by Selena Kitt
“What the hell?” Rob exploded. Leah looked over at him, incredulous. “It’s like the Salem witch trials. If she drowns, she’s not a witch, but if she floats, she’s a witch, and we get to burn her!”
“Very much so, I’m afraid.” Donald nodded slowly. “If you are, indeed, married by the time we reach a courtroom, they will likely swap the sexual deviancy argument.”
Rob sat back. “Well that’s a relief.”
“I didn’t say they’d drop it. I said they’d swap it.” Donald tapped his pen on the yellow legal pad. “They will, instead, label Leah as neurotic. They will point to all of those natural reactions of grief—crying jags, bouts of anger and depression, irritability, low self-esteem, anxiety, even chronic headaches and stomachaches—as signs of neurosis that prove her unfit to be a mother.”
“Is there any hope at all?” Leah whispered, feeling the sick ball in her stomach tightening with every word out of the lawyer’s mouth.
“Of course there is!” Donald insisted, giving her a reassuring smile. He really was a handsome man, sharp in his suit, his salt and pepper hair neatly cut and combed. He had always given off a sense of confidence that Leah had deeply felt. When he talked, people really listened and trusted what he had to say. It was probably what made him such a good lawyer.
Donald reached over and patted Leah’s hand. “I just want you to be prepared for the worst. We are gearing up for war here, and we want as much ammunition as possible on our side. That’s why I need to know everything, absolutely everything that might be used against you. I can’t create a good defense if I don’t have the whole picture.”
Leah met Rob’s eyes and she knew he saw the panic in hers. What if they found out? About the secret room under the loft? The pictures? The Mary Magdalenes? Rob pressed his lips together and gave a small shake of his head, but it wasn’t reassurance enough for Leah.
“Is there anything I should know?” Donald asked, looking between them.
“We’re living together,” Leah admitted, looking back at the lawyer. “In sin. Technically.”
Donald nodded. “I would get married as quickly as possible. Elope. Go to the Justice of the Peace if you have to, just so you have a marriage license on file with the state. Appearances are important now, more than ever.”
Leah nodded, remembering that this was the man who had arranged to fake her mother’s marriage license.
Donald wrote something else down, underlining it. Twice. “Is there anything untoward in your pasts I need to know about? Any history of mental illness in your families? Any criminal history?”
Leah and Rob looked at each other. She knew what he was thinking. How could they risk telling him?
Rob shook his head. “No, not that I’m aware of. I’m an upstanding citizen. We go to church. I donate generously.”
“Your age difference is going to be problematic,” Donald said, looking directly at Rob. “No judge is going to like the fact that you impregnated a girl half your age, even if you did end up married to her.”
“I understand that.” Rob’s jaw was working again. “But it’s your job to make them understand that we’re good people, that we love each other and we want to keep our baby.”
“Yes, that it is.” Donald flipped his notepad over the desk. “And trust me, I will do my job.”
“That’s why I hired you.” Rob held out his hand and Donald shook it.
“Not yet. There’s still a matter of my retainer.” Donald laughed and nodded toward the door. “You can pay it on your way out.”
“So there really is hope?” Leah asked. “I really might get her back?”
“I’m a cautious optimist,” Donald explained, leaning back in his chair, his fingers tented under his chin. “In these cases, I find social workers and doctors take advantage of naïve young girls like yourself who know nothing about the law or their rights under it. They’re told all sorts of lies, like they’ll have to pay the hospital bill before they can take their baby—which isn’t true, of course. Or they’re told their babies are already promised to families.”
Leah gasped. “That’s exactly what she told me!”
“Of course it is.” Donald grimaced. “She wanted your baby. Every baby adopted means she’s doing her job, and of course, it means there is a large donation made from a happy adoptive couple to the church.”
Rob frowned. “Is it really so nefarious?”
