One Summer’s Knight

by Kathleen Creighton

  Riley’s estimation of the dog’s intelligence rose considerably, but he made no comment as he took Summer’s elbow and steered her through the French doors, which he shut firmly behind them. The screams, muffled by the walls of the house, seemed to diminish slightly in volume, if not frequency. He drew a breath, then exhaled it as he said, “Coffee. I could sure use a cup-how about you?”

  She threw him a grateful look. “Oh, that would be great. I’ll make it, if you’ll just show me where everything is.”

  “Should already be made. It’s on a timer. My housekeeper generally sets it up before she leaves in the evening.” He paused, frowning. “Reminds me,” he said after a moment, taking care to keep it to a businesslike drawl that carried no trace of the regret he was feeling. “I guess I’d better call Mrs. Abernathy and tell her the good news.” Summer glanced at him, her eyes asking the question. He answered it with a wry smile; Lord, but he was going to miss Soon-Li Abernathy’s cooking, an eccentric combination of Deep Southern and classic Chinese that he realized he’d never fully appreciated until now. “That she’s about to get a vacation of unspecified duration,” he explained. “With pay, of course.”

  Summer’s expressive mouth formed an O of dismay. He stopped the anticipated apology with a shake of his head and a touch on her elbow, which he then used to guide her through the swinging door and into the kitchen.

  “Can’t be helped-the fewer people know you’re here, the better,” he said briskly, as the aroma of fine Colombian bade him a reassuring welcome. Riley liked his coffee as most things, simple, straightforward and rich.

  He opened a cupboard while Summer set Beatle down on the floor. He gave the dog a sideways look, then decided he’d best just ignore it. “Here you go-cups are in here.” He indicated the one that had been set out ready for him as he took another from the cupboard. “Why don’t you go ahead and help yourself. What can I get you? Take anything in it?”

  “Thanks-just some nonfat milk, if you have it. And artificial sweetener.”

  That threw him. Already halfway to the refrigerator, he halted and lifted a shoulder in apology. “Uh…I don’t believe I have either one of those.”

  “That’s okay-just some sugar’ll be fine.” He got out the sugar bowl while she poured coffee for them both. Then he picked his up and sipped it while he watched her spoon sugar and stir. After a moment, without raising her head, she said, “I can make the coffee from now on, if you like-and anything else I can do to fill in for your housekeeper…if you’ll just…I don’t know, give me a list-”

  Riley snapped his fingers. “Speaking of which-you need to make me a list of everything you can think of that you’re going to be needing-you and the kids. That’s including food-you already mentioned sweetener and skim milk. I don’t know what the kids like.” He thought fleetingly, and with longing, of the Cantonese delicacies Mrs. Abernathy was in the habit of preparing and leaving for him to reheat for his evening meal, on those rare occasions he ate at home. Ah, well… It’s temporary, he reminded himself. A few days at the most. “And,” he added, “anything else you need-clothing, of course.”

  “I thought…the Red Cross…”

  He let a snort tell her what he thought of that idea. “You just write down the sizes for me and I’ll have my secretary pick up what you need.” Danell had a couple of kids and would no doubt know where to go. He seemed to recall having heard her mention some sort of mart or other.

  Summer didn’t reply, but held her cup with both hands while she blew, then sipped. Above the line of the cup he watched the familiar lines of worry form between her eyes. Like her son’s…

  He knew what she was thinking, and that her pride was wrestling with her need…and losing. Compassion crowded his chest, bumping aside the confusion about where she belonged and how he was supposed to treat her. All he knew was that he wanted to spare her even one more moment’s humiliation. That he wanted her smiling and confident again. He was trying to think of a way to make it all right for her, to tell her he’d add the expenses to the bill she was going to work off for him, if that’s what she wanted. But just then, as if allowing that one thought about the child into his head had caused them to materialize, suddenly here they came. Following a brief but noisy overture that included the clatter and thump of footsteps and childish exclamations and giggles, both children burst through the swinging door and into the kitchen.

  “There you are,” said David, breathless with impatience. He had on swim trunks-the loudest Riley had ever seen-and a towel draped over one shoulder. Riley couldn’t help but notice that the boy seemed to have put on some self-confidence, too, along with the outfit.

