“After my hopes of becoming a basketball star were dashed, I dabbled with the idea of being a writer or an artist. Both interested me, which—as much as I hated to admit it because God forbid I took after my dad—were perfect interests and skills for a creative role in an ad agency. When I got out of college, I went to work for my dad. He basically taught me everything he knew. When he passed away a few years back, I took over.”
“Big shoes to step into?” she asked.
“Very much so. I was overwhelmed at first. I got used to it. Sort of.”
“The pressure’s still there, though?”
“Definitely. At age thirty I didn’t expect to be running a fifty-person company. We’re privately owned and stay a modest size on purpose. My mother and sister and I each own a third of the agency. I split annual profits equally with them.”
“That doesn’t seem fair. You’re doing all the work,” she said.
“I have a salary on top of my profit bonus, so it works out fine. I’d love to have my sister work for us, but she’s doing her own thing. She took some of her early bonuses and started an online cupcake business.”
“Online?”
“They have several shops too, but yes, you can order cupcakes and they ship anywhere in the continental U.S.”
“They must be good cupcakes. You can buy a mix on sale at the store for a little over a dollar.”
He chuckled. “My thoughts exactly when she came up with the idea. I didn’t think anyone would pay five dollars for a cupcake, plus delivery cost. They ship them overnight to keep them fresh, so you can imagine what that costs. But there’s a market for this sort of thing with a certain type of client. She created this elite brand. All the rich mothers have to have them for their events. It’s been phenomenally successful. We do their ad work, so I like to say it’s all because of me.”
Five dollars a cupcake? Who in their right mind would pay that? Rich people. Don’t be judgmental. The worst thing she could do is insult his sister. Anyway, it was her own inadequacies that made her feel unkind. “I’m sorry about your dad. My mother died when I was in college,” she said. “It was hard.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Six years ago.”
“Wait a minute. How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven,” she said.
“No way. I thought you were twenty-two, tops. Now I don’t feel so old in your company.”
“You’re not old.”
“I feel like it sometimes. Having a daughter will do that to you,” he said. “My life’s been a fast track. The train left the station when Morgan was born and it’s been on high speed ever since.”
“Morgan? I love that name,” she said.
“It suits her. She’s strong and smart.”
“That’s the best kind of person to be,” she said.
“That’s probably how your boyfriend describes you,” he said.
Holy smokes. Ryan wanted to know if she had a boyfriend. Oh my god, oh my god. “There’s no boyfriend.”
“How’s that possible?”
She shrugged and attempted a flirtatious smile. “Fate has not yet presented the appropriate candidate.” How on earth was she pulling this off? She sounded cool even to her own ears. So devil-may-care. So girl-about-town. Other than the fact that her heart might explode from increased blood flow to every region of her body, and the palms of her hands possessed the moisture of a tropical island. A fungus might sprout from between her fingers.
God, she wanted this man’s hands all over her. She wanted to push him against a wall and kiss him until he begged her to come home with him.
But wait a minute. He could be a player. Maybe a wife at home? A live-in girlfriend? Morgan must have a mother.
A restroom break—she needed a moment to get herself together. “Excuse me. I’m going to use the ladies room. I’ll be right back.”
If Ryan had a woman in his life, she might have to quit the jury. She was way too far gone. Play with fire, get burned.
* * * * *
Their food came while Rena was in the restroom. Rena Burke. Such a pretty name. Old-fashioned and unique, kind of like the woman herself. Ryan played with the sugar packets while he waited for her to return. She wasn’t as young as he’d thought. This was good. But would she go out with him if he asked? He couldn’t tell if she was interested or not. The way she’d sprung from the table and ran for the bathroom just now flummoxed him. Had he pushed too fast with the boyfriend question? Screw it. He would just go for it. How often did he meet someone he liked so much right away? Never. If she didn’t like him, she would say no, and that would be that. Anyway, his father used to tell him that self-doubt was a waste of time and talent. Just get on with it.
Rena plopped into the booth and grinned. “I’m starving.” She picked up a fry and popped it into her mouth. A second later she grabbed her water and took a big gulp. “Oh my god, so hot.”
Yes, you are.
He dug into his salad. Good bacon, but crunchy. She might hear him chewing.
“How old’s Morgan?” she asked. “I forgot to ask.”
“Seven.” He pulled out his phone to show her a picture. “This is from last weekend. We went to see Santa.” Morgan smiled into the camera, sweet in a red dress with a black bow. Rosie had fixed her hair in waves.
“She’s adorable.” She sighed. “I love kids.”
Did she? Was it true? Most people just liked their own kids. He only liked his own kid. “Morgan’s what you might describe as a handful. She’s sweet and well-behaved, for the most part, but she’s a little energetic and way too smart. I swear, she never stops talking. I always thought girls were supposed to be gentle creatures. She’s more like an exuberant puppy. Which we also have. Tinsel.” Stop underselling, dude. Don’t tell her all the bad stuff.
“You have a dog?”
“Last year’s present from Santa,” he said.
She laughed. “Tinsel. Of course.”
“Morgan named her.” He forked a piece of turkey. “Between the puppy and Morgan, it’s been a busy year. Puppies are as bad as human babies when you first get them.”
