Forever Beach (5 page)

Another deep breath and she opened the door.

As soon as she was inside, she slipped out of her shoes, kicked them toward the closet. Then she felt bad that she'd let the day get the best of her. She looked at her shoes lying on their sides, turned her back on them, and walked down the hall in her stocking feet to where Michael sat in the recliner, his broken leg resting on a pillow.

She stuck her head in the door. “I'm home.”

Michael grunted, his eyes glued on the television.

“Did you eat something today?” Reesa asked.

“Nah, wasn't hungry.”

Reesa didn't comment, argue, or chastise, just went into the kitchen to see what she could make. If it were up to her, she'd open a can of soup and call it a night. But Michael would want a real dinner on his TV tray since they'd stopped eating at the dining room table years ago.

She found a package of pork chops in the fridge and checked
the date. Still good, barely. She slid them on the counter, then reached back into the fridge for a head of lettuce. By pulling off the outer leaves, she managed to salvage enough to make salad for two. Not that Michael liked salad. She'd have to open a can of green beans.

By the time dinner was ready, Reesa was too tired to eat it. She made Michael a plate and went to shower. She was tempted to just fall into bed, but where she'd been today called for a shower—a hot one—and a shampoo.

After the shower, she shrugged into her old chenille robe and wrapped a towel around her wet hair, retraced her steps, collected Michael's plate, and put the rest of the food away. After a long look at the dirty dishes, she washed them, too.

When she looked into the den, he was asleep in front of the television.

She tiptoed down the hall to bed and was just drifting off when she remembered that she hadn't called Sarah Hargreave.

Tomorrow she'd take the time to look over Sarah's case, contact Leila's advocate, talk with the adoption caseworker, see what things were really going on. She was no longer Leila's official caseworker. Since Leila was in the process of being adopted, she'd been assigned a different permanency caseworker.

That was good in a way because Reesa and Sarah and Sarah's friend, Karen, had become friends. Something that was frowned on in the system. Too hard to make professional unbiased decisions about a friend.

She didn't know this new caseworker very well, and she didn't want to step on any toes, but she did want to make sure he was dotting his
i
's and crossing his
t
's.

It was crazy. Reesa was up to her eyeballs in cases. She'd pulled the White case because she was the closest one to the emergency call. That meant she'd probably be handed the paperwork on it. The children would most likely go straight to permanent fostering. And their mother and whoever the man was would be serving time, for quite a while.

She'd probably be called to testify. When all she wanted was to forget. After the ambulance had left and the mother was handcuffed and led away, one officer remained while she took photos of the apartment, the fire hazard that was supposed to be a kitchen, the drugs. The bed and crib where the children had slept. She'd left a written notice that the children had been removed by the Child Protection and Permanency Office.

On her way to the hospital, she'd had to pull her car to the side of the street to throw up on the pavement.

Next she had gone to the emergency room, where she walked into a scene of shouting and hitting. Pete was hysterical and lashing out. He believed they were stealing his brothers; he couldn't be quieted and they wouldn't sedate him until they'd done an initial examination. So it fell to Reesa to tell him the truth.

Truth? What was the truth? That your mother was so strung out that she didn't bother to take care of you. That she'd let you die before she'd give up her drugs? That was the truth, but she didn't have the heart to tell him so. She told him everything would be all right. They both knew she was lying.

Once he and his brothers were admitted, Reesa had gone back to the office to file her report. She would have to justify removing the children without a court order. She was pretty sure she had justification. She certainly wouldn't lose sleep over her decision.

She punched her pillow and closed her eyes trying to recreate the wonderful feeling she'd had on Monday seeing Jamie and Joy Valenti reunited to their family. Sometimes the system did work. Mr. Valenti had a new job, and family services had helped them find an affordable apartment. With a little luck . . .

That's what she was thinking of when her eyes grew heavy.

But she fell asleep on the images of that comatose baby, his brother too weak to move as he slowly starved. Pete and his loaf of bread. And the hysterical woman who kept screaming “don't take my babies.”

But tomorrow . . . tomorrow she would be back at the office. And tomorrow she would make certain that nothing bad happened to Leila Rodrigues.

I
T WAS ALMOST
eight o'clock by the time Sarah stopped the car back at her bungalow. Leila had fallen asleep practically before they were out of the Wolcotts' driveway.

It had been a fun evening, and she'd managed to take her mind off her coming battle for a few hours. And now she had clock repairs to do. Hopefully by the time she went to bed, she'd be tired enough to sleep.

She put Leila to bed, then went onto the back porch that she used as a secondary workshop. It was enclosed but not weatherproofed, which made it pretty hot in the summer and impossible to use during the winter. But since Leila was going to a preschool day-care program five days a week in the summer, Sarah did most of her work in the back of the shop.

