“Thank you.” Morgan’s reply was soft. Apologetic.
“Call as often as you need to. I’m on this.”
Morgan was very lucky to have such a good friend.
* * *
CAL HADN’T MOVED since his conversation with his father ended. He was still in his seat at his desk, his tie firmly knotted, glancing at unopened files on his desk. He needed answers but they weren’t in those files.
He wasn’t sure where they were.
Cal didn’t like that.
His life was neat. Orderly. It made sense.
He liked it that way.
Wanted it that way.
Intended to keep it that way.
“Professor?”
At first he wasn’t sure if Morgan’s voice came from the swirling thoughts in his mind, or from the door of his office. But when he looked, there she stood, looking beautiful and real and…
“What’s wrong?” If her son had run off again…
“I… Nothing.… You said I should stop by.”
Her eyes told a different story. And concerns about his own situation fled.
“Come on in,” he said, rising to usher her to a seat on the couch that sat in front of a floor-to-ceiling wall of books—dark bound tomes and gray encased references, fiction and literature and poetry, too.
Closing the door, he joined her, sitting close, but not too close. “How’s Sammie?” He asked the first, and most obvious, question.
“Fine.” Head slightly bent, she glanced his way, smiled at him. Resting her elbows on her knees, she clasped her hands. Unclasped them. Clasped them again.
“He wasn’t hurt, then?”
“No.” She shook her head. Smiled again. “He was good as could be. Spent the night on my father’s property at a campsite he’d set up in preparation for his great adventure. He ate well, had plenty of water and extra batteries for the handheld gaming device my mother had given him that they’d neglected to tell me about.”
Cal didn’t understand why Morgan’s parents couldn’t see that it was hard enough for a young woman to raise a son on her own without interference from them.
“He was at their place all night?”
“On their property. My father has a lot of acreage, with no road access, that he doesn’t fence because he wants the animals to roam freely so that every fall he can hunt them down and kill them.”
Her knuckles were white. He resisted the urge to cover them with his hand. Morgan was strong. Capable. She didn’t need his assistance.
“He fired his security team.”
“They were responsible for your father’s hunting ground, too?”
“No, but he fired them anyway. For not knowing that someone had set up camp there. Thing is, Sammie was only able to do so because he had access to the land from the grounds at Mom and Daddy’s place and the team had no reason to suspect he was there. They didn’t see him on Friday, of course. They’d have known to report that. But his visits weren’t monitored, which allowed him to get everything set up. Daddy had told his team to let Sammie run free on the property because young boys need to test themselves, to taste freedom, to become men. He believes I coddle my son too much. That I’m making him into a wimp.”
“He lives and breathes sports. Basketball, baseball. Or did I misunderstand that?”
“No. You’re right.”
“From what I gathered, Sammie’s about as much of a boy as you can get.”
Gaze directed at the floor, she nodded. And he saw her chin start to tremble.
“So what did the police say? Did they press any charges?”
“No. And they didn’t call child protective services as it was so obvious that Sammie was just trying to prove a point. I’d taught him well enough that he’d been able to pull the whole thing off without putting himself in much more danger than if he’d walked to a friend’s house after school. He didn’t hitchhike, or stay out on the streets after dark. He didn’t talk to strangers—he said the basketball player wasn’t a stranger, and he only asked directions for the bus because he was so excited to see the guy it was all he could think of to say. He went straight to his campsite on his grandfather’s property and stayed put until Saturday morning. He was heading home when he saw the replay of the press conference on a TV in the window of a fast-food place and called me.”
“Well, that’s good.”
“Yeah. The police admonished him pretty severely, of course. He wasted a lot of people’s time and resources, not to mention the hell he put us through… .”
“Do you think he got the message?”
“I’m certain he did. He’s been apologizing ever since. Detective Martin asked that I take him to counseling, though, in exchange for letting everything else go. We start tonight.”
“Is he resisting?”
“Nope. Not at all.” No sign of a smile. Her face was drawn, her eyes more vacant than not.
“Hey.” He moved over, covered hands that were strangling each other. “What’s going on?”
Her right leg started to bounce. Slowly. Methodically. She didn’t speak right away. Cal wasn’t sure she was going to. And then she said, “My father’s attorney filed papers on Daddy’s behalf this morning. He’s suing me for custody of Sammie.”
“He can’t do that.”
“Apparently he can. Doesn’t mean he’ll win, but he can try.”
“On what grounds?”
“He’s planning to prove that I’m an unfit parent.”
“That’s ludicrous!” He wanted to strangle the man.
