Memories of Us

by Linda Winfree

  Baker splashed liquid in a tumbler and came around the bar to settle back in his leather armchair. He waved a hand at a luxurious couch. “Please, sit.”

  Celia’s chin tilted higher. “We’ll stand, thank you.”

  “Suit yourself.” Baker sipped at his drink and fixed them with an inquiring look. “Now, what can I help you with?”

  “You finalized several private adoptions for Jessica Grady over the last year or so.”

  Nodding, Baker set his drink aside. The glass clicked against the polished rosewood table. He steepled his fingers together. “Yes, I did. Why?”

  Tom narrowed his eyes, the uneasiness bouncing along his nerves again. “We have reason to believe some of those adoptions may have been fraudulent.”

  Baker didn’t appear worried. “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  Tom folded his arms over his chest. “What exactly was your relationship with Ms. Grady?”

  Baker laughed. “Not quite what yours with her was, I assure you, Mr. District Attorney. I’ve known Jessica for years, God rest her soul. She clerked for me her first year out of law school. If she asked me for a few favors in expediting mutually agreed-upon private adoptions, I don’t see the harm. Everyone was happy.”

  “Except many of the adoptions had the same birth mothers’ names on them.” Celia’s tone was cold, firm. “Names belonging to girls who died years ago. And now not only is Jessica Grady dead, but her own baby is missing. And you don’t see the harm?”

  The judge’s face hardened, but he waved away the question with another laugh. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. Yes, I signed off on the adoptions, but that’s all. Jessica arranged them alone.”

  “I’m sure the state judicial council will be interested in hearing about how you ‘helped’ her.”

  “Is that a threat, Mr. McMillian?”

  “No.” Tom smiled. Everyone who knew him knew he didn’t make idle threats. He made set-in-stone promises.

  Baker’s gaze narrowed to burning slits and he pushed up from the chair. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a dinner engagement. I trust you can show yourselves out.”

  Tom gave him one last hard look before ushering Celia outside. Humid air washed over them, doing little to alleviate the heat of anger buzzing under Tom’s skin.

  “You know he’s lying.” Squinting against the setting sun, Celia looked at Tom across the roof of the Mercedes.

  He jerked the door open. “Of course he’s lying.”

  Celia slid into the passenger seat. “Did she ever mention clerking for him?”

  “No.” He fired the engine. Discussing Jessica with Celia made him edgy. He didn’t want Celia thinking what they were doing meant as little as his involvement with Jessica. Even if he couldn’t find a way to articulate, even to himself, how deeply Celia had worked her way into his life in a few short days.

  Wait. Who was he kidding? She’d been working her way into his life since the day he’d interviewed her, since she’d started working in his office.

  “How long ago did she graduate law school?”

  “Ten, eleven years, I guess.” He shrugged. “Why?”

  Celia rested her head on her hand, her gaze trained on the large house as Tom wheeled around the circular drive. “He’s smooth. Charming. Just wondered what the extent of their relationship was.”

  “I’m not sure charming is the word I’d choose to describe him, Celia.” His humorless laugh hovered between them. “Jessica was a very sexual woman. Does that answer your question?”

  “It helps explain why y’all never got around to talking about your past legal experience.”

  Tom slanted a quelling look in her direction. “Not funny, Cee.”

  “All right, I’m sorry, I’ll stop.” She sighed. “I keep thinking about that previous pregnancy of hers. Did she put that child up for adoption? And this baby. Why is this baby so important?”

  “I don’t know.” He swung out of the driveway onto the quiet country highway. His own frustration matched what he heard in Celia’s voice. He didn’t like unanswered questions.

  “We need to find out about that first baby, McMillian. I’m telling you, it’s important.”

  —

  As arranged, they met Cook and Tick back at the sheriff’s department. In the conference room, with their notes and questions still on the whiteboard and files on the table, tension seemed tangible in the air as she and McMillian entered.

  His face tight with irritation, Cook tapped his pen atop his notebook. Celia caught his gaze. “What’s going on?”

  “None of these people want to talk to us.” He tossed the pen down with a sharp, frustrated movement. “Not that I’m surprised. If I bought a kid, I probably wouldn’t want to admit that either.”