  Helen, meanwhile, was chanting “Break-fast, break-fast” as she made her way across the kitchen in a series of bunny hops. She was wearing a bathing suit as well, a black tank suit with a white polka-dot ruffle around the hips that bounced up and down as she hopped. On her feet she wore pink plastic flipflops decorated with daisies. They made loud slapping sounds on the floor tiles. “I want Luck…y Charms!” she announced as her final hop carried her into her mother’s arms for a good-morning hug. “Can I have Lucky Charms, Mom? Can I?”

  Over her daughter’s bouncing curls, Summer’s eyes met Riley’s, eyebrows lifted in question. “Sorry,” he said with an apologetic shrug, “guess you’d better add that to your list.”

  Suddenly he felt like an interloper in his own kitchen. As he turned, sipping coffee, to gaze out the window, behind him he heard the refrigerator door open and Summer’s voice saying, “No cereal this morning. This morning I think we’ll have…raisin toast! And…orange juice…and bananas! How’s that?” A chorus of mixed cheers and complaints answered her.

  Riley headed for the morning room, badly in need of some peace and solitude. But damned if there wasn’t that silly beetle-dog, clickety-clicking along right at his heels. He halted and looked down. The mutt stared back at him, head cocked, huge round eyes glowing expectantly.

  “Okay,” Riley growled under his breath, “you can come. But no talking-you got that?” He’d have sworn the damn dog grinned.

  But when Riley got to the morning room’s step-down threshold the Chihuahua came to a dead halt and refused to accompany him any farther. As the dog went scampering back to the kitchen as fast as she could go, skittering and sliding on the slippery tile, Riley shrugged and turned to the wickerand-glass-topped table where he was accustomed to sit and savor the morning sunshine along with his first cup of coffee. Then he, too, halted, much as Beatle had before him. No doubt for the same reason.

  There on the tabletop, squarely in the middle of the handwoven Peruvian place mat that marked Riley’s customary place, was something that resembled a hairy, dirty and somewhat moth-eaten pillow. It was a mottled black and gray in color, with patches of bilious yellow scattered here and there, and had a plumed appendage that it flicked every few seconds in an offhand, unmistakably contemptuous manner. On the opposite end from that twitching plume Riley could just make out a face with a protruding pink tongue and a pair of marblelike yellow eyes with narrowly slitted pupils.

  “Oh, good Lord,” Riley said, sighing, “what next?” He waved his arm. “Go on, cat-get!” The cat’s tail twitched. “Look, cat, if you think I’m going to pick you up, you’re crazy. You’re in my place. Now, get the hell out” He and the cat regarded each other. The cat blinked at him with the lazy insolence of a large reptile.

  In the kitchen, David was carefully picking all the raisins out of his raisin toast. “Mom, can we go swimming right after we eat?” he asked as he added one to the growing pile on the edge of his plate. “Mr. Riley said we could if you say it’s okay.”

  Summer sighed inwardly but didn’t say anything about the raisins; he would eat them eventually, she knew-David had always been funny about mixing foods. “Mr. Riley is a very kind and generous man. I hope you remembered to thank him,” she added as she reached across the counter to confiscate Helen’s toast, into which the child had bitten holes wher
e eyes, nose and mouth should be and was now wearing as a mask. “And of course, it goes without saying-”

  She stopped, as the man himself suddenly appeared at her elbow. She straightened hurriedly and wiped her hands on the flannel robe. Helen seized the opportunity to retrieve her toastmask, which she proudly displayed for her host’s benefit, sticking her tongue through the mouth hole and wiggling it horribly.

  Riley cleared his throat and murmured politely, “Can I see you for a moment, please?” He beckoned silently, his expression unreadable.

  Mystified, Summer followed him across the kitchen and stepped down into what she decided must be one of the loveliest rooms she’d ever seen. Semicircular, with multipaned windows all around, it seemed to shimmer with light. There were blooming plants on every sill, white wicker chairs with comfortable cushions, a glass-topped table with-

  Oh, God. “Oh, Lucifer-I mean, Peggy Sue!” she gasped. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Riley, who had halted in the doorway and was stoically sipping coffee. She rushed to scoop the cat off the tabletop. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know how-I didn’t dare leave her in the room with Cleo. They don’t-”

  “Let me guess,” said Riley, wiggling his bandaged index finger above the handle of his coffee cup “Cat and bird don’t get along?” Summer nodded. “Let’s see,” Riley drawled, “cat and dog don’t get along. Dog and bird don’t get along.” He made a sharp little sound of irony with the side of his mouth. “Mrs. Robey, I must say, you have an interesting household.”

