It hurt like hell to watch the dream die.
“I’m sorry, Cammie....”
* * *
TIME SUSPENDED—it could have been seconds, possibly minutes—as Cammie listened to him explain that it was over. His words fell on her, slicing through her with a sorrowful grief, piercing something sacred and fragile deep inside.
When his words finally stopped, she gave her head a slow, disbelieving shake. “My,” she whispered, “it must be wonderful to sit so high up there, knowing what’s right and wrong, black-and-white.”
“Says the woman who likes to slide into the gray.”
She mentally flinched, but held herself still, impassive. His accusation hit a wall. She was tired of apologizing for being who she was—a risk taker, a woman who would rather take a chance and pay the consequences than cower in fear and uncertainty.
“Yes, I’ve waded into questionable areas,” she said over the rising winds. “Sometimes taking those risks means I’ve solved cases, some high-profile cases that brought you acclaim and money, Marc.”
“But at the time,” he said quietly, his brow wrinkling, “I didn’t know—”
“Really? Absolutely no idea how I might have possibly found evidence of, oh, where that woman was buying drugs in the Campbell case, or how the husband was siphoning money to his girlfriend in the Verdon case?”
He gave her a lengthy, perplexed look as though trying to see inside her brain. “You’re saying you illegally discovered evidence in those cases?”
“No. In the Campbell case, I attached a GPS on a vehicle registered to our client. In Verdon, I did a trash hit and found ATM receipts. In both cases, there were no issues about how I found the evidence. In the wrong judge’s court, however, my means could’ve been considered illegal. If that were true, you would’ve been viewed as complicit in my breaking the law.”
“Hypothesizing how a judge might have ruled doesn’t change the fact, Cammie, that you have a bad habit of willfully bending the law. That’s what stands between us.”
“No, what stands between us is that I’m not perfect. That I’m willing to stumble and even fail, in search of the truth. I’d rather be in the gray, and be real, than be like you, afraid to not be exactly right or wrong. Hate to break it to you, Marc, but your father’s in the gray and so’s Emily. Actually, so’s most of the world. That’s why you sit in that house alone, a perfect man in his perfect world.”
He impaled her with steely blue eyes. “I think we’ve said enough.”
She was about to turn away when she stopped herself. Despite their angry words, she owed it to him to let him know that Laura wasn’t pregnant. Timing of the news wasn’t exactly opportune, but if she didn’t tell him now, when would she get another chance? It was only fair he knew before the deposition, and not be hit by the obvious fact when Laura walked into the room.
“There’s one more thing, Marc, and I’m telling you this as a friend...”
He made a stopping gesture, his mouth twisted as though he couldn’t bear to utter a single word more.
“Laura—” thunder rumbled overhead “—isn’t pregnant.”
He stared at her, stone-faced, then turned and strode away.
His hard, implacable response stunned her. Maybe he hadn’t heard? Or maybe he didn’t want to believe her.
Rain started spitting from the sky as she watched his retreat, the sound of his footsteps fading until she heard nothing...as though he’d never been there.
Raindrops fell, splattering the concrete with fat gray blobs. She leaned into the gusty winds, feeling spent and fragile. But she had to be strong, had to keep moving forward with her life. If she let her thoughts wander to him, if she allowed the memories of what they’d shared to resurface, they’d tear her apart and destroy her faster than any earthly storm.
Cammie parked Phil in front of her uncle Frankie’s house and killed the engine. Rain splattered on the roof of the car, washed down the windshield. Through the blur, she could see the house was ablaze with lights, both from inside as well as the yellow porch lights and exterior yard lights.
“The electric company must love you, Uncle Frankie,” she murmured.
After a mad dash to the house, holding her purse over her head as though that might prevent the rain from drenching her, she walked inside, dragging fingers through her damp hair. Scents of tomato sauce and warm bread infused the air. Frank Sinatra was crooning “You Make Me Feel so Young,” with backup vocals by Uncle Frankie, his voice drowning the other Frank’s. Tossing her purse on the living room couch, she headed into the kitchen where her uncle and Delilah were dancing, cheek to cheek.
When Frankie saw Cammie, he stopped and called out, “My li’l figlia!”
Delilah, wearing a low-cut tiger-print number and an apron with the words Kiss the Cook, opened her arms, her gold bracelets sparkling. “Oh, my dear, we were so worried!”
Despite Cammie’s warning to them that she was a walking water puddle, they embraced her in a group hug that reeked of Chanel No. 5, lemony-musky cologne and enough garlic to cure the ills of the world.
If only that were true.
After that, Delilah ordered her to put on dry, clean clothes. When Cammie returned, dressed in a favorite soft pair of jeans and her Nuggets sweatshirt, Frankie escorted her to the dining room table and poured her a hefty glass of Chianti while Delilah served a little plate of olives, cheese and nuts, “to whet your appetite, dear.”
While Delilah stayed in the kitchen to monitor the boiling pasta and sauce, Frankie sat across from Cammie and poured himself another glass of wine.
“Marc told me you and Delilah took back the rental car and delivered Phil to the parking lot,” she said, trying to sound together, maybe even normal. “Thanks for doing that.”
