Chasing Sunsets (2 page)

Anise hugged me in the same manner as she had Charlie. She whispered, “You look marvelous. Strong and sure of yourself.”

I stepped back as Anise peered around me. “Heather,” she said. “Hello.”

“Hi, Anise.” At that Heather stood. “I have to find the little girls’ room.” She looked around as if she actually needed to go. “Any idea where it is?”

I sighed. “It’s exactly where it was the last time you were here, Heather,” I said. I nodded toward Charlie. “It’s that door just past where Charlie and Mr. Jansen are standing.”

Heather swiveled toward me as she took her first steps. “I guess I’ll have to make nice talk with Charlie.” Her dramatic flare was almost comical.

When she was no longer in earshot, Anise said, “I’ve blown it with her again.”

I returned to my seat, and she took Heather’s place. “Don’t worry about her.”

“I’ve tried so hard to be her friend but . . .” Anise raised her delicate hands, then dropped them back into her lap. They lay cupped together as though one supported the other.

“I know.” It was all I knew to say. At forty-nine—only eight years older than me, and twelve years older than Heather—she certainly
could
have been one of our peers. While I do admit to having been shocked by Dad’s sudden marriage, I wanted him happy. While two emotions conflicted within me, I eventually allowed the latter to win. Heather had not. Jayme-Leigh remained much too wrapped up in her own life to share any opinions. Although, I reasoned, her pediatric practice
was
in Dad’s office. She had more reason to stay neutral than the rest of us. Ami, the baby, was in her mid-teens when Mom died. Anise became the healing balm she needed, filling every gap Mom left behind. Back then, Ami was showing extraordinary talent as a ballet dancer. Anise—though not nearly as gifted—had spent the better part of her childhood in a dance studio. This gave them a common ground on which to build a lasting foundation.

The heavy double doors leading to the courtroom opened. A commanding bailiff stood in the gap, clipboard in hand. “Klein,” he bellowed. “Anyone here for Klein? We’re ready to get started.” Then he looked around at the mass of others waiting for their legal fate as a handful of people walked slowly toward the courtroom. “Be with the rest of you shortly. Just sit tight.”

I blew a pent-up breath from the deepest part of my lungs. My chest actually hurt.

“Are you all right?” Anise’s hand came to rest on mine. “You’re trembling.”

“Yeah,” I answered. “It’s just that . . .” I looked at my hands and then to Anise. “Yesterday I received papers that Charlie is countersuing me.”

Anise’s face showed concern. “For what?”

“Spring break.”

“You mean, them not going to his place?”

I nodded as I pressed my lips together. “If Charlie asks for that time back, that will mean him getting the kids five weeks instead of four.” I closed my eyes and tried to imagine. My sons. Away from me for thirty-five long days. Twenty-eight days was bad enough.

Anise patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. Just tell the truth about what happened.”

But I couldn’t help myself. Unwillingly, I allowed my eyes to trail the length of the room, along the pattern of the marble floor, to Charlie’s polished shoes. I raised my eyes up the height of him, focusing briefly on the narrowing of his hips and waist, knowing with a wife’s familiarity the once-before and now-again rock hard abs beneath the crisp white shirt. When my eyes found his face, I jumped. He was looking directly at me.

But his eyes held not one of the emotions of the kind and loving man I’d married. These were the cold, distant eyes of the man I had divorced.

It was nearly 4:00 before our name was called.

“Tucker,” the bailiff bellowed.

I sucked in my breath as I always did in these moments, then reached for my files and purse I’d placed on the bench beside me.
Father, be with me
, I prayed.
But no matter what happens, I trust you.

We walked into what had become a familiar place. The red carpet, the maple furniture. The high ceilings, the stark white walls. The blinds at the windows, blocking the outside sunshine. The general magistrate’s “bench” where large books and stacks of papers and files were scattered in disarray. The polished but worn spectator benches behind the petitioner and respondent’s tables, which were separated by a podium.

It had become almost too familiar.

Two judicial assistants and two police officers were in place, waiting to begin. Being the first to enter, I walked to the far table, placed my files on it, and looked for the general magistrate. I had asked for G.M. Lane. She always played fair in her courtroom by keeping calm control over cases—family cases and those involving children being the worse for rages or outbursts of violence—and she was a mother. The other times I’d had to come before her—both concerning Charlie’s failure to pay his child support in a timely fashion—she had cautioned us about our attitudes toward each other. She reminded us that we were
both
parents to our wonderful sons. She told me how lucky I was to receive any child support at all, then warned Charlie about playing the “oops-I-forgot” game.

