by Ginny Aiken
Paul graced her with a head-to-toe-and-back-again scrutiny. “Jase’s going to be busy for awhile yet. Why don’t you come back day after tomorrow—better yet, Saturday afternoon.”
His attempt at a brush-off wasn’t about to dislodge her. “I’m busy from now until Sunday after church. As I said, I’ll follow you.”
Forehead furrowed, Paul signed the paper on Sean’s clipboard and held out his hand. The delivery truck driver glared at the controversial box yet again, then relinquished it. Without another word, he hopped into the truck and sped away, tires spewing gravel. Marissa winced as a couple of pieces dinged her car.
“Shall we?” she said to Paul, marveling at Sean’s intensity. Animal rights’ activists were, if nothing else, committed to their cause. She supported many of their efforts, but extremism didn’t appeal to her. Besides, SilkWood Kennels’ breeding program had produced Soraya. There couldn’t be too much wrong with that.
As Paul led Rissa into the long building of runs, she took the opportunity to check out their condition. She didn’t see food spilled on the cement floors or nastier stuff, either, and the water pails were full. Most of the dogs had come inside to enjoy an air-conditioned reprieve from the fiery Florida sun, and they looked well if excited by the stranger in their home away from home.
Way at the back, however, in a dim run to the right, Rissa finally found what she’d expected. A wadded pile of rags, damp-looking at that, surrounded a man in a ratty T-shirt and jeans that had seen better days. A pair of bowls had rolled into the central aisle and lay overturned, soggy kibble scattered all around.
The silver Affie in the run let out a pain-filled wail. Rissa’s hackles went straight up, and she marched right to the abuser’s side.
“That’s it,” he murmured as she reached him. “Good girl!”
The Affie moaned, relaxed somewhat, and then dropped shoulders and head onto her portion of the rags.
“Just what do you think you’re doing to that poor, suffering animal?” she demanded.
The man turned.
Rissa gasped. “Jason Easton?”
Those clean-cut good looks had stared out from the Miami Herald’s front page too many times for her not to recognize him. What shocked her was the unadulterated emotion on his features … and the tears in his deep blue eyes.
“Helping God with a miracle, ma’am,” he said, his voice rough.
Then she noticed his outstretched hands. A tiny creature snuffled and wriggled in the well of his big palms, seeking its mama where only a scrap of towel could be found. Pale wet fuzz on its body suggested a future coat to match that of its mother.
A lump filled Rissa’s throat. She dropped to her knees at Jason Easton’s side and reached a careful finger to the newborn. It rubbed against her, full of promise.
Her eyes welled. “The miracle of life.”
Their gazes met, and, to Rissa’s astonishment, his reflected the reverence and awe she felt for the Master’s power. This couldn’t be the real Jason Easton. Not the one who’d let crooks get away with ill-gotten gains.
Yet it was. As she cupped her hand over the pup in his, she found herself unable to look away. A shimmer ran through her, the acknowledgment of a precious, shared moment.
She drew in a ragged breath. Somehow her life had just changed.
Irrevocably.
But had it changed for good?
Or had it changed for ill?
Only the Lord knew.
Chapter 2
Rissa shook free of the spell around them. She felt disoriented, as though one of Florida’s hurricanes had tossed and turned and dropped her upside down. Nothing was as it should have been, as she’d imagined.
Well, that wasn’t true either. Since arriving at SilkWood, she’d seen only kids—just what she’d expected. To find Jason Easton wearing ragged clothes, kneeling in a run on a pile of wet, bloody towels, and moved to tears by the miracle of birth … she hadn’t expected that.
Oh, sure, he was a hunk. That build, chiseled features, and blue eyes impressed whether he wore his usual three-piece suit or these garment industry relics. His almost palpable genuine emotion, however, moved her. It didn’t match her expectations. It was too real, too similar to her reaction, too easy to share.
She didn’t know how to handle it. Or her response to it … to him.
That frightened her.
“Sorry you had to see this mess,” he said, breaking into her thoughts.
