Читать книгу Mulberry Park - Judy Duarte - Страница 9

Walter turned down First Street and headed for the house he’d lived in for the past twenty years. He didn’t often chat with people he’d met in the park. Why should he? Folks just seemed to think he was either feeble-minded or a dirty old man, so he pretty much kept to himself.

But that shapely brunette jogger reminded him a lot of Margie when she’d been a sweet young thing and full of spunk.

He’d never said a word to the jogger before today, though. Women like her didn’t want to be bothered by a worn-out old man like him. But when he’d walked out of the restroom and spotted her climbing a tree, he hadn’t been able to resist.

It had been ages since he’d kidded a pretty little gal who knew how to tease back.

Margie, with her quick wit and playful side, had been like that. She’d had a way of making him smile and laugh at the simplest things. And when she’d died in the prime of life, Walter had been devastated.

He’d tried to shake the grief that had dang near killed him by drowning himself in the bottle, but it had been only a temporary fix.

How long had it been? How long had he been without the woman who’d shared his life and loved him in spite of his flaws and the demons that plagued him in the middle of the night?

Nearly twenty years, but it seemed like forever.

He supposed a man got used to fixing his own dinner, mending his own shirts. But living alone—or rather, sleeping alone—was tough.

And he wasn’t talking about sex. It was more than that. It was the intimacy they shared, the conversations they had while lying close, holding each other.

They said time healed grief, but he wasn’t so sure about that. After seeing the attractive young woman perched up in a tree, having a chance to talk and hear her voice, to catch a glimpse of her smile…

For a moment, he’d let the years roll back and had pretended she was his sweet wife.

And where had that gotten him?

Now he had an overwhelming urge to toast Margie’s memory, to tell her again how sorry he was for the times he’d fallen off the wagon and let her down.

Maybe he ought to talk to someone. But who? Blake or Tyler? The kids who hadn’t spoken to him in over ten years and had told him to lose their phone numbers? Or Carl Witherspoon, his best friend and mentor who’d died six months ago?

Walter looked up in the dusk-tinged sky and shook his head. “You left me in one heck of a fix.”

He wasn’t exactly sure who he was talking to, but as usual, there was no response.

It seemed that even the Ol’ Boy Upstairs had forgotten him. Maybe He’d deemed a reformed hellion unworthy of entering the Pearly Gates. Not that Walter was looking forward to death. He suspected that all those years he’d been stubborn and had refused to accompany Margie and her sons to church had finally caught up with him. And that when he finally passed on, his tombstone would read: All Dressed Up And No Place To Go.

But heck, here he was on the right side of the cemetery lawn, and he still had no place to go, nothing to do.

Up ahead, flanked by an empty, weed-infested lot and a vacant building that had once housed a feed store, Paddy’s Pub waited to pour a flood of scotch on a man willing to drown.

Happy Hour would be in full swing, which was tempting, but three years ago, Walter had made a promise to take one day at a time. A promise he hoped to keep.

Carl had more or less become Walter’s AA sponsor, although Walter had refused to attend any meetings. “You’ll have to get me rip-roaring drunk first, Carl. Crowds make me skittish when I’m sober.”

The two men had become friends anyway and met almost every afternoon at Mulberry Park to play chess. Now, even though Carl was gone, Walter still showed up and set up the board on a picnic table.

Hanging out at the park alone was a stupid thing to do, he supposed, but it was a heck of a lot better than reverting back to the old ways, going back to the time when the pub had been his home away from home.

When he felt weak, he willed himself to think again of the tragedy that had struck about three years ago and had been so instrumental in causing him to take that first step into sobriety when nothing else had.

There but by the grace of God go I, the old saying went. And it was true.

It could have just as easily been Walter behind the wheel that afternoon, his reactions dulled by Jack Daniels’, Walter who’d hit that little boy riding his bicycle along the street, Walter who’d have to live out the rest of his days behind bars.

At least he’d been spared that.

Still, there was enough other remorse to wallow in, other guilt to trudge through.

He kept the steering wheel straight, his eyes on the road ahead, but the urge to stop at Paddy’s was growing stronger. He could make a turn down Main and change his route, but each day on his trek to and from the park, he chose to drive by the pub, forcing himself to face temptation and pass it by.

