Even the faintest whisper of the chopper is gone from my ears now, but he’s still looking in the direction it went.
“What’s your name, young man?”
“Justin.” He shifts his attention back to me. Those wide, blue eyes and that bright red hair. He’s all the inspiration I need for the day. “Justin Ryman.”
“Nice to meet you, Justin Ryman.” I stick out my hand. “I’m Millie.”
He takes my hand and shakes it good and firm, like his daddy had taught him right. “What’s your last name, Millie?”
“No last name. Just Millie.”
“How come you don’t have a last name?”
“Wielders of the Special Net don’t have ’em.” I wink and lean down closer to him, as if I’ve got a big secret to share. “Millie’s not my real name, either. We aren’t allowed to tell our real names.”
His lips form that O again. He’s so cute! I could tell him stories all day.
A series of thunk-thunk sounds pulls our attention to the sidewalk behind us. Two boys, just a bit older than Justin, are riding skateboards over the concrete walkway.
“Hey, Allen! Watch this!” One of the kids jumps, somehow making his skateboard pop up, over, and back on its wheels. Then he lands on the board and keeps skating.
“Cool,” Allen says. “How’d ya do that?”
My little friend stands and watches, longing written all over his face.
“Justin!” A woman’s voice pierces his concentration, and he turns back toward the hospital. The woman comes out from a service entrance and swipes what looks like a hair net off her head. “Justin!”
“Here, Mom!” He hands me my net. “I gotta go.”
He takes off in a dead run toward his mom and then stops halfway. “Will I see you again, Millie?”
I smile. “You never know.”
10
Saturday evening, Emily pulled away from her parking space behind The Litter Box and turned down the red bricks of Avenue A, heading for Roger and Lauren’s house. She stopped at an intersection and watched Justin Ryman, in knee and elbow pads, gather speed on his skateboard and weave a serpentine trail down the sidewalk. His gape-toothed grin drew a smile from her. She’d promised not to get into either account to help people, but she never promised she wouldn’t buy a kid a skateboard.
Ten minutes later, her tires crunched the gravel in Lauren’s driveway. She switched off the engine and studied their house. Tri-gabled French eclectic with a decorative oval window in an oak-stained door, and an arched entry. An upper-middle class home surrounded by similar homes, all stuck too close together, with wooden privacy fences dividing yard from yard. Outside their home, trimmed boxwoods nestled under low windows, and petunias surrounded an ornamental maple in the front.
Inside, a dear friend she’d neglected held an offer of forgiveness.
Emily took a quick glance in the rearview mirror to check her makeup, sucked in a fortifying breath, and climbed out of the car. Their phone conversation had been promising, but actually seeing Lauren could prove awkward. She walked down the concrete path to the front door, flexed her nervous fingers before she pressed the bell, then stood back to wait.
Lauren greeted her with a smile and a warm hug, and the years sluiced away.
Emily’s heart filled like a barrel in the rain. She took in Lauren’s cut-offs and cotton sleeveless top, her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, and her bare feet sporting vivid red polish, and was transported back to high school. Only Lauren’s laugh crinkles around her eyes tattled her age.
“You look great,” Emily said.
“So do you.” Lauren gave her another quick hug before turning aside so Emily could enter. “Excuse the mess.”
Inside, shoes of various sizes were strewn around the floor in the spacious family room, school books and a baseball mitt covered the coffee table, and a golf bag snuggled against the bookcase. The news blared from the TV in competition with the heavy thump of music emanating from upstairs.
Lauren grabbed a full laundry basket from the loveseat and again apologized for the mess. “With teenagers, it’s hard to be Martha Stewart.” She snatched the remote and muted the news, while yelling up the stairs, “Michelle, turn that down!”
“Aw, Mom!” a female voice responded. But the music softened a bit.
“It’s fine, really.” In truth, Emily loved it. It was just the way Lauren’s childhood home had been when they were growing up. A comfortable place for teenagers to come and hang out. “Actually, I’m a bit jealous. It gets pretty quiet around my place.”
