Forever Beach

by Shelley Noble

  Reesa cracked a laugh. “Several times. I researched headhunters, cut out ads in the paper. Suggested he take the civil servants’ test. He won’t budge. I mentioned therapy—you know, the psychological kind. He nearly snapped my head off. So then I suggested family counseling. His reaction was to pick up the remote and increase the volume on the baseball game. He hardly acknowledges my presence.”

  “That sucks. Maybe I can get Stu to talk to him.”

  “No! No. I’m just a little down this week. Forget I said anything. And don’t say anything to Stu. If it gets back to Michael, he’ll just get mad at me for bad-mouthing him to his friends.”

  “He is a case. Why don’t you come stay with us for a few days? Maybe he’ll see what he’s missing and change his tune.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll be fine. Though I’m beginning to think either the job or Michael has to go; I can’t seem to handle them both anymore.”

  “You’re not thinking of leaving until Leila’s adoption is complete, are you?”

  “It could take years at this rate, but no. I’ll try to hang in there. I’m not their caseworker any longer, but at least if I stay, I’ll have access to files and info. I’m taking her to see a lawyer I know on Monday. A real barracuda. Excellent track record. Takes no prisoners.”

  Karen cut her a sharp look. “She doesn’t sound very nice.”

  “She isn’t. But she cares more about the children than the wishes of the bio or the adoptive parents. As it should be. If she takes Sarah’s case, we’ll have a good chance of winning.”

  “Do you think she’ll take the case?”

  “If she has space on her docket, yes. Carmen has relapsed more times than I care to count, every time a new man or even an old one enters her sphere. She just can’t say no to any of it. I don’t see much hope, but we have to get her to try. If Ilona Cartwright has any inkling that Carmen will slide, she’ll have no compunction about bringing out the big guns.”

  Karen winced. “It sounds a bit harsh.”

  “Really, Karen, reality is harsh. But we have to try to save lives. Now if we could just promise them their new lives will be better than their old . . .”

  “Well, Leila’s will be.”

  “Yes, but for every Leila there are hundreds—” She broke off. “Sorry, didn’t mean to preach. That’s the other reason I’m thinking about changing careers. Half the time when I open my mouth, I sound like a public service announcement.”

  “You do necessary work.”

  “Yeah, I do.” Reesa just thought maybe it was time to turn it over to someone else to do.

  IT WAS MIDNIGHT and Sarah sat on the porch steps, alone. Leila was asleep, Wyatt had gone home half an hour ago. And here she sat, nursing her second glass of cabernet wondering why she hadn’t asked him to stay.

  Stupid question. He’d picked up the signs, the glances toward Leila’s room, the fidgeting. He was getting so good at picking up cues from her that he’d be heading for the door before she even realized she was doing it. And he’d be gone before she could say, “Don’t go.”

  She missed him already. They’d made plans to see each other the next day, but it wasn’t the same as waking up with someone you were glad to wake up to. They’d had those times, before Sam got sick, before Leila had come to stay. But Sarah never seemed to be able to multilove. She and Wyatt were good until Sam needed her more.

  After Sam died, she gave her love to Wyatt, until Leila came, and even after that until they had started shuttling Leila back and forth from Carmen to Sarah. Each time she returned, Leila would shrink from Wyatt, and Sarah would know Carmen had a man at home who wasn’t treating Leila right.

  She looked for signs of abuse and fortunately found none. But it didn’t keep Sarah from worrying. She knew firsthand how things went. So instead of helping Leila to accept Wyatt, to trust that he would never hurt her, Sarah removed him from the picture.

  Now, with Leila’s adoption imminent, she wanted to keep them both, but she felt like she was trying to corral soap bubbles most of the time.

  So she sat on the steps alone with her cabernet. Cabernet. What a hoot; Sarah Hargreave lived long enough to move from strawberry wine and marijuana to cabernet and a medium-rare steak.

  She had Sam to thank for that, too.

  At fifteen, she’d been hell on wheels until one night she watched a fellow user choke to death. Stood there and couldn’t help. And she saw her mother, and herself. And she stepped away. Sobered up.