Today he was driving slower than usual, though. He glanced at the speedometer. Yep. Well under the twenty-five-miles-per-hour limit.

He was practically at a standstill when he came to the pub, where a yellow neon OPEN sign flickered like a porch light, welcoming a tired old soul home, offering rest to weary bones, a place to unload a few burdens for a time, to share a few laughs.

Yet in spite of the overwhelming impulse to stop, Walter pressed down on the gas pedal, increasing his speed. He’d beaten it again today, but he feared there might come a time when he’d give in, when he’d take the easy way out.

As he passed the bar, he spotted a young boy walking along the sidewalk, kicking at a rock along the way. It was that kid from the park, the one who didn’t appear to have anywhere else to go, anything better to do.

Again Walter suspected he and the boy had a lot in common, that they were both miserable and alone.

He had half a notion to befriend the kid the next time he ran into him, but Walter didn’t have anything to offer anyone.

And he was a fool to think he might.

At quarter to ten, Sam Dawson grew tired of watching television and decided to read for a while. He clicked off the power on the remote, then headed to the room that had been his den before his niece moved in.

She’d gone to bed hours ago, but checking on her before he turned in had become a nightly ritual. He wasn’t sure why, though. Maybe because he used to sneak off at night when he was a kid—not that anyone knew or cared when he did.

Sam supposed that might not become a problem with his niece, but peeking in on her still seemed like the kind of thing a responsible guardian should do.

From the doorway, he studied Analisa’s sleeping form, watched her chest rise and fall in peaceful slumber. She’d tucked a worn-out doll under one arm and a brand-new teddy bear under the other.

His niece was a real cutie, and he was going to have his hands full when she grew up. But he was up to the task, even if that meant going head-to-head with any of the teenage boys who followed her home.

Sam raked a hand through his hair, then glanced at the little table and chair set that Hilda, the nanny he’d recently hired, had suggested he purchase.

Analisa sat there for hours, pretending to host a tea party for the queen or imagining a classroom for a couple of dolls and a few stuffed animals.

Tonight scissors, paper, markers, glitter, and glue littered the white wooden tabletop.

Analisa was usually pretty good about picking up after herself.

He’d have a talk with her about it tomorrow, which was a much better solution than his old man would have come up with. Sam would have been jerked out of bed, asleep or not, and slammed against the wall for making a mess.

In a strange twist, his own father had become the antithesis of a role model when it came to parenting.

As Sam turned away, allowing the light from the hall to add more illumination to the child’s room, the bold writing on a light green envelope on the little table caught his eye, drawing him back.

To God, it said.

She was writing another one? Wasn’t the last one bright pink?

A subtle wisp of concern blew over him, and he wasn’t sure what—if anything—he should do with it.

A couple of days ago, she’d come up to him and asked, “What’s it like in Heaven?”

Her question had thrown him off balance, and he hadn’t been sure if he should have given her a Santa Claus explanation or his own cold, hard spin on the afterlife.

“I don’t know” was the only response his conscience had allowed.

She’d looked at him as if he’d kicked a puppy, and he’d felt as if he had, too. Maybe he should have made up something, mentioned the Pearly Gates, streets of gold, and a mansion in the clouds.

Her blue eyes had glistened to the point he feared she might start crying, then she’d crossed her little arms and shifted her weight to one foot. “Well, if you don’t know, and since Mrs. Richards doesn’t, either, we need to ask someone else.”

No, they couldn’t ask anyone else. First of all, Sam no longer knew anyone even remotely religious. And secondly, he wasn’t about to flip through the yellow pages, call some minister out of the blue and ask a question like that.

Instead Sam had reached for one of Analisa’s long, blond curls and gave it a gentle tug. “I probably should have asked your dad. I’ll bet he knew all about it.”

She’d nodded. “My daddy knew everything.”

At times Greg Dawson had come across as a know-it-all, which had led to a second falling out between the two brothers nearly six years ago. Just one more rift they’d failed to mend.

But Analisa didn’t need to know anything about that.

Sam leaned against the doorjamb of her bedroom and raked a hand through his hair. At times he wished he’d been on better terms with his brother, but it was too late now. Fate—or Whoever—had dealt them a fatal blow.

But hey. He’d get through it. He always did. And even though he couldn’t make amends with his brother, he would do everything he could for his niece.