Rissa blinked, then looked where he indicated. Ah, yes, the rags, the littered kibble, his disheveled appearance. She brought her gaze back to his face and took note of the self-deprecating smile. Before she could say she understood, he spoke again.
“Mahadi and her puppies come first, then the mess.” He ran a gentle finger over the chubby newborn. “Now that this last one is out, Mama and brood can become acquainted while I clean up.”
He rose, wiping his hands on a relatively clean towel, then held a hand to Rissa.
She took it and stood at his side. “I would have done the same.”
His sincere grin made something tickle from her throat to her middle. Whoa! This guy’s smile was potent. As was that down-home honesty he presented. Was any of it real?
It looked real. But he was a killer-shark lawyer, too.
He hung up the towel on a hook in the metal support beam and faced her again. “I’m Jason Easton, the new owner, and you’re …?”
Still off guard, she said, “Oh, yes … ah … Marissa—Rissa Ortíz.”
“I won’t shake your hand again until I’ve washed mine,” he added, smiling yet another time. “What brings you out here?”
Yes, Marissa, why did you come out here? “Well, you see … I …” Get a grip, woman! Firming her posture, she went on. “Mrs. Gooden sold me one of her pups, and I’ve kenneled Soraya here every time I’ve traveled. I’m preparing for another trip, and I wanted to see you—meet the new owner….”
She fought to gather her scattered thoughts. “I wanted to make arrangements for her stay while I’m gone.”
I can always cancel if things go sour out here.
“In that case,” Easton answered, “let’s go to the office and take care of business.”
Rissa nodded and followed him from the kennel to the yellow-stucco offices. Would she come to regret this? She was too shaken to make a sound decision, and she knew she’d second-guess herself until she dropped off Soraya, then every day of the tour and right up to the minute she returned to SilkWood to pick up her pet.
Father, help me do the right thing. I can’t tell what’s up or down anymore, but I know You know what’s best.
Sign for the reservation and get out of Dodge seemed like the best course right then.
As Jase opened the door for the breathtaking woodland nymph who’d floated into his kennel, he shook his head. Lord, couldn’t You have kept her away a few minutes longer? Just until I had time to wash up and put on something besides rags?
Nothing like making a rotten impression on the most beautiful redhead he’d ever seen. Marissa Ortíz looked like something out of an illustrated fairy tale, tall, whisper slender, fair skinned, and blessed with the greenest eyes this side of heaven. She had to be a model or maybe an actress, one of those who’d bought land around Miami since a prominent Cuban band had helped popularize Key Biscayne, SoBe, and the mansions dotting the waterfront.
He’d never seen her at any event, and he’d suffered enough of the artificial parties and benefits to know who was who in Miami. Then he realized she stood expectantly at the counter. He grinned again, amazed by his unusual lapse of attention. “When do you leave?”
Rissa pulled a black-leather planner from her caramel-colored bag and flipped through scribbled-on pages. Slender fingers with short, well-kept nails danced over the writing to stop almost at the bottom edge.
“Our flight leaves at 6:51 p.m. on Tuesday, the seventeenth of June,” she answered, “so I’ll drop off Soraya at … hmm … I’ll have to leave
her at 3:25 p.m. if I’m to have any hope of clearing the security at the airport on time.”
“Okay,” Jase drawled, amused by her extreme precision, “and you’ll be back for her …?”
More page-flipping and finger-dancing. “Our flight gets in at 11:23 a.m. Sunday, July thirteenth. By the time I clear the baggage claim … and you’re seventeen and one-quarter miles west of the airport …”
As Rissa microcalculated times and distances, Jase watched a length of wavy strawberry-blond hair slip from behind her ear and slide across her cheek. Gold strands and red strands blended in the same exotic richness found only in old-fashioned rose-colored gold.
“I’ll factor in three minutes for what little traffic I might find on a Sunday morning…. I should be here between 11:53 and 11:58.”
What a tortured way to say she’d arrive around noon. “Okeydokey,” he said with humor, marveling at her eccentric ultraprecision. “Noon on the thirteenth it is.”
