Kate glanced at her watch as the date and time sounded; the message had been recorded an hour ago. She stopped the playback. What in the world had happened in Texas? Should she try Randall again? She shook her head. Her message was on his voice mail already. Repeating it wouldn't help.
She pushed play once more. “Hello, Kate? This is Barbara Handley. I'm so very sorry about what happened to Clay's hand. I do hope that he's all right. If I had known that Thunder would be a problem, I would never have accepted your boys' kind offer to walk him. I just can't believe that he would attack another dog. Please tell Clay I called to wish him well.”
Kate frowned as she listened. Thunder was not well-disciplined, but he had never shown any sign of viciousness. And didn't Clay say it had been another dog's fault? She would have to ask him the details again. Several more messages from well-wishers spooled past as Kate fixed sandwiches. None were from Randall. She again debated calling him. But first she decided to talk with Barbara Handley.
“Mrs. Handley called to see how you're doing,” Kate said to Clay as she carried lunch into the family room. “Would you tell me again exactly what happened when you got bitten?”
“Sure, Mom,” Clay said, and gave Kate a more detailed description of the dog fight than she was comfortable hearing.
“I just want to make sure I know a couple of facts,” Kate said when he had finished. “Thunder was definitely on the sidewalk and not in the lady's yard?”
“Definitely,” Clay said. “We know that some yards have electric fences for their dogs so we keep our clients out of people's yards.”
“Your clients?” Kate laughed. “I like that. And this other dog was definitely loose? No electric fence?”
Clay shook his head. “No fence. He came right down onto the sidewalk.”
“Do you agree, Patrick?”
Patrick nodded solemnly.
“Thanks, boys. I'm going to call Mrs. Handley and reassure her that Thunder was not the attacker.”
“Thunder and I were both victims,” Clay said wryly. “I bet there's not a mark on that other dog.”
Kate went back to the kitchen and called Barbara Handley's number.
“Oh, Kate, I'm so glad to hear from you. I've been so worried about Clay. He's the nicest boy. And so's Patrick,” Barbara said. “How is Clay's hand?”
Not wanting to worry the elderly woman, Kate said, “It's going to be fine. He had to have a little surgery, and he's all bandaged up now. How's Thunder doing?”
Barbara's voice wavered. “He's got some bandages, too. The vet gave him some shots, just in case, and said that he would recover. But he seems depressed. And Mrs. Lattuca – that's Pal's owner – claims that he's vicious and should be put to sleep. I don't understand it; he's never attacked another dog before.”
“Well, according to Clay and Patrick, he didn't attack,” Kate said firmly. “Clay doubts that Thunder even bit Pal in self-defense. And he says that Pal came onto the sidewalk to get at Thunder.”
“Oh, that's such good news! I mean, not that Pal attacked Clay and Thunder, but that it wasn't Thunder's fault. That's such a weight off my mind,” Barbara Handley said, still sounding as though she was near tears. “I was afraid I'd have to put Thunder to sleep.”
“Don't even think about it,” Kate said, reassuringly. “Would you like me to call Mrs. Lattuca?”
“Would you? That would be so nice of you. I'll give you her number.”
Kate was about to say good-bye when the older lady said, “Kate, I should warn you that Mrs. Lattuca is not a very nice person. She used rather strong language with me. And she seemed very sure it was Thunder's fault.”
“We'll see about that.” After hanging up, Kate looked at the phone number as she considered the best way to approach the not-so-nice Mrs. Lattuca. She decided that as always, being pleasant and polite was a good way to begin.
“Mrs. Lattuca? This is Kate Chilton. I'm the mother of the boy who had a problem with your dog Pal.”
“Pal isn't the problem. That German shepherd is the problem. He attacked my Pal for no reason in his own yard. Your boy couldn't control him so I had to intervene. If your child got bitten, it's his own fault.”
