Once Upon a Matchmaker (6 page)

Tracy rang the doorbell and heard the beginning notes of Beethoven’s Fifth symphony. A classical music lover? Or had that just come with the house and he hadn’t gotten around to changing it?

She waited until the strains faded away, then pressed the doorbell again, a little longer this time. He had to be home, right? At least, that was what he’d said when he’d called to cancel their appointment. Maybe he was one of those people who didn’t like to stand up for himself and this was his way of backing away from the problem.

If so, he’d probably seen an ad for her law firm and was intimidated by what representation would wind up costing in dollars and cents.

She hadn’t told him that if she was going to take the case, it would be pro bono. But she also wanted to judge the merits of the case for herself before she committed to it. If she told him about pro bono up front, he’d be eager for her to take the case and if she didn’t believe in his innocence, or didn’t think there was at least a slim chance in hell of winning, she wouldn’t take it on.

About to ring and listen to the Beethoven piece a third time, she was spared the encore when the front door suddenly opened. Her prospective client was on the other side.

“I was beginning to think that maybe I had the wrong address,” she said by way of an ice breaker. “Hi, I’m Tracy Ryan,” she said, extending her hand out to his.

Caught off guard—today was
not
going to go down as one of his better days—he said the first thing that popped into his head. “I’m Micah Muldare—but then, you already know that.”

“Yes. I do.” He was still holding her hand and, while that did generate a rather exceptionally warm feeling within her, she did need it back sooner than later.

She glanced at his hand, then raised her eyes to his, waiting.

Realizing that he’d spent too long staring at her, Muldare flashed her a quick, grateful smile that was gone almost before it arrived. At the same time, he released her hand.

It was easy to see that he was worried. About the case? Or about his son? Most likely, it was a little of both. The old adage about “when it rains, it pours” floated through her head.

Because Muldare continued standing where he was, blocking her way, she was forced to ask, “May I come in? Conducting initial interviews in doorways leaves a little something to be desired,” she quipped, surprising herself at the dry comment.

“Oh, sorry.” Belatedly, Micah stepped to the side, allowing her in. “I guess I just didn’t realize you’d be this young—I mean, there’s nothing wrong with being young, but—”

“I assure you that in this case youth isn’t synonymous with lack of experience,” she told him as she came inside.

There was a warmth here, she thought, looking around. A charm. Love had been in this house—in place of a cleaning lady, she thought as she side-stepped a stuffed animal on the floor. Given a choice, she would have picked love every time—if it had been hers to pick. The house she’d briefly shared with Simon had been so neat, it all but sparkled on its own. And she couldn’t remember ever being in a colder place.

“How’s your son?” she asked, passing both Micah and a very animated-looking little boy. He certainly didn’t appear sick to her. But then, she’d heard somewhere that children had a way of bouncing back almost immediately.

Gary, who was shadowing his father step for step, took the question to mean him. “I’m okay,” he told her, speaking up immediately. “But my little brother’s not feeling so good. He’s sick,” he confided in what could have passed for a stage whisper.

“So your dad told me.” She turned to look at Micah. “Have you called his pediatrician yet?” she asked. It seemed like the logical thing to do.

“I thought I’d give the fever another thirty minutes before I start sounding like a panicky father.” Because she seemed to be interested and because she’d voiced the inquiry before diving into the reason for her drive-by visit, he found himself giving her a little more information. “This isn’t exactly the first time I’ve sat beside his bed, holding his hand and making bargains with God.”

Bargains with God?
Now,
that
surprised her. Turning, she took a closer look at him. A hint of a boyish smile met her, but then it was gone, replaced by the expression of an extremely worried-looking man.

Her eyes slid over him, taking full measure of her potential client.

“Funny,” she finally commented, “you just don’t seem like the type to bargain with God.”

Micah laughed shortly. “Believe me, once a kid or two enters the picture, you’d be surprised how quickly you wind up changing and start bending all sorts of rules and regulations you’d never even thought to question or challenge before.”

“You probably don’t want to admit that in exactly those words right off the bat when the other counsel questions you,” Tracy advised.