  Summer cleared her throat miserably. “Well…”

  “I seem to recall reading somewhere that cats can shed at will,” Riley interrupted. “Does this-” he picked up the place mat, holding it gingerly with thumb and forefinger “-mean it’s true, or is your cat suffering from some sort of molt?” His tone was pleasant, but Summer couldn’t meet his eyes. Images of the Prince in his formal clothes shimmered in her mind-his immaculate white shirtfront and elegant black dinner jacket now covered with cat hair.

  She cleared her throat and mumbled, “I’m so sorry. Please let me have that-I’ll see that it’s cleaned. If you’ll show me where your washer and dryer are-I’m going to need to wash mine and the children’s clothes, anyway-so if you have anything…” Her voice trailed off, finally bogging down in the swamp of this latest humiliation.

  “Summer.”

  The gentleness in his voice was a surprise. Her chin jerked upward and she sucked in a breath that burned like arctic cold as she forced herself to face him-this man she couldn’t seem to stop thinking of as the Prince; the powerful and distinguished lawyer she’d all but begged on hands and knees to take her as a client; the impossibly elegant Southern aristocrat whose peace she and her family had so completely annihilated.

  He took a step toward her as if he meant to touch her, but his eyes flicked at the cat in her arms and he evidently thought better of it. He paused and brought his gaze back to hers, and she braced herself for the impact.

  Once more it wasn’t what she expected. She was prepared for disapproval, anger. Censure. Contempt. Maybe even…pity, which would be worst of all. She was not prepared for the steady blue gaze that seemed to enfold her in a cloak of calm and safety. There was something invincible about those eyes, so that she instantly felt comforted, like a child in a nightmare soothed by a mother’s touch, but at the same time, frighteningly, dangerously vulnerable.

  “Listen, there are bound to be some things we’re going to have to work out.” He spoke in a lowered voice so the children, who were being suspiciously quiet in the next room, would at least have to strain to overhear. “That’s to be expected.”

  Summer hid her panicky swallows in Peggy Sue’s billowing fur and managed to nod. The old cat’s snarling purr drilled its way through her sternum, melted into her chest and from there through her whole body, like a slow-motion electrical charge. Her vision misted and blurred…and when it cleared, Riley Grogan was her lawyer again. Unmistakably, in spite of the silk robe, bandaged finger and beard stubble, the man she’d confronted last winter in a Charleston courtroom and pleaded with just yesterday across a desk of polished mahogany. The man in whom she’d placed her absolute confidence, and to whom she’d entrusted her children’s lives.

  He glanced at his watch and frowned. “I’m gonna have to get going. You’ll run up that list for me while I’m in the shower?” He held out his coffee cup for her to take and waited, brows arched, for her affirmative. “Good-now, what else was it you wanted to know? Oh-the laundry room’s upstairs, down at the end of the main hall, door on your right. Okay? Anything else?”

  Temporarily dazed, Summer shook her head. Then, as he was walking away, she followed him into the hallway and gulped out, “Oh-the phone. Is it okay if I…?” Halfway to the stairs he paused and looked back at her, the frown on his face more quizzical than annoyed. “I really should let someone in my family know what’s happened. I know my sister-if she can’t get ahold of me, she’s apt to call out the marines.”

  Riley glanced toward the kitchen doorway. Summer was sure the children were too busy pelting each other with raisins at the moment to eavesdrop, but he stepped closer to her and lowered his voice before he spoke.