Their schedule worked well; it gave Sarah time for the shop while Leila played catch-up to the other kids, still leaving
enough mother-daughter time in the afternoons and evenings. Sarah had been very encouraged by Leila's last evaluations. Now if they just didn't have a major setback.

As soon as she sat down at her workbench, anxiety fell away. Clocks had a way of doing that. Steadying the pulse, driving out the fears with their quiet repetition.

Tonight she was working on a black mantel clock that had belonged to the parlor of a Victorian house from the neighborhood. The family was cleaning it out to sell and they'd discovered the clock, wrapped in a sheet and tucked away in a closet. When they brought it in, the inner workings had rattled around on the inside.

Sarah told them she would give it her best shot but didn't have much hope. She'd persevered, though, and now it was close to running correctly. Close but still not perfect.

People brought in clocks that were barely recognizable; they found them in attics, or flea markets, or on street curbs. Sometimes they'd tried to fix a clock themselves and couldn't put it back together, or dropped it and shoved it out of sight until they suddenly discovered it again.

Some repairs seemed effortless; others like they were hardly worth the trouble. But Sarah always tried her best. Because they deserved a second chance.

Sometimes she could almost feel Sam's hands lightly over hers, guiding her movements, steadying her touch. Other times, she was all thumbs with springs popping out in all directions, minuscule screws rolling into oblivion.

At those times, no amount of patience, cajoling, or cursing would make a timepiece run again. Those were sad times, something Sarah considered a personal failure. Then she would
remember all the times Sam had patiently helped her through a repair. Even when she messed up, he would undo what she had done and say “try again.”

She adjusted the task lamp over her head, put on her loupe magnifiers, and settled down to the minutiae of clock repair. Within minutes she was totally absorbed, her hands steady as she worked.

When Sarah finally shut down for the night, it was after midnight. And that's when she realized Reesa hadn't called back.

It was too late to call her. Social workers carried heavy caseloads and got little sleep. Sarah tried to be the exemplary foster family and not bother Reesa unnecessarily. She chuckled at herself. Sarah Hargreave trying to be exemplary . . . in a good way. After all these years she was sometimes still surprised at how her life had turned out.

She was only sorry that Sam hadn't lived to know Leila. He would have made the perfect grandfather. It seemed like Sarah was always losing someone, someplace, some thing.

She mentally smacked herself. That was so much bull. She'd been lucky. So lucky. And she was thankful for every day, even when it wasn't such a great one. Sam had taught her that, too.

R
eesa Davis on line one, Ms. Cartwright.”

Ilona looked at the intercom. A call from Reesa Davis first thing on a Friday morning boded bad news.

“Shall I tell her you'll call her back?”

Ilona waffled. Reesa Davis was known in pro bono circles as the “Warhorse,” which was a misnomer if ever there was one. To Ilona a warhorse was a shiny, black, sleek-muscled thoroughbred. Reesa Davis was more of a bulldog, short, squat, tenacious, five feet of chubby middle-aged Italian with permed hair, ill-fitting suits, and boxy shoes.

“I'll take it.” Ilona pressed speaker and picked up the brief she'd been reading. “Reesa,” she said by way of hello and turned the page while she waited for Reesa to work her way through the niceties before getting to the reason she called.

Ilona picked up a pen and circled a clause in the divorce papers.
Over the husband's dead carcass.

“. . . already applied for adoption.”

Ilona scribbled a counterpoint in the margin.

“. . . talking about reunification.”

“Rights terminated?” Ilona asked and struck out two more lines. This guy had a lot of nerve, but nerve wouldn't get him a nickel in the courtroom.

“. . . But now she's changed her mind.”

Ilona paused with the pen poised above the brief. “If the kid's in the adoption pipeline, what are you doing on the case? Where's the adoption caseworker?”

“The foster mother and I have become friends . . . once I was off the case. As a friend, I want to make sure nothing's left unturned. I'm asking you as a colleague.”

“You think she should have the kid.”

“No question.”

“Fax over her paperwork, and I'll take a look. I've got to tell you I'm pretty busy these days, my pro bono calendar is beyond heavy.”

“Just talk to her, I think you'll like this case.”

“Send her file over and make an appointment. Can I assume you'll accompany the foster family?”

“Single mother, but yes.”

“Fine.”

“Thanks, Ilona. I appreciate it.”

“That's what I'm here for.” Ilona hung up and tapped the pen on the paragraph she'd just circled. Then she tossed it on the desk and buzzed her secretary. “Mona, get Sid Ferrelli on the phone.” She leaned back in her desk chair. Dollars to doughnuts this rat bastard was hiding money somewhere, and she had just the forensic accountant to nail his ass to the wall.

S
OONER OR LATER
you met every coffee or tea drinker in town at the Ocean Brew. After Sam died and before Leila came, Sarah looked forward to the morning rush just like the people getting coffee there were her best friends. Truth to tell, Sarah didn't make friends easily. It was even harder to keep them. She'd been out of the system for more than ten years, but the barriers she'd erected there had been built to last.