The hint of a frown brought her light auburn brows close, but she didn’t comment on his rounded-up estimate. Thankfully.
“We’re all set then,” he added when she made no move to leave.
She nodded. She zipped her hobo-style handbag open, and the maw swallowed her planner as she ran her free hand through miles of red-gold waves. Still, she stood at the counter.
“Is there something else I can do for you?” he asked, feeling somewhat stupid.
Rissa looked right through him—more accurately, past his left ear to the wall at the back of the office. She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. “Yes,” she then said. “You can tell me who will care for Soraya while she’s here.”
Now that was a new one for him. “Uh … I will, and my kids …” He paused and gestured toward the front window through which he could see Paul, Alida, Jamal, Dale, Matt, and Tiffany. “We’ll do some of everything here.”
Her dainty nose tipped up. “I was afraid of that.”
Great. “Why?”
The green eyes narrowed. “You expect me to trust my baby to an inexperienced kennel owner who’s at home with the crème de la crème of white-collar criminals and a bunch of goofy kids.”
Jase steamed. His instincts told him to kick her snooty attitude, preconceived expectations, and pretty self off his property and back to Miami, but he knew she wasn’t the only one who saw him that way. And he wouldn’t alienate a customer with the kind of behavior expected of a shark.
Help me, Lord. “I don’t intend to defend myself to you. You have two choices. You can leave Soraya here and assess her care after your trip, or you can take your business elsewhere. I’d rather you didn’t, since I know what I’m doing and I love dogs—”
“I’m not questioning your feelings. I saw your response to the pup’s birth and I know how much it moved you. My concern stems from your inexperience running a kennel—not to mention the lack of experience of the juveniles out there.”
He could have told her they were actually repentant juvenile delinquents in the process of rehabilitation, but that wouldn’t help.
“Again,” he said, “it’s your choice. Look, you have time to think about it. I hope you choose to leave Soraya with us, but I won’t beg for your business. As far as my kids go, I’d trust them with my life. I don’t say it as a cliché—I know them and know what they can and will do.”
Rissa turned to leave, then stopped and stared out the window. Jase groaned. Paul and Jamal were on the ground locked in an esoteric wrestling move while the other four cut up the figurative rug in a wild salsa. They sure knew how to choose their moments.
“What do you want from them?” he asked, taking in the tight white edge of her lips. “Everyone needs a break, especially those who work as hard as they do.”
Glancing over her sundress-bared shoulder, Rissa’s eyebrow arched up above her right eye. “Do you know where your specimen is?”
“Huh?”
“Do check with your hard-working Paul. Who knows where the prized sperm you received awhile ago wound up.”
She left in a swirl of green-and-white foliage-print crinkle cotton and the hint of jasmine he’d failed to notice before.
As Rissa opened the car’s door, Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus” tinned out from her handbag. “Hello,” she said into her cell phone.
“Buenas tardes, Marissa,” her mother responded in her most polite and fear-inducing, querulous tone.
Alarm stole her breath. First Jason Easton, now her mother. Oh, Lord Jesus, help me. I’m not prepared to deal with her, not now!
“Buenas, Mamá.”
“How are you?” Then, as usual and without waiting for an answer, Adela Ortíz went on. “I am terrible. I’m sure the end is near. A person cannot bear such pain—if she wants to keep living. If she has something for to live …”
Rissa sat down hard in the driver’s seat. With her free hand, she clutched the steering wheel as she would a lifeline. Please, Lord, please.
“Did you take your medicine?” she asked.
“What you say, niña? That I’m addict? Or that I’m crazy and need drugs?”
Rissa took another deep breath. “No, Mamá. Nothing of the sort. I just know how hard it is to tolerate the pain, and the doctors have urged you to make sure you take the prescriptions round the clock.”
Adela huffed. “Of course, I have take all the pills. Y nada.“
This wasn’t the first time her mother’s painkillers stopped helping. “Have you called the doctor?”
“Hah! ¿Para qué? For what?” Then, again without waiting for Rissa’s answer, she went on. “I’m think all those doctors is the problem. They too happy taking your papá’s money. Maybe they giving me drugs to make me hurt more for to keep the dollars coming.”