  And became totally obnoxious.

  She’d been so afraid of becoming a drug addict and alcoholic, dependent like her mother, that she’d been rigid, and so afraid of losing Sam, that she attacked him for enjoying a glass of wine at night and the occasional cigar.

  Sarah blushed hot with remorse at the invectives she’d hurled at him. He took it all, sometimes laughing, sometimes reassuring her, sometimes telling her to bug off. He just let it roll off and kept doing what he was doing.

  But sometimes looking back she wondered if she had really hurt him, and she would send him a prayer—on the outside chance there really was a heaven—and tell him she was sorry and that she loved him and . . . and all sorts of things.

  Like she’d once written to Nonie, when she had gone.

  Sarah wanted to tell Wyatt how she felt about him, before he left, too. For people always left. It was what they did. Moved, died, just drifted apart. She wanted to tell him, but she wasn’t completely sure what she felt.

  There were moments when she wished they could stay together, be their own forever family. But those moments were quickly followed by her rational mind saying, Nothing lasts forever, nothing. Depend on yourself. Be happy with yourself. Get used to being alone.

  When she’d finally started looking at life without always waiting for the next rip in her heart, Sam got sick. It took a couple of years for him to leave, all the time preparing her, giving strength to her when he should have been trying to save himself. And when the time came, she couldn’t let him go as gracefully as he left.

  She was weak. And she had clung to him, even after it was too late to keep him.

  Now Sarah started each day with the promise that she would get it together, be happy, not be afraid, and most days she succeeded.

  She knew no one could fill the gaping hole she sometimes felt in her heart. Nothing could replace that but her own acceptance of herself.

  She finished her wine. Looked at the empty glass. Drugs and alcohol were a walk in the park compared to her real addiction. She was drowning in an addiction to self-doubt.

  ILONA WAITED FOR the elevator to close on a satisfied and disheveled Garrett. She smiled, even toodled her fingers at him, which made him laugh. It was a ridiculous gesture, like the cherry on a sickeningly sweet sundae.

  He was good enough in bed. Hit all the right places, didn’t talk too much. And he did make her laugh.

  Tennis, bar, dinner, bed. They had a standing invitation.

  And that was all either of them wanted or expected out of their relationship. If she ever married again, though she couldn’t imagine why she would ever want to, it would be on her own terms. With her eyes wide open, and to someone who could hold his own without trying to destroy hers.

  She put the top back on the gin, added two more glasses to the dishwasher, and turned it on. She yawned; she was ready for bed and the sleep of the truly satisfied. Good match, good food, decent sex . . . She even chuckled as she thought of Kevin’s pregnant trophy wife. No sense worrying about her or the percolating kid.

  She’d get a good settlement when Kevin chucked her over for the next step of his career ladder. And if she didn’t, she could always pay Ilona to represent her in divorce court.

  Wouldn’t that be a kick. She turned out the light.

  Chapter 7

  Karen picked up Leila early Monday morning. “We’re going to McDonald’s before camp,” Bessie announced from the backseat, when Sarah opened the car door for Leila to climb in.

  Leila st
opped. “Am I going to camp?” she asked, her brows dipping into the beginning of a look Sarah knew so well and had tried to banish.

  Sarah had explained it twice yesterday. She explained it again. “No, you’re going to your fun school, and Bessie and Tammy are going to their camp.”

  “McDonald’s?” Sarah asked Karen.

  Karen shrugged. “We were running late.”

  “Better you than me.” Sarah was beginning to feel sick, and she really needed to get ready if she was going to leave plenty of time for traffic.

  She gave Leila a quick kiss. “Love you. I’ll be waiting for you at the bus stop this afternoon.” She started to close the door.

  “Sing my song, Mommee.”

  “Okay but really, really fast, because you don’t want to be late. Sarah started, “You are my sunshine . . .” then slowed down. She wouldn’t rush through a minute of life with Leila.

  Jenny and Karen joined in from the front seat, then Tammy and Bessie. They were all singing when Sarah shut the door and Karen drove away.