“Apparently Sammie’s escapade was enough to get the attention of social services.”
“You said they weren’t called.”
“I said the police didn’t call them.” She turned to look at him, her hands still clasped beneath his. “My father did.”
* * *
SHE HAD FRIENDS. Close friends like Julie Warren. Women at work with whom she occasionally shared confidences. Mothers of young boys she knew from Little League and scouting and school and city league basketball practice. A boss who valued her and was always willing to listen.
And the person whose spirit called out to her, the person she needed to talk to, was the college professor she’d secretly fantasized about.
She didn’t understand the calling. And she didn’t question it. Her life was imploding and she had to do what she had to do to keep Sammie safe.
“You know what I think?” Cal asked, looking her straight in the eye as he sat next to her on the couch in his office.
She shook her head.
“I think that social services will take one look at a man who would try to derail his own daughter and show him the door.”
Maybe. If the father were someone other than George Lowen.
“Your son is well fed, clothed, healthy. He’s getting a good education. You said he maintains above average grades. I know for a fact that his home is a place of warmth and love—and it’s clean, too.”
“But I’m not in control there, Sammie is. A ten-year-old needs guidance, not coddling.” She wasn’t playing devil’s advocate so much as releasing the thoughts that were scaring her to death. As though putting them in Cal’s keeping would help. “And I’m overprotective.”
“Parenting style isn’t grounds for a custody battle.”
This was why she was here. Because she needed a fresh perspective, needed views from someone who didn’t have preconceived prejudices.
�
��I made some pretty serious errors in judgment in my past. I was young. It’s behind me now. But my father is dragging it all out. And he’s claiming that I put my son in danger by not being more aware of his state of mind.”
“Have you been served papers? Maybe your father is bluffing.”
She should move across the room, away from Cal Whittier. Her college professor should not be holding her hands. Especially not when the touch made her feel so close to him.
“My mother called as soon as everything was finalized. She wanted to tell me firsthand that the papers were coming. I called social services immediately. I’m not sure they were supposed to talk to me, but the guy who answered knew who I was from the news on Saturday. He told me he’d seen the Amber Alert and had been out looking…”
She swallowed. Another perfect stranger who cared. Who wanted to help.
“Anyway, when I told him why I was calling he did some checking and found out that a file was opened for Sammie this morning. We’ll be assigned a court-appointed counselor for Sammie by the end of the day. I’m to expect a call no later than tomorrow, and then to plan for a series of in-home visits and interviews before our court date, which has been set for two weeks from tomorrow.”
Cal frowned. “When did you get the call from your mother?”
“Right after class.”
He glanced at a big, dark analog clock that dominated the wall behind his desk. It was still a few minutes before noon. “And they just filed this morning? That’s some fast work.”
“That’s my father for you. I’m sure Young Stoddard, my father’s attorney, asked for an audience with the judge when he filed the papers this morning. Daddy doesn’t like to go through clerks and assistants. Sammie played right into Daddy’s hands by running away. He was on the news. Wasted thousands of dollars in city employee resources. An Amber Alert was issued. Which makes our situation serious.”
He didn’t release her hands. Instead, he gave them a soft squeeze. “Your father may have a lot of money, Morgan, but he’s not God. He’s not even a politician. So he gets a look into your life with Sammie. You’re a great mother. It should be an open-and-shut case.”
If only life were that clean. Easy.
If only a woman were judged on her heart, her intention, not solely her deeds…
“My mother called to warn me. And to deliver a message from my father. He said that unless I cooperate and give up custody without the battle, my father is going to dig up dirt on me until he wins.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“YOU’VE GOT TO BE kidding!” Cal inwardly cringed. Morgan had just told him that her father was set to cremate her alive, and that was the best he could do?
Cal wasn’t used to having students in his office with problems he couldn’t solve.
“Do you really think he’d do that?”
“I think he’ll do whatever he has to do to get his own way. How far will he go? I’d like to believe he wouldn’t totally undermine me, but I’m just not sure… .”
“What kind of parent would cut his own child off at the knees?”
“One who believes that he’s doing what’s best for everyone involved,” Morgan said, her tone softening just a bit. “You saw my father in action, Cal. He makes up his mind and he pushes forward, regardless of the cost—to himself or anyone else. He’s certain he’s always right. And equally sure that it’s his job to think for the rest of his family.
“He believes I’m going to buckle and he’s going to get his way. And if I don’t, if I call his bluff, he’ll have been pushed into a corner and he’ll move forward. Because he’s George Lowen and that’s what he does.”
