by Donna Fasano
The judge studied her a moment and then turned his resigned gaze to her father. "Mr. Hunkavic?"
"Yes, sir." Her dad sat up straighter, his fingers curled on the knob of his cane. "That's me. Lewis Ivan Hunkavic."
"Do you feel, Mr. Hunkavic, that your daughter and son-in-law have any chance of working out their differences?"
"Well, your Honor, sir."
The odd hitch in her dad's tone had Lauren turning toward him. He combed his fingers through his hair, his bushy brows pulling together.
"My first concern is Lauren's happiness, of course," Lew began. He paused, then added, "I know what she wants me to say to you. She's yammered at me about it numerous times."
Her lips parted and she sucked in a silent gasp.
"You're not sworn in, Mr. Hunkavic," Judge Brooks explained, "but that doesn't mean I wouldn't appreciate complete honesty here."
She watched her dad hesitate a moment, then he did the most peculiar thing. He reached down with his free hand, grasped the arm of his chair and scooted it the merest fraction of an inch—away from her.
"Sir, I have to admit," he said, his gaze trained on the judge, "my daughter tends to be a tad stubborn. She inherited that trait from her mother."
The judge smiled just as Lew quietly added, "God rest her soul."
"Excuse me for butting in, Judge." Lauren stood again, her voice loud and clear. "But I think my father's about to become a hostile witness."
"Mrs. Flynn, you promised you wouldn't interrupt. And might I remind you that you requested this meeting? This is an informal gathering." As if confirming the remark, Judge Brooks reached over and slid the gavel a few inches to his right. "We're just chatting here. That's all we're doing."
Lauren sat again, casting her father a withering look even though she knew it would have no effect on the old coot whatsoever. There were times when Lew Hunkavic could be as infuriating as her husband, and she could feel in her bones that this was surely going to be one of them.
"You were saying, Mr. Hunkavic?" Judge Brooks said.
Lew tapped his cane silently against the floor twice. "Sir, I believe my daughter is very angry with Greg. With good reason, I'll give her that. He's made a few mistakes over the past couple of years." He leaned forward, softening his voice even further. "But, personally, I don't think money is a good reason to end a marriage."
Again, Lauren sucked in a sharp breath. "Dad! There's more to this than money. You know that."
She faced forward, ignoring the men on either side of her. "Your Honor, there is no possibility of reconciliation for Gregory Flynn and myself. I can guarantee this. It takes two to tango, and not only am I unwilling to dance, I can no longer hear the music." Stiffly, she added, "The fact that I had to sell my tap shoes to pay my husband's debt is only one reason our marriage fell apart."
Beside her, Lew murmured, "Did you ever think that was part of the problem between you and Greg? You insisted on tangoing in tap shoes?"
Lauren took no notice of her father's questions, focusing only on making her point. "Judge Brooks, I emptied my savings and pension funds in order to pay Greg's debts. He's cost me nearly sixty thousand dollars. My father will be moving in with me at the end of the week because I can no longer afford to pay his rent and save for my retirement at the same time."
"Thanks for telling the world I'm a kept man," her dad said.
"I'm not keeping you, Dad. I'm helping you. There's a big difference." She glanced over at Greg and saw him staring straight ahead, the muscle near his temple so tense it looked painful. His embarrassment didn't concern her. She wanted his signature on those papers, damn it.
"Judge," she continued, "it will take me years to recoup my losses. Every time I sit down to pay bills and realize that I have to trim my budget even further due to Greg's poor financial planning, his stupid business choices, I get sick to my stomach. My nausea only increases when I remember how he lied. He betrayed my trust. I want this over with. Once and for all and forever." She snapped her jaw shut and offered Judge Brooks a look of unwavering determination.
The elderly man in the formidable black robe returned her gaze, and she worried that he might disappoint her. But then he shook his head ever so slightly and turned to Greg.
And that's when Lauren could almost taste victory.
"Mr. Flynn," Judge Brooks said softly, "do you mind if I ask you why you're dragging your heels on this thing?"
Lauren watched Greg ponder the question for a moment.
