by Pat Warren
“She was here,” Michael said softly.
Fallon all but stopped breathing. “What did you say?”
Michael drained his by now lukewarm coffee and sat down at the large oak table in the dining room. “It was about ten days ago, a rainy evening.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that sooner?”
“You asked if she was here now. She’s not, not anymore.”
“Oh, God,” Fallon whispered.
“She came in with another girl, a tall, thin blonde named Emma, I believe. The two of them were pretty wet. She had a piece of blue yarn tied around this long ponytail and she was wearing a small opal ring set in gold on her right hand. She has a slightly crooked eye tooth, on the left side, I believe. She said her name was Laurie. We don’t press for last names.”
Fallon realized she was holding the phone in a death grip and forced her fingers to unclench. She’d given Laurie an opal ring last Christmas. “Was...was she all right?”
“She wasn’t sick physically, if that’s what you mean. At least, not that I could see.” The girl had looked younger than sixteen, with huge, wary eyes that wouldn’t meet his, and her bands had trembled noticeably.
“She’s not there anymore, you said. How long did she stay?”
“She had dinner with us, took a shower, then washed and dried her clothes. We have a laundry room, honor system, a quarter a load. She carried a beat-up green gym bag with Colorado on it in white letters. She and her friend shared a room for the night, but they were gone before breakfast.”
Taking in a steadying breath, Fallon leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. The man, it seemed, was quite observant. “I don’t suppose you know where they were headed?”
“Probably back out onto the streets.”
“But why?” Her voice was thick with frustration. If only she could understand. “Why would she leave your place, too?”
Michael shrugged. “Maybe because we have rules here, too. No drinking, no drugs, no fraternizing. Regular health exams, vitamins, daily showers, clean clothes, everyone doing their fair share of the chores. We also insist that they enroll in some sort of school, that they get at least a high-school diploma or equivalent. If they’re addicted to something, they have to be willing to quit and accept counseling. That sort of thing.” She was quiet so long, he wondered if what he said was getting through to her. Did she think that he, too, was too strict? “None of us can live without some sort of rules.”
Fallon let out a ragged sigh. “I agree.” Why couldn’t Laurie see that? She’d been rebellious from childhood on, but to actually run away with no discernible reason? She was so inexperienced, so sheltered. How could she possibly survive on the streets? “I’d like to leave you my parents’ phone number and if she returns, or if you happen to spot her somewhere, you could call here collect and—”
“No. I don’t do that.”
Her temper, so close to the surface these days, had her rising from the chair. “Look, I’m willing to pay you.”
“That’s not it. It’s a matter of trust. The kids who come here know we won’t turn them in. If they leave, it’s because they want to, not because someone makes them.”
“But they’re underage. You have no right—”
“Don’t talk to me about rights.” Annoyed, he walked through the archway into the kitchen and set his coffee mug down on the counter. He knew better than to lose his temper with a relative of a runaway, his training and experience telling him how tough it was for them to understand. But sometimes, they got to him. “You see, I believe that kids have rights, too—to two parents who love them, who don’t abuse them, don’t leave them, but care for them. But how many have all that? Too damn few. If you don’t believe me, come see for yourself. A couple of days here might just open your closed mind. If you really want to find your sister and if she’s in San Diego, I’ll help you find her. But once she’s found, if she doesn’t want to go back with you, I won’t let you take her.”
His gruff manner didn’t put her off as much as his message shocked her. “Why wouldn’t she want to come back with me? We love her.”
“You tell me. And if you all love her so much, why did she leave in the first place?” Michael heard the kitchen door open and saw Dr. Paul Ramirez saunter in. “Got to go. If you decide to come, we’re in the book.” He hung up.
Feeling suddenly drained, Fallon replaced the receiver and stared for several minutes at the piece of paper with Michael’s phone number written in Laurie’s youthful handwriting. Perhaps this wouldn’t be so difficult if she could understand why her sister had left in the first place. Certainly they all knew that Laurie could be impulsive, but what teenager wasn’t? Annoyance with parents was also common among that age group.
Gazing out the window, Fallon swallowed uneasily. Laurie bad called unexpectedly one evening and all but begged Fallon to let her visit, if only for a few days. But Fallon had been about to leave on a trip to New York on business. Since Laurie had sounded more bored than upset, she’d sloughed her off, promising to let her visit at semester break instead. While Fallon was in New York, Laurie had run away from home.
Where are you, honey? she asked silently. And why did you run away?
Pocketing the note, she left her sister’s room and went downstairs to talk with her mother and Roy.
Michael’s House was the only residence in San Diego that catered strictly to young people, according to the agent who rented a car to Fallon. He gave her a map, circled the area of Twelfth Avenue near San Diego Community College and told her that the place she wanted was near the Neil Good Day Center for Men, the House of Rachel, which took in women, and The Storefront, which attracted mostly bilingual occupants.
Placing her suitcase in the trunk of the red Mustang, . Fallon realized it was much warmer in California in mid-September than it had been when she’d left Colorado early that morning. She removed her tweed blazer, laid it across the passenger seat and got behind the wheel, letting out a weary breath.