  McMillian tugged out a chair, offered it to Celia, then pulled another for himself. “You got nothing?”

  “Nada.” Chair tilted back to a dangerous angle, Tick shook his head. He didn’t open his eyes. “All right, we know Blanton was Grady’s courier for the Campbell baby. We know he has links to the Dixie Mafia, such as it is. We suspect Grady was laundering money for someone. She told Cait and me she had access to birth mothers.”

  Cook huffed. “Are you going somewhere with this?”

  Tick opened his eyes and the chair’s front legs hit the floor with a soft bang. “What else is the Dixie Mafia known for?”

  “Hmm, let’s see.” Celia tilted her head to one side, mentally running through the list Tick had given them earlier. “Gambling. Bootlegging. Prostitution—”

  “Exactly.” Tick nodded. “Can you think of a better source for their baby ring?”

  The cold-blooded reality slithered through Celia’s mind. She shuddered. “Oh my God.”

  “The problem,” Cook said, “is making the link between Grady or Blanton and whoever’s really heading this up.”

  McMillian rested his chin on his hand, rubbing a finger against his lips. “And none of the adoptive couples were willing to talk?”

  “Not a single one.”

  “Maybe a subpoena to appear before the grand jury will change that.” He slanted a look at Celia. “We’ll make sure Judge Baker receives one as well.”

  —

  Tom slumped on his couch, a tumbler holding two fingers of Scotch balanced on his leg. The house was quiet, save for the quiet rustling of Celia going through more files from Jessica’s office. Something about having her close did more to settle his jangling nerves than anything else. A weary smile tugged at his mouth. He could get addicted to her calm presence.

  Papers crackled. Gentle fingers removed the tumbler from his hand and glass clinked on wood. Celia straddled his lap, her massaging touch soft at his temples.

  “What are you over here smiling about?” she whispered. Her clean scent surrounded him.

  “You,” he murmured, giving in to the temptation to allow her to take care of him. He relaxed deeper into the sofa. She was definitely becoming his favorite addiction.

  Her fingers eased down his neck and over his shoulders in firm strokes, pushing away all of the tension. He swallowed a groan and let his hands settle at her hips, the faded denim of her jeans supple under his palms. There was nothing sexual in her touch, no desire rising in him, except the need to keep her here with him, close like this, touching him, for as long as she liked.

  “You’re relieved, aren’t you?” She rubbed down his arms to his hands, working the strain away. “That the baby isn’t yours.”

  He lifted heavy lids, not even the powder keg of the topic disturbing the magic she was working on him. She watched him, her face open, caring, concerned.

  Nonjudgmental.

  “Yes, I’m relieved.” He stroked down her hip. “I can’t face that again.”

  Some of the tightness invaded him once more. He waited for her to withdraw, to pull away. This was why he’d chosen to hide behind his feelings for Kathleen all those years, why he’d gone for brief affairs with women so far removed from matern
al instincts they might as well be in another universe. For those women, he’d been what they wanted. He’d been enough.

  But Celia was different—caring, tender, giving.

  The kind of woman who’d make some child a fantastic mother.

  A subdued shudder moved over him.

  “I can understand that.” With her thumb and index finger, she exerted gentle pressure at the base of his thumb. He did groan then, relaxed pleasure radiating through his entire body. She laughed, a low, husky sound that sent shivers up his spine. Sliding off his lap, she tugged at him. “Come on. Bring your drink upstairs and I’ll give you the full-body version.”

  “God, where did you learn to do that?” He retrieved his glass and let her pull him toward the stairs.

  She laughed again. “Cis. She’s a certified masseuse too. It’s her sideline from the store. She does the whole package thing, with private yoga classes and massages.”

  He wrapped an arm around her waist, nuzzled her shoulder, contentment curling through him.

  At the foot of the stairs, she shot him a glance beneath her lashes. “You know it doesn’t matter, don’t you, McMillian?”

  He didn’t have to ask what it was.

  She curved a hand along his jaw and his heart jerked at the soft emotion glowing in her blue eyes. “In case you haven’t noticed, with me, it’s all about you.”