  As soon as the car turned the corner, Sarah hurried back inside. She changed into black linen slacks and a nubby cotton shell. It was already hot, so she carried the matching jacket. She opted for sandals. She didn’t feel forceful in sandals, but she didn’t feel secure in heels.

  She’d already carried out a box of documentation earlier that morning. She doubted if she’d need it today, but she wanted to be prepared. She put her purse and briefcase on the backseat, carefully draped her linen jacket over the passenger seat back, and climbed in. She resisted the urge to go back inside to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. She had everything she needed. Now she just needed to get there.

  She backed onto the alley that ran behind the house and stores and headed for the highway. Twenty minutes later she was parked and standing in front of the law offices of Erickson, Cartwright and Hefley.

  It was a newer building, modern architecture, lots of large smoky windows and gray stone—or maybe it was concrete. Sarah supposed it was meant to look strong and immovable. But to Sarah it looked like a prison. She thought of her lovely Victorian clock repair store and thanked her lucky stars that Sam hadn’t been a lawyer.

  She should have asked Reesa more about this lawyer. She could have at least googled her. But she was trying not to get ahead of herself, to just be herself. Don’t worry about the should haves.

  Sarah loosened her grip on the briefcase and concentrated on breathing evenly and trying to relax. It was important to be rational and calm, not let the situation get the best of her. Convince this woman to take her case . . . if it even came to that.

  It was another five minutes before Reesa hurried toward her, looking frazzled but determined, and huffing like she’d run a mile instead of across the street from the parking lot. She was wearing the same or similar suit that she’d been wearing on Friday morning.

  She stopped when she got to Sarah, held up a finger while she gulped for breath.

  “I need to get more exercise,” she said, when she finally got her breath back.

  Sarah thought she could use a vacation, but she didn’t say so. She needed Reesa. Later, she could take a vacation. Actually she could use a makeover and a shopping spree, though Sarah had never seen a fashionably dressed social worker. The work was too get down and get dirty—or worse. Still, Reesa deserved something nice. Maybe she and Karen could take Reesa to one of those one-day spa places—after this was over.

  “Now,” Reesa said, moving toward the double glass doors. “Just answer her questions in a calm voice. She doesn’t go much for desperate pleas or shows of emotion. She wants to know what kind of case you have and if she thinks you’re worth it. She may not decide today. I faxed over the particulars. Hopefully she’s had time to give them a good look.”

  Reesa pressed the elevator button. It opened immediately. “And don’t say anything extraneous once we get out of this elevator.”

  “Okay.”

  She gave Sarah a quick reassuring nod. Four floors later they stepped off into a large foyer with gray industrial carpeting, a curved reception desk, and several black-and-steel chairs for waiting clients.

  The receptionist knew Reesa and they stood chatting for a minute before she told Reesa to have a seat.

  “This doesn’t really look like a humanitarian-minded office,” Sarah whispered as they sat side by side looking out a tinted window to monochromatic treetops.

  “It’s distinguished. Projecting an image of strong, reliable legal advice. They have clout.”

  Sarah took a breath. “If you say so.”

  “Ms. Cartwright will see you now,” the receptionist said, as if she hadn’t just been chatting with Reesa a few minutes before. She showed them into an office behind a door of wooden grillwork. Reesa gestured for Sarah to precede her, then stepped in after her. The door closed soundlessly behind them. It was a bit intimidating.

  The woman at the desk stood. “Reesa, good to see you.” She didn’t smile but shook hands.

  “Ilona. This is Sarah Hargreave, the woman I told you about. I sent over her report.”

  It seemed to Sarah that time stopped, while she silently repeated, Fix the now, fix the now. Then slowly Ilona Cartwright turned to Sarah, and Sarah felt a jolt from the sheer energy of her personality.

  She was a tall, light-skinned African American. Impeccably and expensively dressed, she’d been half smiling, the kind of smile businesspeople give to each other, devoid of affection. It stayed on her face as she turned to Sarah.

