by Eva Charles
“The after-school coordinator will email you with some proposed dates. Do you have a card?”
“Yes.” I take one of the simple business cards the library had made for me off the miniature easel and hand it to her.
“I’m also always trying to find volunteers with an hour or two a week to spare. There’s a vetting process, but I hope you’ll consider it.” She pauses for a breath, studying me while I study her. “I’ve managed to twist a lot of arms—women of all ages—many the same age as we are, so in addition to doing angel’s work, it will be a nice opportunity for you to make friends. I know how hard it can be to break into the Charleston scene when you don’t know anyone. I grew up here, but when I came back after being away for several years, it was even hard for me.”
I tuck a curl behind my ear. “I would love to help in any way I can. Having a chance to meet other women my age is a bonus.”
“You just made my day,” she says, tapping her hand on the bright pink folder. “There’s information about the center inside, as well as my contact information, and a form for a criminal records check, if you’re interested in a regular volunteer stint.”
“Thank you. I’ll read through it this evening.” Tell her about what you do. There are so many similarities. “I work with homeless women here,” I begin hesitantly. “If you meet anyone through Georgie’s Place that could use some supportive services, this is a sampling of what we provide.” I hand her a list of what we offer.
She takes it and scans the list quickly. “This is a nice complement to what we do. Together we could be a formidable team.” She smiles broadly and slides the paper into her bag. “Now, for the next item of business. You should know upfront that I won’t take no for an answer, unless you have an audience with the queen on that very day. Then maybe, I’ll let you slide.”
I shift in my seat. There is absolutely nothing snobby or off-putting about Gabrielle Wilder. She couldn’t be nicer, but there is something about the way she speaks that I’m not used to, and it has me mesmerized. It’s an unhurried cadence with an enchanting combination of clever prose and a lyrical accent that floats from her perfectly shaped mouth. I might be developing a serious girl-crush.
“It’s Smith’s birthday next week and we’re having a party for him,” she says with her hands clasped on the table. “Just a few friends. I want you to join us at Sweetgrass.”
Wait. What? How does she know Smith and I—are friends? “I don’t know,” I say, averting my eyes.
“Smith speaks fondly of you. He’ll love you to be there.”
It was him. He told her about us. What did he say? Clearly nothing too awful or she wouldn’t be here. “Does he know about the party?”
“No. It’s a surprise. Not a jump out from behind the drapes and yell surprise kind of surprise. Although he might get a kick out of that.” She smiles impishly. “He’s been invited to supper. He just doesn’t know that there will be some extra people joining us, and a big coconut cake piled with boiled icing for dessert. The man will eat anything that doesn’t move, but that’s his favorite.”
“I-I’m not sure he would appreciate me crashing his birthday party.”
“You’ve been officially invited. That’s not crashing.” She stands and gathers her things. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Smith, and from my husband. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that Smith likes you—very much. I’ll see you a week from Friday at seven. It’s casual. Just give the guards at the gate your name. You’ll be on the list of approved visitors. It was nice meeting you, Kate,” she says warmly, before turning toward the door.
“Gabby?” She stops and pivots.
“Smith, your husband, and Gray Wilder … you should know … they want me to leave Charleston. I-I don’t think they—especially your husband—would want me at your home.”
She takes several steps toward me and drops her bag on the table with a hand propped on top. “I don’t believe for a minute that Smith wants you to go anywhere. I’m sure he’s given you that impression. I can’t explain the male courting rituals, except to say they don’t advance much past sixth grade,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I invited a friend of Gray’s, too. He’ll have plenty on his plate that evening, and it won’t have a thing to do with you. So check him off your list of concerns. As for my husband—don’t spend a single second worrying about him.”
I swallow some of the anxiety that’s been building since she issued the invitation. “Your husband doesn’t seem like the kind of man whose bark is worse than his bite.”
Gabby arches a well-groomed brow, and her eyes grow wide and serious. “Oh, his bite is venomous. If you tangle with him, you better have the correct anecdote handy. But trust me. He will be on his best behavior that evening—although that’s not saying much.” She lifts the satchel off the table and onto her shoulder. “Should I send a car for you? It might make it easier.”
“No.” I shake my head. “Thank you. I can find my way.”
“Good,” she gushes, with a toothy grin that makes her eyes sparkle.
Oh, Kate, what on earth did you just agree to?
20
Smith
“What?” I bark into the phone.
“You go first, darlin’,” JD drawls, “because it sounds like someone stepped on your fragile little feelings, or is it that the menstrual cramps are particularly bad this month?”
“I don’t need your shit right now.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened. I’ve been on the damn phone all morning negotiating prices and delivery time for the new equipment.” There is almost nothing I hate more than being stuck in my office for hours trying to reason with morons.
