Silver Serenade

by Gerry O'Hara

  On their way out of the building, Cash said, “This is going to be a tough one; the police have a long book on this kid. Anytime something in his neighborhood goes wrong, Bobby is pulled in for questioning. It doesn’t matter that he hasn’t been in trouble in two years, or that he has a steady job. Or that he may be innocent. The cops probably have circumstantial evidence that’s convincing enough for an indictment.”

  “Surely if Moreno can prove his whereabouts when the crime was committed, you should be able to get him off.”

  “The question is: Can he prove it? If not, Bobby’s years as an incorrigible teenager may speak louder than his last two years of respectability. It isn’t going to be an easy case.

  “I’m a bit stressed out. I’m going to take Serenade out for a run and try to shake off the tension. Will you go with me?”

  “I’d like that.”

  Half an hour later, they were on board Serenade, the mainsail was set, and the sloop was gliding out of the harbor. Christie slipped below, into the salon, and changed into shorts and a T-shirt. The summer sun pressed a rosy pink upon her skin and the breeze brushed her hair into disarray. Cash was at the wheel, but his posture indicated that the sea did not erase his stress.

  “Are you still upset about the Moreno boy?” She found it difficult to fathom how anything could disrupt his professional calm so completely.

  He shrugged his shoulders in a suggestion of denial, but she knew it was an empty gesture. After adjusting the mainsail, he put the boat on automatic pilot.

  “One of the first cases I handled was a young man named Timmy, who was accused of breaking and entering. He came from a good family, parents were involved in community activities, his siblings did well in school. But he had a tough adolescence, got in with the wrong crowd. He got into petty scrapes, nothing serious, but later he drew a night in jail and twenty hours of community service for marijuana possession.

  “His parents sent him to Oregon to live with an uncle in a rural area with a strong sense of community. They wanted him away from his buddies. It was a turning point. He got a part-time job and enrolled in the local community college. Two years later, he returned home with a healthy attitude and good job prospects.”

  “That sounds great, but there wouldn’t be a story if it ended there.”

  “You’re right. Timmy’s past came back to haunt him.” Cash gazed over the water. “A year later Timmy’s world was almost blown apart. He became a suspect in a criminal investigation. The crime took place while he was at his sister’s graduation party. Twenty people could vouch for him, but the police didn’t question a single one. The lead detective had zeroed in on Timmy, and like a dog with a bone, he wouldn’t let go.

  “That’s when Timmy’s father came to me. He and my dad had gone to college together and had remained friends. I advised Timmy not to talk to the police unless I was present, and I contacted the detective and demanded to know what evidence he had linking Timmy to the crime. There was none, just suspicion based on Timmy’s past. The detective finally backed off, but the trail was already cold and the crime was never solved. Timmy was never charged, but the stigma remained. He and his parents eventually moved to Oregon to put distance between them and the scandal. Timmy later married and has a successful consulting business. The last time I spoke to him, he confided that he sometimes wakes in a cold sweat from a recurring dream of being rousted out of bed by a cop holding a gun to his head.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “We’re supposed to be guaranteed the presumption of innocence, but in real life it doesn’t always work that way. Being fresh out of law school with all my ideals in place, Timmy’s case really affected me. I thought of all the other Timmys who don’t have representation or have to rely on public defenders, who often have more cases than they can possibly handle.”

  “And that’s why you’re representing Bobby Moreno,” Christie said.

  “That’s why I’m representing Bobby Moreno,” Cash confirmed.

  “You’re an okay guy.” She reached out and touched his arm. “I’m glad you told me.”

  “You’re a sympathetic listener.”

  “That’s what friends are for.”

  “I hope you think of me as more than a friend.”

  He drew her to him, and she trembled. His hand slid upward along her neck, and he lifted her hair and brought his mouth to her exposed throat. A gasp escaped her lips. She burrowed her face against his chest and her arms reached around him. She breathed in the scent of salt air and aftershave, a clean and manly aroma.