The day had started off badly with a scene at the breakfast table, her stepfather adamantly forbidding Fallon to go after Laurie, which had set her mother to weeping again. She’d known last night when she’d talked with both of them that Roy Gifford considered Laurie irresponsible and reckless, not worth the trip. If that hadn’t been enough, his demanding tone had further irritated her.
Although she knew it upset her mother, she’d reminded Roy that she was twenty-six and had been on her own since age eighteen. Thanks to her scholarship and the jobs she’d managed to hold while studying, she hadn’t cost him one cent since leaving his house. And, while he had supported her from age ten till then, she firmly maintained that he could no longer dictate her behavior.
If she’d been hesitant at all about going to San Diego, Roy had made up her mind for her with his vehement out-burst. She’d called her manager at Breuner’s Department Store where she was one of the head buyers and asked for a leave of absence. She was determined to find Laurie whether their stepfather liked it or not.
Now, here she was, studying the map, looking for the house for runaways under the supervision of the man she’d spoken with yesterday. It took her some time, but she finally located the address. However, there was no sign identifying it as Michael’s House. Still, this had to be it.
Parking the Mustang in front, Fallon got out and looked up at an imposing building three stories high with a large porch in a neighborhood that could only be classified as “undergoing renovation.” There was a tired-looking school with a fenced yard a block over and a small park across from that.
On the porch, she read the hand-painted sign over the arched doorframe: Welcome. Please Come In. A nice touch. She pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside to a small, tiled foyer. At the desk behind a waist-high counter was seated a tall black woman with wonderful cheekbones, wearing a white nurse’s uniform. She looked up as Fallon approached, her smile distracted.
“This is Michael’s House, isn’t it?”
she asked. “The agent where I rented my car directed me to this address, but I didn’t see a sign out front.”
“There’s a small brass nameplate, but it’s hard to spot. Michael doesn’t like large signs.” Opal’s dark eyes appraised the young woman, noting the leather shoes, fawn-colored slacks and matching silk blouse, the expensive haircut. The overall impression, she thought, was elegant and unexpected in this neighborhood. And, having worked for Michael since the day he first opened his doors, Opal had seen them all.
Too young to be a parent of one of the teens, she decided. Yet the young woman’s eyes were shadowed with worry. The nurse gave her an encouraging smile. “I’m Opal. How can I help you?”
“I’m Fallon McKenzie. I’ve just flown in from Colorado. I spoke with Michael yesterday and sent him a fax requesting an appointment at four.” She glanced at her watch and saw that it was ten after. “Is he available?”
Opal ran long, slender fingers over her hair, worn pulled back into a tight bun. “I believe he’s out back with some of our residents, playing basketball. I’m sure he won’t be long. You can have a seat over there, if you like.” She indicated the area through the archway where a piano stood in one corner and several couches and chairs were arranged in conversational groupings, as well as a pool table off to the far side.
Basketball? The director of this so-called house for runaways was playing basketball with the kids?
Fallon glanced into the rec room, then down the hallway that led toward the back of the house. She could hear voices shouting and cheering. “Would it be all right if I went out and watched the game?” It would give her a chance to study the kids who were currently staying here. And it wouldn’t hurt to be able to scrutinize Michael before actually meeting him.
“Sure,” Opal said. “Right through there.”
A tall dark-haired man wearing a suit came bustling through the front door at that moment. He was carrying a large cardboard box and greeted the nurse-receptionist warmly. “How are things, Opal?”
She smiled broadly. “Hi, Dr. Paul. What’ve you got for us?”
“Some surplus bandages and sterile wipes, plus a mess of cheese-and-cracker packets for Michael’s Balboa Park runs.”
“We can always use those,” Opal said, taking the light carton from him and placing it behind the counter.
The man’s brown eyes swept over Fallon appreciatively, and he stuck out his hand. “Hello, I’m Paul Ramirez.”
She couldn’t help but respond to his friendly manner, reaching to shake his hand and introducing herself.
“Are you here to see Michael about that teaching position that’s open or about one of our guests?” Paul asked. “I’m the on-call physician and all-around medical consultant as well as his best friend”
“I’m looking for my sister. I have an appointment with Michael.”
He smiled, revealing very white teeth. “All right. Don’t let me hold you up. Nice meeting you, Fallon.”
“Same here.” She started down the hallway, listening to Opal ask the doctor if he was planning to stay for dinner. They seemed pleasant enough. Why, she couldn’t help wondering, did they need a doctor and nurse on call?
She passed a doorway on the left and saw a huge dining room opening onto a big kitchen where a dark-headed woman enveloped in a snowy white apron was busy at the sink while a very pregnant teenage girl was shucking corn. On the right was a doorway to a laundry room with half a dozen washers and dryers, two pay phones and a soft drink machine. Two side-by-side lavatories were across from a paneled office where a balding man could be seen using an adding machine.
Fallon shoved open the back screen door.
The basketball court consisted of a large concrete area with two freestanding hoops at opposite ends alongside a building that looked like an aluminum storage shed. Stepping outside, she walked over to stand in the shade of a flowering jacaranda tree where she could watch unobserved.
