Kiss Me Hello (Sweetest Kisses)

by Grace Burrowes

  “I’m sorry you had to go through all that not feeling appreciated, Hannah. Not feeling wanted.”

  Hannah hardly knew what to say as Mac’s arms came around her. She’d danced with him at the Christmas party, and she knew he was as graceful in his long bones as Trent and James were, and she’d hugged Mac in passing, but she and Mac had never…embraced.

  “You’re ours now, you know.” Mac’s lips grazed her forehead, gentle as a breeze. “We look after what’s ours, no matter what.”

  His arms slipped away, and he stepped back, waiting for Hannah to climb in. She was still smiling foolishly when he started up the engine and turned the truck for the office. James flirted, Trent had exchanged vows with her, but Mac…

  Mac said the words, the simple, sweet words that took heart and courage and meant so much. And she hadn’t even known she’d needed to hear them.

  * * *

  “But, Mr. Mac, they wasn’t my pants.” The client looked hopeful, painfully so, expecting his lawyer to buy that ration of horseshit.

  “Whose were they?” Mac asked, stifling the urge to glance at the desk clock sitting beside school pictures of Grace and Merle.

  “There was this guy, name was Leroy. Ain’t never seen him before, but he was over at Doobie’s hanging, ya know?”

  Another hopeful glance, while the client furrowed his brow as if trying to recall details. “I think he was a friend of Shay’s. You know Shay?”

  “Street” names being what they were, Mac had to guess. “Charlemagne Harold?”

  “Yeah, that Shay. You got him off that time on the B&E. Anyhow, there was this Leroy dude, and we were grillin’ some steaks, and Shay and Little Alvie got to horsing around in the backyard—we was drinkin’ beer, you know. It was Doobie’s backyard, and it’s a free country—and they got a little enthusiastic.”

  Mac did look at the clock. Wrigley Hanford St. Cloud—a.k.a. Wiggles, The Hand, and Cloudy—was a handsome, skinny, dark-haired bad liar who might have twenty years to his name. To blow a .24, he’d been soaking in his beer for days. And this little yard party had included OxyContin and a significant quantity of high quality weed.

  “They got enthusiastic,” Mac said, “about breaking the law.”

  “Nah, Mr. Mac. I’m telling you. They were just joking around, but they grabbed the ketchup and the mustard and shit and started squirting each other. Leroy got me with the mustard right on the…” Wiggles gestured toward his crotch. “So the dude says to me, ‘Trade you pants.’ We traded, and they were Leroy’s pants I had on when I got arrested. Honest.”

  Such creativity would be wasted down at Roxbury. “Why is there no mention of Leroy in any of the co-defendants’ statements?” Mac asked.

  “I think he’s from New York.” A hint of honest—well, genuine—anxiety flitted across Wiggles’s face.

  “If Leroy is Doobie’s out-of-town connection, Wiggles, then why did Leroy have a script pad from the local free clinic in his pants pockets?”

  “I dunno, Mr. Mac. Maybe he picked it up for Alvie’s sister. Tina’s real good at…” Now the client was looking anywhere but at Mac. “Maybe he got it for someone else.”

  Mac stood, feeling a need to put distance between himself and the mess that was Wrigley’s life. Leroy’s magic traveling pants had been a treasure trove of evidence: a pipe with THC residue in the bowl, a bottle of pills with no prescription label, a bag of excellent weed, rolling papers…

  “You want to do some work for the narcotics task force, Wrigley?”

  “No, sir.” With an emphatic shake of the head.

  “Could you piss clean now?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m out on bail. I know better than to party when I got a court date.”

  “I need to talk to Alvie’s sister,” Mac said. “Why wasn’t Leroy on the scene when the cops showed up?”

  “Went right over the back fence as soon as Tina began screaming. Never saw a man move like that, but Alvie said Leroy’s into martial arts or some shit.”

  This had an incongruous ring of truth. Mac had been to the scene, and there was, indeed, a back fence.

  “Do you know where Leroy bought the pants?”