“I always wanted a dog.” She dipped a fry into ketchup. “But my mom had allergies.”
“When she asked Santa for a dog, I was done for. She was only six. I didn’t want her to stop believing.”
A few seconds of silence passed. He glanced over at her in the most covert way he could muster. She stared at her plate. After a second, she took in a deep breath as if she wanted to ask a hard question.
“What happened to Morgan’s mom?” she asked.
He was right. She had wanted to ask a hard question. Wait. I know what she’s asking. She wanted to know if he had a woman in his life. What an idiot. He should have told her that when he asked her about a boyfriend. She might have thought he was married to Morgan’s mother, which would make him a douche.
“She passed away when Morgan was a baby. I don’t have anyone in my life.” As of now.
Rena’s dark eyes glistened. “It’s hard to lose your mom. My mom was the best. I still miss her.”
“Yeah, Jill wasn’t that kind of mom.”
Rena looked up at him between bites of fish but didn’t ask what he meant. Too polite—her mother had given her good manners. He’d noticed something about women over the years. No matter what they looked like when he first met them—cover model or nerdy programmer—they transformed as he got to know them better, one direction or the other. A supermodel became homely if she were mean-spirited. Rena, cute to begin with, had transformed into a great beauty before his eyes.
She didn’t ask a follow-up question. Her lack of intrusiveness had the opposite effect. His soul hungered for connection. Secrets tumbled from his soul and spilled into the space between them. “Jill was a party girl. When I first met her, I was enamored. She was fun, and I’m not always the most fun, so I was drawn to that. We’d only dated a few months when she got pregnant. I wanted desperately to do the rig
ht thing, so we got married, even though we were way too young and there were red flags all over the place. After she gave birth to Morgan, she went right back to partying and acting like she was still in college.”
“Like how?” Her gaze never left his face. She was listening to him. Really listening.
“She was out every evening with her party friends, none of whom had a kid, and didn’t come back until the early morning hours. I should’ve kicked her out then. I see that now. But Morgan was so young, and I wasn’t sure what to do, so I didn’t push it. When Morgan was six months old, Jill overdosed at a party. She was in a coma for a week.” He held his fork in midair. “I don’t usually talk about it.”
“I’m glad you did.” She wrapped a hand around her water glass. “It must be hard to raise Morgan without a partner.”
“It is,” he said. “Lonely. Exhausting. I’m tired all the time. Parenting is harder than I thought it would be.” Again, with the fantastic endorsement of his life. A few more minutes and he would have successfully run her off for good.
“When I was around Morgan’s age, my parents got divorced. It wasn’t until later that I realized how hard it must have been for my mom to raise me alone.” She sipped her water, as if deciding whether to continue or not. “My father was abusive. Mom was afraid for her life, so we ran away in the middle of the night to a shelter.”
A shelter, like the case. Had she been one of those little girls who’d received a generic gift from under the tree? “This case must be hitting close to home then?”
She studied her plate of fish. “Kind of. We didn’t spend long there.” Her voice softened. What were her memories of that time? Had they tattooed her or was it a blip? He wanted to know every detail of her life. All in good time. There would be time. He would make sure of it. Whether Seven entered his life by accident or design, he would take the opportunity and run with it. That’s what he did best.
“They helped us relocate to Idaho from Indiana,” she said. “Thankfully, he never found us. It was just the two of us from then on. We were fine. I never needed anyone but her. You’re more than enough for Morgan. She’s lucky to have a father like you.”
Her compliment surged through his bloodstream and satiated a part of him that rarely felt full. They ate in silence for a few minutes. “I’ve always put her first, which can be lonely sometimes,” he said.
“So there’s no one special in your life?” she asked.
“No. Not only does she have to be willing to put up with me, but she also has to be a mother to Morgan. I find women don’t want a ready-made family.”
“The right woman will love you enough to make it work,” she said.
“What about you, Seven? What brought you to Seattle from Idaho?”
“I went to art school in Boise to study photography. I came here six years ago to become a wedding photographer, but it hasn’t really come together, so to speak.”
“Why weddings?” The photographers he knew thought weddings were the worst gig in the business: hysterical brides, heinous mothers of the bride, rained out venues, drunk groomsmen.
His question was met with a wistful expression, accompanied by an expulsion of breath that reminded him of Morgan’s recent reaction to the sight of the Barbie Townhouse in the toy store’s display window. “I love weddings.”
“Really?”
“Every moment of them. I would never get tired of seeing a beautiful bride walk down the aisle toward her groom.”
Seven was a romantic—a charming quality, although completely unrealistic. “Not all brides are beautiful.”
“That’s not true. If she’s truly in love, every bride’s stunning on her wedding day.”
“No, that’s not how it works.” He smirked, teasing her. “That’s like saying there are no ugly babies.”
She gasped. “Ryan, don’t say that. There are no ugly babies.”
“Have you been to the park lately?” He shook pepper onto the boiled egg section of his salad. “There are homely babies, trust me.”
“You’re awful.” She laughed and covered her face with her hands, peering at him between her fingers. “I can’t even look at you right now.”
