"How are they?"
"Who knows?" he asked with a shrug. The little ones had seemed relatively normal during his visit, although the baby had clung to his grandmother the entire time. Tyler was the one who concerned him. He carried so much rage and bitterness. It had destroyed the child he'd once been, the child he should still be. He was already old at fourteen.
When they reached the garage, he offered to drive. No matter how much rain they were used to, people just didn't drive well in it. If he had to be on the highway, he preferred his sturdy four-wheel drive Jeep over Beth's car.
He had located the school on his last trip into Carrie's neighborhood, and he found it again with little trouble. Pulling his coat tighter, he stepped out into the biting drizzle and, sharing Beth's umbrella, hurried inside the building.
Elinor Clarkson was a young woman, auburn-haired and pretty, her manner as warm and bubbly as Beth's was controlled. She was a mothering sort—taking their coats, offering them coffee, fussing over the weather. She reminded him of every woman he'd ever been involved with. Sweet. Generous. Outgoing. Real.
She was nothing like Beth.
"You're here about the Lewises," she said, finally slipping into the seat behind her desk. "We had all three of the older children at this school. They're good kids—quiet, guarded, a bit secretive. Of course, the situation at home would account for that. Tyler's the only one we've ever had any problems with. That's how I happened to meet Mrs. Lewis."
She went on without prompting, telling them about Tyler's behavior problems. The school had let things slide until the day he'd blown up at one of his teachers. Although he hadn't made any actual threat, there had been such anger, such hostility in his manner, that she had felt obliged to bring in his parents.
"Did you meet his father?" Beth asked.
"No. Only his mother came. She said her husband couldn't come, that he'd told her to take care of it herself."
Beth glanced at Zachary, then away. He knew what she was thinking. To prevent an angrier, even more hostile scene with Del, Carrie had probably lied. She probably hadn't even informed her husband of the incident. If she had, he might have turned on Tyler. He might have blamed her, too, or prevented her from meeting Elinor Clarkson. His behavior had been so unpredictable that she'd been safer handling the problem on her own.
"What was your impression of Carrie, Ms. Clarkson?"
"I felt sorry for her. It was winter, and there was snow on the ground, and she had on this thin coat, and her legs were bare and her shoes were soaked. She said she'd had to walk because they had only one car, and her husband needed it for work. She had the baby all bundled up in blankets, but she was so cold. She didn't stop shivering the whole time she was in my office."
"Did she have any bruises? Any cuts?"
"None that I could see. But she acted odd—all stiff and sore. She sat with her shoulders hunched like this—" she demonstrated, then sat straight again "—and her breathing was shallow. It was like she couldn't catch her breath."
Being used as a punching bag could do that to you, Zachary thought grimly. "How did she behave?" he asked. "Was she nervous?"
"Oh, yes. She was on edge the entire time. Then, during our meeting, the principal came in, and she almost jumped out of her skin. He just wanted to meet her, because in all the years her children had been students here, none of us had ever met her. A lot of parents are uncomfortable with the principal when their kids are in trouble, but this was more than that. She was afraid." She grew silent for a moment.
"You gave her the number for a shelter for battered women," he reminded her. "Why? What made you think she needed it?"
"Instinct, I guess," she replied with a shrug. "She wasn't the first battered wife I'd had contact with through my job. The neighborhoods this school serves are working class. Some studies indicate a correlation between income and domestic violence, and an even higher incidence of violence among the unemployed. We have more than our share of both groups."
"Is it that simple?" Zachary wondered aloud. "Give them better-paying jobs and it stops?" His research didn't support that theory. Battered wives could be found in every income range, at every level of education, on every rung of the social ladder.
Elinor Clarkson laughed softly, humorlessly. "Of course not. There are probably more reasons why men beat their wives than there are sociologists and psychologists studying them. There are dozens of components to the problem. Low income is only one." She settled back more comfortably in her chair. "How are the Lewis children?"