“Oh, no.” Donald waved the thought away. “I think these social workers really believe they’re doing what’s best for the baby. I mean, if you hadn’t come riding in on your white horse to rescue her, Leah would probably be on the streets of New York right now, doing God only knows what, with a newborn. What kind of life is that for a child?”
Leah glared at him. “A better one than without her own mother…”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Donald countered. “I believe you have rights as a mother, and the law does too. And I will defend them. I bet Mrs. Goulden didn’t tell you that you have six months from the time of your baby’s birth to change your mind, even if you did sign the adoption papers.”
“No!” Leah sat up, eyes wide, her heart soaring.“Is that true?”
“Yes, it is,” the lawyer assured her. “I’m going to file a motion in court on Monday morning using that argument to attempt to force the social worker to relinquish your baby.”
“Oh, Rob!” Leah turned to him, seeing the light in his eyes, and she threw her arms around his neck. “I’m so happy!”
“Well don’t count all the chickens before they hatch.” The lawyer sighed, looking between the two of them. “I’ve filed motions like this before and have had social workers stall, giving the judge reason after reason that baby can’t yet be relinquished. They try to stall past the six month mark, because they know they law.”
Leah sat back in her chair. “Oh…”
The lawyer leaned forward, elbows on the table, looking directly at her. “Leah, this may be a long, hard fight. I want you to be prepared for that. We always prepare for the worst but hope for the best, right? What we want to do is create a case so solid they feel overwhelmed by the evidence against them and simply give up the fight before it comes to blows. Do you understand?”
She nodded. “I’m not an unfit mother, Mr. Highbrow.”
“I know you’re not, Leah,” he said softly, glancing toward the door. “Speaking of motherhood… you should know that your own mother misses you very much. I’ve known her a long time, and I can tell you that she truly only wants what’s best for you.”
Leah felt her spine stiffen at the mention of her mother, but the way he spoke about her, the look on his face, his demeanor—it all contained an element of truth she couldn’t deny. She could feel it, his words seeping in past her defenses, melting the ice around her heart.
Could it be true?
Rob stood, taking Leah’s hand, and when he stopped at the front desk to write a check—a retainer so large, it made Leah feel faint, watching him write all those zeros—she found herself face to face again with her mother. Rob gave her the check, turning to say goodbye to the lawyer, who was talking about motions and future depositions and subpoenas, but Leah didn’t pay attention.
She watched the way her mother filed the check, turning away to dab her eyes with a tissue she hid on the other side of her typewriter.
“Mom?”
Leah’s mother looked up, almost reluctantly, like Leah might be ready to hit her with something, and the thought made Leah instantly sad and regretful.
“Erica and I are going wedding dress shopping at Hudson’s tomorrow around noon. Do you want to come?”
Leah’s mother opened her mouth to speak, closed it again, and bit her lip. She glanced over at the lawyer and he smiled, some sort of communication passing between them, and he nodded encouragingly. Leah waited, already regretting it, but she couldn’t take the invitation back now. Maybe it would give them a chance to talk, clear the air. Maybe that would be possible.
&nbs
p; “I would love to,” her mother said, her voice almost a whisper. “Tomorrow at noon?”
Leah nodded, letting Rob take her hand. “Erica and I will meet you there.”
On their way out, down the hall, as she and Rob were embracing at the elevator and he was whispering to her how brave she was, how beautiful, how much he loved her, Leah thought she heard her mother burst into tears, but she told herself as they got into the elevator that such a thing was impossible. It had to be her imagination. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen or heard her mother cry.
Chapter Four
After a morning of opening gifts around the tree and eating the cinnamon rolls Solie had made the day before and left them for breakfast, Erica did what she did every Christmas—she took all her new stuff to her room and lined it up on her bed. There was something immensely satisfying about seeing Christmas gifts laid out this way.
Normally, she would call Leah’s house to ask what she got and they would compare notes and talk about what they were going to wear for the Nolan family dinner. Her father had kept up the tradition after Erica’s mother died, inviting Leah and her mother, as well as Father Patrick and Father Michael. Sometimes they would bring guests too, a stray nun or perhaps a generous church benefactor. Erica never knew who was going to show up, but Solie would arrive around two in the afternoon to start putting dinner together. Half of it was already prepped in their refrigerator.