“Is he willing to create dirt where none exists?” he asked. He’d not only been reading Morgan Lowen’s essays for four years, he’d been listening to her critical insights in class. The woman was gifted. And full of heart.
She always saw the deeper meaning and championed the moral choice.
“He won’t have to make stuff up. My mistakes are several years old, but they’re there. I have very few secrets from my father. He sees to that.”
He sat back, holding on to one of her hands as he did so.
“He has you followed?”
“Not that I know of, but it wouldn’t surprise me. My father has a way of knowing everything he wants to know.”
“That’s almost creepy. And could be considered stalking.”
Shrugging, she sat back, too, her shoulder touching his. Not a big deal. But he noticed.
And didn’t mind.
“I’d bet a month’s pay that he knows how many open accounts I have and with who, if I’m paying my bills on time, that sort of thing. I’m certain he knows what I’m paying in rent.”
“That can’t be legal.”
“The internet makes all kinds of things available if you know how to go about getting it. My father can afford to hire the people who know how to get it.”
“Have you called him on it?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And nothing. He denied doing any such thing. We fought. Or rather, I did. He remained calm and adamantly assured in his right—or as he put it, ‘his duty’—to keep tabs on his own daughter if he chose to, which he said he did not. And while he calmly lied to me, I built up to yelling at him. I was asked to leave until I could be more respectful. And I’m certain that if he was watching me, he didn’t stop.”
Cal wondered if Morgan had any idea how strong she was. She was heroine material if ever there was a living embodiment of fictional perfection.
Her fingers moved in his, striking an answering flicker inside of him, and he knew he had to end this.
“What evidence does he have to use against you in a custody battle?”
Her sigh sounded as though it came from her very depths. She glanced his way and those big brown eyes affected him as her fingers had. He could feel her.
Cal didn’t much like to feel.
Unless he was naked with a woman.
“Like I said, I’ve made some pretty bad judgment calls. Not so much lately. But a few years ago I was so busy rebelling against my father’s control that I did some stupid things.”
The words were said so calmly, so matter-of-factly, Cal wasn’t sure he’d heard them right. And then he couldn’t make sense of them.
“You’re a single mother with a job you’ve held more than ten years, finishing your last semester on a college degree. You drive a trustworthy car, live in a safe neighborhood and have a healthy son who gets good grades. I’m not seeing evidence to support his case.”
“My father hasn’t seen much of me in the past several years. What he’s going to point out to the court is that I’m a single mother because I trusted a gold-digging son of a bitch when he told me he loved me more than my father did. I knew Sammie’s father had lied to me a few times, but I put the lies down to his issues because he’d never known a secure home life. I knew he had trouble with his temper, but told myself that was a product of frustration, and understandable, considering the abuse he’d suffered in his last foster home. Mostly, I think I married Todd because my father was so adamantly positive that I couldn’t. I had to prove to him, and to myself, that I could make own decisions.
“My poor choice got my parents robbed, their home ransacked, priceless memorabilia ruined. It resulted in my being abandoned and pregnant at nineteen with no way to support myself and having to testify against the father
of my child in court. It garnered my son a father who was in prison at the time of his birth and who has disowned him ever since.”
“You aren’t the first woman to fall for a guy who didn’t turn out to be who he seemed, Morgan.”
“I know.”
Well, then…
“Todd is only one in a long line of errors in judgment,” she continued. “I trust too easily. I don’t know for certain, but I imagine one of the things my father is going to claim is that it’s only a matter of time before I trust someone in Sammie’s life who will hurt him. I’m not sure that it matters all that much. This past weekend is pretty strong evidence that I don’t have control of my son.”
“Lots of kids run away just to assert their independence.”
“I realize that. But my father’s going to capitalize on what happened. I guarantee it.”
“He won’t get far without more to go on,” Cal said, breathing a little easier. “Give me another example of what he might use against you.” He’d do his job, set her free and move on to assessing the term papers in one of the folders on his desk.
“My first apartment, after Sammie was born, the landlord let me stay in exchange for cooking all of his meals for him until I could get a job and get on my feet. I planned the first week’s meals—twenty-one of them—bought the groceries with the money he’d provided me to do so, and had to kick and bite my way away from his table the very first day when he let me know that what he wanted for breakfast wasn’t the ham and cheese omelet I’d prepared.”
His neck was warm. His tie too tight.
“By the time I made it back upstairs Sammie was awake and screaming for attention.”
“He didn’t…get what he was after…did he?” It was none of his business. He had to know.
“No. But I got a few bruises I hadn’t been planning on. My mother saw them and told my father.”
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