Kate's temper began to simmer. Pleasant and polite was clearly not going to do it. “I'm afraid that I have to disagree. Both of my children have confirmed that your dog came onto the sidewalk to attack Thunder and that Thunder did not even bite back. Clay tried to get hold of Pal's collar to separate the dogs, and Pal bit his hand. I am acquainted with Thunder, as are many people in this neighborhood, and we all know that he is not a vicious dog.”
“Your boys are lying to try to stay out of trouble. That German shepherd should be put to sleep. Pal has bite marks all over his face and neck.”
“Would your veterinarian be willing to confirm that?”
“I didn't take him to the vet.”
“He has bite marks all over his face and neck, and yet you didn't take him to the vet?”
“I haven't had time,” Mrs. Lattuca said, sounding slightly defensive for the first time. She went back on the offensive immediately. “But I'm going to call Town Hall and file a complaint against that German shepherd. He should be put to sleep before he attacks anyone else. And your children should not be walking dogs they can't control.”
Kate's blood was at full boil but her tone was icy. “Mrs. Lattuca, I made this telephone call with the intention of straightening out a misunderstanding between neighbors. However, your attitude and accusations have changed my intention drastically. I am now considering suing you for my son's medical expenses and his pain and suffering. Your dog was loose in a town with leash laws. Your dog attacked another dog – who was leashed – without provocation on public property. Your dog did serious injury to a child who tried to protect the leashed dog. You will be hearing from my lawyer, Georgia Jenson, from Cravath, Swaine, and Moore.”
Kate hoped that Mrs. Lattuca didn't know that Cravath wasn't in the business of prosecuting dog bite cases.
“You can't sue me,” the other woman blustered.
“Try me,” Kate said. “This conversation is over.”
“Wait!” Mrs. Lattuca hesitated a moment, then said grudgingly, “I won't file a complaint about the other dog.”
Kate waited.
“What else do you want?”
“An apology.”
“For what?”
“For accusing my children of lying.”
“I'm sorry. They didn't lie.”
“And now the truth, please,” Kate said implacably.
Mrs. Lattuca made a sound of disgust. “Pal got loose from his stake in the backyard. I keep him tied up because we don't have a fence.”
“Has he ever attacked anyone else?”
“No. Well, once. But it was a long time ago.”
Kate controlled her desire to scream at the woman. Instead she said with ice dripping from every syllable, “Mrs. Lattuca, I do not believe in destroying dogs because they have bad owners. However, if I ever see or hear of Pal being loose again, I will not only report him to Town Hall, but I will slap a lawsuit on you so fast that you won't know what hit you. So I suggest that you invest in a good fence.”
Kate was about to hang up when she had another thought. “I also expect you to call Barbara Handley to apologize to her and assure her that Thunder is safe.”
“You snotty bitch!” Mrs. Lattuca shrieked. “You can't make me call anyone!”
“If you don't, my next call will be to Cravath, Swaine. And you had better be very polite to Barbara. Good-bye, Mrs. Lattuca.”
Kate could hear the woman swearing as she hung up.
Six months ago, she would never have threatened a lawsuit or forced someone to apologize to someone else, even if she knew that she was right. Georgia would be proud of her. Even better, she was proud of herself.
Barbara Handley called five minutes later to describe the miraculous turnaround in attitude of the previously nasty Mrs. Lattuca. Kate smiled a
s she listened, the feeling that she could take care of her own flowing like wine through her veins.
Twenty
Kate had dozed off while sitting in the den with Clay and Patrick watching Star Wars. The peal of the doorbell startled her awake. “Mom, the door,” Patrick said without taking his eyes off the television screen.
She stretched quickly and went to the front door. Randall Johnson stood on the porch. Kate gasped at his appearance.
“Randall, what happened? You look awful.”
He ran a hand over the stubble on his chin. “I haven't gotten around to shaving today.”
His beard was the least of his problems. “Come in,” she said, making a waving motion for him to enter. His face was battered, and his clothes were a mess. “Would you like some coffee?”
Randall winced. “No more coffee. My stomach feels like hell.” He limped into the living room and dropped onto the couch, letting his head fall back as he closed his eyes.