Zachary glanced at Beth, but she left it to him to answer. "I suppose as well as could be expected."
"Are they here in Nashville?"
"No, they're with Carrie's parents."
She swiveled her chair from side to side. "I don't know what kind of services are available wherever they are, but they need counseling, not only to help them deal with their father's death and their mother's arrest, but also with the violence. It's been proved that family violence is often a learned behavior. The kids see the father abuse the mother, they see that she accepts it, and they grow up believing that it's normal. They may not become abusive themselves—not all children who grow up in violent homes exhibit that tendency as adults—but it's too big a risk to ignore."
Zachary looked thoughtfully at Beth. No, not all kids did. She was a prime example of that. Her parents had been emotionally violent, and in response she had become exactly the opposite—too calm, too controlled.
"Tyler and his brothers and sister have lived all their lives exposed to violence," Ms. Clarkson continued. "They've learned to associate it with love, that if you love someone, you can hit him or you can let him hit you. We all learn from our parents, and these are roles that they've learned—the man as abusive and dominating, the woman as helpless victim. Without professional help, they're at increased risk of carrying those roles into their adult relationships."
"We'll do what we can," Beth said quietly. "I have one more question about Carrie, Ms. Clarkson, and then we'll be on our way. Did you ever follow up on your meeting with her?"
"I called her house several times. I sent a note home with Tyler. I even went by there twice." She shrugged. "She refused to speak to me. She didn't want me to interfere any more. I suspected that her husband had somehow found out about our meeting and punished her for it."
After a moment of thanks and goodbyes, they left her office. Except for the echo of their steps, the broad hallway was quiet as they made their way back to the main entrance. There Zachary paused while Beth unfurled her plain black umbrella.
"What kind of social services are available in Sweetwater?" she asked as they left the warmth of the building for the icy chill outside.
"We have one social worker who's overworked, underpaid and, after twenty years on the job, undermotivated." He shivered as a gust of wind sent raindrops down his neck. Reaching back with one ungloved hand, he pulled the collar of his jacket closer. "I'll talk to the Morrises. Maybe we can work something out."
He opened the Cherokee's door for her, tucked the long hem of her coat inside, then slammed it. By the time he'd circled the car, there was a fine mist coating his hair and shoulders. Beth leaned across to unlock the door for him, and he climbed in beside her.
"This is depressing," she remarked softly as she gazed out the window.
Zachary started the engine and turned on the heat before looking at her. "The case?"
"That, too, but I mean the rain. I don't mind cold or snow, but rain like this makes me…"
"Blue?"
She smiled faintly. She'd been about to say melancholy, but she liked his word better. Yes, ugly gray mornings like this made her blue. "This started about ten last night, and it shows no sign of letting up."
"It snowed last night in the mountains."
Still gazing out the window, she smiled again, but this time with more feeling. "How long will it take you to get homesick for your mountains?" On Sarah's visits into the city, she usually last
ed only a few days before she began longing for the peace and quiet for her mountaintop home. Daniel couldn't even make it that long. He endured the city only when the details of his business demanded it.
Zachary chuckled softly. "I get homesick as soon as I leave. Don't you miss Nashville when you travel?"
Even though the answer came immediately to mind, she gave it a moment's thought, anyway. What was to miss about Nashville? Her work? Like Daniel, she usually traveled only on business. Her family? What was to miss about anger, arguments and threats? Her friends? A sound of disdain bubbled up in her throat. What friends?
"I could leave Nashville tomorrow," she replied quietly, "and never miss it." Her statement sounded a little hard, she acknowledged silently, and a little cold, but it was true. She could walk away from the firm, from her family and her acquaintances, from the place that had been her home for most of her life, and never regret it.
"And where would you go?" he asked, driving out of the parking lot, his attention on the road instead of her.
"I don't know. I suppose I could live anywhere." She hadn't given the idea that much thought. In fact, it was only recently that it had even come to mind. Only since she'd started working with Zachary. And only as a lovely fantasy.
