by Andrea Kane
"Great!" Brian was shoveling down food, looking like his old self. "I'll meet you at the playground gate," he got out between mouthfuls. "At three."
"It's a date."
* * *
All levity vanished the minute Connor and Stephen were alone, the fading thrum of Nancy's car engine confirming that she and Brian had headed off to school.
"Let's not waste time," Connor said quietly, perching at the edge of his chair. "How bad is it?"
Stephen jammed a hand through his hair, turning away to stare out the kitchen window. "Bad."
"Stephen, talk to me. I'm not going away. Neither is the problem. We'll work something out. Just tell me where things stand."
A humorless laugh. "How magnanimous. And heroic. Here I threw you out on Monday, and Friday you ride back, a twenty-first-century Lancelot galloping to my rescue"
"Cut it out." Connor stalked over to his brother, slapping his palms on the edge of the counter. "Stop feeling so goddamned sorry for yourself. It's Brian you should be worrying about. He's the reason I'm here." A pained pause, after which Connor added, "That and the fact that you're my brother, and you're screwing up your life."
"Screwed up my life," Stephen corrected. "Past tense. I've really buried myself this time." He lowered his head, interlacing his fingers behind his neck. "This one's going to be tough to swallow, even for you."
Connor studied the dejected slump of his brother's shoulders. "I'm not judging you. I want to help. For God's sake, let me."
"Sure, why not," Stephen returned, his tone rife with self-derision. "Let's see, do you happen to have a half million dollars lying around? You know, money you can get your hands on that's not tied up in stocks or bonds? If so, it would be damned useful right around now."
Sucking in his breath, Connor tried to keep the shock from coming through in his tone. "You're in the hole for five hundred thousand dollars?"
"That's about the size of it."
Connor forced out the next question. "That can't all be on sports bets. Are you involved in something else?"
"Like what, drug dealing? No, Connor, I haven't sunk that low. It's just bigger bets, bad choices, bigger losses." A bitter laugh. "I always did suck when it came to hockey."
"Your bookie's waiting for the money?"
"No, he already has it. Unfortunately, I don't. So I need to put it back where I got it from."
A sick knot formed in Connor's gut. "Which is where?"
"Where else? My campaign." Stephen turned to face his brother. "By the way, did I mention that most of that money is Dad's?"
"Shit."
"My sentiments exactly." Stephen turned his palms up. "So, who gets my head first, the authorities or our loving father?"
Connor's mind did a quick scan, first of the overall situation, then of the immediate options. There was nothing to deliberate about The long term would have to wait. For now, plugging the hole was all that mattered. He'd sell some stocks, drain some money-market accounts. He'd spread it across a couple of different banks and brokerage houses. There'd be no single drastic depletion of funds. No questions from anxious bank officers or stockbrokers. It could be done.
"You'll have the money by the end of the banking day," he informed Stephen.
His brother's jaw dropped. "Just like that?"
"No, not just like that." Shards of ice glittered in Connor's eyes. "Getting you the money is my problem. Holding on to it is yours."
"I realize that." Stephen swallowed, that haunted look back on his face. Clearly, he was at the very edge of his control. He was about to snap. "I'll find a way to pay you back," he said. "It'll take some time, but..."
"Pay me back by stopping." Connor had to get through to his brother. He just didn't know how. "Stephen, this isn't just a bad habit. Not anymore. We can't pretend otherwise. This is a compulsion. We've got to get you some help."
That elicited a response—although not the one Connor had hoped for. "Great. A shrink. One who specializes in luckless gamblers. Or, better yet, a bunch of inspirational meetings at Gamblers Anonymous." Stephen walked away, refilled his coffee cup. "How long do you think it'd be before the news leaked out that a Stratford was attending those? Particularly this Stratford. The tabloids would have a field day. So would Braxton. I could kiss the senate seat good-bye."
"Stephen..."