  She didn’t blink as she took Sarah’s measure.

  Sarah had to force herself not to step back. She had no idea what the lawyer was seeing in her or even what she was thinking.

  The lawyer finally broke eye contact and rummaged through the folders on her desk. “I’ve been busy and didn’t really have time to look over these, if you’ll . . .” She gestured for them to sit down in the chairs opposite her.

  She opened the folder and read while Sarah held her breath.

  SARAH HARGREAVE. FOR a moment Ilona was afraid she’d lost her mind. There must be hundreds, possibly thousands of Sarah Hargreaves. Because this would just be too much godforsaken bad luck if this was Sarah.

  Sarah was probably dead. At least Ilona hoped she was. That would be the only reason to forgive her for never writing like she promised. All those miserable lonely years . . . Ilona opened the folder, ran down the particulars.

  She felt the Hargreave woman shift in her seat. Risked a glance in her direction and there was no doubt, those same gray eyes looking at her like Ilona was gonna—going to—be her savior.

  MRS. J GRABBED me as I was getting back from school. “You’re gonna get a roommate this afternoon. Be nice.”

  I’m always nice—at least on the outside. I know how to work the system. I’ve got plans. And they don’t include staying in this group home much longer.

  Turns out it’s some skinny little white girl, with stringy reddish-yellow hair. Sad eyes, like somebody killed her puppy. Maybe somebody did.

  Man, I don’t need this shit. It’s hard enough keeping myself safe. I can’t be worried about some loser white kid. Where the hell are her relatives? ’Cause they all got relatives.

  So what if her mother’s strung out on some designer drug, crashed the Mercedes, is sitting in some posh rehab hotel; it was stupid to bring her here. They’ll finish her.

  She doesn’t look at me, just sits on the bed clutching some damn backpack. Probably has Barbies in it. I should just take it from her now and save her the trouble of trying to hold on to it.

  Already I can see the boys in the other hallway standing as close as they can without coming over to our side. Boys and girls aren’t allowed to mix in group home. They do, but nobody notices.

  What were they thinking putting her in here? Show her around, Mrs. J said.

  I’m not showing her shit. I got studying to do.

  I lie down on my bunk and open my English book. I’m not getting
stuck here, stuck going back to the hood and getting strung out with the rest of the losers. I got plans and they don’t include some poor lost skinny white chick.

  I look up and damn if she ain’t—isn’t—standing right by me looking down at my book. I slap at my ear, the one she’s breathing on.

  “I know how to read,” she says.

  “Well, hoo de do. How old are you, kid?”

  “Eight.”

  “I’m eleven. You know what that means?”

  “That you’ll take care of me?”

  Oh shit, she hasn’t got a chance.

  ILONA FORCED HERSELF to glance through the pages of Reesa’s report, looking for any excuse not to take the woman on as a client. Not to want to care about what happens to her foster kid. Didn’t Reesa say the bio mother had changed her mind?

  She moved to the second page. There it was. The bio mother had completed rehab, she was clean . . . for a second . . . no, third try; three times was a charm—hardly. Three times and you were pretty much toast. But the Hargreave woman, Sarah Hargreave, didn’t need to know that.

  All those years waiting for a letter, hoping, every week writing, asking, why don’t you write? Now she knew. While Ilona was trying to be someone worth loving, longing for the sister she’d never have, her heart breaking more with each passing week of Sarah’s silence, the bitch had been fostered or adopted. It must have been a cushy gig to forget so easily. Her parents must have loved her, because she owned her own business. Had a beach house no less. And now she wanted to adopt some poor foster child, pay back to society. How sweet.

  Well, she could go for it, but not with Ilona’s help.

  She closed the folder, carefully placed it back on the desk, appalled that her childhood fears had intruded into the one place she felt totally in control, protected. “I’m sorry, Reesa, this is pretty cut and dried. I don’t think I can help you.”

  She watched Reesa’s mouth open, her look of disbelief, the disappointment. Well, she’d just have to be disappointed. No way was Ilona going to help the friend—the “sister”—that had betrayed her so easily.