All right, so he didn’t feel especially competent about being a parent, but money solved a slew of problems, and he had plenty of that. So the first thing he’d done was hire a nanny to take care of all the things a mother would do.

Jake Goldstein, a friend who’d attended law school with Sam, had recommended Hilda Richards, so that had solved the first dilemma.

Sam already lived in a nice house in one of the best neighborhoods in Fairbrook, so he’d hired a professional designer to create a pink and frilly bedroom that was every little girl’s dream. Then he’d provided his niece with all the dolls and toys she would ever want, all the things she would ever need.

It was a galaxy far, far away from the rundown neighborhood in which Sam and Greg had grown up. A fairy-tale world away from the childhood he and her father had experienced, a life Sam had done his best to escape.

Greg had escaped, too, but he’d chosen a religious path.

“You ought to come to church with me,” Greg had told him more than once.

“Forget it.” Sam hadn’t needed the religious crutch. Instead, he’d pulled himself up by the proverbial bootstraps, excelled in college, utilized student loans, and went on to law school.

Rather than admire Sam’s achievements and acknowledge that he’d kept his party-animal nose to the grindstone until he’d become an attorney, Greg had downplayed it all.

At the time, Sam had chalked it up to jealousy, but Greg had never seemed the least bit interested in money or success.

Six years ago, Greg had started in on Sam again. He’d told him that he still had an eat-drink-and-be-merry attitude and that his parties had merely gotten classier, the drinks more expensive.

Greg, who’d always found fault with Sam’s self-reliance and drive, had criticized him to no end, preaching about the importance of placing one’s trust in God.

A lot of good that had done Greg. With all his lofty ideas about the hereafter, he’d neglected to consider the present by drawing up a will or naming a guardian for his child.

Trusting God to the very end, Sam supposed. But who was looking out for Greg’s daughter now?

Sam was.

Greg would be rolling over in the casket Sam had purchased for him if he had any clue that his hell-bent, self-centered brother was the one answering Analisa’s questions about Heaven. Answers Sam didn’t have and couldn’t quite bring himself to fabricate.

“Welllll,” his precocious niece had told him that day, “then I’ll just have to ask God.”

Sam had been happy to pass the buck to whoever would take it, but he hadn’t meant to send her on some quixotic quest nor expected her to strike up a one-sided correspondence.

Or to offer God pictures she’d colored.

This evening she’d sketched an angel who looked a lot like the drawings she made of herself. The blue-eyed cherub—a boy—had glittery wings and wore a gold halo perched on blond, spiky hair. She’d even named him Erik.

Again, concern niggled at him. For a man who’d prided himself on his ability to solve any problem, he wasn’t used to feelings of inadequacy, even when he was clearly out of his league with this sort of thing.

The angel was just artwork, he told himself. An innocent childish creation. That’s all. But he would talk to Hilda about it in the morning.

That’s why he’d hired the woman, although he had to admit being a bit apprehensive about her age. She had to be nearly as old as God himself, and, quite frankly, a good sitter ought to be able to keep up with the kid she was watching.

Jake had sworn up and down that Hilda was the best nanny in California. Not that she wasn’t, but Sam hadn’t seen anything to impress him to the point of singing her praises yet. Still he knew he ought to be thankful she’d come out of retirement and taken the job. His law practice was busier than ever, and even if it hadn’t been, Sam didn’t know squat about parenting, about what was normal for kids to do and what wasn’t.

Struggling with the urge to shake it all off and retire for the night, his compulsion to step inside Analisa’s room and study the artwork on the table won out.

He peered again at the drawing of the angel, then turned the picture over. On the back side she’d written God a note:

Thank you for Erik. Can you give unkel Sam a angel to? He needs one to help him get his work all done so he can be home more.

A knot the size of a fist formed in Sam’s chest, but before he could ponder what was going on in the little girl’s mind or whether he ought to find a child psychologist for her, the telephone rang.

Who could be calling him at this time of night?

In an effort not to let the noise wake Analisa, he hurried into the hall and quickly answered.

It was Jake Goldstein.

“Hey,” Sam said. “What a coincidence. I was just thinking about you a couple of minutes ago.”

“Oh, yeah? I hope you were also thinking about golf. I called to ask you to play in the member-guest tournament we’re having at Costa Serena.”