"Connor, please." Stephen slammed down the cup, sending coffee sloshing all over the counter. "I'm not up for the healing pep talk. It was hard enough for me to ask you for the money. Don't make it any harder." His hands trembled as they balled into fists. "I need to get past this election. Once I'm in, once I'm not under Braxton's microscope, then we'll talk about long-term solutions. For now, let's compromise. You're lending me a fortune. In return, I'll promise you I won't gamble it away."
"Not good enough. You'll promise me you won't gamble at all." Anticipating the cursory agreement he was about to receive—pure lip service without foundation—Connor added, "Let me warn you that I don't take that promise lightly. Nor should you. Because I intend to stick around here and make sure that you keep it. I know all the signs, big brother. I'll know if you're back in the game. And I'll stop you. You can bet on it, and that's a bet you'd win."
Stephen drew a long, slow breath, then released it in a rush. "I was away from it for a long time, you know."
"Yes, I know. And you will be again. For Nancy's sake, and for Brian's. He knows something's wrong. The last thing we need is for him to start thinking that what-ever's going on is his fault."
Another of those pained expressions tightened Stephen's features, as if his worry ran far deeper than the eye could see. "We can't let Brian find out about any of this. We've got to nip it in the bud while we still can."
The words had a ring of desperation to them, a desperation that sent prickles of uneasiness crawling up Connor's spine. Why was Stephen still so agitated when he'd just been thrown the very life preserver he needed?
Something didn't fit.
Connor frowned, trying to zero in on the parameters of Stephen's crisis. "We are nipping it in the bud. At least, I think we are. I said you'd have the money today. You'll make sure it stays where it belongs. And that's that—isn't it?"
"Yeah. It has to be." Stephen's jaw set. "I'll fix things. I won't let them impact Brian. I swore I'd never put him in a position where he has to question his self-worth. Not after having lived my whole life that way. I love that kid more than anything. It's up to me to stop things before they get out of hand. I have to, and I will."
* * *
9
Julia was on edge.
She massaged her temples, walking the periphery of the computer lab and giving the room a quick once-over to make sure all her students were okay with their assignments. Heads bent, they were punching away on the keyboards, entering their two-paragraph essays on "What I Wish For" into their PCs under Robin's watchful supervision.
Right now, all Julia wished for was a good night's sleep.
She hadn't gotten one last night, or me night before, for that matter.
Maybe it was anticipation over tonight's workshop—a continuation of Dr. Garber's findings on child neglect and emotional abuse. And maybe it was her worry over Brian Stratford.
Either way, her dreams had been flashbacks to the past, filled with broken memories that hadn't resurfaced in years, not in such vivid detail. As a kid, she'd had these dreams a lot. It had been a traumatic time in her life, one that had influenced the entire course of her future.
No surprise that the memories had chosen now to resume.
She and Franny hadn't been in touch for ages. Franny had left home at sixteen—run away was more like it. She'd written to Julia for a while, letters that were postmarked San Francisco, Los Angeles, and finally San Diego—places that were as far from Poughkeepsie as possible. Then the letters had stopped, and somehow Julia knew that, despite how close she and Franny had once been, despite how much Franny cared about their friendship, the ties with the past were
too painful to maintain.
Not that Julia could blame her. After all she'd been through, how could she not want to erase her childhood?
It had started when Franny was not much older than Brian. At first, the signs had been subtle, too subtle for her eight-year-old best friend to notice. But Meredith Talbot had noticed. And later, when they'd escalated, she'd acted.
Reality had never been so ugly.
Sighing, Julia cast a glance at the wall clock in the computer lab.
Two-forty. Almost weekend time.
A bunch of the kids were starting to fidget. She didn't blame them. It was a Friday afternoon in spring, the birds were chirping, and the weekend was calling.
"Almost done?" she asked.
Lots of key tapping, a few nods, and one or two hands waving in the air.
"I tell you what. Five more minutes. If Miss Haley can get you all wrapped up by then, we'll go outside and use the playground for fifteen minutes to celebrate the start of the weekend."
A round of whoops greeted her announcement, and Robin shot her a grin. "A well-received option," she observed. "Okay, guys, who needs help?"