Realizing what he’d just said, Micah nodded. He wasn’t accustomed to having to censor himself. “Yeah, right,” he agreed.

Was that an embarrassed flush on his cheeks, or a reaction to the unseasonably warm weather they were having, she wondered. This was June, best known for June Gloom in Southern California, but rather than hiding behind clouds, the sun had been out every single morning, warming everything far beyond the customary cool, agreeable temperatures.

Rules and regulations.
The term echoed in Micah’s brain. He’d surprised himself, rebel that he’d once been, at how well he’d adapted to this secretive world he’d found himself in with its strict, strict rules. On the black programs that he’d been working for the past eighteen months—he was currently handling the bulk of seven different programs, complete with files that had pages where huge sections were blacked out with permanent laundry markers—every step of the process, every breath of the day was regulated to the extreme. And he had
really
surprised himself by doing his best to play the game and adhere to all the different stipulations because ultimately, he was working to defend not just his homeland but his sons, as well.

His sons were everything to him. If they hadn’t been around, he was fairly certain that he wouldn’t have been, either.

“You have any kids?” he asked her suddenly as he closed the door behind her.

There it was, she thought, that small, sharp prick, the one that sought her out each and every time someone asked if she had children. You’d think by now it would begin to fade. Instead, at times it felt stronger than ever.

I would have, but things just didn’t work out. I guess I’m just not supposed to have any.

Out loud, Tracy said, “I’m not here to talk about me.” She wanted that to be the end of it, to close herself off to that part of herself, the part that always,
always
bled when the topic came up. But she couldn’t just block it out. There was this absolutely adorable pint-sized shadow next to her, following his father’s every move, being oh so serious about it and succeeding in being oh so adorable, as well.

She grinned down at the little boy behind Muldare and thought back to the restaurant and her first impression of the duo. “But you seem to have struck the lottery with your two guys here. What’s your name?” she asked Gary.

“Gary Muldare,” he told her both proudly and promptly. “The sick one’s Greg Muldare. He’s just four,” he added disparagingly.

“Four’s not such a bad age,” she pointed out tactfully.

“What’s your name?” Gary asked. It was obvious that he hadn’t heard her introduce herself to his father.

Micah loved both boys fiercely, but there were times they made him think of puppies, all big paws and charging clumsily into places that they had no business going.

“Gary—” Micah chided.

Gary’s head bobbed up, a defensive protest already on his protruding lips. “You said I could talk if someone talked to me. Well, she’s talking to me.”

Tracy did what she could to smother the laugh. “He’s got a point, you know, Dad. From now on, you’re going to have to watch how you word your instructions. Kids have a way of cutting straight to the chase.”

Turning her attention back to the little man beside her client, she extended her hand to him just the way she had to his father. “Hi, I’m Theresa Ryan, but you can call me Tracy.”

“Tracy,” he repeated, as if testing the name out on his tongue to see if he liked the sound of it. His brow scrunched as he tried to make sense out of what he’d just been told. “Is ‘Tracy’ your name, too?”

“Tracy’s my nickname,” she explained. The look on his wide-open little face told her she’d made no headway in the explanation department. And why should she? she thought, suddenly realizing the problem. At his age, Gary probably didn’t know what a nickname was. “So, yes, it’s my name, too.”

If Gary had ever been shy, he’d completely forgotten about those days. Taking her hand confidently in his, he said, “If you wanna see Greg, I can take you to him,” he volunteered.

Micah gave his older son a look that was supposed to take the place of a reprimand. It didn’t work. So he tried a verbal restraint. “Gary, Ms. Ryan didn’t come here to visit—”

“But a visit to a bedridden family member wouldn’t be entirely out of order,” Tracy said, interrupting. She wanted to get on Gary’s good side. It never hurt to have an ally, no matter how short, and something told her that having allies in this case might prove to be helpful. Children often said things that offered a different insight. “Where is your little brother?”

“Back in bed. In his room. Being sick.” The answers came out like rapid gunfire before Gary slowed down. “He’s sick a lot,” the boy told her dramatically, ending with a deep sigh.