Kate looked him over to decide what he needed most. He had a black eye and a cut on his cheek. The knuckles of his hands had cuts and bruises scattered across them. His suit jacket was ripped in several places, and his once-white shirt was grimy and bloodstained. His whole posture indicated exhaustion and something worse that she couldn't quite put a name to. Defeat? Despair? Not words she generally associated with him.
Tending bodily wounds was easier than dealing with emotional ones, so Kate collected ointment, Band-Aids, a washcloth and a towel. She stuck her head into the den and told the boys that Mr. Johnson was here, and not feeling well, so they should continue to watch their movie. Clay and Patrick looked at each other and then at her. She hurried back to the living room. Randall grunted when she sat down beside him. “Did I hurt you?” Kate asked.
“I’m just sore all over.”
“I’m going to clean up your cuts and put some antibiotic ointment on them. It may hurt a little.”
He started to object, then said, “Oh, all right.”
She smiled at his grumpiness. Holding his left hand on her thigh, she gently cleaned away dried blood and spread ointment on the cuts, bandaging the worst ones. She moved to his other side and did the same for the right one. He smelled of smoke, alcohol and sweat.
She folded the washcloth to a clean side and began working on his face. A bruise stretched across one cheekbone and the other bore a deep cut. Thank goodness his nose seemed undamaged. As Kate gently soaked the dried blood from his whiskers, she tried not to remember how his lips had felt on various parts of her body. But her pulse quickened just the same. She finished her ministrations, then hesitated a moment. Deciding that his condition warranted it, she gently smoothed his hair back from his forehead and dropped a feather-light kiss there.
Randall smiled without opening his eyes. “I saw you do that to Clay in the hospital. I must look worse than I thought.”
“I guess you haven't been near a mirror today,” she answered. “Would you like to tell me what happened?”
The smile vanished instantly, and the bleak expression returned. “Not yet. Just sit here with me.” He reached out and found her hand. “How's Clay doing?”
Tears welled up when he wrapped his hand around hers. She very gently laid her free hand on top of his. “Just fine. He really wants to thank you in person for introducing us to Dr. Lane.” She thought it would help if she just kept on talking. “Patrick's planning to pester you for a helicopter ride so he can keep up with Clay.”
“That can be arranged if his mother agrees.”
“I suppose that I can't stand in the way of balancing the scales of sibling rivalry. Even if it means another flight for me.
“You don't have to go.”
“Yes, I do. I couldn't bear to be alive if my children crashed.”
“Tom Rogan always says that mothers are saints, but it sounds more like martyrdom to me.”
Kate was relieved to hear the sardonic edge return to Randall's tone; it temporarily dispelled the bleakness.
“Actually, Janine is such a terrific pilot that I really didn't mind flying too much. The next time, maybe I can even admire the view.”
“I knew from the beginning you had guts.” He shifted and flinched, opening his eyes to stare at the ceiling.
It wrenched at her heart to see his strength flattened like this. He didn't seem to want to talk, so she suggested one of her favorite forms of comfort. “Would you like to soak in a nice hot bath? It might take away some of your aches.”
“Do I stink?”
“You smell like a really cheap bar,” Kate admitted, making an educated guess.
“Bingo.” He grimaced. “If I smell like Dobie's, I definitely stink.” With another brief flash of his usual self, he turned his head toward her and said in a low voice, “Will you scrub my back?”
Kate laughed. “You're in no condition to think about me scrubbing your back.”
Instead of throwing back a joke, his gaze focused intently on her face. “The only good idea I've had in the last twenty-four hours is having you scrub my back.” He turned away and gingerly lifted himself off the couch. “But I guess that would be pushing your hospitality too far. I should go home and bathe myself.”
“No, you shouldn't!” Kate was on her feet instantly blocking his way out. “I'll run the bath. I'll scrub your back or wash your hair or do whatever else you need, but you're not leaving until I say you can.”
Randall looked down at her from his superior height. “How are you going to stop me?”