“I won’t play those games with you, Mr. Tucker,” she had said, expressing her ruling in a thick Caribbean brogue. Her honey brown skin looked radiant under the fluorescent lighting, and the rows of braids shimmied as she spoke.

I looked forward to seeing her again. Just knowing she was sitting in front of us would calm me, I knew.

Charlie was taking his place, and his attorney beside him. I looked over my shoulder to see Anise and Heather sitting together but not close. Anise’s eyes were closed, and I knew she was praying. My stepmother lived her faith quietly, but there had never been any doubt of its strength within her.

A side door opened—the door leading to the general magistrate’s office—and I turned my attention to the front with a smile. But instead of the expected G.M. Lane, G.M. McPherson stepped out.

I bit my bottom lip and sucked it into my mouth. This was not good.

I looked over at Charlie, who gloated as he peered back at me. He knew as well as I did that McPherson always sided with the fathers.

One of the young judicial assistants, dressed Florida casual, stood as the general magistrate sat, robes billowing around his paunchy frame. “Stand for the oath, please,” she said.

Charlie and I stood.

“Please raise your right hand . . .” She waited as we complied. “Do you solemnly swear or affirm that the testimony you shall give will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

The words were spoken rapidly, but we knew what they were. What they meant.

“I do,” I said, hearing Charlie say the same beside me.

“Go ahead and be seated, please,” Mr. McPherson said. “I’m sure you are both aware that Ms. Lane was to be on the bench this afternoon. She’s been called away on a family emergency, and I have been asked to sit in on her cases.” He smiled—a Cheshire cat grin cutting into fleshy cheeks—while I groaned inwardly. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, sir,” Charlie said.

I remained silent.
I trust you, Lord
.

Mr. McPherson looked down at the papers before him. “This is a case of Kimberly Claybourne Tucker versus Charles Samuel Tucker, case number one-zero-zero-zero-fourteen-sixty-seven.” He looked up. “Mr. Jansen, are you here to represent Mr. Tucker?”

“I’m here if he needs me, sir.”

His eyes shifted to me. “And you are without representation, Ms. Tucker?”

“I . . .” I cleared my throat. “I was told I wouldn’t need representation.”

My voice scarcely sounded like my own.

His eyes widened. “All right, then.” Another look at the paperwork before him and he continued, “This matter of contempt was filed by the petitioner, Ms. Tucker, on May 13th . . .” I tried to hear the words, each one, and to not focus on Charlie sitting so close to me, smelling like expensive department store cologne, looking better than he had in years. Why did this man, who’d hurt me so bad, have such an effect on me? Still.

Stop it, Kim
.

I blinked, determined. “. . . notice was sent to Mr. Tucker . . .” The words of the general magistrate jarred me back into the courtroom. I blinked toward Mr. McPherson, who looked at Charlie. “. . . and he is present.” He shuffled the papers of our file together, clasped his hands, and continued. “The parties have been sworn. Ms. Tucker, you may proceed.”

I glimpsed at the files I’d placed on my table. “Your honor,” I said, “the defendant and I divorced a little over a year ago. Since that time I have had to come back to this courtroom three times because Cha—Mr. Tucker got behind on the ordered child support.”

“Your honor,” Mr. Jansen said. I turned to see him shift in his seat. “The issue of child support is not why we are here this afternoon and is not relevant.”

“He’s right, Ms. Tucker. Unless you brought that issue up in the contempt forms, you’ll have to stay away from that topic.”

I felt my cheeks flame. “Yes, sir.” I cleared my throat. “The reason I’m here today is that my husband is awarded four weeks of the children’s summer break, beginning May 31st of this year. In our divorce papers—which I have here—we were ordered that if we—Charlie
or
I—started dating other people, we would not do anything in front of the children that would be deemed improper.” I extended a copy of our divorce settlement to the bailiff, who in turn handed it to Mr. McPherson.

“All right,” he said. I was silent as he took a moment to study the paperwork. “Continue.”

“Recently,” I continued, pulling a paper from the file marked
Evidence Obtained by C. Jefferson
, “our oldest son came home from a weekend visit, telling me—”

“Hearsay,” Mr. Jansen barked.

“Don’t tell me what someone else has said, Ms. Tucker,” Mr. McPherson warned.

My shoulders slumped. “What if I have proof?”

“What kind of proof?”