Sarah could be abrasive when she was scared, which these days seemed most of the time; she also could be standoffish if she was concentrating on something or if she wasn't sure of herself.

She stood on the sidewalk outside the Brew and took a couple of deep breaths. She'd walked Leila down to the school bus stop, then had called Danny Noyes, Leila's adoption caseworker.

She left a message for him to call her. Same with the advocate ad litem. Sarah knew they were busy. But it was hard not to feel paranoid, like everyone was avoiding her because they didn't want to give her the bad news. But then Reesa called her, and Sarah was so relieved that she'd agreed to meet her at the Brew before she remembered that everyone she knew would probably be there. Wyatt would be there.

She needed to apologize to him and she planned to, but she didn't relish doing it with half the town watching.

“Coward,” she said and pulled the heavy door open.

The Brew was a low ceiling L-shaped coffee bar. The floors, walls, and ceiling were dark stained wood and reminded Sarah of the hold in some nineteenth-century sailing ship. Not that she'd ever been in any kind of ship.

She shivered at the mere thought. Or more likely because it was always overly cold in the coffee bar during the summer,
possibly to counteract the steam machines. And the coffee. There was a line at the counter—there usually was in the mornings—but she saw Reesa sitting toward the back, which would give them at least a nod to privacy. Except as soon as Sarah made out Reesa, she saw Wyatt sitting at the table beside her.

Damn.

Reesa held up a cup, letting her know she'd already ordered for Sarah, so there was no way out there. She walked toward the table.

Wyatt stood and picked up his cup. He seemed to fill the space. “Morning, Sarah. I know you and Reesa have business to discuss, so I'll leave you to it.”

Sarah opened her mouth, couldn't think of what she wanted to say. Smiled awkwardly. She knew it was awkward because she felt awkward.

“Wyatt,” she blurted.

He hesitated, looked at her.

“I'm sorry for . . . yesterday . . . I was upset.”

“I know you were. Reesa, good to see you.” He nodded and walked over to talk to the two guys who had just bought the cheese shop two stores down.

Sarah stared after him, then she sat down. “Do you think he knows that was me apologizing?”

“Probably,” said Reesa. “But you might want to do it more formally when there is less of an audience.”

Sarah nodded. She didn't get why anyone would like her. She'd never learned grace or finesse. She was prickly when she felt insecure, outspoken when she was angry, and had way too many knee-jerk reactions.

It had been different when Sam was alive, but now that
he was gone, it seemed like she was regressing to those days when she had to protect herself every second. And that just made her doubly nervous that she would blow the chance of keeping Leila. Which made her even more prickly . . . which made her—

“Sarah?”

Sarah jumped, almost upsetting her mug. “Sorry. So did you find out anything?”

Reesa wiped the foam off her mouth. She was wearing a light gray suit with a white blouse. Completely out of sync with the shorts and T-shirts, cover-ups, and trendy beachwear of the other patrons.

She pushed her coffee mug to the side, leaned over to get something from the briefcase Sarah knew must be sitting on the floor by her chair. And returned with a manila folder that she dropped onto the table and opened to the first page.

“First things first. I talked to Ilona Cartwright. She's agreed to meet with us; this doesn't mean she'll take the case, but even if she doesn't, she will have some advice. We're meeting her first thing Monday morning, so if you have to make arrangements, do so. We won't get a second chance.”

Sarah nodded. She took a breath, then another for good luck. “You make it sound like she might not be interested.”

“She'll have to review the case, but this is right up her alley. She spends most of her time pleading cases for people who are just out to get as much from the other person as possible, but giving children a good home is her passion.” Reesa frowned.

“What?” Sarah asked suddenly insecure. “You don't think I'll make Leila a good home.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, yes I do. I was just thinking that passion is an odd word in connection to Ms. Cartwright. She's as
cold as a Subzero freezer and yet . . . anyway, she's the best and though she's overscheduled, she'll take a look. Monday morning 9:00. Bring all the documentation you have.”

“Boxes,” Sarah said, slightly embarrassed.

Reesa smiled. Sarah noticed that she looked tired and pale; maybe it was the suit. “Bring the docs from Leila's last two visits to Carmen, how she was before she left, how she was when she returned.”

Sarah shuddered.

“And her social and educational milestones.”

“Hey, we had a cookout at Karen and Stu's last night. We should have called you, but it was impromptu.”

“Thanks, but I couldn't have made it.”

“Bad day? I forgot to ask about the kids you were removing.”

“You don't want to know. You just worry about your case. And get Danny Noyes in the loop. We won't need him on Monday, but he needs to stay on his toes. I'll try to keep in touch with him, but every summer, my caseloads go through the roof. The heat I guess.”