Erica looked at her lineup of presents, finding it far less satisfying in the moment than she had on former Christmases. For some reason, her new clothes, records, jewelry and perfume didn’t make her anywhere near as happy as she’d been in the past. She should have been on the phone with Leah, but instead her best friend had gone up to the loft with her future husband, something Erica couldn’t have imagined happening in her wildest dreams, effectively shutting her out. Things weren’t the same, even with Leah back, and she knew they’d never be the same again, in spite of the way everyone kept pretending they were. It made her sad.
Then she remembered the piece of paper shoved into the pocket of her winter coat.
Erica went down the hall and dug it out—it was a flyer for the midnight mass at Mary Magdalene’s church advertising the “live nativity scene.” There was a picture of the scene on the front. Father Michael had commissioned Robert Nolan to take it for him, and it was a lovely photo of Erica dressed as the Virgin Mary holding a baby Jesus—only this was really just a doll wrapped in a blanket, its face turned away from the camera so you couldn’t tell. Father Michael didn’t introduce a real baby to the mix until the big night.
The Virgin Mary’s face was turned up to Joseph, played by Clayton Marshall Webber III, who was handsome even in his simple robes and goofy sandals. She’d never noticed the way he was looking at her before, like he worshipped the ground she walked on. He was clearly a good actor. It made for the perfect photo of the scene they were portraying, but after the night she’d spent with Clay, she wondered how much of it was really acting. She turned the flyer over and found the number he’d scribbled there.
He had asked for her number, but Erica had hemmed and hawed. The truth was, she didn’t want him calling her house and having Leah answer. She didn’t want to explain his presence in her life aside from Father Michael’s play. And then she’d gone and snuck out to meet him and then invited him to Christmas dinner, of all things. So much for her original plan.
Erica headed back down the hallway, slipping though the living room, glancing up at the loft where her father—and now Leah—slept. It was quiet. She went down the hall toward the kitchen, stopping at the telephone table and staring at the phone. Erica had never called a boy in her life, except for Bobby, and they’d been going out forever by that time. And even then, she didn’t do it often. Only when she had to. Good girls didn’t call boys. They didn’t ask boys out. They didn’t ask them over for dinner. They certainly didn’t sneak out in the middle of the night to meet them and they definitely didn’t have sex with them. Ever. Let alone on the first date.
She picked up the receiver and began to dial the extension. Her heart thudded in her chest and she told herself she was being silly. But she knew, if his mother answered, she was going to just hang up the phone and run back to her bedroom. It rang and rang, and she wondered if they got up late on Christmas. Was she interrupting their gift opening? She knew she shouldn’t be calling him at all, let alone on Christmas Day. Besides, what was she doing? Clay was nice enough, handsome, clean-cut, and he made her laugh with his sarcastic, sacrilegious sense of humor, but in spite of her actions the night before, she wasn’t in any danger of falling head over heels for him.
Her heart belonged to someone else. He just happened to be someone she could never, ever be with.
Erica was about to replace the receiver back in the cradle when she heard a breathless voice on the other end of the line say, “Hello?”
“Oh...um... hi. Clay?”
“Erica?” His voice warmed immediately. He sounded far more pleased than she liked and she blushed, glad he couldn’t see her as she twisted the phone cord around her finger.
“Yes. Hi.”
“Well hi! I was in the shower. I thought you’d be my dad calling from Washington, so I ran out to get it.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She blushed a deeper shade of red, picturing him dripping in the hallway wearing just a towel. “I didn’t mean to disappoint you.”
“I’m definitely not disappointed, trust me.” His voice was even warmer now. It made her feel as if she was standing next to a hot stove. “I’m looking forward to dinner. I get two Christmas dinners. I have to be the luckiest man alive.”