  A long shot. Mac let the question hang in the air as hope dawned in Wrigley’s eyes.

  “Now that you mention it, Mr. Mac, fucker bought his pants in New York. Some little boutique in the Village, I think he said.”

  “Let’s hope he didn’t rip out the label. You were in possession of the pants, though, so you were in possession of everything in them. That doesn’t give me much to work with, Wrigley, but your record isn’t that bad, and you don’t have any violent offenses. You going to meetings?”

  “Ninety in ninety. I know the drill, Mr. Mac.”

  Not that the twelve-step waltz had done a thing for the vast majority of Mac’s clients. “You’re in treatment?”

  “I went to that place you sent me, and they’re real nice. Alvie’s been there too.”

  Rehab was often old home week by another name. Somebody needed to figure out why that was.

  “You stay away from Alvie.” Mac glared down at his client for emphasis. “You stay away from him, Tina, Shay, the whole crowd. They aren’t your friends until I get you an acquittal or you do your time. We clear on that?”

  “But Tina’s…” Another sidling glance from the client and Mac wanted to howl.

  “I do not care if she’s doing you five times a day. I don’t care if she’s carrying your firstborn and only son. For the next six weeks, you don’t know her, you don’t see her, you don’t, for God’s sake, send her incriminating texts, and you don’t dial her number on a cell phone the cops are panting to confiscate.”

  “Yes, Mr. Mac. Never saw the bitch before in my life.”

  Wiggles referred to the current love of his life as “the bitch.” Delightful.

  “Where are you staying?”

  The client’s gaze dropped to the floor.

  “You can’t stay with Tina either, Wrig. The task force is watching her place, and you tell anybody I said that, my ass is dead meat with the few cops who’ll still talk to me. Got it?”

  “Didn’t hear nothing from nobody, Mr. Mac.”

  “High volume, short-stay foot traffic getting out of pimpmobiles with New York tags is not the kind of image you want your lady to have.”

  Another nod, but the guy’s foot started going, a rapid jiggle that shook the change in his pocket. “We done here, Mr. Mac?”

  “You filled out all the forms Sarah gave you?”

  “She’s the chick out front?”

  “The very one.” Not a bitch, but a chick.

  “Yeah, we’re good. She’s nice.” Nice in Wrigley’s parlance probably referred to people to whom he would not sell drugs during daylight hours.

  “Then we’re done, but, Wrigley?”

  The man was already on his feet, a hand on the doorknob.

  “Court isn’t for six weeks. They will be the longest, hardest six weeks of your life. Do not tell yourself you’re going to the Division of Corrections, so why not enjoy yourself now. Do not tell yourself they won’t be watching you, because you’ve already got a trial date. Do not tell yourself it’s your last chance to give Tina the baby she says she wants. In short, don’t bullshit yourself. If you honest-to-God behave for the next few weeks, use your head, and have a little luck, there’s a chance I can keep you out of jail.”

  “I can do that, Mr. Mac. I can stay with my sister, and she don’t fuck around.”

  “Stay with your sister, and if the deal stinks at the District Court level, then we’ll pray a jury, and it will be more weeks of toeing the line. When’s the last time you worked for a wage?”

  “I always work. My brother-in-law lets me help out in his garage. I’m good with that shit.”

  Another ray of sunshine. “Then w
ork your little backside off. A job will keep you out of trouble and look better when you have to pay court costs and fines and supervision fees. I can’t work miracles, Wrigley, but I can hold the state to the letter of the law.”

  “I’ll be good, Mr. Mac, or my sister will be telling that judge to lock me up for a long time.” He slipped through the door, a skinny, good-looking young man who wouldn’t fare well at DOC. Not well at all.

  Mac sat at his desk, denying the urge to knock off early for once, and go the hell home at a decent hour. He punched a number on speed dial, skipped through the voice menu at the State’s Attorney’s office, and waited until Julie Leonard picked up.

  “Knightley here. How are you, Julie?”

  “Mac. It’s never a good thing when you call.” A sincere compliment from a prosecutor. “Unless you want to do dinner?”