“Quiet?” Lauren’s brows scrunched. “What’s that? Got a definition?”
Emily laughed as she dropped her purse onto a russet microfiber recliner and kicked off her shoes, just as she had when they were kids. “Put me to work.”
She followed Lauren into the kitchen and grinned at the sight of Roger standing at the counter, wrist deep in hamburger meat. He wore a Kiss the Cook bib apron over denim cut-offs and a Snarling Bulldogs baseball shirt.
“Hey, princess.” He twisted so she would be sure to see the apron. “You must obey the bib.”
“If you don’t mind getting lipstick prints.”
“Just add ’em to my collection.” He jutted his cheek toward her.
Propping a hand on his shoulder, she stood on tiptoe to give him a peck and then reached to rub the lipstick off.
He twisted his head away. “Uh-uh. That’s my trophy.”
Lauren dropped the basket in the adjacent laundry room and then returned to slap her husband’s shoulder. “I thought my kiss was your trophy.”
“It wore off.”
She refreshed it with an audible smack on his lips.
A twinge of jealousy snaked through Emily’s veins. She’d wanted a family, had thought she’d have one with Wade. But then he’d played her for the fool she was.
She clenched her jaw and shoved the thoughts aside. This was not the time to reevaluate the past.
Fresh lettuce, tomatoes, and onions rested on the countertop. Emily picked up a knife. “Want me to slice those?”
Lauren handed her a cutting board, then grabbed the lettuce and carried it to the sink. “Tell me your plans for the house.”
With effort, Emily restrained herself from bouncing on her toes like an excited poodle while she told Lauren her dreams. She wrapped up her list of renovations, then said, “I want to return it to its original state. It must’ve been grand in its day.”
“It’s not worth looking at now.” Roger slapped a patty onto a platter and dug a handful of meat from the bowl to form another. “But I bet it will be grand again by the time we’re finished with it.”
The doorbell chimed, the phone rang, and the back door slammed—all the noises of an active household.
“I’ll get it,” Michelle called from upstairs.
“I’m home!” This from a young man of maybe sixteen rounding the corner into the kitchen. With his jet hair and athletic build, Trey Norris looked identical to his father twenty years ago.
The doorbell sang again, and Lauren gave her son’s backside a playful swat. “Go get the door.”
Trey walked away with the lumbering stride of a confident teenager. “He has grown like Jack’s beanstalk since the last time I saw him.”
“I swear, he shot up three feet overnight when he was twelve and hasn’t quit growing since.” Lauren pulled down a plate for Emily’s sliced tomatoes and nudged the onion closer to her. Emily peeled it and began slicing.
The front door closed, and Trey’s laughter rang from the other room. His heavy footfalls were matched by another pair as he returned to the kitchen.
“Trey is a chip off the ol’ block,” Roger said. “Except he prefers baseball over football.”
“Much to your dismay,” Scott said.
At the sound of Scott’s voice, Emily got rattled and missed her cut; the knife grazed the onion and sent it skittering from her grasp. She flicked a glance over her shoulder to see Scott
knuckling Trey’s head.
“You’re no running back, but you’re a good first baseman, aren’t you?”
“The best.” Trey escaped Scott’s assault and went to the fridge for a soda. “How long before dinner?”
“Forty-five minutes.” Roger shaped the last of the burgers.
“Say hello to Miss Emily,” Lauren said.
“Hello, Miss Emily,” Scott and Trey chimed in unison.
Emily caught the gleam in Scott’s eyes just before he popped a corn chip in his mouth. He certainly seemed at home. Was he as surprised to see her as she was to see him?
He clapped Roger on the back. “What can I do, buddy?”
“Grab me a soda, will ya?”
“Sure deal.” Scott turned toward the refrigerator and then stopped in his tracks. “Why, Miss Emily, I do believe you’re barefoot.”
Emily’s cheeks grew hot, and she covered one foot with the other. “What, you’ve never seen my feet before?”