He shrugged. “That’s what family’s for.” He gave her a knowing look. “Marc, he wasn’t so happy with what happened this afternoon.”
“That’s right.” She took a sip of her wine.
“He didn’t give no particulars, but—” Frankie shrugged dramatically “—it was obvious, y’know? I mean, who hasn’t seen my niece, the revolutionary, getting arrested on the news?”
“Oh, sweetheart!” Delilah called out from the kitchen. “Your face against the asphalt like that!”
“But she looks okay now, kitty doll,” Frankie yelled back, tilting his head to check out Cammie’s cheeks. “Don’t see no oil spots or scratches.” He leaned back in his chair. “So, where was we? Yeah, Marc wasn’t real happy—”
“We broke up.” She figured it was easier to simply say it.
Her uncle blinked. “I never even knew you two’s were together. Can I tell Del?”
“No need,” Del called out. “I can hear fine from the kitchen.”
Cammie had to smile despite her misery. “It’s okay that Del knows. After all, we’re family.”
“I was worried sick about you being in that jail,” Delilah added.
“I’m fine.”
“Those gangs...I told you about that documentary I saw.”
“There was no gang warfare in the Clark County Detention Center. Well, there might’ve been if anybody changed the soap-opera channel.”
“Soap opera?”
“I love you, my bride-to-be, but soap operas can wait. Me and Camilla got to talk.” He turned his attention to her. “So, let’s take it from the top.”
Cammie told him about the issue of “wading into the gray” that had come up repeatedly between her and Marc. How they’d found Gwen, whose real name was Laura, in San Clemente, and after some girl-drama craziness, Cammie served Laura papers for her appearance at a deposition in five days. She explained how Marc had been counting on Cammie’s testimony at this deposition to persuade the Attorney Disciplinary Agency to not suspend his license, and how, if he lost
it, he wouldn’t be able to represent his father at a parole hearing in a few weeks.
After a big sip of wine, she wrapped up the story by saying she’d screwed everything up by willfully getting arrested at today’s rally. Her actions were meant to protect Emily, and although Marc didn’t want to accept it, to protect him, too.
Frankie’s brow furrowed. “I don’t get the screwed-up part.”
“My testimony at the deposition, remember? I can’t do that now, which means his license will be suspended, which means he can’t represent his father—” She choked back a sob. “That sweet old man...will spend the rest of his life...in prison.”
And then she cried. Just let the tears fall.
After a flurry of commotion that included another group hug, Delilah plunked a box of tissues next to Cammie’s dinner plate. “When a lady’s heart has been broken, she has the right to cry at dinner, dear.”
Then Delilah set the food on the table while Uncle Frankie, who’d donned his horn-rim glasses although he wasn’t reading anything, gave his “three cents.”
“Y’know, that wading into the gray area stuff isn’t somethin’ new in your life, Camilla. You did that all the time as a kid with your mother, God rest her soul. You always wanted to protect her, and the good Lord knows, she needed protecting. I protected her, too, but you were the one who was on the front line, and she leaned on you, too.” He put some salad on Cammie’s plate. “Eat, it’s good for you.”
She did what was good for her.
As he served salad to himself and Del, he continued, “Risking your own well-being for another isn’t somethin’ new, either. I remember coming over when you were ten, maybe eleven, and you were trying to get your mother out of that old Ford Escort she used to drive, remember? It was running in the garage with the door closed. Lucky I dropped by—you didn’t know that both of you could be overcome with carbon monoxide. I brought your mother inside, and called 9-1-1.”
“I remember,” Cammie said solemnly. “She was in the hospital for several days, and you and Reggie stayed with me.” During that time, her uncle and aunt had done everything in their power to help Cammie recover from the traumatic episode, including the three of them attending several meetings with a school counselor. She remembered how scared she’d been for her mother’s well-being, as well as angry at her actions. After that, she’d been more vigilant than ever about her mom’s safety.
He turned thoughtful. “Y’know, Camilla, I’m gonna give you another perspective on living, and I’d like for you to hear me out. Maybe it’s okay sometimes to live a black-and-white life, to know what’s wrong, to do what’s right. Look at Frankie and the pope.” He gestured to their photos on the wall.
She and Delilah looked.
“Frankie, he pretty much always lived in the gray, y’know? But the pope!” He crossed himself. “He understood black-and-white, and he helped many of us live by it. After all, with black-and-white, you can trust your choices.” He took a sip of wine, set down the glass. “And ’nother thing. I like how you take care of others—your mother would be proud—just make sure you take care of Cammie, too.”
“Your uncle is a wise man,” Delilah murmured.
“And one more thing.” He looked intently at Cammie, his eyes big and shiny behind the thick lens. “You want I help Marc understand the situation? Because after your uncle Frankie talks to him, your world could again be a beautiful place full of lollipops and rainbows.”
Cammie nearly choked on a bite of pasta. After swallowing, she said quietly, “I think Marc has enough on his plate without that conversation, but tell you what. I might ask you to give that speech to the car mechanic next time I take in Phil.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ON THURSDAY, AT 5:00 P.M., Marc was in the living room of the suite at the Aria, his suitcase open, looking around for any last items he needed to pack. In the corner, he spied a wad of black material. He walked over and held it up, reading the white block words on the front of the black T-shirt.