Finally, he lifted his burly shoulders a fraction, raised one calloused hand, palm up, and said, "Pride, I guess."
The judge tapped his fingertips soundlessly on his desktop. "Your answer surprises me. I was expecting to hear something altogether different. Can you help me understand what you mean?"
A tall, solid man used to handling a miter saw or climbing around on roofing trusses, Greg looked uncomfortable in the hard-angled, wooden chair. However, it could have been the question he found discomfiting.
"I don't like the idea of leaving things like this."
When he hesitated, the judge coaxed, "What do you mean, Mr. Flynn? Leave things like what?"
Greg cleared his throat and shifted his weight in the chair. "I, uh, I don't like the idea of walking away from Lauren while things are. . .well, such a mess. If she'd accept my calls, or talk to me when she sees me on the street, I could have saved us from having to come here today. I could have expressed my feelings to her. Explained my plan. I was hoping to work things out." He splayed his hands on the tabletop. "Not that I think we'll get back together or anything like that, Judge. Lauren's made that clear enough." He pondered a moment, scrubbing at his jaw. "But I wanted to work out the business end of things. It would be humiliating for me to agree to divorce my wife while I still owe her so much money. You're a man, I'm sure you can understand that."
Lauren blinked. "But you don't owe me any money." Confusion weakened her tone. She looked at the judge and firmly stated, "He doesn't owe me any money."
"That's what I tried to tell him," Lew said under his breath.
"Oh, but I do." The resolve in Greg's words was as strong as hers and it drew her attention. He faced her, had turned his entire body to address her as if she were the only person in the room. "You said it yourself, Lauren. Nearly sixty thousand dollars."
"But, Greg, my name was on the business." Boy, had that been a mistake. But love had a way of making a person as blind as a mole rat. "That was my share of the debt when the store went under."
"That was my debt, Lauren. Not yours."
The intensity of his onyx eyes threatened to suck her in, swallow her whole. This was exactly why she'd turned and walked in the opposite direction whenever she'd spied him in the Super G or at the County Bank. She couldn't talk to the man without feeling she might come apart at the seams.
"Your Honor—" She concentrated on the man in the black robe—the one person who had some semblance of a chance of tipping the balance and winning her freedom. "Will you please explain the law to him? Make him see that he does not owe me any money?"
Judge Brooks' expression had lightened significantly as Greg had talked. "You have to admit, Mrs. Flynn, that your husband's motives are genuine. He's looking out for your best interest." He shrugged. "I'd even go so far as to say Mr. Flynn is being downright chivalrous in the matter."
Lauren frowned. "No disrespect intended, but chivalry died along with King Arthur."
"There you go again," Lew grumbled, "tangoing in tap shoes."
Glancing over her shoulder, she said, "That makes absolutely no sense. Can you sit there quietly? If you refuse to help my case, Dad, the least you can do is not hurt it." He looked wounded, but her determination was building and she didn't want to lose the momentum. She swung her gaze to the judge. "I don't want Mr. Flynn's money. I want his signature. On these documents." She waved the papers in the air. "I don't want to wait another year for my divorce. I need to—"
"All right, already!" Greg sm
acked the tabletop and stood, the legs of his chair grating against the floor. "If it's that important to you, Lauren, I'll sign the papers."
Yes! This was what she'd been hoping for. That Greg would finally understand her vexation and agree to dissolve their marriage, once and for all.
She snatched up her Montblanc and set the petition in front of Greg with rocket speed. His rough fingertips grazed the back of her hand when he reached for the ink pen; heated electricity skittered across her skin forcing her to suppress a shiver. He showed no sign of noticing.
"You should read them before signing," she murmured, overwhelmed with satisfaction as she watched him scrawl his name on the line.
He set down the pen, his severe gaze raking her face. "Thanks for the advice, Counselor."
Ignoring his disgruntled tone, Lauren picked up documents. "Judge Brooks, may I approach the bench? If you sign these now, it will expedite the process even further."
"Hold up a minute, Mrs. Flynn." The judge opened the manila file sitting on his desk. "This changes everything. We have property to take care of. We might as well do it now since we're all present."