“It’s been years since I’ve seen you so casual. I like it.”
Now positive her face was a brilliant red, Emily concentrated on her onion. No way could she think of a snappy comeback with him looking at her like that.
“Mom, can I go to Allie’s?” Michelle called from upstairs.
“Yes, but come down here and say hi to Miss Emily first.”
Michelle appeared in the kitchen. The fifteen-year-old had inherited her mother’s blonde hair and her father’s brilliant blue eyes, which she turned to Emily. “Hello.” She flashed a smile and then addressed her mother. “Can I go now?”
“Sure, go on.” Lauren watched Michelle bounce away and then rolled her head toward Emily with a heavy sigh. “My youngest. So polite.”
****
Emily’s pulse throbbed with the rhythm of the family. She’d slipped into the activity of the kitchen as if her absence had never occurred.
But sitting in the backyard across from Scott at the picnic table, catching the flicker of his glances, feeling the warmth spread inside like dark, melting chocolate, made her wish for a more private setting with candlelight and roses and a table meant only for two.
Too often, she ignored the conversation and just watched him. The mechanics of his square jaw as he chewed. The dip of a dark strand over his forehead. The way his laughter invigorated his eyes.
He caught her staring, and in one silent instant, while Lauren and Roger laughed with their son, Scott’s lips slid into that smile meant only for her. Her breath caught, her heart stopped, just as if she was sixteen again.
She flushed and reached for a potato chip. Romance was reserved for the movies. She’d learned that lesson from Wade.
Roger leaned back from the table and patted his stomach. “This ain’t a thirty-eight inch belt around here. No sirree, Bob. It’s the fence circling a ground beef graveyard.”
“It isn’t thirty-eight inches either way you look at it.” Lauren goosed his side. “You’ve expanded another two.”
“Didn’t either. Belt shrunk.”
Trey grabbed a pickle, rose from the table, rattled off where he was going so quickly Emily missed it, and disappeared in a whirlwind.
“Kinda leaves ya feeling tired, doesn’t he?” Roger asked.
“Tired and old.” Scott shook his head. “Were we ever like that?”
“Of course not!” Emily raised her eyebrows in feigned horror. “We were perfect, always thoughtful and polite, always cautious and deliberate with our actions, always more interested in studying than dating.”
“Uh-huh. And what planet are you from?” Lauren rose from the table and began gathering the paper plates. “We were exactly like that. We were normal kids.”
“Define normal.” Emily lifted the platter holding the last two hamburger patties and the plate of leftover tomatoes, and followed Lauren into the kitchen.
“If I know those guys, they’ll disappear, and we won’t see them again until after everything’s cleaned up.” Lauren pushed the plates into a plastic trash bag and then faced Emily with her fists on her hips. “That means it’s time for you to tell me what happened with Wade.”
Emily’s throat constricted as if Lauren had clamped her hands around it. The choke hold would’ve been preferable. She lowered the platters to the countertop. “He’s in prison.”
“What?” Lauren stepped closer. “What did he do? Did he hurt you?”
Emily wrapped her arms across her chest and shook her bowed head. No one but Connor knew what had happened, and he knew only the business end of it. She had never voiced the rest. And couldn’t, even now.
Especially now. If Scott overheard her, whether she was ready for dating again would be moot. He wouldn’t want her. “Please, Lauren, let it go.”
Lauren hesitated, her lips tight. She rubbed Emily’s shoulder. “No, honey, I don’t think so. If I know you, you’ve been holding all this in—”
Roger entered with an empty soda can for the recycle bin, and Emily twisted quickly to the sink to appear busy with the few dishes there.
“Didn’t you make a chocolate cake?” Roger poked around the dirty bowls and half-empty bags of chips on countertop, looking for the dessert.
“It’s over there on the island.” Lauren grabbed the plastic wrap and covered the leftover meat. “I thought we’d have it later. You can’t possibly still be hungry.”
He threw his hands up in a not guilty plea. “It’s not for me. You know Scott. We’ll have to call the excavators to see where his bottomless pit ends.”