Chicks Dig Me, Fish Fear Me.
His jaw hardened even as his heart shrank. A black-and-white T-shirt—it was as though Cammie was getting in the last word.
Which she had.
That’s why you sit in that house alone, a perfect man in his perfect world had haunted him ever since she’d said the words yesterday. Then she’d added something about Laura, but he hadn’t wanted to hear more.
He couldn’t think of the last time he’d turned his back on someone and walked away. Had never done it to a client, and there had certainly been some belligerent ones who deserved it. He’d never done it to his ex-wife, and they’d had some fights where he should have. Had never done it to Gwen-Laura, who he wished he’d walked away from the very first time their eyes met.
But he’d walked away from Cammie. And every second since then, that last grief-eroded look on her face continued to stab at his heart.
He tossed the T-shirt aside, slammed shut his suitcase and snapped the locks.
“Em,” he yelled to the closed bedroom door, “finished packing?”
Of course, she didn’t answer. She’d been sullen ever since the fiasco yesterday. Hadn’t spoken to him the entire ride to the hotel after he’d bailed out Cammie, wouldn’t even respond when he asked her if he could take her out for a gluten-free, vegetarian, green-as-they-come meal. After they’d arrived at the hotel, she’d continued stonewalling him all the way to their suite, where she marched into her room and banged shut the door.
He’d called room service for dinner, picking the most exotic, organic-sounding dish for her—a rice pasta with morel mushrooms and walnut pesto—which he’d left on a tray outside her room. Around midnight she’d opened her door long enough to take the tray inside, then made a great show of locking the door, loudly.
He’d stayed up late, watching mind-numbing TV shows whose plots and characters he couldn’t recall, his thoughts vacillating between telling himself it had been worthwhile bringing Emily out for a visit to chiding himself for thinking he could pull off being a full-time dad. And when he wasn’t thinking about that, he was thinking about Cammie, wondering why the hell she’d put herself on the line like that, even while knowing she was always one to take action and test limits.
But understanding the motivations behind her actions didn’t erase the consequences. He had a hell of a problem coming up with the deposition.
In the morning, Emily had grudgingly told him she was going downstairs to buy a green tea and gluten-free muffin, and he’d asked to accompany her. But even walking together to the bakery didn’t heal their rift, because the only thing she’d wanted to talk about was his making up with Cammie, and he’d refused to discuss the matter. Back at the hotel, she’d retreated to her room again.
The hours of the day crawled past in a slow, dull haze. He hadn’t grown closer to his daughter this trip. He’d only managed to alienate her further.
Now, finally, it was time to go. This vacation from hell was over. He glanced again at the closed door. “Em, we need to check out, grab a bite to eat and get to the airport.”
Silence.
He headed to the door and knocked gently. “Emily?”
Silence.
He tried the handle. Not locked. He opened the door.
Her suitcase lay packed on the bed. He quickly scanned the rest of the room. Her brightly patterned eco-friendly purse, made of recycled candy-and-gum wrappers, was gone.
He walked back into the main room, looked around as though maybe she’d magically materialized in the few moments he’d stepped into her bedroom. He checked the bathroom off the entrance way.
No Emily.
He called her cell phone and got her voice recording.
For once he hoped she was ignoring him. He didn’t want to think of other, darker, reasons why she might not be answering
.
He went to the room phone and called the front desk. “Get me security.”
Within seconds, he had Iona on the line.
“I remember your daughter well, Mr. Hamilton. There have been no recent reports of an underage person fitting her description in the gambling areas. How long has she been missing?”
The last time he’d talked to her had been around three-thirty when he’d knocked on her door, said he was going downstairs to pick up a fax in the hotel business center.
“About an hour and a half.”
“That’s not very long. Maybe she went shopping?”
“I doubt it.” Not Emily’s style to wreak revenge through a decadent capitalist shopping spree, but on the other hand, what better way to punish a bourgeoisie father?
“It’s only been a short while,” Iona said quietly. “Maybe she’s gone to the food court to get a drink or to check out some of the stores on the strip.”
After leaving his cell number with Iona, he wrote a note to Emily that she shouldn’t have left the room without telling him where she was going, that he was looking for her, that she needed to call his cell ASAP and that he loved her.
* * *
AT FIVE O’CLOCK, CAMMIE WALKED inside the front door of Dignity House to start her stint as study monitor. The place was dark, cloaked in an eerie silence that made her nerves itch.
She flicked on a light switch.
“Surprise!”
The girls appeared magically, some scampering in from the hallway, others popping up from behind couches and chairs. They laughed and clapped and yelled her name.
Carolyn, one of the resident counselors, slowly unfolded herself from where she’d been hiding behind an armchair.
“Hi, Cammie,” she said, brushing hair out of her face. “Instead of study hour tonight, the girls asked to spend some special time with you.”
Cammie gazed at the green-and-yellow streamers looped around the room. “It’s...not my birthday,” she said in a bewildered voice.
The Next Right Thing (Harlequin Superromance) Page 22
