I just had a thought. Nothing important-please, go on.”

  “Well, you probably know some of this, anyway,” she said with the barely perceptible twitchiness characteristic of those who don’t much like talking about themselves. “About Hal-my husband-cleaning me out financially and then disappearing, and the divorce, and my moving to Georgia. Because of-” she coughed and colored slightly “-the other case.”

  It was yet another reminder to him of the way her cheeks had burned with humiliation at their last meeting, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “You said he has a gambling problem, as I recall.”

  He watched her lips as they curled briefly into a smile, then softened with sadness. “Hal was-is-a compulsive gambler, Mr. Grogan. That’s an illness, you know, like alcoholism or drug addiction Living with a compulsive gambler is like living with a heroin addict. You can’t trust them or depend on them for anything, except to let you down. You learn to live with lies and uncertainty, violent mood swings and unexplained absences. You learn to live with worry and fear. You learn to live with the knowledge that the person you love will steal you blind, if you give him the chance, sell you and everything you own, plus his children and his mother, in order to get just one…more…stake.” She stopped there and looked away, her mouth restless.

  Riley propped an elbow on the arm of his chair and leaned his chin on his hand, supporting it in a cradle made of his extended fingers. “And yet,” he said softly, “you stayed with him…for how long?”

  “Ten years. He was-is-my children’s father,” she said on an exhalation, still not looking at him. “And as lousy a husband and, in most ways, a human being he was, he was a good father. He couldn’t hold a job, so more often than not he was the one who was home with the kids. They adored-they adore him. And he did try to get help. Especially toward the end. He’d joined Gamblers Anonymous and seemed to be doing better. That’s why it was so unexpected-” Her mouth quirked awry. “No-I should have expected it. I just said that, didn’t I? That’s what compulsive gamblers do-let you down. I still should have seen it coming.”

  Riley tapped his lips thoughtfully with his little finger. “You keep referring to your husband-”

  “Ex,” she corrected him with a bitter smile. “Please.”

  He acknowledged that with a nod. “Your ex-husband…in the past tense. Do I assume that to mean you still haven’t heard from him?”

  She sat forward, the frown-pleat deep between her eyes, focused and intent once more. “No, nothing. It’s been over a year.”

  “I assume you’ve been to the police?”

  Her lips curved, a tight little smile that left the frown intact. “Yes, well, they seem to think the most likely scenario is, Hal’s gambling finally got him way over his head with some dangerous people and he decided to take an extended leave for the sake of his health, and that he’s probably laid up on some tropical island somewhere, living off what he stole from me and the kids.”

  “Well, I’d have to say I pretty much agree with that,” said Riley, moving the hand that had been supporting his chin in such a way that he could glance at his watch without being obvious about it. Fifteen minutes until his next appointment. “You have any reason to think otherwise?”

  She shook her head. “Oh, I’m sure that’s what happened. It’s the only thing that makes sense. It seems to me it would take a great deal of money to make yourself disappear without a trace. And that’s what he took…everything I had, anyway.” She looked away again, but not before he saw the telltale movement in her throat that told of emotions ruthlessly suppressed.

  Selfish bastard. Riley picked up a pen and began to manipulate it with quick and angry movements, venting with his fingers what he dared not say in words while he waited for her to continue. When she did not, he smiled and said gently, “Mrs. Robey, I’m sorry as I can be about what happened, but you still haven’t told me why it is you think you need a good attorney.”

  “I’m coming to that.” For the first time, her voice took on a hard edge.

  But she wasn’t there yet, not quite. First she had to take a deep breath, and then another, while she shifted around in her chair as if she was going to need a good solid support from which to launch this tale of hers. Riley felt a pulse begin to beat behind his belt buckle, an annoying little tick-tock of impatience.

  “Anyway, I got the divorce and moved here-or rather, to Georgia, to be near my sister,” she said finally. “I just wanted to put it all behind me, start over, for the children’s sake as well as mine. And we’d been doing okay in spite of…one or two setbacks.” Resentment flared in her eyes and then was veiled when she closed them briefly. After a moment she went on. “Then, about… three months ago, I started getting phone calls.”