  Before his stunned mind could formulate an answer, her cell phone pinged from the living area. Her head fell back. “I have to get that.”

  He let her go, still trying to take in the reality of her words. She leaned down to retrieve her phone from her bag, the silvery strands of her hair shielding her face. “St. John. Oh, hey, I was just talking about you.”

  She straightened and looked at Tom, mouthing “my sister”. He smiled, watching the way her face lit up as they chatted. Damn, she was even more gorgeous when she let down the walls, when the real Celia shone through.

  He wanted her around more and more. She made his life seem less empty, less cold.

  Upstairs, the phone rang in his office. He sighed, images of his full-body massage scattering away. Catching Celia’s eye, he pointed upstairs and she nodded, waving him on.

  “Um, I don’t think so. Not tonight.” Her voice followed him. “How much to fix your transmission? Of course I don’t mind if you use it. You know where the keys are…”

  He jogged up the stairs and grabbed the phone from its charging cradle. “Hello.”

  “Tom, it’s Rhett.” The cellular connection rattled and hissed. “I wanted to check in, let you know we made it up here okay.”

  “Good to hear from you.” Tom dropped into his desk chair. “How’s it going?”

  “Okay so far.” Weariness slid into Rhett’s deep voice. “The initial blood tests look good, according to the doctors. The donor seems to be a match, so Amarie starts the chemo tomorrow.”

  “That’s great. I’m glad, Rhett. How’s Amarie? And Mariah?”

  “They’re both pretty tired. Excited. A little anxious, I think.” Rhett’s voice faded, came back stronger. “So what’s going on down there? Turn up anything today on Jessica’s case?”

  Tom filled him in quickly on the day’s events. The line continued to hiss between them, so he wasn’t sure how much the other man caught. Finally, Tom gave up. “I’ll call you tomorrow, Rhett. Focus on your family. Don’t worry about what’s happening here.”

  “I’m focused, but I want to be in the loop.” Another crackling took the line, Rhett’s voice rising and falling again. “If you get a lead, call me. Doesn’t matter what time. I’ve got my cell with me constantly.”

  “Will do. Give Mariah and Amarie my best.” He replaced the phone in the cradle. Traces of his former tension seized his shoulders. He could empathize with Rhett’s situation. He lifted his glass and tossed off the Scotch.

  Celia’s soft footsteps sounded on the stairs and she appeared in the doorway. “Hey.”

  He smiled. “Hey.”

  “That was Cis, wanting to take my Xterra tonight. Her car is still in the shop at Lawson’s.” She tilted her head toward his bedroom. “Still want that massage?”

  “Are you kidding?” He levered out of the chair. A stack of the slick plastic sheets holding his baseball-card collection slid to the floor.

  She laughed and moved forward to help him gather them. They rose together and he took them from her, replacing them on the stack of notebooks. Celia stilled and he followed her gaze, knowing what he’d see.

  A framed photo of Everett.

  He leaned forward and picked it up, holding it where they could both see it. In the photograph taken when he was three months old, a big toothless grin graced Everett’s mouth, his brown eyes wide. Thin swirls of russet hair covered his head. He wore a miniature baseball uniform bearing the Yankees logo.

  “What a beautiful boy.” Celia traced a finger along the edge of the frame. She smiled up at him. “He has Kathleen’s coloring but he looks like you, his chin, around the eyes.”

  “I wonder all the time, you know.” He rubbed a thumb over the glass, the old grief as new and raw as that day at Mercer, when the law-school dean had pulled him from class to tell him he was needed elsewhere, that his beloved son was dead. “What he’d be like now, what he’d grow up to be. God, I loved him. I looked forward to all the things we’d do together.”

  His eyes burned and he blinked and cleared his throat roughly. She wouldn’t want to hear this. Hell, Kathleen hadn’t wanted to, hadn’t allowed him to talk about the baby in her presence, and she’d been Everett’s mother. Tom set the frame back in its space.

  “McMillian.” Celia took his hand, pulled him into her loose embrace, her arms about his waist as she looked up at him. “You don’t have to put him away. He was your son. Of course you wonder. If you want to talk about him, I want to listen.”