She paused, her heart fluttering. "I beg your pardon, Judge, but there's nothing to divvy up. I bought the house before we married. Greg's name was never on the deed." Lauren couldn't count the number of times she'd thanked the heavens for that bit of saving grace. "All the inventory was liquidated and the store was sold, and it took everything to pay the business debts. I kept my car. He kept his truck. And I agreed he should keep his tools so he could earn a living." She straightened the documents in her hands, tapped them on the table. "So you can see, there's nothing else left to split."
"Oh, Mrs. Flynn," the judge almost sang the words while he shuffled through the papers in front of him, "now there's where you're wrong."
Chapter 2
Life is tough, but it's tougher when you're stupid.
~ John Wayne
"You will never guess what Greg did." Lauren slapped her attaché onto her desktop and continued without waiting for a reply from the woman who'd followed her into her office. "He hid a piece of property from me."
Norma Jean Pruitt's brown eyes went round. At sixty-two going on thirty, Norma Jean had been with Lauren since the first week that the office had been open for business. She'd hired on as Lauren's receptionist, and over the years, had added differentials to her job description until she'd included a myriad of professional and personal titles, the most important of which was close-friend-and-confidant. Norma Jean's vibrant energy hummed like a live wire; clients and colleagues alike often commented on the woman's joie de vivre when they came into the office. She could instill hope in the dispirited, dry the tears of the dejected, spark courage in the fearful. . .she was like some sort of superhero for the soul. The practice didn't bring in enough money to pay the woman the buckets of gold she was worth.
"It's over an acre of ground out on Skeeter Neck Road."
Norma Jean's nose wrinkled. "Not the best part of town."
Lauren pulled out her divorce file and handed it over. "Tell me about it."
Norma Jean accepted the folder, tucked it under the ever present legal pad she cradled. "I thought everything was sold off when the hardware store went bust. How could he still have a piece of property?"
"Apparently," Lauren said, tugging out several other folders and setting them on her desk, "he renovated someone's house and it turned out the person couldn't pay. Not in cash, anyway." Her tone grated as she asked, "Is anyone surprised? Where does he find these people?" She sighed. "Anyway, Greg accepted the land as payment when it was offered. A barter, he told the judge."
"Skeeter Neck Road runs through a lot of low, swampy land." Norma moved to the window. "He's not building a house out there, is he?" She adjusted the blinds to block out most of the sun's glare.
"He sure isn't." Lauren set her attaché behind her desk. "Because Judge Brooks awarded the property to me."
Norma spun around to face her. "What? Really?"
She nodded. "Greg tried to argue that the plot of ground wasn't actual income; that he'd made the deal after we'd separated. That it shouldn't come into play in any settlement. And that it wasn't worth anything given its location and that the only thing on it was a dilapidated shed. But he'd already set himself up for a fall by telling the judge that he's been stalling on the divorce because he didn't want to end the marriage owing me so much money."
Forever the romantic, Norma Jean said, "Awww…" Her brown eyes softened, her ruby lips parting slightly. "You have to admit, Lauren, that's kind of sweet."
Lauren just shook her head. What was it with people? They couldn't see the truth about Greg even when it was staring them right in the face.
"Judge Brooks awarded me the land, the shed and all its contents. Then he ordered his clerk to file my divorce papers within the next five business days. And he told Greg he was to deliver the deed to the land to me by then." She sat down in her desk chair and slid her knees under the desk. "So next week I'll be officially divorced and the owner of a plot of land out on Skeeter Neck Road." Absently, she reached for the folders in front of her and snatched up her pen, muttering, "Why do I have this feeling that I'll be free of one albatross only to find myself saddled with another?"
"Now, Lauren," Norma Jean scolded. "Don't be so pessimistic."
* * *
A rawboned young man, Scotty Shaw had big hands and knobby shoulders he had yet to grow into. His Ichabod Crane neck looked ill fitted to support his large head. Had he more meat on his long-boned body, Lauren would have taken him for a running back or a wide receiver; however, there didn't appear to be enough muscle and sinew to carry his six foot frame let alone make him a college football star.
