by Libby Howard
A woman after my own heart. Honestly, I didn’t have anything against Heather Beck. I had no idea what had gone on between her and her husband and I didn’t want to know. She hardly looked like the gold-digging baby-mama I’d envisioned. Instead of the bleach-blond, plastic-surgery-enhanced woman in high heels that I’d expected, Heather seemed like a cross between a soccer mom and business-casual executive. Her long, dark brown hair was neatly secured at the nape of her neck. Her make-up was subtle and tastefully done. She had on olive-green pants and a scoop-neck t-shirt that didn’t show the slightest bit of cleavage. Actually, I wasn’t sure she had much cleavage to show. Her trim figure seemed more super-model thin than porn-star lush.
I fixed her a cup of coffee and again offered her a cookie, smiling as she took one.
“What are you making?” she asked, eyeing my knitting.
I had no idea. I thought it was supposed to be a washcloth, but my effort didn’t look anything like the one in the picture. “I’m just learning, so it’s for practice. I’m hoping to make hats for newborn babies at the hospital, and some socks to send to the soldiers.”
She nodded, that stunned look still on her face. “You do a lot of charity work?”
No. I’d been too busy taking care of Eli the last ten years to even think of charity work. “I’d like to, now that I have some time on my hands. I’m mostly just trying to keep busy, but I’d like to start volunteering and doing more of this sort of thing.”
“Of course.” She glanced out to her open car door, a small frown creasing her brow, as if she were deciding whether or not to allow the kids across the threshold.
“Do you want to see the bedrooms?” I asked, praying with all my might that she liked my house and liked me. It would make things so much easier if she felt at ease around here, felt she could have a civil, even friendly, conversation with me. I’d never worked so hard in my life to win someone over.
Heather gave her car another anxious look and nodded. I showed her around, giving her pretty close to the same spiel that I’d given Judge Beck. As I showed her the backyard, our conversation shifted to trivial topics like which companies might sponsor a boat in the summer Regatta and if the high school softball team had a chance at going to state. We made our way back to the front of the house via the wrap-around porch and she halted, eyeing the car once more.
“Come on kids,” she finally called out. “Come see Daddy’s new place and meet Mrs. Carrera.”
“About time,” the girl groused, swinging long legs out of the passenger seat and slamming the door with a swing of her hips. Madison got her height from her father, with her mother’s dark hair and lean figure. She also had enough eye makeup on to make Alice Cooper jealous.
The back door opened and a boy hopped out. He was all legs and arms, a shock of light brown hair dipping over one eye. He shambled up to me, with his basketball shorts, oversized tank top, and unlaced sneakers. Where Madison’s eyes never left her phone, Henry’s gaze was direct. He grinned.
“’Sup?”
My lips twitched in return. “The sky,” I teased.
Madison rolled her eyes. The good news was that meant I could actually see her eyes, since she’d looked up from her phone at my comment. They were hazel, like her father’s.
“Henry, Madison, this is Mrs. Carrera. I want you to be respectful of her house while you’re here. Got that?”
Madison ignored her. Henry gave his mother a peace sign.
“I made cookies. They’re just inside the door. And if you don’t drink coffee, I have juice and milk in the fridge. And sodas. I’ve got lots of sodas.”
That got them moving. Henry was off like a shot, nearly colliding with his father at the front door.
“Hey!” Judge Beck’s face lit up and he caught the boy in a hug. Both kids erupted into a chorus of “Dad! Dad!” and I was thrilled to see Madison shed her sullen teenager persona and wrap her arms around her father. They were like one big pile of hugging affection. I smiled, my heart warm at the sight. Then I turned to Heather.
The woman stood still, a look of sorrow on her face. She took a deep breath, and as she let it out, her expression changed to one of stubborn determination. “I’ll pick them up at five,” she said. “Have them ready, please.”
Judge Beck looked up, and the happy family spell was broken. Both kids scooted past him into the house to find the cookies, and Madison shoved her phone in the back pocket of her skinny jeans.