“By any means necessary. I can call on reinforcements if I need to,” she reminded him, nodding toward the den. She took his hand again, to gently pull him toward the stairs. “Come on. To the bathtub with you.”
He stood like a rock for a moment, then gave in and went with her. “I don't want anyone to get hurt. I won't hold you to your offers, except running the bath.”
“You see, you are a nice man,” Kate said teasingly. She wanted to coax another smile from him.
But her remark had the opposite effect. His face hardened to granite. “So I've got you fooled.”
Kate didn't hear him; she had suddenly realized that to get to the bathtub she would have to take him through her bedroom; the boys' bath had only a shower. She shrugged inwardly; Randall's need for comfort was greater than her need for privacy. She took him to her bedroom, saying, “Let me turn on the water, and I'll get you some towels.”
The bathroom retained its original Victorian tile in a black and white pattern, as well as an enormous claw-footed bathtub. Kate turned on the brass taps and adjusted the water to a just-bearable temperature that generated lots of steam. She piled up two big bath sheets and a washcloth beside the tub. When she returned to the bedroom, Randall was standing at the window with his back to her.
“Your bath is...”
Her voice died as Randall turned around. His shirt was unbuttoned and open over his chest. He was in the process of pulling his belt out through the belt loops.
She wanted to lay her hands on the warm skin his shirt exposed and feel the texture of the dark hair sprinkled over it. She wanted to pull off her own shirt so that she could press her skin against that solid wall of muscle. She wanted those big hands…
Randall's voice was like sandpaper. “If you look at me like that, you'll be joining me in the bathtub.”
She forced her gaze to drop as she smoothed an imaginary wrinkle in the quilt on the bed. Her voice was as rough as his. “I wasn't expecting to see your...to see you undressing.”
Suddenly, his hands were covering hers, and he leaned forward across the bed so that his face was inches away from hers. “Don't apologize. It makes me feel...” He stopped and frowned. “Human.”
She tried to slide her hands out from under his, but his weight held her trapped. She didn't want to tell him what he made her feel. “I think I should turn off the water before it overflows,” she said instead.
He released her by straightening. As she retreated into the bathroom, she ca
lled, “Leave your clothes on the bed, and I'll see if I can clean them up.”
There was a pause, and then Randall said, “Burn them. There's an overnight bag in the trunk of my car that I keep packed for emergencies.”
Kate walked back into the bedroom. “Give me your keys, and I'll bring it up.”
He considered her offer for a moment, and then fished the keys out of his trouser pocket. As she took them, he reached up and brushed the back of his fingers against her cheek. “Thank you, Kate.”
She summoned up a shaky smile. “You're welcome,” she managed before she turned and exited hastily. She stopped at the top of the stairs, hefting the keys in her hand and trying to collect her composure before facing her curious sons.
As she walked through the den, Clay asked quietly, “What's going on with Mr. Johnson? Is he all right?”
“I'm not sure,” she answered honestly. “He has a black eye and looks like he may have been in a fight. He's tired and doesn't want to talk about it.”
“Why'd he come here?” Patrick wanted to know.
“Because we're his friends,” Kate said, although she wondered the same thing. “And right now he needs friends.”
“Wow, Mr. Johnson needs us,” Patrick said. “That's weird.”
Privately, Kate agreed, but aloud she said, “He's a person just like you and me. He has his own problems that we don't know about.” She heard water run briefly. “I have to get something from Mr. Johnson's car. I'll be right back.”
She dashed out to the Jaguar parked by the curb and grabbed the black leather bag from the trunk. Carrying it upstairs, she knocked softly on the bedroom door. Hearing only splashing, she ventured a few steps in. Noting with relief that the bathroom door was closed, she set the suitcase on the bed. She debated whether to unpack it for him, deciding that handling his clothes was more intimacy than she could deal with. She dropped the keys beside it and left.
Remembering that Tom Rogan had asked her to call him, Kate went back to the kitchen and dialed RJ Enterprises.
A Bridge to Love Page 22