“Mamá, that’s outrageous, and you know it. The doctors wouldn’t do such a thing. They’re experts on spinal injuries.” A thought occurred to her. “Have you said that to them?” Dreadful silence confirmed her worst fears. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Adela Ortíz. You owe them an apology.”
“I do not! They owe me a new body for all we pay these years.”
They’d reached today’s impasse. “Look,” Rissa said, “I’m on the way to my condo. What if I call Dr. Kaszekian from there? I’m sure he can find something to help you.”
A high-pitched wail came from the other end of the call. “You just want be rid of me. See? I have nothing for to live. I cannot play my beloved harp, your father … bah! He’s always play with numbers, and you? My flesh and blood? You don’t take time for to talk to me. I have nothing for to live….”
A knot twisted Rissa’s innards and searing tears welled up in her eyes. “I love you, Mother, but I’m ninety minutes away from you and can only do so much. I’ll call Dr. Kaszekian when I get home, then I’ll check on you after he’s had time to prescribe something new. I do need to go now.”
She cut off yet another stream of misery. She wondered where Mrs. Janssen was. Her mother’s nurse-companion rarely left her unattended. Then again, the poor woman did occasionally need to use the bathroom or prepare Adela’s meals.
Rissa turned the key in the ignition, then left SilkWood.
“Why, Lord? Why is she like that?” she asked in the silence of the car. “And why me? I don’t know what to do with her … for her.” She swallowed hard and blinked even harder, to no avail. The lump in her throat didn’t budge, and the tears spilled down her cheeks, followed by many, many others.
Doubting she’d sleep that night, she slipped in a CD and forced herself to focus on the lyrics. Rissa knew that if she took her mind off God’s glory and power and might, even for a scant moment, she’d never make it home in one piece. The tears would return, and who knew what she’d fail to see in the road ahead. Joining her voice to the singer’s, she sang the Lord’s praises, wondering how the day could have gone so wrong.
In His Word, God promised to be with her during the bad as well as the good days. Today was one of the bad. Yet He remain
ed the best of the best. King of all kings. Jehovah, Messiah, Almighty God. In Him she would place her trust … relinquish her fears … confide her heartache. In Him she would find peace. Only in Him.
The Altamonte wedding went off without a hitch. The quartet’s music, even if Rissa did say so herself, was the perfect accompaniment to the exchange of vows at the altar. The bride, with her olive skin, exotic brown eyes, and masses of black hair piled under coronet and veil, looked lovely, excited but solemn. Her voice trembled when she pledged herself to her groom before God and man.
Even though Rissa was in no hurry to marry, she hoped she would someday reflect the same emotions and commitment she’d witnessed.
Now, at the reception, the quartet would play until the multicourse dinner. At that time, a pianist and harpist would take over, and the foursome would eat with the other guests.
As Ty huffed and griped about Bertha’s imaginary, ever-increasing weight problem, Rissa scanned the vast ballroom in one of Miami’s most venerable hotels. She recognized many of the guests from their appearances in the Herald’s society pages. A smattering of politicians, local and state level, was also in attendance.
Then she spotted a familiar snow-white mane. Dread filled her. It couldn’t be.
The crowd shifted, and Rissa caught a glimpse of what she’d feared she’d see. Papá, elegant in his dinner jacket, wore the vague expression that indicated the presence of convoluted computations. At his side, Adela’s wheelchair reflected the sparkle of the crystal chandeliers overhead. Not a single hair strayed from Mother’s dyed-to-perfection auburn French twist.
Rissa wished she’d realized ahead of time that her parents knew the Altamontes, even though she shouldn’t be surprised they did. Her father had been prominent in certain pre-Castro Havana circles, and now, as a result of his Nobel Prize nomination, he was highly sought after as a guest at numerous society gatherings.
Praying for strength, she tuned her bass as the others joined in. Then she saw Ty glance up.
He turned to her, frowning. “Isn’t that …?”