Reesa turned a piece of legal paper toward Sarah. “I've written out some questions I think you should be prepared to answer. In case she asks. She's pretty intimidating, and even though she works for the weak, she doesn't like a show of weakness.”

“You trust her?”

“Trust? Trust doesn't really come into it. She likes to win. And she knows how to adapt to every legal situation I've seen her in. Just do what she tells you. And, Sarah, don't be combative.”

Sarah circled her cup on the table. “Don't show weakness but don't be combative. Right.”

Reesa laughed. “What can I say? But seriously, she needs to
do some yoga or something. And so do you. Do not let this situation get to you, because if it gets to you, it will get to Leila and make whatever happens just that much harder.”

“I won't let them—”

“If you're serious about this working out in Leila's and your favor, then you'll chill out. It doesn't do anything but screw things up when you worry about stuff that is out of your hands. We may not even need a lawyer. But best to be prepared. Dress professionally. And go apologize to Wyatt.”

Reesa looked at her watch. “Damn.” She gulped down the rest of her coffee, leaving a mustache of foam on her lip that she quickly licked away. “Got to be at Probate in twenty minutes. Here's the address for the law office; meet me there at quarter to nine.” She gathered up the papers except for the one she handed to Sarah and slid them back in her briefcase. “You have someone to keep Leila?”

“I'll ask Karen or I can ask Alice to come in early and keep her at the store, though she doesn't like to do that. Leila is a bit of a handful.”

“You could ask Wyatt; I'm sure he could manage the store and Leila without any problem. If you'd let him.”

“Karen already gave me the lecture. I'm trying. I'm going to try again. If he isn't fed up by now.”

“Good. We could all use a good man now and then. Monday, don't be late.” She hurried out of the coffee shop.

Sarah thought she had just missed something. Reesa never talked about men. She hardly ever even talked about her husband, Michael.

Sarah finished her tea. Stopped by a table to say hello to the owner of the antique shop, then stepped out into the morning sun.

She meant to stop by Dive Works and do take two of her apology attempt. But when she got to the corner and looked two doors down, Wyatt was standing outside talking to a blond surfer chick. He leaned against the doorjamb and laughed. She tossed her hair. Then he pushed the door open and followed her inside.

Sarah changed her mind about the apology. No way could she compete with a blond, tanned, athletic cutie.

And he had been flirting. Sarah stepped off the curb, amazed how her mind was bouncing all over the place today. Places it never went. Places it didn't want to go. Places she couldn't afford to let it go. She had a business to run and a child to protect, and nothing else was worth getting derailed for.

She glanced back at the store, then crossed the street corner to Clocks by the Sea. The day she first stepped into the store, she had laughed at the stupid name. She wasn't even sure why she'd gone inside, except maybe she thought it would be easy to help herself to some contraband. Sarah still laughed at herself and her dismay to find everything safely locked behind glass, out of reach, or too big to carry.

She could remember her initial disappointment. Because the old dude who sat behind the counter was the perfect stooge. He looked like some character from a fairy tale. White hair, kind face, dressed in a button-up sweater and a tie for crissakes.

He looked up, their eyes met. And she knew he knew. She started to back away and he said, “So you like clocks?” She told him the name was dorky, made gagging noises at the prissy Victorian woodwork detailed in green, lavender, and blue.

When he died and the store became hers, she didn't change
the name or the color scheme. And she never would. It was a family business, and she was family.

She'd made a few changes over the years after Sam died. She carried more retail merchandise these days and had moved all the repairs to the back room or to the converted space at the cottage. She could use more space, but space was a rare commodity in the old town. If you wanted space, you went out to the highway.

She would make do with what she had.

Once inside, Sarah began dusting as she did each day before the store opened, starting with the display cases and moving to the mantel clocks, the wall clocks, then the grandfathers and grandmothers, her feather duster moving in counterrhythm to the pervading ticks and tocks of the clocks.

At ten o'clock when the first cuckoo began to chirp the hour, she unlocked the door. By the time the others had joined in, Sarah was sitting behind the counter and Alice Millburn was coming through the door.

Alice was a retired librarian who didn't really care about clocks but was a great counter fixture. Pleasant as long as she could sit and knowledgeable enough to call Sarah from the back room when there was a question she couldn't answer. And she didn't mind Sarah's occasional need to leave Leila with her when no one else was available.

“It's supposed to be a nice weekend,” Alice announced in her quiet librarian's voice. “We should hope so. No one wants to buy a clock in the rain.”

“Hope so,” Sarah said, answering the good part and ignoring the pronouncement of doom, which was the only real downside of Alice; she did love her pronouncements of doom.

“Well, I'd better get to the work on the Kelly's ormolu. They want it by next week and the parts have just come in.” Sarah started toward the back. “Oh, and can you open for me on Monday? I have an appointment.”