  The city skyline became dwarfed as they sailed away from it. The bay stretched endlessly toward an unreachable horizon, the blue turning to gray in the distance. Gulls and pelicans dive-bombed for fish, shattering the water’s glassy surface. She heard the muted sound of a ship’s horn as it set course under the Golden Gate Bridge.

  Wrapped in his embrace, nothing was real anymore; not the seabirds, the sky-bound sun, or the city’s diminishing spires. Only she and Cash existed, their bodies tightly aligned. His strength enclosed her like insulation and her body, previously chilled by the wind, was flush with heat. The attraction was strong and her emotions were jumbled.

  The boat rocked gently as it plowed through the waves. Cash’s hands framed her face, and his mouth came down on hers in a kiss that took her breath away. She hadn’t felt this way in a long time; her failed love affair in college had hardened her heart. But now, in Cash’s arms, her heart was melting, her emotions revived. How could she be drawn so completely to a man she’d known for so short a time, she wondered. Whatever the reason, it could not be denied: being in this man’s arms was as close to heaven as she could get.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Monday morning came too soon. Christie had not yet touched base with reality after spending the weekend with Cash. Last night he had reluctantly delivered her to her apartment and they had lingered at the door before saying good night.

  There was an unreal quality to the time they had spent together, she mused as she sat at her desk. Flying to a desert hacienda and dining on a moonlit patio wasn’t part of her usual routine. Neither was being kissed on the windswept deck of a sailboat. She wondered if seeing Cash in the cold light of a workday would chase away the enchanting images and leave her questioning whether she had imagined the entire weekend.

  But memories were vivid, and nothing could tarnish the quality of the past couple of days. She had become a different person. Cash’s entrance into her life had initiated a metamorphosis and she was like a butterfly that had shed its restrictive cocoon.

  The buzzing of her intercom alerted her to a call. She reached for the phone and Cash’s voice boomed over the line.

  “Did you get a chance to transcribe the Moreno notes?”

  Jolted by the demanding sound of his voice, she hesitated before answering. “I’ve been working on my own caseload this morning, Cash. If it’s an emergency, I can have the notes typed and ready to be picked up by the end of the day.”

  “I hate to lean on you this way, Christie, but my paralegals are wrapped up in researching precedents for a case. I’d be indebted to you if you had those notes in my office by four thirty.”

  With a hasty thanks, he severed the connection. She tried to brush away irritation at his abruptness by recalling how only last night he had been sensitive and considerate.

  There was too much work, though, to dwell on Cash’s telephone manners. She dedicated the entire morning to an examination of the last few pages of a diary belonging to an elderly woman who had died a month ago. The final pages included a recently drafted holographic will. The woman’s instructions for dispersing her estate were scrawled across the paper in a shaky hand, and her signature was barely legible. In California, as in many other states, a holographic will did not need witnesses, just proof of authenticity. The estate’s heirs insisted on a professional examination of the handwriting, hoping to have it declared invalid.

  In her prior will, written year
s ago, the childless woman had left all of her assets to nieces and nephews. The diary indicated a recent change of heart; the majority of the estate was to be distributed to charities. The nieces and nephews insisted the entry was fraudulent, written, perhaps, by their aunt’s attorney, who held a grudge against them. They were wrong; not about the grudge, but about the authenticity of the new will. They were not going to be happy about the small stipend they would each receive as a result.

  Christie dictated her findings into a tape recorder to review them the following day, when she would finalize the report. Next she transcribed the shorthand notes from the Moreno interview.

  It was close to five o’clock by the time she arrived at Cash’s office. She thought Paige, Cash’s receptionist, treated her rather coolly. Her heart lurched at a thought: Did the woman suspect that Christie and Cash were seeing each other? And before Christie had arrived on the scene, had Cash dated other women in the office? At the conclusion of the weekend, was it also the conclusion of the relationship? Monday: business as usual?