There were seven boys and three girls ranging in age from probably twelve to eighteen, shifting positions—guarding, shooting, dribbling, racing from side to side—the game in progress. And there was no mistaking the man in charge: the referee, who had to be Michael, with a whistle dangling from a chain around his neck.
He wasn’t exactly what she’d been expecting. Several inches over six feet and lean, with broad shoulders and a flat stomach beneath a black knit shirt and white shorts, he resembled a runner with his long, muscular legs. His hair was very blond and had that appealing wind-blown look, the length just barely touching his shirt collar. She saw him swing about and noticed startlingly blue eyes in a tanned face, his expression one of utter concentration. He flashed a smile as the ball whipped through the basket from center court, and she spotted two deep dimples that softened the hard masculine lines of his features.
No, he wasn’t what she’d expected.
A scrappy Hispanic boy had the ball next, dribbling low to the ground, guarded by a tall, gangly kid who was all arms and legs. Michael’s attention on the duo was absolute as he trailed along the makeshift court with them. Impatient and anxious, the taller boy shouldered the smaller one, batting the ball away and bouncing it to a teammate. The players swiveled about and headed for the opposite basket, but were halted by Michael’s shrill whistle.
Fallon heard the foul called, then saw the gangly kid make an obscene gesture as he lined up alongside the freethrow line. Michael’s whistle sounded again. He stopped the action and took the boy aside. While the others exchanged looks and nervous whispers, Michael talked quietly to the surly kid who stood with hands on his skinny hips, his eyes downcast. Finally, looking chagrined, he nodded to Michael before walking over to the Hispanic boy. He said a few words she couldn’t hear and extended his hand. The boy shook hands with him, and the game resumed after the free throw.
Fallon reached for a tissue from her purse and patted her damp brow as she watched, reluctantly impressed by Michael’s cool control on the court. She wasn’t sure what exactly she’d expected from their brief phone conversation, but it hadn’t been someone so obviously in top physical condition, a man who could easily be labeled “all-American handsome,” and yet was amazingly low-key and patient, although he appeared to be only in his thirties.
His comments to the kids were a mixture of praise and warning, of instruction and approval. Yet there was no recrimination in his deep voice even as he reprimanded. Rather, his tone was amicable but with a definite ring of authority.
She studied the kids and found them to be a mixed bag of ages and sizes. A couple of the older boys looked tough, one with his head completely shaved and sporting an earring while several others had shoulder-length hair and one wore a buzz cut. Hair always seemed to be a personality statement with kids, Fallon recalled from her own teen years; an act of defiance that often became a bone of contention with adults. Their clothing was casual—shorts and knit shirts—and noticeably clean. Two of the girls were fairly decent players, but the third looked bored and disinterested.
“Try that again, Jamie,” Michael yelled out, tossing his hair out of his eyes before throwing the ball to the shortest kid.
A junk heap of a car rattled down the side street, followed by a barking dog. Behind Fallon, the screen door banged shut after two boys came out, lighting cigarettes as they walked toward the adjacent two-story building. A jet dipped low overhead on its way to Lindbergh Field International Airport. She couldn’t help noticing that Michael’s gaze never wavered, his attention never strayed from the game and the kids playing, despite all the distracting sounds around them. What made a man so focused? she wondered.
Fallon tried to picture Laurie in this setting, perhaps involved in an impromptu basketball session. Her sister had never gone out for sports in school, perhaps because their stepbrother, Danny, had tried out for everything and excelled in all of them. And kept his grades up. Why hadn’t she noticed sooner that living in the shadow of Roy’s over-achiever son for most of her life had probably caused Laurie to q
uit trying?
The teenagers Fallon was watching seemed very much like kids she’d glimpsed at shopping malls in Denver. Had Laurie been here long enough to realize that she might have fit in? Or had she left this place, too, because she feared the competition?
Fallon shifted the strap of her bag to her other shoulder, then rubbed her forehead, which felt warm and sweaty. Perhaps if she’d had something to eat this morning instead of quickly downing a glass of juice and half a cup of coffee, she wouldn’t feel so shaky. But the tense scene with Roy had put knots in her stomach and chased away her appetite.
After he’d stomped out of the house, Fallon had called a cab to take her to the airport, unwilling to ask her mother to drive in her upset condition. The rest of the day hadn’t been much better. The first plane took off late, causing her to have to run, barely making her connecting flight in Phoenix. After landing in San Diego, she’d had to wait forever for her bag, and then for the courtesy van to the carrental lot. She’d planned to check in at a nearby motel before driving to Michael’s House, but a quick glance at her watch had changed her mind.
Now, here she was at half past four, hot, hungry and headachy, with more tension waiting for her, most likely. Stepping backward, she leaned against the brick wall and closed her eyes, suddenly feeling faint.
“Are you all right?” a deep voice at her elbow asked.
Startled, Fallon looked up and into those piercing blue eyes she’d noticed minutes ago, and blinked, feeling disoriented. “I think so.” It was the heat. She wasn’t used to it. She took a couple of steps, wondering why her legs felt so rubbery. “I...”
“Here, let’s get you inside.” Michael bent, slipped one arm under her knees and the other around her back, and carried her inside.