The judge’s face hardened to match his wife’s. “I will,” he replied coolly, then turned his back on her to grab another box from the porch.
It was awkward to witness their animosity, their rudeness toward each other. I felt like I’d been caught snooping on their raw, private pain. Heather looked just as out of place as I felt. She fumbled with her keys, opening her mouth as if she wanted to say something, then shutting it with a shake of her head.
“Thank you, Mrs. Carrera. I enjoyed the tour. Your house is lovely.”
“Kay. Call me Kay,” I told her, not wanting her to leave under the weight of this tension.
She smiled back at me as she walked to the Escalade. It was a wobbly smile that tugged at my heartstrings. “Thanks, Kay. Please call me Heather.”
I watched her drive off. The children were inside exclaiming over Taco. Judge Beck squeezed through the doorway with another box, reminding them to thank me for making the cookies. Things were changing quicker than I could manage. Eli was gone, and in his place was a judge twenty years my junior, his two teens, and my new pet cat.
I felt the tickle of fur against my leg, the rumble of purring, and reached down to scoop Taco into my arms. His fur was soft and warm, and he nuzzled against me with approval as I petted him. The stormy waters of my life would eventually still. This was my new normal now. A house full of people. A job across from the courthouse. And this furry guy who I wouldn’t trade for the world.
“Come on, Taco. Let’s see if there are any cookies left for us.”
Chapter 6
Taco scampered in the door, giving the kids another chance to admire his magnificence while I stooped to pick up the newspaper from the smashed flower bed. I didn’t know my paper delivery person. Unlike the oldies sitcoms of kids on bikes, my daily news was brought by a shadowy figure who launched it from a dark sedan in the wee hours of the morning. It was like a drive-by from a ‘40s gangster movie, except instead of bullet holes in my porch, I had crushed flowers. I thought about calling to complain, but I was worried there might be retaliation involving cement shoes or something.
Front page was, of course, news about the arrest of the madam. I blinked in surprise at the picture that accompanied the article. I didn’t know Caryn Swanson personally. I wasn’t like I needed her services as a wedding planner, and hadn’t attended, let alone hosted, any swank parties in the last ten years requiring an event consultant. She didn’t look anything like I’d imagined. When I thought of a woman running a house of prostitution—even if that “house” was meeting johns in hotel rooms—I thought of an older, former prostitute, someone who chain-smoked and wore clothing better suited to a woman half her age. Caryn Swanson was young—mid-twenties at the most. And she was very pretty. I squinted at the picture, wondering if they’d been able to get anything recent, and this was from twenty years ago. Because if this was what Caryn Swanson looked like now, she was probably able to earn a few bucks turning tricks herself. Although maybe she didn’t do that sort of thing, instead taking a percentage off the top and keeping her own body out of the equation.
I stood at the doorstep and read the article. Still no black book, although rumors were running wild about whose name might be inside. As Daisy had said, Caryn was also still refusing to name the prostitutes that worked for her. The statement her lawyer had released to the press said she was completely innocent, and that this was a terrible mistake made by an overzealous officer.
A few “unnamed sources” said that Caryn Swanson conducted this side of her business thr
ough online ads, screening clients then organizing the times and locations for the meetups. She had a list of “service providers” and matched them according to a client’s needs and preferences. The reporter conjectured that her clients included those who requested extremely kinky stuff, thus her insistence on not revealing either her client list or her providers.
Or maybe she was innocent. Maybe she’d offered the undercover cop a threesome with a girlfriend and he’d misunderstood. Maybe Locust Point was so eager for juicy gossip that “unnamed sources” were coming out of the woodwork with bizarre, fabricated tales.
Was it wrong of me that I was one of those residents eagerly devouring the juicy gossip? Prostitutes in Locust Point and neighboring Milford. Kinky stuff. Mystery clients. If that black book was ever found, whose names would be in it? My journalist/skip-tracer self was intrigued.