  He frowned, sifting his fingers through her hair. She couldn’t be real. She couldn’t be.

  “Stop looking at me like that, McMillian,” she said, a hint of testiness entering her voice. “And stop using her to measure all women. It’s not fair.”

  “I’m not—” He swallowed the words. Of course he was. He’d let his marriage, everything it had been, everything it hadn’t been, color his life. If Celia could look beyond the ghost of Bryan Turello to see the man he really was, he had to do the same for her. He rubbed her hair between his fingers, wrapped the shining strands around his hand. “You’re right.”

  An impish smile lit her face. “Oh, McMillian, somehow I like the sound of those words on your lips.”

  He laughed and hugged her close. She pulled away and took his hand. “Come on. I owe you a massage.”

  —

  No air.

  Darkness pulsed.

  Pain, searing, biting, burning.

  Blood, staining soft floral sheets.

  Tangled hair, silvery blonde, spilling over the side of the bed.

  He was awake, heart pounding, chest heaving, a muffled groan ripped from his throat.

  “McMillian?” Celia’s hands curved into his biceps and he knew she’d called him more than once, shaken him awake, shaken him free from the clutches of the nightmare.

  He shuddered, the images heavy and real in his head. Dragging in a deep breath, he pulled up his knees and rested his elbows on them, letting his head fall forward and down. “God.”

  “McMillian, are you all right?” Her voice shook.

  He lifted his head and tried to focus on her. The lights blazed around them and dimly he remembered falling asleep with her sprawled over his chest after her massage had led to much, much more. Celia frowned at him, eyes dark with concern. Wearing his discarded shirt, she knelt by him on the bed.

  He moistened dry lips. “I—”

  The impressions seared through him once more, burning flashes of sensation and vision, sending pain crashing through the back of his skull. He leaned forward, yet another groan pulled from him.

  “Jesus above, McMilli
an, you’re scaring me.” The bed shifted as she wrapped her arms around him. Some of the cold fear dissipated under her touch. She brushed her lips across his temple. “What’s wrong?”

  He opened his eyes, the edges of her hair swinging at his peripheral vision.

  Tangled hair, silvery blonde, spilling over the side of the bed.

  Fighting the sensory overload, he shook his head and looked at her. “It’s you.”

  Hurt flashed in her eyes and she recoiled. “What?”

  “No, don’t.” He reached for her, trying to make sense of it all. He wouldn’t fail this time. Memories rolled through him—not turning back to wake Everett, the unease when Jessica had died, the phone call unanswered.

  Nate Holton’s truck barreling through an intersection, moments before them, because he’d insisted on driving. A flash of Celia with blood on her face.

  Breathing hard in uneven gasps, he rubbed a thumb over the tiny cut, still apparent on her chin. “My God, it’s you.”

  He wouldn’t let it happen.

  “What are you talking about?” She stared at him, eyes wide. “What did you see, McMillian?”

  He could stop it this time…he wouldn’t let it happen to her…

  “McMillian!” She gripped his chin and forced him to look at her. “What did you see?”

  “I saw you.” He swallowed, his throat raw. “Your bedroom. You…there was blood, your hair falling over the side of the bed.” He closed his eyes. “You were dead.”

  “You saw me dead?” Her voice trembled.

  He opened his eyes, holding her gaze. “I won’t let it happen, Cee. I swear to God, not this time—”

  “This time? What do you mean?” She stroked the side of his face, ran her fingers over his temple, gentling, soothing.

  Listening. Looking at him with a soothing blend of concern and openness. She’d already given him the gift of talking about his son. Maybe with her he could release the door he kept slammed on the images and dreams, the flashes that had haunted and tormented him longer than he cared to remember.

  “I didn’t go back for Everett. I turned back at the door, but I talked myself out of it.” The words tumbled over themselves in his desperation to explain. “I didn’t go back and he died. And Jessica…I didn’t answer the phone, but I felt it. I had a dream that night, the night she was killed. The only thing, the only thing, I’ve done right is keep us out of Nate Holton’s way. And I am not letting this, whatever it is I saw, happen to you.”