  She glanced at the receptionist again. Head bent over the computer keyboard, the woman’s fingers flew across the keys. If asked, would she warn Christie not to take the boss seriously; that he simply enjoyed weekend interludes with good-looking women, present company included? Cash had told her that his staff left early on Fridays. Was he the reason they fled? Not fear of work interfering with the weekend, but to avoid being cornered into an affair that promised nothing more than a dead end?

  She mentally shook herself: she was imagining innuendoes that did not exist.

  Cash buzzed the receptionist and told her to send Christie in. She entered his office and it was obvious that he was coiled as tightly as a spring. She had the impression that something had gone awry between the time he had dropped her off at her apartment and this moment. She hoped it wasn’t personal discord, since she might be the target. On the other hand, she wouldn’t want Bobby Moreno on the receiving end of bad news, either.

  “I know you hoped to have this earlier, but I had a project that couldn’t be delayed.” She placed the folder on his desk.

  With a wave of his hand, he brushed away her apology. “I appreciate your coming at all. Especially since those notes weren’t your responsibility. I want to look them over before discussing the case with the detectives. Bobby’s mother arranged bail and he should be out of jail by now.” He picked up the folder and tapped it on his desk.

  “I’m sorry I was abrupt on the phone, but I’ve been on the run since five a.m. My paralegals must have had a heavy weekend, judging by the quality of their work this morning. And a new client walked in off the street, messed up my appointment schedule. Typical Monday. Amazing how much trouble otherwise law-abiding people can get into over the weekend. Sometimes I wish I had gone into some other field.”

  “I don’t believe that. Rumor is that Cash McCullough teethed on the scales of justice.”

  “I need sympathy, not wisecracks.” He stood up and moved to her side. He touched her cheek and tipped her chin toward his face. It wasn’t business as usual, she thought fleetingly.

  “You smell sweet,” he whispered. “You’re just the tonic for Monday-afternoon blues.”

  He grabbed her in a bear hug that whooshed the air from her. She burrowed her face against his chest and shut her eyes. She welcomed the wave of sensation that rolled through her body. Just beyond the door a receptionist, paralegals, and an investigator were enmeshed in workaday roles. Yet here, in Cash’s arms, the rest of the world kept its distance.

  He released her, and ran his fingertips along her cheek, pushing a slip of hair behind her ear. “I’d better let you go. If I hold you a minute longer, I might not be able to turn away, and I expect a client any minute.”

  “I…have work, too…”

  “Perhaps we can meet in Sausalito for dinner and a sail later on.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?” He sounded wounded.

  “Because I know that you are going to be tied up way past dinnertime.”

  “You’re probably right. That was wishful thinking on my part.”

  Later, in her apartment, Christie sat with Tosha on her lap and a cup of peppermint tea in her hand. She aimed the remote at the television and turned on the news.

  She stroked Tosha’s soft fur absentmindedly while her thoughts turned to Cash. It had been heavenly to feel the strength of his arms around her. What could she expect from the relationship? A short-term romance? Or something deeper? There was chemistry between them, but that didn’t surprise her. She wanted more than raging hormones, however, she wanted stability. She wanted love.

  No matter what she wanted, right now she needed to divert her thoughts away from Cash. She couldn’t sit there mooning over him like a besotted teenager.

  Remembering the painting she’d bought in Sedona, she nudged Tosha from her lap. She eyed the protective wrappings. Although bolt cutters would have been handier, she ground through the thick cord with scissors, then tore the paper from the picture. She admired it for a few minutes before deciding where to hang it.

  She removed an inexpensive framed poster from the dining-room wall and replaced it with the painting. Christie liked the artist’s style, the dramatic splashes of color. She could almost feel the energy of the red-tailed hawk soaring above the desert. It must be exciting to be able to paint with such fire, she thought. In high school, Christie’s art teacher had told her that she had talent, perhaps not enough talent to become a successful artist, but enough to succeed as an art teacher or gallery curator. Christie’s last bout with art had been during her sophomore year in college; she’d never touched a paintbrush after that. There had never been time.