  “I’ve heard Mr. Leonard is the jealous type, though the thought flatters.” Julie was a good-looking redhead who took her job seriously. Mac liked her, and he respected her.

  But on her end of the discussion, an interesting pause was in progress.

  “Julie?”

  “Mr. Leonard has run off with his dad’s secretary. The gossip was all over the defense bar luncheon, Mac. I’m surprised you haven’t heard.”

  Merle and Grace beamed at Mac from their matching frames on his desk. At least Julie wouldn’t drag any children through this divorce, though she might not see it that way.

  “I don’t go to the defense bar luncheon regularly. I’m sorry. You doing OK?”

  Stupid question. He could hear that she was pissed as hell.

  “Yes, I’m doing OK, because what else is there to do? You go to court, prosecute your cases, and hope it blows over. This isn’t why you called, though.”

  Legal gossip never “blew over.” One of the joys of small town practice.

  “I can keep my mouth shut, Julie. If you ever need to vent, I will respect your confidences, and for what it’s worth, Harmon Anderson’s secretary has an irritating laugh and doesn’t know how to behave. You want me to say something to Trent?”

  “How am I supposed to throw your guys in jail when you turn up sweet, MacKenzie? And why would I want your brother—? Oh.”

  Mac gave her a beat of silence for the gears to mesh in her nimble brain.

  “We can work out something in the way of professional courtesy for the fee,” Mac said. “I’m the managing partner. I can see to that much. Trent’s good, Julie, and he’s been through a fairly public divorce himself. Call him. If you don’t want to work with Trent because you oppose me, I’ll ask the assignment clerk to keep my clients off your dockets for the duration. In the alternative, Trent will steer you to the right member of the family law bar. Mr. Leonard won’t know what hit him.”

  “Thanks.” Her voice held a trace of incredulity, as if bad things had to keep happening to an otherwise nice lady.

  “Now that we’ve solved your domestic troubles,” Mac said, “I want to know if you’ve seen the evidence reports on the St. Cloud case.”

  “Hang on.” Mac heard her shuffling files. “The trial’s weeks away, but yes. Paraphernalia, prescription drugs, blew a .24. You want a suppression hearing?”

  “He’s of age, and they were on private property, so the blood alcohol is irrelevant,” Mac said. “The paraphernalia bears none of his prints, and neither does the script bottle the script was found in. He has no violent offenses, and, Julie, I am going to tear your chain of custody apart.”

  “I liked you better when you turned up sweet.”

  “I like you fine,” Mac said, sensing a weakening in the state’s posture, “but you have better things to do than burden the taxpayers with St. Cloud’s upkeep for the next six years.”

  Like getting on with a life outside the office.

  What a notion.

  * * *

  Mac felt eyes on his back before he heard Sid’s voice.

  “Do you come here every Saturday?” she asked.

  He carefully put down the hoof he’d been rasping and straightened. He didn’t want to aggravate his back, and he didn’t want to spook the horse—though Thomas was as close to bombproof as an equine could be.

  “I work here at least every other Saturday, and sometimes more, depending on the needs of the clients. You never did call me.”

  She looked away, which gave Mac a chance to study her. Jeans, a man’s V-neck T-shirt under a jacket that looked to be genuine leather, and where he expected to find her silly little fringed half boots, she sported a broken-in pair of running shoes.

  Sidonie was tired. The lines around her eyes and a slight pallor suggested it; the grooves bracketing her mouth confirmed it. Another time, Mac would tell her not to wear sneakers in a horse barn.

  “I’m about done with Thomas,” Mac said. “Is Luis here for a lesson?”

  “Adelia had a cancellation, so she asked him if he wanted to fill in, and that was that. Luis enjoys his lessons.”

  “Adelia and Neils have a good operation here. I’ll put this guy up, and you can explain why you never let me know what you decided about the mares.”

  Sid let him get away with that taunt, which provoked an unwelcome spike of concern. Mac had not called her, had not called Luis, had not driven by the place on reconnaissance. Where women and self-discipline were concerned, he did not permit himself any slack.