“About that...” Erica closed her eyes, twisting the cord around and around.
“Yeah?” He sounded cautious, disappointed already, and she couldn’t do it. She knew it was the right thing to do, to cut ties now, to tell him he was a nice boy, but she just couldn’t lead him on anymore, but he sounded so crushed at the thought of being disinvited to dinner, she couldn’t bear to disinvite him from her life altogether.
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay with goose.”
“Goose?”
“Yes, we’re having goose. My father’s a traditionalist. He likes to do Christmas Dickens-style.”
“Oh! Sure.” The buoyancy in his voice returned. “I’d eat moose if I had to, just to sit next to you at the table.”
She laughed. “No moose, thank goodness. Don’t mention it, you’d give my father ideas.”
There was a brief, awkward silence. Erica heard something in the background, the sound of young children laughing, squealing.
“Do you need me to let you go?”
“No.” Clay sighed, sounding annoyed. “Hang on.”
She heard him scolding someone, and then he was back, and the line was quieter. “This is better. I’m in the hall closet. Sorry about the rug rats.”
“The what?”
“Foster kids,” Clay explained. “My parents only had me, and my mother has started fostering kids in the past few years to fill the empty hole in her life she’s anticipating when I fly off to college.”
Erica laughed. “How many of them? It sounds like a zoo.”
“Just two. They’re five and eight. Oh, and there’s a new baby now too. But it’s sleeping.”
“Three?” Erica blinked. “That’s a lot of kids!”
“She only does it for a little while,” Clay explained. “Until they get adopted. It’s little babies most of the time. She gets to cuddle them and then gives them away. And she doesn’t take care of them really. Connie does.”
“Who’s Connie?”
Clay hesitated and then mumbled the word, like he didn’t want her to hear. “My nanny.”
“Your nanny?” Erica exclaimed, grinning. “You still have a nanny?”
“She used to be my nanny,” he protested. “Now she… she just does what my mother tells her. Takes care of the house, the shopping, the cleaning. The do
gs. The cats. The foster kids.”
“Dogs, cats and kids? How big of a hole is she expecting when you leave for college?”
“Oh, just, you know, Grand Canyon size,” Clay replied with a snort. “She says she’s doing her Christian duty. I say she’s getting her baby-fix.”
“I thought you said she works? For the church?”
“My mother? Work?” Clayton barked laughter. “She volunteers. Keeps their records. Gertrude Louise Webber née Phillips would not stoop to working for a living. She inherited her money. It keeps her supported in the manner to which she’s become accustomed, so she doesn’t have to complain about my father’s low-paying teaching posts.”
“He’s the astronaut, right?”
“Astronomer,” Clay corrected with an indulgent laugh. “He’s on the National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics. It’s a government job and a pretty big deal, what with Sputnik and the space race and all. They’re going to put a man on the moon before the Russians.”
“No way!” Erica exclaimed. “That’s science fiction talk.”
“It’s not really. Anyway, he flies to Washington because my mother doesn’t want to leave here—she grew up in the house we live in—and he tries to convince her to move every time he comes back, and it goes round and round.”
“Does he approve of the rug rats?”
Clay barked another laugh. “He doesn’t get a say. Besides, he’s gone so much, what does it matter? Let’s change the subject. What did Santa bring you for Christmas?”
“Clothes. Some jewelry. Lots of new records. What did you get?”
“Same. Well, no jewelry.” He laughed. “But clothes and records. My father got me a telescope. Another one. He still thinks I’m going to follow in his footsteps some day.”
“Don’t you want to be an astronaut?” she teased.
“Astronomer. And hell no. But my mother got me a typewriter, so it kind of balanced out.”
“A typewriter!” Erica exclaimed. “I’m jealous.”
“You don’t have one? Aren’t you editor of your school paper?”
She rolled her eyes. “Mary Magdalene’s little rag isn’t much of a paper. Mostly recipes and cleaning tips and advertising dances and church functions.”