I folded the paper under my arm, vowing to do some research of my own later, and headed in. The hallway was empty. The cookie plate was empty beyond a few crumbs that Taco was busy consuming. I shooed him off the table and took the platter into the kitchen, beginning to feel a bit like a stranger in my own home. I could hear the footsteps as well as muffled voices from upstairs, and vowed to not make a pest of myself. I was curious, though—curious what Judge Beck was moving into his room besides clothing and toiletries, curious what the kids thought of their rooms, my house, the cookies… and me. But they were roommates, not family come to visit. I needed to allow them their private space and their time to be together. Alone. Without an unknown woman getting in the middle of their family business. So I turned on some background music to mask their presence, looked up a few recipes for coffee cakes, then sat down once again with my knitting.
Whoever said that knitting was a Zen, meditative exercise had probably never picked up a needle. The gigantic metal sticks felt awkward in my hands. The loops kept sliding off the end, unraveling a line of stiches vertically down the washcloth. I still couldn’t figure out how to do the purl stitch. My soft, whispered words of frustration became a sort of mantra to be chanted as I worked. Finally, around lunchtime, I cast off the last row, surveying my handiwork.
It wasn’t a sweater. It wasn’t a baby hat. It was a simple washcloth. It was supposed to be an easy first attempt at what I’d hoped would be a rewarding and interesting hobby, but this thing on my lap had turned out to be a trapezoid-shaped mess that had lumpy rows and loopy stitches. It also had long strings hanging at either end from the cast on and cast off. I wasn’t sure what to do with them. I had a bad premonition that if I trimmed them close, the end would slip through the knot and unravel the whole darned thing the moment I tried to wipe a dish. After working so diligently on it, I didn’t want to wind up with a long string of yarn.
Finally, I decided to make six more knots in the end and slap a dot of glue on it, just to make sure the knots stayed put. Feeling rather pleased with myself, I took it to the kitchen and draped it over the sink faucet. Then I made lunch.
“Making” lunch consisted of opening a tub of store-bought chicken salad and scooping it into a pretty bowl. The same routine occurred with macaroni salad and chips. Struck by a spirit of hostess-ness, I even put the potato rolls in a cloth-lined basket, and squirted condiments into little glass bowls complete with tiny individual knives. Everything went on the dining room table. I made sure Taco was out of the house and not planning a sneak attack on the food the moment my back was turned, then I called up to let everyone know I had lunch on the table.
The stampede of elephant footsteps on the stairs let me know the kids weren’t ones to ever be late to a meal, but when Judge Beck came down, the odd expression on his face had me questioning the whole thing. Was this too much? Maybe I should have just told them there was bologna in the fridge and gone out for the day? I didn’t want to interfere with their move-in/family time, but the judge clearly hadn’t had a chance to do any grocery shopping.
“You weren’t going to take them out for lunch, were you?” I waved a hand at the table. “I ran back to the grocery store last night and picked up some food. I figured you all would be hungry.”
“No. I mean I guess eventually we would have gotten something.” He hesitated a moment and took a breath. “I appreciate all this, really I do. I just don’t want you to think that you’re obliged to feed us.”
I understood the words behind the words. Roommates to him didn’t mean room and board. Although I now felt embarrassed at my luncheon largess, I was a bit relieved. I remembered how much teenagers ate, and if the dent they were making in the chicken salad was any indication of their food consumption levels, rent wouldn’t have covered both the mortgage and the grocery bill. But what to do with that extra chicken I’d bought for tonight. Freeze it? Or cook it up and make some actual homemade chicken salad next time?
No, there would be no next time. Into the freezer it would go.
“Only this once.” I smiled at him. “You just moved in. You haven’t had a chance to get groceries. And I’m sure you’d rather spend your afternoon going out to buy stuff for the kids’ rooms instead of having to go get lunch.”
“Well, thank you.” His shoulders relaxed, and there was even a hint of a smile in return.