I slipped the folder
Correspondence/Charlie and Kids
out from under the file marked
Correspondence/Charlie and Me
. “I have an email between Chase—our son—and his father.”

“Your honor,” Mr. Jansen said. “I’d like to see that, please.”

Mr. McPherson looked at Mr. Jansen so fast, his jowls quivered. “When I’m done, Mr. Jansen.”

I handed the copy of Chase and Charlie’s correspondence to the bailiff.

“As you can see, our son emailed his father voicing his concern about his father’s extracurricular activities while he and his brother are with their dad. He told his father he was uncomfortable seeing his father with one girl during one weekend visit and another girl the next.”

I heard Charlie snort.

How dare he?

“He also voiced his concern that his father often goes out during their weekend visits, leaving the boys with his parents—their grandparents—and that he doesn’t return until the early hours the next day.”

Mr. Jansen, who had been passed the email, interrupted. “Your honor . . .”

“Hold on, Mr. Jansen. When you are talking—if you are talking—I won’t allow her to disrupt you.” He looked at me again. “Go ahead, please.”

I pulled another piece of paper from my files. “This is an email from my ex-husband to Chase, expressing his concern that our son feels that he can dictate to him what he can or cannot do as an adult.”

“I can appreciate that,” the general magistrate said.

I paused, then reached into a new file as the bailiff returned the correspondence between Charlie and Chase. “This is an email to Mr. Tucker from me,” I said, “in which I tell him that Chase had come to me about the emails he and his father had exchanged. In this email”—the bailiff took the paper from my extended hand—“I remind Charlie—Mr. Tucker—that our divorce agreement states we are not to do anything in front of the children—”

“Yes, yes,” Mr. McPherson cut in. “You mentioned this. Ms. Tucker, tell me, what do you deem improper? Because from where I’m sitting, simply dating doesn’t seem improper.”

It was a question I had not expected. “Well . . . I . . . I think that when the boys—Chase and Cody—are with their father, he can forgo his little . . . escapades
.
”

Charlie moved beside me. “Oh, come on . . .”

I turned in time to see Mr. Jansen place a hand on Charlie’s arm. Client looked at attorney, who shook his head, demanding compliance.

Mr. McPherson said, “Mr. Jansen . . .”

“It’s okay, sir. My client apologizes.”

Mr. McPherson turned his attention back to me. “Is that what you are here to ask, Ms. Tucker?” He held up one of the papers I’d handed to his bailiff. “I have a very vague order here in a divorce decree. What is an escapade to one is nothing more than a date to another. Do you see the problem I have with this?”

I straightened my back. “Yes, your honor, but don’t you think some things are obvious?”

“Like what, Ms. Tucker? The boys are going to their grandparents’ while your ex-husband is out on a date. Is there anything I need to know about your ex-in-laws? Are they dangerous criminals?”

Charlie’s parents were Ozzie and Harriett. Ward and June. Jim and Margaret. Good Christian people—owners of a landscape design nursery—who had worked hard to rear a decent family and who didn’t deserve anything negative even being hinted about them. I’d not previously discussed any of this with them. I felt that—with Charlie being their son—their allegiance would naturally fall to him.

“Of course not,” I said.

Mr. McPherson turned to Charlie. “Mr. Tucker, are you bringing women into your home, exposing your sons to any type of sexual conduct or misconduct?”

I looked at Charlie, who was looking straight at me. Without batting an eyelash he said, “Of course not.” He returned his gaze to the G.M. “Your honor, I love my sons.” He swallowed. “You mentioned my folks. They’re good people. They’ve worked hard to build a family business and to rear three sons who work equally as hard. They taught us Christian values, and I want to pass those along to my boys just as they did to my brothers and me.”

I furrowed my brow then opened the final file on my table. Facing Mr. McPherson, I said, “Sir, not to take away from his parents—who are fine people—but I have hired a private investigator who reports that Mr. Tucker goes out a lot, drinking in different bars, leaving with different women . . .” I opened my mouth to continue but nothing more came out.

“Ms. Tucker,” the G.M. said, “could it be that you still have feelings for your ex-husband and what this is really about is that while you don’t want him, you don’t want anyone else to, either?”

Again, I fell silent, stunned. Tears stung my eyes. I tried to focus on Charlie, then Mr. McPherson, and then Charlie again. “No, sir,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “Any feelings . . . any
love
. . . I ever had for Charlie died when he told me he was having an affair.” I swallowed again. “The day I begged for counseling and he asked for a divorce.”