  Margo was right, a couple of weekend classes would probably put her back on track. It wouldn’t be difficult to enroll in a class through the San Francisco Recreation and Park department.

  Later, at the conclusion of the ten o’clock news, Christie climbed into bed. She tucked the blanket around her shoulders and curled into a fetal position. Tosha bunched up into the backs of Christie’s knees. Closing her eyes did not stop her from thinking of Cash. Her thoughts were like a video set on fast-forward, racing through her mind.

  The telephone rang and she lunged for it. Tosha let out a yowl and jumped off the bed. The telephone fell to the floor and bounced once. In the darkness, Christie did a long-arm reach, groping along the carpet until she located the phone. “Hello!”

  “Christie? What happened? My ear is ringing.”

  “I dropped the phone. Why are you calling so late?”

  “I miss you.”

  She wished that she could still the tremors that bristled along her body.

  “I had looked forward to a sail together.”

  “As I told you, I have a busy schedule tomorrow. I’ll have to be up earlier than usual, so I couldn’t stay out late tonight.”

  “Couldn’t you have spared the time for just a little sail? I was all alone out there.”

  “Oh, Cash.” She was becoming exasperated. “It would not have been a little sail, and it would have been a very late dinner.”

  “Sounds good to me. Great, in fact.”

  “For someone who is a workaholic, perhaps.”

  “I’m wounded. But I understand, and to prove it, I’ll give you a rain check. When you’re in a better mood.”

  “I’m not in a bad mood, I’m just tired. You did wake me up, you know.”

  “I’m sorry. I wanted to hear your voice.”

  “I accept your apology. Now I’m going to say good night. I have to tackle a full caseload tomorrow, and I’m not going to be up to it unless I get enough rest. I don’t have your boundless energy.”

  “I’m lonely, Christie.”

  “Cash McCullough, right now I don’t care how lonely you are. You told me how wonderful it was to live on a sailboat, how soothing. That the only distraction was an occasional sea lion or shark. Well, drop a line ov
erboard and see what you can come up with for a late-night companion, because this lady is saying good night.” She set the phone down, punched her pillow, and burrowed her face into the groove her fist had created. He missed her. That knowledge lulled her to sleep.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Cash’s receptionist left a message with Christie’s office that a lease car had been arranged—it was not unusual for her to receive a loaner from a client when working a case. When she arrived at Cash’s office, Paige accompanied her to the underground garage. They stopped in front of a showroom-fresh, cranberry-red Mustang convertible. The car keys swung like wind chimes in the receptionist’s hand as she pointed to the car. “It’s all yours,” she said, without attempting to conceal a smile.

  Christie reached for the keys and hoped the flame of embarrassment that warmed her cheeks went unnoticed. She tried to convince herself that she only imagined the amusement on Paige’s face.

  “Cash asked if you would pick up a file at this address.” Paige handed her a slip of paper. “It’s relative to a case you’re working on for him.”

  Christie nodded, too disconcerted by the turn of events to reply.

  The traffic she encountered driving San Francisco’s busy streets made her consider the advantages of taking a taxi. The ordeal escalated during her search for a parking space. Finally, she gave in, nosed the convertible into a multilevel garage, and grudgingly took the parking tag from the attendant.

  It was a fifteen-minute walk to her destination, and Christie was beginning to suspect that Cash had given her the snappy-looking car to cajole her into providing messenger service. She resented the time away from her lab work that this sojourn caused.

  After picking up the file, she headed back to Market Street. Dodging the rush of fender-bender traffic, her disposition continued to deteriorate. She was now convinced that it would have made more sense to take a taxi.

  She parked in the underground garage and rode the elevator to Cash’s office. Another appraising glance from the receptionist made her temper flare. Was the woman intimating that the flashy car signified more than a professional courtesy?