Hollywood was missing one of its more talented actors, Tracy couldn’t help thinking, more amused than she’d been in a long while.

She looked over her shoulder toward the boy’s father as Gary pulled her along in his wake, obviously taking her to see his brother. “Maybe you should have some lab tests done on him,” she suggested.

Wasn’t that what you did for a child with a recurring illness? She herself didn’t know. She had been a healthy child, which was lucky for both her and her mother since there was no extra money to be had for luxuries like doctors.

“We already know what’s wrong in general,” Micah told her, wondering why she wanted to discuss Greg in the first place. “There were some residual problems due to his being born prematurely. He spent the first two years of his life in and out of hospitals. As a result, the doctors found that Greg’s immune system was compromised somewhat. It takes him twice as long to get over something than it does Gary.”

“That’s ’cause I’m healthier than he is,” Gary said to her, all but thumping his small chest.

“And because you are,” she told him, saying it as if he should be very proud of himself, “you can help your dad take care of your little brother.”

The large, glowing smile faded, to be replaced by a frown. Gary’s expression indicated that he’d actually felt as if the rug had just been pulled out from under his feet.

“I guess,” he said in a far more dispirited tone than he’d used just a minute ago.

“That means that you’re a very important young man. Not just anyone gets to do this kind of thing,” Tracy told the little boy solemnly.

Gary began to come around. “Or get a nickname?” he tagged on eagerly.

“Or get a nickname,” she echoed.

“You’re a natural at this,” Micah observed, letting her walk into his sons’ bedroom ahead of him. “You sure you don’t have any kids?”

“Very sure.” She policed herself to make sure that the yearning in her soul didn’t manage to work its way into her voice. “My best friend, though, was the oldest in a houseful of kids. I got put on kid patrol every time I walked into the house.” She smiled fondly, remembering the O’Sullivans who’d lived in the house next door to hers. They had been a noisy crew, especially on Sundays as they got ready for church. She was over at their house more than she was in her own. They helped fill the loneliness when her mother was out, working two jobs so that they could survive. “After a while, I had the feeling that if my mother ever put me up for adoption, Rosemary’s parents would have grabbed me up in a heartbeat.”

Her heart twisted a little in her chest as she found herself gazing down at the pale, sickly little boy lying in bed, his back propped up by several pillows. He looked so small and helpless.

“Hi, I’m Tracy,” she said, putting out her hand to him as if this was a serious meeting.

Taking her hand, he blinked a couple of times, clearly mesmerized by this pretty lady with his dad and brother. “Are you my guardian angel?”

Stunned, it took Tracy a second to collect herself. “No.” But even as she said it, she had to admit she rather liked the reference. “But I might just turn out to be your dad’s guardian angel,” she added, slanting a look in his direction.

“Daddy’s too big for a guardian angel,” Gary protested.

Tracy squatted down to be more on the same level as the two boys. “Ah, but there you’re wrong. Nobody ever outgrows their need for a guardian angel. We’re the ones—if we’re doing our job right—who help you gain your goals, help make the cacti grow—” She said the latter because she’d seen a small cactus garden behind a proper miniature picket fence in the front yard.

“How about flowers?” Greg asked. “Do you help make them grow, too?”

“Absolutely. The next time you see a flower in the field, just think of me,” she told both boys, concluding with a wink.

Her suggestion was met with far more eagerness than she’d thought was possible. “Okay, I will,” Gary promised enthusiastically.

Tracy rose back up to her feet. Standing over Greg, she brushed her hand along the boy’s forehead, subtly checking to see just how hot it was.

“Me, too?” Greg asked her hoarsely. “Can I think about you when I see flowers?”

“Absolutely,” she told the boy. “I’d be honored.” He did look pretty miserable, she thought. “Tell me, Greg, how long have you been feeling sick?”

“I didn’t feel so good after having that pizza yesterday,” he confessed.

She looked at Micah. “Anyone else have the pizza?”

“Try everybody,” he told her. “Including my aunt Sheila.”