My Soul to Keep (40 page)

“When did you have in mind?” I tried to keep my voice nonchalant.

“Are you free this evening?”

“I’m on my way to meet some people.” I checked the clock, hoping she wouldn’t be available later. “It would have to be late. Nineish.”

“That would work for me,” she said. “I just have to leave by ten to pick up my son.”

I checked the clock. “Let me button my friends down, and I can come meet you after I check in with them.”

“That would be great.”

We agreed to meet at her office, which was near downtown, not too far from my house.

Liz and Christine were parked in my driveway when I arrived. I pulled in behind them. We were ridiculously glad to see one another.

Together we carried the bunnies into the house and gave them a snack. Christine was unusually quiet. I took her into the kitchen, poured her a glass of milk, and set a plate of Oreos in front of her. She dipped the first one three times and took a bite while Liz and I caught up on the day’s events.

“Christine’s had a bit of a tough day,” Liz said. “Haven’t you, sweetie?”

“When are we going to find Nicholas?” Christine asked.

“Soon,” I said. “Real, real soon.”

“She’s been thinking about him a lot, and I think she dreamed about him again last night, but she couldn’t tell where he was. Right, Punkin?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you think he’s okay?” I asked. “Is he safe?”

She nodded. “He misses his mommy lots.”

“I’m sure he does,” I said. “She misses him lots too.”

“Want to hear the news Andy gave me today?” Liz asked.

“Good news or bad news?”

“Good news, I think. Once I get used to the idea.”

Christine spoke up. “I’m having a baby sister.”

I raised my eyebrows at Liz.

“It’s true,” she said. “Andy and the boys can’t part with one of the little orphan girls. He called to see if it was okay if we adopted her. They can’t bring her home with them now, but he can start the paperwork.”

“And you said yes? Just like that? Without even meeting her?”

“I know, it’s crazy. I just have a feeling it’s the right thing. Something good in the middle of all this mess.”

“Wow. That is unbelievably massive news. Congratulations.”

“Poor kid has no idea what she’s getting herself into, right, Punkin? It’s tough being a sister in this family. Rough duty.”

“She can have my toys,” Christine said. “I don’t need them anymore.”

“You’re giving her all your toys?” I said, feigning incredulity. “That’s pretty generous, Punkin. You sure you don’t want to keep one or two of them?”

“I’m six,” she said proudly.

“All grown up, now, aren’t you?” Liz said, stroking Christine’s hair.

“Uh-huh.” Christine started in on another cookie.

“So tell me about this little girl. How old is she?”

“She’s four. Her mother just died. I’m not sure when. I don’t think she has any other relatives.”

“And how did they pick her? Out of all those kids they wanted to bring home?”

“She picked them, actually. Andy said she wouldn’t stop following the boys around. She kept making them necklaces out of string and telling them they were from her mommy.”

“Necklaces?” I asked. “She made them necklaces?”

“Andy said her mother made jewelry or something. She’s probably still missing her mom.”

I could feel my mother standing in my kitchen at that moment. I swear I could. I could have reached out and touched her, she was so real to me. And at that moment, one of the lottery balls in my head fell into place. An old one that had been bouncing around for a good long while.

I got up and went to the buffet and came back with a pouch and a ring box.

“Did I ever show you this?” I asked Liz, pulling a necklace from the pouch.

She took it and examined it—a beautiful rough stone rimmed in silver and hung on a black leather cord.

“I’ve seen you wear it,” she said. “It’s beautiful.”

“It was an anonymous gift. It came wrapped in a box the day I met Peter Terry at Barton Springs. I’d always assumed it was from him.”

“He has good taste,” Liz said, touching the stone.

I studied the workmanship. “David got me another one for my birthday last year. Different, but from the same designer. Her name is Rosa Guevera. See the mark on the back?” I turned the necklace over and showed her the tiny ankh stamped on the back, next to the initials R.G. I pointed at the ankh. “This is a symbol for protection.”