Eight minutes later, the class spilled onto the playground, flinging their bookbags against the side of the building and dashing off to play.
"No wonder you're so popular." Robin chuckled, coming to stand beside Julia. "I'd love you, too, if you let me start my weekend early." A rueful sigh. "Although maybe not this weekend. I have to work both days. I've got a project to finish up. My Visa bill needs paying."
Julia nodded her understanding. Robin was a computer whiz, not only technically but creatively. She had a degree in electrical engineering, and she'd spent the first few years after college designing circuits and wireless devices for major communications clients. It was lucrative, but it wasn't her. Not the pressure. Not the detached work environment. Not the boring social life of the geeks she worked with. So she'd turned to her other love: children. She'd gone back to school and gotten her teaching certification. Now she was happy, with a job she enjoyed and a thriving social life. The only thing missing was the huge salary she'd collected in industry. She tried to compensate for that by earning extra money writing sophisticated computer programs for small companies, programs that looked like Greek to a non-techno-genius like Julia.
Robin's talents were impressive. More impressive was the fact that she regarded them as secondary to what she could offer the kids she taught. That said a lot about her character, at least from Julia's viewpoint.
"Is this a big project?" Julia asked, intentionally refraining from asking specifics. She was well aware that confidentiality was part of what Robin agreed to in her contracts.
A shrug. 'The company I'm working for thinks so. All I know is I'll get three thousand dollars when I'm done. That'll take care of the charges I've racked up during spring sales. Including that ice-blue silk dress I told you about, the one that cost an arm and a leg. I'm wearing it Saturday night, by the way."
Julia smiled. "Ah, so you are taking time out for recreation. Who's the lucky guy?"
"Someone new and very promising. That's all I'm going to say for now. I don't want to jinx it. Anyway, he's taking me to a posh French restaurant in Manhattan."
"Sounds like the silk dress will come in handy."
"Hope so." A questioning look. "What about you— are you seeing Greg?"
"We're having brunch on Sunday." Julia didn't add that she'd purposely made it a morning date, in a restaurant that was centrally located. That way, they could meet at the restaurant, and she wouldn't have to deal with managing Greg's expectations.
"Julia, at some point, you have to sleep with this guy."
So much for avoiding the subject. Good old blunt Robin had just eliminated that possibility by grabbing the bull by the horns.
With a resigned sigh, Julia met bluntness with blunt-ness. "Why? Because he's male, I'm female, and we've gone out to dinner a few times?"
"No, because he's good-looking, he's successful, and, crazy as he is about you, he's not going to keep up this monk routine forever."
"Then I guess he'll have to take it elsewhere." Julia was surprised to hear herself snap out such a stinging retort. Her surprise was compounded by a twinge of guilt at the startled, slightly put-off look on Robin's face. But only a twinge. The truth was, she was tired of being told she had to sleep with someone just because he was a good catch and they'd spent enough time together for him to expect it. She didn't give a damn what year this was or what other people did. She wasn't hopping into bed with someone unless she was good and ready.
"Wow, that was pretty intense," Robin replied mildly. "Did I hit a raw nerve? Has Greg been pressuring you?'
"No. Nothing like that." Julia ran both hands through her hair. "Rob, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bite your head off. But this argument is getting old. I know you mean well. But sex is the farthest thing from my mind, at least these days. These days, when I hit the bed, all I want is a good night's sleep. Which I'm not getting. I slept three hours last night. Maybe that explains my bitchy mood."
"Don't worry about it." Robin waved away the apology with her customary live-and-let-live attitude. "And you're right. Whether or not you sleep with Greg isn't any of my business. I just don't want life passing you by while you wait for Mr. Right. But that's your choice, not mine." She glanced thoughtfully at her friend. "But now that you mention it, you do look kind of peaked. Anything in particular bothering you?"