“The heat-sensing devices and night-vision goggles are on back order,” I continue, whacking the desk with a yellow pad filled with notes. “Because those stupid fuckers who think they’re going to fight off the United States military from bunkers in the backyard have eaten up all the inventory, not to mention driven the cost sky-high.”
“What now?”
“They add us to the list and we wait. Six months, maybe longer.”
“How much to get to the top of the list?”
“Too much,” I mutter. “The computer equipment is more important.”
“That’s not what I asked.” Damn JD. Once he gets something in his head, he can never let it go.
“I thought you were going to be a silent partner? That’s what we agreed on.”
“You know there are jackasses all over the Carolinas that are less stubborn than you. Use the damn money I transferred into the account.”
“I’m planning on it. But I don’t want to drain the account at this stage in the operation. Things are going to come up that we’ll need that money for, including a hefty insurance bond when the first contract comes through.”
“So? We’ll transfer more.”
“No.”
“Alright. Let’s talk about something else before I’m so pissed off, I have to drive over to your office and slap some sense into your thick skull. I have information on King.”
“I’m listening.”
“There’s a rumor being floated that he’s sick. Smart people don’t believe it. They think that it might be an excuse so that when they pull his nomination, he can still keep his current judgeship.”
It takes a moment for the pieces to fall together. “If that’s true, that means whatever the White House dug up has legs. Otherwise, King’s people wouldn’t be worried that he’d lose his judgeship. Those are lifetime appointments.”
“Yep.”
“What do you think?”
“The information comes from a source that doesn’t trade in gossip. I’m inclined to believe there’s at least some truth behind it.”
“Any sense of what it is?”
“Not really. But King fucked anything with a pussy back in the day. One source tells me he wouldn’t be at all surprised if this involved a woman.”
“Thanks. I apprec
iate you asking around.”
“I guess this means that reporter is going to be staying in Charleston.”
I don’t like his tone. “You could cut her a break.”
“I could, but I won’t. She’s trouble, Smith. I feel it in my bones.”
We hang up without any more discussion about Kate. When JD’s thinking clearly, his instincts are solid, but he can’t think straight when it involves her. Not after she tried to do a story on Zack last year. JD protects his brothers fiercely, but when it comes to Zack, who is helpless, JD is a bear and wouldn’t hesitate to kill to protect him. No different than he feels about his wife and daughter.
My instincts are more than solid. They’re well-honed and battle-tested. But my dick has gotten in the way and compromised my judgment where Kate’s concerned. It’s inexcusable and demonstrates a total lack of discipline on my part—at least that’s what General Sinclair would say. And he’d be right.
The bottom line is I don’t entirely trust her either. Can’t afford it. As much as I want to let my guard down around her, I simply can’t. It’s always possible she’s using me to get closer to the Wilders. Everyone wants a piece of them. It started even before their father became a presidential nominee. Three young guys, filthy rich, and powerful. Even with the old man dead, they’re irresistible to the media.
I can’t let my dick take the lead on this. I just can’t. But I can give her the information on King. That, I can do.
I stroll past the circulation desk where Lucinda McCrae is checking out a book for a woman with a young child strapped on her back. “Can’t bring drinks into the library,” she chides, like I’m a schoolboy.
“I’m taking it up to Kate McKenna. Going straight to her room. Won’t be anywhere near a book.” I don’t stop and wait for permission.
“Next time,” she calls after me, “I take my coffee with a big dollop of cream and no sugar. I’m sweet enough.”
I pause on the bottom rung, turning my head to look at her. She has a damn sassy twinkle in her eyes that makes me grin. I’m sure every story about the woman is true. “I’ll remember that for next time, Miss McCrae.”
“I’m counting on it, Mr. Sinclair. I hope you have an appointment to see Miss McKenna,” she says, when I’m halfway up the stairs. “She’s a busy young lady who doesn’t have time to entertain everything that blows up from the street.”
I should be annoyed by the crack, but I’m not. For some reason Lucinda McCrae has made it her business to watch out for Kate and that’s fine by me.
When I get to the top, I snake my way through the stacks to Kate’s office, standing in the doorway to watch her for a few seconds before I barge in. Her elbow is propped on the table, and she’s twisting a hunk of hair around her hand, sharp eyes trained on the computer screen.
Shit. She’s gorgeous. There’s nothing more I want than those long legs wrapped around my waist, heels digging into my bare ass. That’s enough. This kind of thinking is not helping your judgment.
I stow the not-for-prime-time thoughts, and stride into the room, kicking the door shut behind me. “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself.” Not sure the broad smile is for me or for the coffee she’s eyeing longingly, but either way, it’s all good. “I didn’t expect you for another twenty minutes.”