He shifted gracelessly in the leather wing-backed chair, his bony knees veering together then sliding apart as Lauren glanced over the police report he'd brought with him. She read the facts, pursing her lips tightly to keep from smiling. Sometimes she struggled not to laugh at the antics that landed these kids into trouble.
What were you thinking? was the first question she wanted to ask. But she knew better. It was obvious that Scotty Shaw—and every other Sterling University student who showed up on her doorstep in dire need of legal representation due to a single moment of stupid, rash or reckless indiscretion—hadn't thought about the possible consequences of his actions.
"So, Scott," she began, "you were arrested and charged with Disorderly Conduct—"
"I was just walking down the street, minding my own business. I swear." His slate blue eyes went wide, giving him a little-boy-lost look.
"—and Alarm and Offense—"
"I never touched that lady or her husband with my. . ." He paused, two fire engine-red patches splotching his hollow cheeks. He scooted to sit straighter. "I swear I didn't. You have to believe me. She's the one who made contact. I was just standing there minding my own business, waiting for the light to change so I could cross the street." His gaze shifted nervously. "She's the one who started the conversation. She's the one who reached out and slid her hand up the—" He stopped again. Swallowed. "Up my—" Another pause. He frowned. "Her husband went absolutely ballistic when she touched it."
It in this case being a five foot plastic, blow up penis, 'complete with furry scrotum' the arresting officer had noted in his report, which Scotty had carted under his arm the full length of Main Street on his way to a Saturday night frat party. Had he remained on University property with his indecent paraphernalia, his only probable consequence would have been a reprimand from the Dean of Discipline. But several town residents had become involved in the ensuing altercation, not to mention the Sterling police who tended to be tough on the college kids, taking the stance that cracking down early in the fall semester meant fewer offenses later on in the year. The hardnosed attitude of town law enforcement toward the students provided Lauren with a hefty chunk of her yearly income.
"The guy shoved me away from his wife, whipped out his ce
ll and dialed 911 before I could take a breath. I tried to run, but he grabbed my arm and wouldn't let go. He was strong for an old dude." One knee began to bounce. "And the car accident wasn't my fault, either. That woman should have been paying attention to traffic; not gawking at what was happening on the sidewalk."
Lauren sighed. A pedestrian incident and a traffic accident. Scott had caused a lot of paperwork for the Sterling PD. The attending officer must have been totally ticked to pile on the charges like this. Looking up from the arrest report, she asked, "And you resisted arrest because. . .?"
The young man's jaw jutted with affront. "I didn't mean to resist anything. That cop threatened to poke a hole in my. . .in the. . ." Frustration knitted Scott's brow and he went quiet. Finally, he exhaled, his shoulders sagging. When he spoke, his anger seemed to have fizzled.
"I just lost my head, is all. I wasn't thinking. I was furious that those cops could just take something that belonged to me. Something that cost me a whole week's allowance, Ms Flynn. And that's not including postage and handling."
His chin dipped as he sulked. "It's all Brian's fault. He borrowed my bike pump last week and never brought it back. Then he wouldn't answer his cell on Saturday. I must have rang him two dozen times. I couldn't go to the party without seeing what it looked like first, you know? But Brian was off doing who knows what." He shook his head, shoving his hair off his forehead in frustration. "So I ended up blowing it up myself." Scotty's blue eyes met hers, pleading for understanding. "It took forever. I thought I'd pass out. I couldn't let the air out after working so freakin' hard to inflate it. So I decided to just take it to the party." He shrugged and gazed off toward the window as he murmured, "What harm could it do?"
She rested her elbow on the desk and pressed her curled index finger to her lips. Troubled clients often took her silence as sympathy, and that was okay with her at the moment as Scott was obviously feeling lower than low. However, conjuring compassion for someone who had pulled such an idiotic prank was difficult. Besides that, she was struggling not to chuckle. Had he honestly thought he could carry a five foot plastic penis down Main Street in broad daylight and not catch trouble from someone?