"As a matter of fact, yes." She cocked her head, watching as Brian Stratford raced across the playground and lunged at the monkey bars, climbing them with a vengeance. He seemed himself—for the moment. But there had been times—too many times today—when he seemed troubled and far away. She'd noticed it all week. But it had been more frequent today, and certainly more pronounced. Plus, he looked tired, not just lack-of-sleep tired but drained tired, as if there was something major on his mind, something that was eating at him and keeping him awake. Julia knew in her gut that whatever it was, it bore some connection to his father.
"You're still worried about Brian," Robin deduced, following her friend's gaze.
"Yes, I am. He's not himself. I wish I could find a minute to talk to him alone, although Connor Stratford practically forbid me to interfere."
"Like that would stop you if you thought one of your kids was hurting."
"You're right, it wouldn't. What stopped me was the fact that there hasn't been a single opening today that lent itself to a private talk. I won't risk upsetting Brian. Which means I won't pull him aside or make an issue out of his change in behavior. The timing has to be right. And today it wasn't. There wasn't a quiet moment since the first bell rang."
"What about now?" Robin suggested. "That is, if you can peel him off the monkey bars."
Julia turned to scan the blacktop area, frowning and shaking her head as she saw that the buses were starting to arrive and line up across the way to receive their passengers. Behind them, carpooling parents were driving in slowly, pulling into the designated spots to await their cargo. "Now won't work. There's not enough time, and there's too much going on. Besides, Brian's mom will be here any minute to pick him up. It'll have to wait till Monday."
"Why not speak with Mrs. Stratford? Not in front of Brian, of course, but arrange to give her a call. She's always been receptive."
"In the past, yes." Julia's frown deepened. "But this time's different. Based on everything I've seen—from the mayor's tension to his brother's protectiveness—my guess is this problem's close to home. And if I'm right, then Mrs. Stratford might not be the right person to ..."
She broke off as a blue coupe drove all the way up to the playground gate. Its driver, an official-looking woman in a gray business suit, got out and headed purposefully toward them. She looked familiar, but Julia couldn't quite place her. She wasn't one of the parents, at least not any Julia had met. Besides, she looked too detached, walking stiffly with her notebook and a small black box that, upon closer scr
utiny, Julia realized was a tape recorder.
The tape recorder was what made the woman's identity click into place.
"Ms. Talbot!"
Recognition occurred at the precise second that the woman spotted her and called her name. "Ms. Talbot, may I speak with you?"
It was Cheryl Lager, that slimy reporter with the Leaf Brook News who'd descended on Brian's baseball game last Saturday.
What on earth did she want with her?
Julia shot Robin a quick puzzled look. "That's the reporter I told you about," she muttered. Turning, she braced herself for whatever this seedy newswoman had in mind. "What can I do for you?" she asked coolly.
"I'm not sure you remember me," Ms. Lager began. "I'm..."
"I remember you, Ms. Lager. I'm just not sure why you're here."
The reporter looked mildly surprised. "That's easily clarified." She scanned the area swiftly, her gaze fixing on the monkey bars, which Brian had scaled for the third time. "Ah, there he is. That's Brian Stratford, isn't it?"
Julia folded her arms across her chest. "I think you know it is."
"I also know he's immensely fond of you. That was clear at the game on Saturday." Cheryl Lager studied her notes, as if contemplating her next question. With one deft motion, she clicked on her tape recorder. "Tell me, Ms. Talbot, have you noticed anything unusual about the boy's behavior lately? Any unusual strain? I have a hunch he confides in you, which wouldn't surprise me. I adored my second-grade teacher. I would have told her anything, especially if there were a problem at home. Like if I sensed any unusual tension that I couldn't understand. Maybe even what I thought was causing that tension."
She rushed on, not even waiting for a reply. "I'm sure you know the mayor and Mrs. Stratford quite well through the school. You certainly felt comfortable enough with Mayor Stratford to invite him to your classroom for a presentation to your students. So, tell me, based on your personal impressions of him, both past and present, did it seem to you he was unusually defensive the other day? Specifically when the subject of campaign financing came up? is that a particularly sensitive topic to the mayor—in your opinion, of course?"
