Hot Water (5 page)

“You know that’s not true. Let me check things out and if I need to go back after this week, we’ll talk.”

Perfectly reasonable logic. You’d think an almost ten-year-old genius would understand. He banged his chair against the table leg as he pushed back.

“Right. Then you’ll find some other excuse to do what you want and leave me stuck here.” He wheeled past me, out the screen door leading to the back porch, letting it bang shut. “Grownups.” His final salvo was delivered in a tone of disgust—the effect slightly marred by his voice cracking.

I stood, poised to chase after him, but then stopped. I’d drawn the line and had to respect that—otherwise he never would.

“Boy’s as stubborn as his mother,” Flora said. “Best let him come to his senses on his own. That’s what always worked with you.”

I hated to admit it, but she was right. As usual.

FIVE

Packing wasn’t easy. For our last two cases, I didn’t need to travel or worry about impressing anyone, so my usual outfit of boots, jeans, and T-shirt had been fine. After that, Elizabeth had insisted on replacing my heavy-metal and political T-shirts with polo tops that she’d had embroidered with the company logo. I didn’t even know we had a logo.

Two days. Three Hardy & Palladino shirts (I tend to get things dirty) went into my scuffed Eagle Creek travel pack. Ditto with jeans, pairs of socks. I hesitated, then called Elizabeth.

“Think he’s gonna trot me out for the cameras?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

“That’s what he’s paying for. I know you don’t like it—”

“No.” I opened my closet. “It’s okay. I’m just trying to figure out what to pack.”

It had been four years since I left the law firm—was fired, actually—after winning the case that made me famous. I’d kept some of my “power” suits but hadn’t worn them since. Now I eyed them suspiciously. I’d lost weight—not intentionally. My diet had consisted of worry about David, no money, and waiting tables while juggling two other jobs.

I don’t recommend it. Pulling one of the navy blue pantsuits from the closet, I held it up to the mirror in front of me. Made me look like a whole different person. A woman I no longer recognized. Did I want to go back to being her? I wasn’t sure. Sighing, I folded it into the suitcase.

“It’s the South.” Elizabeth read my mind from three miles down the mountain and across the hollow. “They’ll expect you to act like a lady.”

“The things I do for a million bucks.” I hung up and added the matching skirt and pumps to the case. I don’t wear nylons for anyone, but that brought up the problem of underwear. I tossed my usual cotton panties and sports bras into the bag, then hesitated, scrounging into the far recesses of my underwear drawer. Found a pair of black silk panties and the matching underwire bra with lace inserts. I held the bra up. It had been four years since I’d worn it to court the day the judge ruled in favor of our case against Capitol Power. One of the best days of my life.

“Lucky man,” Ty’s voice interrupted my memory love-feast. “Do I know him?”

My face burned. I wadded the bra up and threw it into the case. “Know how to knock?”

“I did. You didn’t hear me. Guess I know why.” He nodded to the wad of lace and silk sitting on top of my jeans.

“Don’t be ridiculous. How would I have time to meet a man, much less think about dating?”

He leaned against the door jamb and stared at me for a long hard moment, like I was being particularly ornery about something. Which I was. And it had nothing to do with my lack of a social life.

Ty didn’t want me to leave David. I didn’t either, but what choice did I have?

An entire debate ensued in the space of two blinks. Ty and I were like that, ever since we were kids. We knew each other well enough to see through to the end of an argument faster than we could get the words out.

Usually we didn’t need words. But this time, for once, he didn’t back down first. Instead, he took things to the next level, asking, “When did your priorities get so screwed up?”

That got my attention. “Who the hell gave you the right to have any say over my life?”

I stood up straight but still wasn’t able to meet his gaze head on since I’m only five-five and Ty’s at least six foot two. A very muscular and handsome six-two. Ty combines the best of all the races contributing to his heritage: Scots-Irish, Cherokee, and African American.

We’ve been best friends all our lives. Suddenly, I wasn’t quite sure what we were. Which meant that right now he was one more complication in my life.

Lately I’d been fantasizing about him becoming more than a just a friend. Only late night, under the covers imaginings, because how could I ever ask anyone to put up with my crazy world of constant juggling and worry? Not to mention the fact that I need all the friends I can get and I wouldn’t want to risk losing him.

But if there’s one thing I can’t bear, it’s when people try to judge me and tell me how to live my life. Which was usually the last thing Ty would ever do.

He glowered at me, something else he usually never did. Shrugged one shoulder hard and sharp—I was surprised it didn’t gouge the doorjamb—and spun on his foot.

Ty and I never fought. Debate or argue, sure. Even the occasional stewing in silence. But actual someone-could-get-hurt-here fight? Never. Just goes to show how much this case had already gotten under my skin.

Before he could leave, I took the two steps I needed to reach him and touched his arm. “Ty, I’m sorry. I’m nervous about this case and about leaving David.”

He turned back to me. “Usually your gut instinct is right on target. I don’t see why you should ignore it now. Maybe it’s trying to tell you something. Maybe you shouldn’t go.”

I pulled away. “I have to. It’s important.”

“Just don’t forget what you promised David.”

That stung. As if I’d ever forget a promise I made to David.

Before I could snap back with some kind of clever rebuttal, he was gone.