"How would you support yourself?"
Her first impulse was to answer him; her second was to put an end to the silly conversation. Surprising herself, she went with the first. "I could continue to practice law." Then she surprised herself even more. "Or I could live off Great-Grandmother Althea's trust and do nothing."
Zachary brought the Jeep to a stop at a red light, then gave her a long look. He was trying to judge if she was serious, Beth thought, keeping her gaze on the windshield wipers as they swept rhythmically back and forth across the glass. He was trying to reconcile the things she'd just said with the woman he knew her to be.
After a moment, she met his gaze evenly. "Of course, it won't ever happen. Someday I'll probably be the oldest practicing partner in the firm. And like all the Gibsons and Townsends before me, I'll live and die in Nashville."
That seemed to be more what he expected to hear, she thought. But for a moment, just one brief, gone-too-quickly moment, she thought she saw disappointment in his eyes. She knew she felt disappointment—her own—deep down inside.
"Why don't you drop me off at the office?" she suggested, turning away once again, uncomfortable with the disquieting feeling inside. "Then you can get started on your interviews."
He didn't protest, didn't suggest that they have lunch together, didn't do anything at all but nod. Just like an associate. A strictly business partner. That was exactly the relationship she wanted with him.
Wasn't it?
* * *
Zachary walked into his mother's house Thursday morning and immediately inhaled deeply. There was no sweeter aroma than the one that filled this house on holidays. He separated and identified each scent—the turkey roasting, rolls baking, pies cooling, coffee perking. Individually they were enticing. Together they were heavenly. They brought back memories of Thanksgivings past, of holidays when his grandfather had still been alive, of football games and hiking through the woods and too much food.
They reminded him of family.
His father, uncles and male cousins had been banished to the living room to talk fishing and weather and politics until dinner was ready. He knew as he hung his coat in the hall closet that he would find the women of his family in the kitchen, each skillfully performing her own special task in spite of the crowded conditions and the numerous small children running around. It was controlled chaos, but he couldn't think of any other place he would rather be.
He waved hello to his father and Daniel, then headed down the hall to the kitchen. He'd seen many of these relatives as recently as Sunday morning in church, but he wanted to say hello before he settled in the living room with the men.
His grandmother was seated in the place of honor at the breakfast table, out of the way of those working but close enough to supervise. Zachary greeted her first, then found his mother as she rolled out piecrusts. She barely paused in her conversation with one of his aunts, but took notice when he dipped his finger into the baked meringue topping of a nearby pie. She slapped his hand, shook her head and sighed. "You're just like your father."
With a grin he kissed her cheek, then moved on to the sink to deliver the last of his personal greetings. There Alicia and Sarah worked together to diminish the steadily mounting stack of dirty dishes.
"How's Nashville?" Sarah asked.
Alicia was more direct, more sly, more teasing. "How's your new boss?"
He'd never confided his attraction to Beth to anyone but Sarah and Daniel, but his younger sister wasn't as naive as he sometimes wished. She'd certainly guessed right in this instance. "Nashville is cold and wet," he replied, "and Beth is fine, I suppose. She's having dinner with her family."
"Then she won't be fit for human company for a few days," Sarah replied. "You should have brought her here, Zachary—shown her how a real family celebrates Thanksgiving."
For all his invitations to dinner, he hadn't once considered asking Beth to spend the holiday with his family. What would she make of the crowd, the noise, the cramped quarters? He would guarantee that she'd never washed dishes after dinner for fifty, or eaten turkey and dressing off paper plates while sitting—or standing—wherever she could find an empty space, or met anyone who even remotely resembled the characters a few of his older oddball relatives had become.
No, her holiday meals, he was certain, were formal affairs, with damask cloths and heirloom silver and delicate crystal goblets, with a seven-course dinner prepared behind the scenes and served by stern-faced employees who'd had to forgo dinner with their own families in order to wait on hers. Attire would also be formal, of course. Jeans would be frowned on, and overalls, like Uncle Milton's, would be forbidden. Everyone would be civil, even to their most hated enemies, and enjoying oneself would be strictly prohibited.