  “By all means, call your sister. Tell her what you have to, to make sure she doesn’t worry, but don’t let her know where you are, understand? You, me and the feds are the only ones who know you’re here, and that’s the way they-and we-want to keep it. That means you don’t answer the phone if it rings. There’s a lock on the front gate, and an intercom, but nobody’s expected-except for Mrs. Abernathy, and I’ll call her-so if anybody buzzes the house, don’t answer. We’re pretty secluded here, but I want you and the kids to stay away from the front gate, anywhere you might be seen from the road, okay? Just as a precaution,” he added when he saw the deepening consternation on her face. Once again he made that movement with his hand as if he meant to touch her, then glanced at the cat in her arms and changed his mind.

  “You’re safe here,” he said softly. “Okay?” He waited for her nod, then answered it with his own. He started to turn away, then for some reason, hesitated. Inexplicably, Summer’s heart quickened. Her body felt warm-too warm. Then, with a look of alarm, he all but bolted for the stairs.

  “Mom! Mom!” Summer braced herself as her children surged around her like an incoming tidal wave. “We’re all done eating-can we go swimming now? Please? Can we, can we?”

  “Clean up your mess first. And-oops-” she made a lunging grab for the Chihuahua as she raced by hard on Riley’s trail, but missed “-quick, David, grab Beatle. You both know the rules about swimming alone. You’re not to go near that pool until I’m out there, you hear me?”

  David’s reply was unintelligible, muffled by Beatle’s happy tongue, and Helen was too busy exploring the gymnastics possibilities of the stairs and banister rail to answer at all. Summer allowed her shoulders to slump with her silent exhalation as she watched her esteemed attorney and reluctant host make his way up the long, curving staircase and disappear from sight.

  How he must hate this, she thought He was being polite-very nice, really-but she knew she and the children were driving him right up the walls.

  She reminded herself that it was only temporary. That Riley or the FBI would find them a more suitable place soon. There must be someplace else they could go. Some place safe.

  Or, they would find the people who were responsible for the phone calls. For the threats. For destroying her house. Maybe they’d even find Hal, now that the FBI was involved. Surely it’s going to be okay.

  “You’re late,” Danell sang out by way of a greeting when Riley sailed into his office sometime later that morning. “Client’s waitin’ on you.” She extended her arm over her head, holding up a handful of pink slips for him to grab on his way past her desk. “Your messages, in order of priority. Hey, what happened to your finger?”

  “Thanks…I caught it in a door.” He took the messages and shuffled through them, n
oted that the one on top was from his investigator, Tom Denby, then tucked them into his jacket pocket and said, “Dan-nell…”

  She turned her eyes to him. “Yes, boss?”

  “I wonder if you’d do me a favor.”

  “Now, you know I’d do anything in this world for you when you bat yo’ eyelashes at me like that, sugah,” she purred in a syrupy drawl. The phone sounded its discreet electronic tone. “First, though, I’m gonna take this call,” she added in her normal voice, which was Southern enough to begin with. “Would you excuse me, please? Good morning, law offices.” She listened alertly, glanced at Riley, then murmured, “Yes, sir, just one moment, please,” and punched a button. “You might wanna take this one,” she said, offering him the receiver. “The man says to tell you it’s Jake, and it’s urgent You want it in your office? I already put the client in there.”

  Riley set his briefcase down and got the receiver tucked in between his shoulder and jaw, and Danell punched the button for him. “Jake,” he boomed out in a “Hey, old buddy!” kind of way. “What can I do for you?”

  The FBI man’s cop-monotone was a low rumble in his ear. “Uh…yes, Mr. Grogan, I’m calling to update you on our… situation.” There was a cough, and in a slightly more animated tone, he asked, “How’re Mrs. Robey and the kids? Everybody settled in okay?”

  “Oh, fine, fine, couldn’t be better,” said Riley jovially, showing his teeth to Danell, who just rolled her eyes.

  “Uh-huh. And all the, uh, animals?”

  “Oh, great.”

  “So, I take it you didn’t have any unwanted company on the trip? Nobody followed you?”

  “No problem-not a thing,” Riley drawled.

  “Okay, good…good.” There was the sound of a throat carefully cleared, some papers shuffled. Then he said, “Thought you’d want to know. Just got the report from the Augusta police. The fire was arson. No attempt to disguise the fact. And something else. The place had been tossed before it was torched-a thorough job of it, too. No leads, either. Nothing. Nada.” A pause, and an exhalation. “A professional job. Pretty obvious warning.”