I finished packing, threw my bag in the car and found David to say good-bye. He was in Flora’s front room, furiously drawing in his sketch pad. He shut it and shoved it into his backpack before I could see what he was working on. I knew better than to ask.

“Here’s how this is going to work,” I told him, using my “don’t try to find any loopholes” voice. “You’re going to listen to Elizabeth and do what she asks you to do without talking back. You’re going to shower every morning without her needing to remind you.”

He squirmed at that. For some reason personal hygiene had become a sore topic lately—he’d go days without showering or changing his clothes. Then when I bought him deodorant—well, you would have thought I was asking him to commit social harikari! Flora says his behavior is normal for boys David’s age. I’m not sure about that, but it’s not normal for my David. Heck, he used to love showers so much I’d have to restrict him to only two a day, max.

“You
will
pick up your clothes and do your laundry and not wear the same thing every day,” I continued, pushing my luck. An eye roll and shoulder shrug were his only answer. “And,” I pulled him into a tight sideways hug-slash-headlock, “you will remember that I love you very, very much and I’m coming home just as soon as I can. Okay?”

He squirmed free, but not before I landed a loud kiss onto his head.

“Whatever.” His tone verged on adolescent ennui, but a smile creased his face and suddenly my baby boy was back. “Did you invite grandma and grandpa to my birthday? And Mr. Masterson?”

It wrenched my heart every time he called my folks “grandma” and “grandpa”—much less when he mentioned Cole’s father with no term of endearment since they were still virtually strangers.

Masterson had met with David twice under my supervision at his mansion. I’d sat right outside the study door while they’d talked, trying hard not to flashback to the last time I’d stepped foot in Masterson’s study—ten years ago when I’d told him I was pregnant. We’d argued, and on my way home a coal truck had run me off the road and into a retention pond. I’d almost died, David as well.

David and Masterson’s talks felt more like job interviews—David dwarfed by the twelve-foot-high ceilings, his head barely reaching the top of Masterson’s massive walnut desk that sat on an elevated dais so he could look down his nose at everyone.

At least that’s how I saw it—I’m a bit prejudiced.

“You did remember to invite them, didn’t you?” David repeated when I didn’t answer.

Actually, I’d been hoping he’d forgotten about inviting them. I just knew that any event that combined my folks, Masterson, Flora, and me was certain to end in disaster.

“Mom . . . please, it’s my birthday. I want them here.”

“Okay. I’ll ask them.” I snuck in another kiss and quick hug before he could escape. “Bye. Love ya.”

He waved absently as he wheeled himself back out into the sunshine, ready for his next adventure.

I sighed and headed in the opposite direction. It was going to be a long couple of days.

My folks live in a house that’s almost a century old and filled with junk. Seriously. After my big brother, Randy, died, my mom’s already obsessive tendencies turned to hoarding in a desperate effort to preserve Randy’s memory.

From the outside it looks like a normal house. White siding, Cape Cod, two stories, gables, shutters hanging a little crooked, paint a bit faded.

Walk inside the front door and if the doors to the other rooms are closed—which they always are—everything still seems normal. Maybe even a bit Spartan with Randy’s black-rimmed photo the only personal item in the foyer. My father makes sure the steps are kept clear. He also put in new doors to block the other rooms from view. Enabling Mom and drinking his way into denial are his two main passions in life.

Open one of those closed doors and you unleash an eruption of worthless junk. Comic books, soda bottles, sporting equipment, model airplanes, toys, clothing, ball caps—it’s enough to fill five Dollar Generals five times over.

But never enough room for me. Or David.

I knocked and waited for Mom to answer. She’s Old Man Masterson’s bookkeeper and works from home, using my old room as an overstuffed office. Dad is a foreman at the mine, so he was at work. In the spring, after I accidentally entered my childhood home and discovered Mom’s “little secret,” they’d both made it clear that I was no longer welcome without an invitation.

Of course, I refuse to let David anywhere near the place until they clear out at least the first floor. Five months later and I don’t think they’ve done anything except rearrange the piles of junk into new piles of different junk.

“Angela Joy,” Mom said when she opened the door. “What brings you here?” She glanced past me—probably to make sure I hadn’t called Adult Protective Services. Not that I hadn’t been tempted after she and Dad refused any help or counseling. But when I’d talked with a caseworker and Elizabeth researched it, we discovered that since there were working bathroom facilities and exit routes, my parents were in no imminent danger.

So said the law. I disagreed. But, as usual in my family, no one paid any attention to what I thought.

“I’m leaving for business. Going to be gone a few days, and David wanted me to remind you about his birthday party.”

“A business trip?” she said in disapproval, leading me inside. She kept on walking up the steps, never looking back to see if I was following. “Do you think it’s wise? A single mother leaving her son alone? In my day—”

“He won’t be alone.” What did she think I’d done the ten years I’d raised David on my own in D.C. as a single mom? Lock him in a closet while I was at work? I didn’t ask—my folks never did get my sense of humor, and sarcasm was lost on them. “Elizabeth is going to stay at the summerhouse, and Jeremy and Flora will be watching him as well.”

She made another noise, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth, but I ignored it. The second floor hallway was barely negotiable, a tight passage etched out between piles higher than my head, precariously stacked against both walls.

“Don’t touch anything,” she snapped. She hadn’t forgiven me for stepping on a bobble-head toy and breaking it the last time I was here.