She squinted at the mark and rubbed her finger over it.

I pushed the ring box across the table to Liz. She put the necklace down and opened the box. Inside was a delicate diamond wedding ring.

“That same day,” I said, “I got my mother’s wedding ring back. The necklace and the ring were wrapped exactly the same way. Plain white box. White paper, white ribbon. No card. I never knew who gave them to me or why. Or what they meant, for that matter.”

I took the ring out of the box and held it up so it sparkled in the light. “Now I think they both might have been from my mother.”

“I thought your mother died years ago.”

“She did.”

Liz looked at me knowingly and handed me the ring box. “Maybe she knows Joe Riley. Maybe he’s the one with the good taste.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

I slipped the ring on my right-hand ring finger. It fit perfectly.

“Rosa Guevera is part of a women’s co-op in Guatemala,” I said. “My mother gave her some money to start her jewelry business.” I watched Liz’s face as the information registered.

Her eyes widened. “A Guatemalan woman made this necklace? You don’t think this little girl …”

“… is her kid?” I shrugged. “What are the odds? But—”

“I’m going to have a new sister.” Christine had finished her cookies and climbed down from the table. “Sister, sister, sister,” she chanted, then stopped and looked up at me. “Miss Dylan, do you have a sister?”

“No, sweetie. All I have is one brother, but he lives far away.”

“I thought your dad’s wife was pregnant,” Liz said. “Isn’t she going to have a girl?”

I looked over at her, startled. “She is.”

“Well, then, I guess you have a sister,” Liz said.

“You just haven’t met her yet,” Christine said gleefully.

“You know what, Punkin? You’re right. I guess I hadn’t looked at it that way.”

“What’s her name?”

“Kellee Shawn,” I said.

“I want to be her friend,” Christine said.

I fought back unexpected tears.

I wound the leather cord of the necklace, tucked it back into the velvet pouch, and handed the pouch to Liz.

“Keep this for your new little girl. She can wear it someday when she’s older. To mark the day her luck changed.”

“Don’t you want it?” Liz asked.

“I have the one from David,” I said. “I think that’s the one to hang on to at this point.” I held out my hand and admired the ring. “Besides,” I added, reaching over to hug Christine, “I’m thirty-five, right, Punkin? All grown up. I don’t think I need it anymore.”

A
T A FEW MINUTES
before nine, I pulled into the parking lot at the building where G. Perry Eschenbrenner officed and hauled myself out of my truck for what seemed like the thousandth time that day. The day had outlasted my stamina by a good hour at least. I was losing steam fast. My legs were wooden and heavy, my eyes itchy and red, and my attitude quickly becoming as rotten and sour as an old tomato. I wanted to be home in a bubble bath, not walking the plank to be chewed up by Gordon Pryne’s defense attorney.

I pressed the button at the door. A loud buzz and the door clicked open. I walked into the building, the door swinging silently shut behind me. The building was an old one—not quite vintage, but one step away from shabby. It was warm inside. They must have adjusted the air conditioning after office hours ended on Friday.

I checked the directory by the elevators, got in, and pushed the button for the sixth floor. As the elevator rose, my stomach tightened. I began mentally preparing my defense. The elevator doors swished open, and I stepped out onto navy blue industrial carpet and walked down smudgy halls to an unimpressive wooden door with a sign that read, “Eschenbrenner, Coving & Ford, Attorneys at Law.”

The door to the office suite was locked, so I knocked and waited a moment. A stocky, middle-aged woman in sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt opened the door and extended her hand. She wore no makeup, and her gray hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail. She looked like she’d had a day at least as long as mine.

“Dylan Foster?” she said.

“Guilty.” I decided to take a shot a humor. “Not literally, though.
Actually, I’m quite an innocent person. In spite of what you may have heard.”