“Don’t blame your sweet tooth on me.” Scott joined them in the kitchen. “Besides, if I had a bottomless pit, excavation would be useless.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Roger cut two slabs of cake and plopped them unceremoniously on paper plates. The men pulled out chairs at the kitchen table, and Lauren wagged her finger at them.
“No. No way. Unless you intend to help clean up—and I doubt it—this is a women-only zone. Girl talk goes a whole lot better without men around.” She pointed toward the living room. “Now, git!”
“Guess I know when I’m not wanted.” Roger’s gleaming eyes belied his sullen expression. “C’mon, buddy. Let’s go catch the baseball game.”
“I’m on your tail.”
Once they were gone, Lauren flipped the water off and held out a dish towel for Emily. “Let’s talk.”
11
“Wade was a con artist,” Emily whispered. Talking about him humiliated her. She grabbed a paper napkin from the porcelain holder on the table and began to twist it. “I never saw it coming, never realized how much he was milking out of the foundation.”
“The Harris County Charity Foundation? I don’t understand. How did he get involved with it?”
“He worked his way into it.” Emily took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “When we met at the auction for the Children’s Hospital, he said he was checking out the foundation to see how we conducted business, what kind of turnout we’d have, things like that. He said he’d been charged by his church leadership to raise funds for an orphanage in Nueva Laredo, just across the border in Mexico. He wanted to enlist our help but said he knew he’d have to become known in the right circles first so folks could trust him.” Her lips quirked into a wry smile. “You should’ve seen him. He had this clean-cut look about him that made him seem honest. I never realized.”
“He sounded like a keeper. I thought you two were ready to walk down the aisle.”
Heat rose in her cheeks, but she pressed on. “We hit all the churches in the county during the two years we dated. He would speak at each one, show pictures and everything. A portion of the offering went to help those poor children in Mexico. At least that’s what everyone thought.”
“There was no orphanage?”
Emily shook her head. Telling this to her friend, hearing her own words aloud, she felt like such a fool. “But he had proven himself well enough that the foundation decided to have a fund raiser for this bogus orphanage.”
�
�How did he get caught?”
“He was recognized by a Texas Ranger, who was a member of one of the churches we visited. Apparently, Wade Coulter’s real name is Pete Murray. He was wanted all over the state.” She clenched the napkin in her fist. “They arrested us at the dinner gala the foundation held for the orphanage.”
Lauren’s brow furrowed. “Us? They arrested you, too?”
Emily’s tears puddled on the table as that night three years ago played out like a slide show in her mind. Waltzing with Wade under the twinkling ballroom lights, warming when he told her he loved her, daydreaming about their future together. The commotion as men in cowboy hats and western boots shoved through two hundred revelers, shouting at Wade. At her. The handcuffs. The flash bulbs. The TV cameras. The microphones.
The jail.
A hand covered hers, and she met Lauren’s steady gaze.
“He’s in prison. You’re not. They must’ve found out you weren’t involved.”
Emily nodded and used her tattered napkin to dry her cheeks and nose. “It took a bit of doing. Almost half of the down payment for Deck the Walls went to pay my legal fees. I hated selling my business, but I couldn’t stay in Houston.”
“You were exonerated, weren’t you? No one could possibly believe you had anything to do with it.”
“I’m sure some didn’t. I testified against him—everything came out in the trial. But…” Being linked with Wade had destroyed her reputation. She could still hear the whispers, She’s that woman the con-man worked with. I don’t care what anybody says, I still think she was in on it. Once, she’d written a personal check to a favorite charity in Houston, only to have it returned. No, thank you. Please don’t contact us again. The handwriting had been Penny Wenchel’s—a friend and co-chair on many of the same fund-raising committees Emily had served on. She shook her head. Exoneration hadn’t saved her credibility. “I couldn’t stay.”
“Ready or not, here we come.” Roger barreled into the kitchen and rattled an empty soda can. “Need another one.”
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