He wouldn't trade his place on the living room floor, eating dinner at the coffee table, for any of it.
And Beth probably felt the same way.
He let the women shoo him out of the kitchen, giving a piggyback ride on the way to one of his young cousins. He didn't try to keep track of exactly how he was related to all of the younger Adamses. A cousin was a cousin, whether directly or three times removed.
In the living room he found a place on the sofa near Daniel and joined in the conversation. They had already covered politics once, he suspected, but a newcomer meant new opinions and a second going-over. And, of course, once the subject had been played out again, it wasn't much of a leap at all from that to the justice system, then to Carrie Lewis's case. He begged off on the questions, claiming client confidentiality. When that didn't slow the conversation, he used the holiday as an excuse. No one really expected him to discuss business on Thanksgiving, did they?
More than an hour had passed before he was able to talk quietly, privately, with Daniel. He had always been merely casually acquainted with the man until Katie's birth had brought so many changes into both their lives. Since then, a deep friendship had developed between them, until there was nothing they couldn't discuss with each other.
"I got a letter from my mother yesterday," Daniel said when they were alone in one corner of the room.
"What did she have to say?" Zachary remembered Patsy Ryan only vaguely. She had said goodbye to Sweetwater and Daniel when he was only a teenager, leaving for a new husband, a new life and a new family in Florida. She'd had little room in that new life for her first son. She hadn't once come to see her only grandchild when Daniel had been given custody of Katie, and she hadn't yet met her only daughter-in-law. Zachary didn't need to know anything else about Patsy to dislike her.
"She and her husband are traveling to Chicago next week, and she plans to stop by Sweetwater and meet Sarah and Katie." He looked down at his daughter cradled in his arms, asleep and snoring
softly. When she was a baby, Zachary recalled, she had looked like a tiny doll cupped in her father's big hands. She was bigger now but, compared to Daniel, still so small. And still so precious, he thought with barely controlled longing.
"Nice that Tennessee just happens to be on the way," Zachary replied with a hint of sarcasm.
"Yeah." Daniel sighed softly. "Sarah and Katie deserve better."
"So do you."
Suddenly Daniel grinned. He did that a lot more since Sarah had come into his life. "I've got more of a family than I ever thought I'd have. I don't need my mother. Besides, Katie thinks your folks are her grandparents. She won't be interested in these strangers who are coming by for a couple of hours." He shifted the sleeping girl effortlessly, then asked, "How are things going with Beth?"
"We had dinner last week, but that's about the extent of anything personal." Dinner and a kiss. He smiled solemnly. Was that all he would ever have? Just that one sweet kiss?
"What if it does get personal? What if you and she…?" Daniel let his question trail off, trusting Zachary to understand. "You couldn't leave the mountains, and I can't imagine Beth leaving the city."
"I don't know. I guess that's something we would have to deal with when the time came. And right now…" He shrugged. "I don't know if that time is ever going to come."
* * *
Beth accompanied an executive from one of her father's companies into the dining room, the polite smile pasted on her face concealing the taut line of her jaw. She had been here at her parents' home for exactly one hour, and already her head ached, her neck was stiff, and her jaw hurt. She had avoided all but the most public exchanges with her parents. She had been miserably polite to their friends and had even pretended not to notice the executive for the obvious setup that he was. Her father had never been able to bully her into the family business; now, she suspected, he was considering trying to marry her into it.
Not likely.
Dinners with her parents were excruciatingly formal. Well aware that her mother would detect the slightest flaw in her appearance, she had dressed more carefully for this dinner than for her most important court dates. She had changed outfits a half dozen times, knowing that nothing would satisfy Francine, and sure enough, the first words out of her mother's mouth after "hello" had been critical. "That color really doesn't flatter you, dear."
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