  In his actions. His imagination was another very lively thing entirely.

  He put the gelding into a stall, pausing a moment to scratch the beast under the chin—Thomas did not stand on ceremony where his pleasures were concerned—then closed the stall door to find Sid eyeing the little horse from the aisle.

  “He seems sweet.”

  “Therapy pony of the year. There are stories about him you would not believe.”

  “Try me.”

  “Hi, Mr. Mac!” Lindy rolled by slowly, the uneven barn floor making for difficult going.

  “Hello, Lindy. You come to spoil your horse?”

  “He’s not legally mine,” she said. “Except he’s mine to love. Hello.” The child directed the last greeting to Sid.

  “Hello.” Sid extended a hand. “My name’s Sid.”

  “Lindy, and this is Thomas, and pretty soon, he’s going to teach me to canter all over the ring.”

  “You tell Adelia to let me know when,” Mac said, “I’ll bring my video camera.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Mac!”

  She turned her wheelchair to face the stall, and Mac took his box of sugar from his pocket. “Give him a couple for me.”

  She grinned up at him, took the sugar cubes, and began to talk to the horse in low, earnest tones.

  “Come along.” Mac took Sid by the elbow. “Thomas is having office hours.”

  “To have the kind of mobility the horse can give her must mean a lot to her.”

  “Means the world,” Mac said. “Her grades are up, she’s on less medication, and only seeing the therapist half as often—the typical response for kids in a good program. Shall we sit, or maybe you’d like to walk a fence with me?”

  “Walk a fence?”

  Sidonie excelled at patrolling borders. Walking the fence should appeal to her.

  “It’s spring, the freezing and thawing all winter can work on the posts. The animals reaching for spring grass can wiggle them some more. Boards get loose, nails pop. Next thing you know, horses are out. Adelia and Neils have a lot to do. If you and I are going to talk, we can also be useful.”

  And have some privacy and fresh air.

  “Lead on.”

  They walked in silence, with Mac purposely slowing his steps, not to accommodate Sid—she was churning along at a smart pace beside him—but because spring seemed a benign reality just around the corner. Out of the breeze, the sun brought a gentle warmth, the new grass made for soft
earth beneath the feet, and the light had lost the thin, sharp quality of the winter months.

  “You don’t watch Luis’s lessons?” Mac asked.

  “I don’t think he wants me to. He has every bit as much pride as the next guy.”

  “He’s a natural athlete. My brother James has the same quality, Trent to a lesser extent.”

  She gave him a look he couldn’t fathom. An up-and-down, female perusal suggesting skepticism.

  “You didn’t call me, Sid. Was I supposed to call you? I never did quite get the hang of reading the female mind.”

  “I’m sorry, and no, I don’t expect—I don’t want—anybody to read my mind. I was busy getting the house together because the social worker was supposed to come out. They always tell you not to worry about the housekeeping, but then they get out their little SmartPads and start noting every wet dish towel and half-full trash can.”

  As if wet dish towels and half-full trash cans mattered to a kid’s well-being? “You’re getting settled in?” Mac stopped and leaned on the fence.

  “I suppose. Yes. Well, not really. Luis is getting settled in, and that’s good. I’ve started looking for work.”

  Mac faced the pasture, where several of the therapy ponies were nose down in the new grass. No flies yet, a horse’s version of heaven on earth.

  “You started looking for work because you don’t want to board my horses,” he guessed. “You’d rather bag groceries than accept money from me.”

  “It isn’t you.” She crossed her arms over the top board and propped a foot on the bottom one. “I need income, Mac, and, yes, I would rather not take your money. I’d rather have the option of not taking your money, to be more precise, but it seems at this point I don’t have a choice.”

  He said nothing, being no stranger to the demands of pride.

  “Luis wants us to keep them,” she said. “But what if I can’t keep Luis?”

  “You haunt yourself with this?”

  “Of course.”

  He hadn’t expected her to make that admission. “You lost your brother, Sidonie. That doesn’t mean you don’t get to keep anybody else.”

  “What would you know about it?”