My joke landed with a splat. She gave me the sort of look you might give a disobedient pet and motioned for me to follow her, which I did almost at a trot. The woman was faster than she looked. We went all the way down the hall to the corner office. I followed her inside, and she offered me a seat in a stiff wing chair. She sat down beside me in the other one and crossed her thick legs. A pair of scuffed Birkenstocks revealed unpainted toenails.

“First of all,” she said sternly, “it was completely improper what you did today. Impersonating an employee of mine to gain unauthorized access to my client.”

I felt a surge of defiance. “I realize that.”

She looked at me calmly, waiting for me to say something.

“If you’re looking for an apology, you’re going to have a long wait,” I said.

“I expected better from a fellow professional. Imagine if I contacted one of your clients that way.”

“My client list isn’t a matter of public record,” I snapped. “And to my knowledge, my clients haven’t kidnapped any children lately.” I could feel my face burning. “But if they have, Ms. Eschenbrenner—”

“It’s a mouthful. Call me Gail.”

“Thank you. If they have, Gail, I expect you would employ any means at your disposal to find the child in question.”

“I’m a criminal-defense attorney, Dr. Foster—”

“Dylan.”

“Dylan. Of course. I’m sure you’ll understand that my job is to defend my client, not investigate a crime my client couldn’t possibly have committed.” She stood. “I’m afraid I failed to offer you any hospitality. Would you like coffee? Water? A soda, perhaps?”

“What I’d really like is to know why you wanted to see me,” I said. “I’ve got guests at my house, and it’s been an extremely long day.”

She walked to a credenza and picked up an envelope. “I take it personally when the rights of my clients are violated.”

I sighed impatiently. “Honestly, Gail, I couldn’t care less if you take it personally. I’m not an attorney, and I’m not a cop. I’m not bound by the same rules you are.” I scooted up to the edge of my chair. “Nicholas Chavez is one of my favorite people in the entire world. And as I’m sure you understand, his mother is anxious to have him back where he belongs. As far as I’m concerned, that trumps your client’s rights every time. And if you had a shred of common decency, you’d agree.”

Her mouth tightened. “Given what I do for a living, I’m sure you understand that I can’t share your point of view.”

I was working up a good head of steam here. I needed to be careful to not blow my stack and make things even worse for myself than they already were. “I didn’t violate anyone’s rights. Your client voluntarily talked to me. He wasn’t coerced. He knew exactly who I was and why I was there.”

“He doesn’t know where the child is.”

“I’m aware of that. Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

She handed me a plain brown envelope—the big kind with the metal fastener on the back. “I’ve been asked to give you this.”

“By whom?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“You’re keeping a lot of secrets on behalf of a very sick man,” I said.

“You do the same every day,” she said. “You of all people should understand.”

“Do you want me to open it now?”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” she said.

“What’s in it?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.” She sat back down.

I studied the envelope. It felt empty. Someone had penned my name on the front in black marker.

“I’ve been asked to convey to you that the material in the envelope is for your eyes only. You are requested to keep the information to yourself.”

“Or what?”

“It’s a request, Dr. Foster, not a threat.” She stood and extended her hand. “Thank you for coming.”

I shot her my best look of disdain. “I’m being dismissed?”

She walked to the desk, picked up one of the framed photos propped amid the stacks of papers and files, and handed it to me.

It was a picture of a beaming young man, his face covered with ice cream, sitting on a swing on a bright, sunny day. He looked to be about twenty.

“As I said, I have to go pick up my son at ten.”

I could tell she was waiting for me to notice something. I looked more closely at the photo. “Your son has Down’s?”

“All three of them do, Dr. Foster.” She took the picture back and held it up proudly. “Alex is in seventh grade in a public school. Ben lives at a home for the developmentally disabled in Terrell. And this is Steve, who works at the movie theater. He’s a ticket taker. It took him six months to learn to count change, but he did it, and he’s got a job”—her voice cracked—”and I’m so proud of him.”