  “Phone calls?” Now it was Riley who frowned. “You mean, from your husband?”

  “No, no-I don’t know who it was. A man. Some men, actually. Different ones. At first, you know, they’d call late at night, when the children were asleep. They said they were friends of Hal’s and that they needed to find him. But there was something…I don’t know, just sort of scary about it. I told them I didn’t know where Hal was, but the calls kept coming, and they kept getting more and more threatening.”

  “Threatening? How?”

  “Oh, you know-vague things. ‘Tell us where your husband is, or you’ll regret it.’ Stuff like that. I didn’t take it too seriously, but still, it was…upsetting.”

  Riley murmured, “I’ll bet.”

  “But then…one day someone called when my kids were home. David-my nine-year-old son-answered the phone. I don’t know exactly what the man said to him-David won’t tell me-but I do know he was terrified. First he wouldn’t go to sleep at all. It was like he thought he needed to stand guard, or something. He’s been sort of like that since his father left, anyway-trying to be the man of the house, you know. Then when he did finally crash, he had nightmares.” She shifted in the chair, edgy with anger. “That was it-the last straw. So I went to the police.”

  Riley nodded; it had been on the tip of his tongue to ask. “Good move. And?”

  Again that tight, joyless smile. “They suggested I change my number. So I did. The calls stopped-for about a week. When they started up again, they were even more vicious than before. They-” her voice quivered unexpectedly; she shut it down and began again, this time in a lower tone “-they said they would take my children, and…hurt them…if that’s what it took to force Hal out of hiding.”

  Pain reminded Riley to unclench his jaw. Tearing his gaze away from the woman’s mouth, from lips that were taut and vibrant as bowstrings, he forced them to focus on the terror in her eyes instead. “Mrs. Robey, I don’t know whether you need a lawyer or not, but I know you should be talkin’ to the police.”

  “Oh, yes.” She dipped her head in a quick, angry nod. “I did. They didn’t seem to think there was very much they could do for me, not unless they had more to go on. They suggested I could change my number again, get caller ID, things like that Oh-and they told me I might consider hiring a security guard-for my peace of mind. As if I could afford such a thing.” Her voice had climbed the scale; now it was high and incredulous. “It was almost as if they didn
’t believe me, as if they thought I was lying.”

  “All cops sound like that,” said Riley with an impatient wave of his hand. “I think they teach it at the police academy. Do you mean to tell me-”

  “No, wait,” she said grimly, “there’s more.” She spoke rapidly, and her eyes had a glow now that he could have sworn had as much anger in it as fear. “So, anyway, I had to drive back from the police station to where I was working that day-I work for a mobile vet, so we’re at a different location every day, usually two or three in a day-which was about ten miles, with quite a few turnoffs. And I started noticing this car, this tan sedan, following me. Now, naturally, after those phone calls, I thought the worst, you know? I mean, I was scared. So I stepped on it. What else could I do? I was out in the middle of nowhere! And I’m driving like a bat outta hell-mind you, my car isn’t capable of a whole lot, but it was doing its best-and this tan sedan is staying right with me. By this time, I’m terrified, shaking like a leaf. Finally, I make it to the parking lot where the mobile vet is set up, I go screeching up to the van, and before I can do a thing, the tan sedan pulls right up beside me, this man jumps out and yanks my door open, flashes a badge and says-” she lowered her voice at least an octave “-‘Mrs. Robey, I’m gonna have to ask you to come with me, please.’ ”

  Riley didn’t know when he’d been so completely captivated. His heart was actually pounding, and he could feel the quiver of terror in his own legs-empathy, unfortunately, being another of Riley’s gifts, one he took great pains to keep secret. “You mean to say they arrested you?”

  She shook her head almost gleefully; her lips parted. “They weren’t cops.”

  “Then who…?”

  “You’re never going to guess…”

  “FBI, ma’am, Special Agent Jake Redfield.”

  FBI? Summer felt a sudden and very brief impulse to laugh. Still on an adrenaline high, she spoke in a clipped, breathless voice. “May I see that ID again, please?”