There was just enough chicken salad left for me to make myself a sandwich. After eating, the kids helped clean up with some prompting from their father, then they all piled out the door, only to return several hours later with enormous shopping bags full of decorative pillows, throw rugs, and posters. Judge Beck began hauling in groceries, and the rest of the day was more relaxed, with the kids trotting up and down the stairs, and the judge finding room in the refrigerator for his food.
Heather showed up at five to pick up the kids and was immediately dragged upstairs to see their rooms. The tension returned the moment her SUV pulled up to the curb. Judge Beck followed them around, like he was afraid Heather was going to steal the silver. She didn’t look at him once. Neither spoke to one another.
“I’ll bring them by next Friday after school.” Heather told the wall beside Judge Beck’s head once the kids were out the door and climbing into the Escalade. I noticed that once again Madison was nose-down into her phone, a frown creasing her forehead.
Judge Beck glared at his wife. “Monday night through Thursday morning this week. We agreed—“
“They have school,” Heather argued to the wall. “If you’re going to drop them off at my house at seven in the morning and pick them up at my house at six at night, then I might as well have them those days.”
“I will pick them up and drop them off at school.” The judge’s tone was pretty close to the temperature of dry ice. “There’s no need for them to go to and from your house. Those are my days this week.”
Heather’s mouth thinned into a tight line. “You have to be at court at eight, and your cases run until five. How are you—“
“That’s my business, not yours,” he snapped. “I’ll make sure my caseload works around their school schedule on the days I have them.”
“Nice that you can do that now. Where was all this flexibility when we were together, huh?”
I held my breath. Yes, I was eavesdropping. And neither one of them seemed to care that they had an audience.
Judge Beck gritted his teeth, then that cold, distant mask came over his face once again. “I haven’t seen them for more than a few hours here and there in the last month. You agreed to this in mediation. I will pick up the kids from school on Monday and they will be with me until I drop them off at school on Thursday morning. End of discussion.”
Heather’s mouth twisted. She spun on her heel, still not looking directly at her husband, and then she left without another word. I watched her stomp down the walkway, fearing for her cute sandals. Madison looked up as her mother approached. Still frowning, she looked back down at her phone, sparing one of her typing hands to swing her door closed. I heard the slam of the driver’s door, then the squeal of the SUV pulling away from the curb.
When I turned around, Judge Beck was gone.
I’d never felt so awkward in my own home. I threw the chicken in the oven to roast, hoping the smell might entice my new roommate to come down. After that I wandered around the first floor, read my newspaper, and tried once again to master the art of the knitted washcloth. I truly hoped to be able to one day make those baby hats I’d told Heather about, but at this rate, such an endeavor would likely be far in my future. After an hour of frustration, I tossed aside what was fast becoming another loopy rectangle and headed out to the backyard with a glass of iced tea to listen to the birds sing their sunset melodies and to enjoy the cool of the spring evening.
That was the moment when I truly realized what a mess my backyard had become. I remembered the parties that we had hosted with our friends, Eli at the grill, a spatula in one hand and a beer in the other. He’d joke about how his talent in surgery translated into a remarkable ability to cook burgers and hot dogs. Carson would tease him that he should be butchering the cow rather than cooking it. We’d drink julips with fresh mint from my garden, and Kylie Minogue piped from the speakers.
The grill was rusted, unused for years. My herb garden was filled with weeds. The paint on the gazebo was peeling. I sat my tea on the porch step and knelt down into the damp ground, pulling grass and dandelions while the light grew dim around me. By the time I stood to head back in, the herb garden was a patch of bare dirt with a few sad, scraggly bits of green. I’d need to replant the basil, oregano, and dill, but the mint and lavender had somehow managed to survive under all those weeds. Tough plants, hunkering down and lasting through the years of hardship. Kind of like me. Maybe with some weeding and pruning, I’d bounce back, too.
Taco rubbed against my legs, then went to explore the treasures I’d just revealed. Rolling in the weeds and chewing on a stem of mint, the cat looked up at me with his bright green eyes. I picked him up, relishing the feel of his warm, soft fur, the vibration of his purring as I cuddled him.