Sam hadn’t played golf in months, and Jake belonged to a prestigious club that boasted a challenging course that overlooked the ocean. There wouldn’t be much arm-twisting going on. “I’d love to.”

“Great.”

That knot in his chest throbbed.

No, Sam realized, it wasn’t great. He had a niece who was writing notes to God and asking for more of Sam’s time and attention.

What kind of guardian would ignore that?

Only one who had a big LOSER sign pasted on his forehead.

Sam cleared his throat. “Wait a second, Jake. When is the tournament?”

“Next weekend. I would have called sooner, but I’ve been busy working on an appeal for a new client of mine, Russell Meredith.”

“I’m aware of the case,” Sam said.

A couple of years ago, the software exec’s vehicle had struck a child on a bicycle. For more than twenty-four hours, while little Erik Harper had been on life support, the police had scoured the community looking for the driver who’d left the scene of the accident. Finally, Meredith had turned himself in, saying he hadn’t realized his car had even hit the kid.

“Oh, that’s right,” Jake said. “You handled the civil suit the boy’s parents filed.”

Sam had managed to get the Harpers nearly five million dollars, which he’d hoped had helped them get on with their lives.

“The jury must have been putty in your hands,” Jake said. “It’s hard not to sympathize when the victim is a kid and the parents are grieving.”

“The Harpers lost their only child. Plus they were at the scene and watched the accident happen. The jury would have needed cast-iron hearts not to be moved by that.”

“Yeah, I know. And I’m afraid the parole board is going to see it the same way. But it was a tragic accident that could have happened to anyone.”

“Accidents happen all the time. But this was a case of hit-and-run.”

“There were mitigating circumstances.”

“Meredith might have been intoxicated,” Sam countered. “Drunk drivers are prone to flee the scene of accidents. And by the time he turned himself in, it was too late to prove one way or the other. Besides, he had a prior DUI causing bodily injury.”

“That prior had been on his twenty-first birthday, and the injury was minor. He hasn’t been in any trouble since, and I have witnesses who say Meredith was as sober as a nun and as law-abiding as an Eagle Scout.”

“You probably should have defended him in the criminal trial.”

“I wish I had.”

A wry grin pulled at the corner of Sam’s mouth. He and Jake were both practicing attorneys who could take either side in a case and present strong opposing arguments. In fact, they often did, even cases they discussed between shots on the golf course. “So what are Meredith’s chances for parole?”

“It’s hard to say. He’s been a model prisoner, and I’ve never seen anyone more remorseful.”

“Well, he ought to be sorry,” Sam said. Meredith had slammed into Erik, knocking him and his bicycle into the shrubbery that grew along the road, then continued on his way.

The line grew silent.

Normally Sam made a point of distancing himself from his cases, yet this one had been particularly tragic and unsettling for everyone involved.

“Anyway,” Jake said, “About the tournament—”

Sam cleared his throat. “You know, as much as I’d love to play, I can’t take the time off right now.”

“Work keeping you too busy, huh?”

“I’m afraid so.” Sam glanced over his shoulder at the open door to Analisa’s room. He also had an unexpected problem on the home front. “But I’ll make time soon. Maybe next month.”

After they ended the call, Sam started down the hall toward his own room, but paused momentarily by Analisa’s open doorway. He took one last look at the picture she’d drawn, the angel named Erik. For a moment, a goose-bumpy shiver ran up and down his arms.

How weird was that?

He shook his head, quickly disregarding the coincidence. Even if he were foolish enough to believe in fairy tales or some spiritual Twilight Zone, Erik Harper had curly dark hair, not spiky blond.

And a bright-eyed smile that Sam suspected would haunt the boy’s grieving parents forever.

Claire took the elevator upstairs to the sixth floor, strode to the solid double doors of Vandyke, Delacourt, West, and now Dawson, then entered a spacious lobby that boasted black marble, polished wood panels, and leather furniture—a validation of the firm’s success and prestige.

She took a seat that allowed her to peer out one of several floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a view of Mulberry Park and the city beyond. The office didn’t seem too familiar, but she’d only been here once to sign papers. It had been Ron who’d usually met with Mr. Dawson.

Of course, back then, Claire had been a zombie, barely able to put one foot in front of the other.