“I’m just saying the truth.” He ate a bite of salad. “Anyway, what’s keeping you from this wedding photographer dream?”
She took her hands from her face and picked up another fry. “I’m not the most confident person in the world. It’s hard for me to put myself out there. Plus, I don’t have any connections. As a native you may not see it, but people aren’t that friendly here. In Idaho, people all know their neighbors. They come to aid if needed. I’ve never even met my neighbors here, and I live in a small complex. Also, there’s a lot of competition.” She wiggled the french fry at him. “Most of all, it takes a lot of money to start a business, and I don’t have any of that.”
“What do you need besides your equipment?”
“Website. Marketing stuff. Well, you know about that.” She looked away. “Anyway, I had to sell my camera equipment to pay the hospital last year. My appendix almost burst and I had to go to the emergency room.”
“Don’t you have health insurance through work?”
She shook her head. “I’m an hourly employee, so no. I have to buy it myself. It costs me three hundred a month, and my deductible is six thousand dollars. So, it doesn’t do much good to a person like me.”
Of course, it wouldn’t. Man, he lived in a bubble. A six-thousand-dollar deductible was merely an annoyance to him. When Jill’s hospital bills came through, he was grateful it only cost him a few thousand dollars instead of the hundred thousand the insurance company covered. But to someone of Seven’s income, a six-thousand-dollar bill was devastating. It was sell all your camera equipment devastating. No wonder she couldn’t get ahead. You had to have something to start with, like his sister had when she’d opened her business. People like Seven didn’t have a chance.
“That sucks, Seven.”
She waved her hands as if to rid the air of a bad scent. “Nothing I can do now, but try and save up for another camera. Or, I could ask Santa for one. Maybe our defendant really is Santa and he’ll send a new camera in exchange for a not-guilty verdict.”
He looked around the room to see if there were any other jurors or members of the counsel and lowered his voice. “I know we’re not supposed to talk about it, but seriously, the guy looks exactly like I imagined Santa when I was a kid.”
“Me too. But we can’t say another word.” She put her finger to her lips, which totally diverted his attention. Now he was once again thinking about kissing her.
This was going to be a long afternoon.
Part Three
Rena’s thoughts raced as she took her seat in the jury box. After the filling lunch and her lack of sleep the night before, she should have been sleepy. But no. She was twitterpated. Was that a real word or only a line from Bambi? Whichever it was, she was it. Lunch with Ryan had gone so well. She hadn’t been shy or tongue-tied. The conversation just flowed between them. His eyes—such a pretty shade of green—were easy to get lost in, but she’d kept her cool.
It wasn’t just his looks. He was thoughtful and articulate—surprisingly open for a man. He wanted to know if she was single. He liked her. She’d read in last month’s Cosmopolitan about the subtle things men did to indicate they liked you, but darned if she couldn’t remember a single one of them now. It didn’t matter. Her gut told her they’d had a real connection. Best of all, he wasn’t married. No, best of all, he might ask her out this afternoon. All of it was too much. She would never be able to focus now. But she must. Fake Santa deserved a fair trial, even if he was guilty, which he probably was.
A police officer, Detective Will Crawley, testified next. LaRue went through the same routine, asking him his name and how long he’d been an officer before launching into the important questions. “Can you tell me what you found on the night of December twenty-first of last year?”
“I was called o
ut to the women’s shelter a little after ten p.m. The director said someone was robbing the tree in their common area. When I got there, he was gone. We searched the neighborhood, but there was no trace of him.” Crawley was a middle-aged man, balding with skin like a scalded turnip.
“But the surveillance tape told you everything you needed to know, is that correct?” LaRue asked.
“Pretty much. I mean, the fella was caught red-handed.”
“How were you able to find Mr. Smith and bring him in for questioning?”
“I spotted him coming out a bakery a few days after the crime. He carried a half-dozen loaves of sourdough bread tucked under his arm. We arrested and booked him that afternoon.”
Not sure why the loaf of bread is relevant. Rena stifled a smile.
“Is that person in the courtroom now?”
“Sure, that’s him right there.” He pointed at the defendant. John Smith nodded his head as if they were old friends.
“Were you and your fellow officers able to locate the missing gifts? The ones he took from under the tree?” LaRue asked.
“No, ma’am, we were not. We searched the studio apartment he rents. They weren’t there. He doesn’t own a car, so it’s not like they were hidden in a trunk of something. Who knows what he did with them.” Crawley pulled on his ear. “He probably sold them.”
“Objection,” Carson said. “Speculative.”
“Sustained,” Judge Warren said.
“No further questions, Your Honor.”
“The State rests, Your Honor,” LaRue said.
Rests? That was it?
Carson walked up to the podium. “Officer Crawley, what did Mr. Smith tell you about the loaves of bread?”
Crawley shrugged. “Something about delivering them to the soup kitchen on Seventh. He was having a fit about getting them over there. To calm him down, I had to agree to send one of my sergeants to deliver them.”
“Did Mr. Smith give you an explanation as to what happened to the gifts he allegedly took?” Carson asked.
“He said they were put back in the pool of gifts reserved for needy kids, or some such nonsense.”
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