After checking in with the receptionist, she took a seat on a black leather sofa in the waiting room, crossed her legs, and reached for a Psychology Today. She thumbed through the pages, but couldn’t find a single article to pique her interest, so she returned the magazine to the table where she’d found it.

An appointment with Samuel Dawson had been a good choice, she decided. Now there was no need to rehash the painful details with a new attorney who would have to be brought up to speed on the case.

She glanced at her wristwatch: 11:28. Surely someone would call her soon. She was anxious to get some solid legal advice, yet for some reason, she felt a bit uneasy and self-conscious.

Maybe it was just her reason for being here that made her hands clammy, her nerves taut and on edge.

She brushed her damp palms across the top of her lap, then opened her purse and withdrew the letter from the parole board.

Before she could read it again, a baritone voice called her name. “Mrs. Harper?”

“Yes.” She glanced up to see Sam Dawson, a handsome man in his thirties, wearing a black suit. Expensive, she suspected.

He was tall, well over six feet, with broad shoulders and a square chin. His light-brown hair appeared to be sun-streaked, as though he spent more time outdoors than in the office, yet she doubted that was the case. Attorneys who’d just made partner probably didn’t have much free time on their hands.

She stood, and he clasped her hand in greeting, a grip that warmed the chill from her fingers.

His confident touch was a balm to her frayed nerves. “It’s good to see you again, Claire.”

“Thank you.”

“Let’s go to my office.”

She followed him down the hall until they came to an open door, where he paused and stepped aside, allowing her to enter first. As she passed by, she caught a whiff of his cologne, something ocean-fresh and musky.

It had been ages since she’d noticed scents. Not just a man’s; a lot of things no longer smelled the same. The morning coffee for one. And even the rosebushes that lined Mrs. Wilcox’s picket fence on Applewood Drive.

“Please have a seat,” Sam said.

She chose one of the black, tufted-leather chairs that sat before his mahogany desk.

Had this been his office before?

She couldn’t recall.

“What can I do for you?” His gaze locked on hers for the briefest of moments, and the intensity in his eyes—a vivid green in color—made it difficult to speak.

She handed him the notification she still clutched, holding onto the envelope. “Russell Meredith is up for parole on the twenty-fourth of July.”

“Actually, I’d heard that.” He took the letter and read the contents.

“And I want to make sure he serves every day of his sentence,” she added, thinking it only fair. After all, Meredith had gotten off easy. It was Claire who had received the harshest punishment, one that would last a lifetime.

Sam lifted his eyes to hers and nodded. “I can understand why.”

She might be wrong, but he seemed to recognize her pain. She’d felt it in his handshake, seen it in his eyes, heard it in his voice.

“The letter says I don’t need an attorney, but I think that’s the best way for me to go. Don’t you?”

“Yes, of course. I can either represent you or advise you so that you can go before the board on your own. Either way, I’ll do whatever I can for you and your husband.”

Her chest tightened and her stomach clenched, reminding her that there was still some rehashing that needed to take place, still a few things Sam didn’t know.

She cleared her throat, buying a moment for her emotions to rally. “If Ron wants to object to the parole, he’ll have to get his own counsel. He and I were divorced about a year ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

She shrugged. “It was all pretty simple. We divided things as fairly as possible and had a single attorney draw up the papers. He…we…just wanted it to be over.”

A little surprised at herself for sharing the details, she didn’t elaborate any further and was glad he hadn’t pushed for more.

They discussed his retainer and fees, and she signed the standard paperwork. When he’d finished explaining what she could expect at the hearing and had answered her questions, she felt much better. Having someone in her corner, especially one so knowledgeable, was reassuring.

She stood, indicating that their meeting was over. “Thank you, Sam. I appreciate you helping me with this.”

“You’re welcome. In the meantime, I’ll do a little research in case there’s something we’re missing. More details on that prior DUI might be helpful. I’ll give you a call later in the week and let you know what I found.”

“All right.”

As Sam stood to escort her out, she faced him. “What do you think? The truth. What are our chances of swaying the parole board?”

“Actually, it’s hard to say. But we’ll give it our best shot.”

She nodded as though he’d offered her what she needed to hear.

He hadn’t, though. Not really. There was a gaping hole in her life and her heart.

A hole nothing could fill.