“Light traffic.” I place the cup on the table in front of her.
“Thank you. Must be some news, if you have to shut the door.”
I grunt and plunk my ass in the chair across from her. “There’s a rumor that King’s sick, and that’s why the hearing’s been delayed.”
“I heard that,” she murmurs, prying off the lid, and blowing on the coffee before taking a sip.
“There are people who believe it’s a ruse. That King’s camp leaked the lies, so when the White House pulls the nomination, no one will start digging for the reasons why, and he can keep his federal judgeship.”
“Why doesn’t the White House just pull his name if they’re not planning on proceeding with him?” She fidgets with a pen while her mind churns. “Why would they want to be complicit in a lie that doesn’t benefit them?”
“I doubt they do. But they won’t pull it before they have another nominee. It will make them seem disorganized and inept.”
“And this White House always does everything it can to avoid that look,” she says. “It plays right into King’s hands.”
I nod. Whatever is happening with King isn’t good for the country, but to be honest, all I can think about right now is how relieved I am that the story isn’t dead, because when it comes down to it, I don’t want her to leave Charleston. Not yet. It might not make me very patriotic, but it makes me very human. I’m a civilian, and I get to choose human now, but not without the pinch of conscience.
“Why would he be afraid of losing his current job?” she continues. “That makes no sense.” Her brow furrows tightly. “Unless—”
“They’re pulling the nomination because of some scandal he’s involved with,” I respond before she can finish.
“It would have to be something serious to force him out of his current position. Do you have any ideas?”
“No.”
She disappears somewhere deep inside her head. “Do you know Judge Sorlin?” she asks, tapping a finger mindlessly on the bow of her lip.
Judge Sorlin? I wrack my brain, but I can’t come up with anything. “Never heard of him. Who is he?”
“Lucinda told me that he was King’s mentor back in the day. Carefully groomed King to be what he is today. He’s in a nursing home with dementia. His only daughter lives in Richmond. Maybe I should talk to him.”
“A demented judge doesn’t sound like he’ll be much help to you.”
“I don’t know. My grandmother had dementia. Not every second is confused. She had lucid periods. Depends what stage he’s in.”
I can see where this is going—into a big dead end. Maybe I can grease the wheels, make her life a little easier. Why? Why do you want to do that? I ignore common sense. Why not, when it come to her, I’m on a roll in that regard. “How are you going to get in to talk to him?”
“Unless it’s different here, you’d be surprised how easy it is to walk into a nursing home. They’re short-staffed, so nobody bothers you, especially if you look like you could be family, and act like you know where you’re going.”
“That’s reassuring,” I say dryly. “Do you want me to go with you?”
“No. It’s too late to go today. He’s likely to be more confused as the sun sets. I’ll go tomorrow, mid-morning. I think it might be less overwhelming for him if it’s just me.”
I wonder for a minute if there’s another reason she doesn’t want me to go. Maybe she doesn’t trust me anymore than I trust her. Probably smart. Although I’d never betray her—at least I don’t think so.
“Be careful.” I’m not sure why I feel the need to warn her. But something about this whole King mess is beginning to eat at me, and it doesn’t have a thing to do with Wildflower.
21
Kate
After I meet with Judge Sorlin, I have back-to-back appointments at the library, and then a literacy class. There’s scarcely a minute to visit the restroom.
It’s past seven by the time I lock my office door and head downstairs to let them know I’m leaving. Before I make it to the circulation desk, a man wearing a sheriff’s uniform approaches me. “Mary Katherine McKenna?” the deputy asks.
“Yes.”
He hands me a sealed envelope. “It’s self-explanatory. But there’s a number inside to call if you have questions. Have a nice evening.”
My hands tremble as I tear open the flap and pull out the paperwork. I read each word carefully. It’s a temporary restraining order, issued by a judge in Charleston County. It states that I am to have no contact with Judge Sorlin, and that I am ordered to stay away from the nursing home. A hearing on the merits has been scheduled for ten days from today. I read it through twice more before sitting on
the bench just inside the main door, where I read it again. It’s intimidating with its formal language and judicial seal.
Someone doesn’t want me talking to Judge Sorlin. Maybe he does know something. He might, but if today was any indication, it’s unlikely he’ll ever be able to tell me. Maybe it’s just that someone doesn’t want to risk that I’ll upset him. Maybe it’s that simple.
I’m not sure what to do. I no longer have an editor or colleagues. After a couple minutes stewing, I still have nothing.
I could talk to Smith. There’s really no one else to turn to for guidance. Do I really want him to know about this? When I can’t think of one good reason why not, I text him.
Kate: Do you have a few minutes?
Smith: What’s going on?
Kate: I was just served with a judicial order to stay away from Judge Sorlin.
Smith: I’ll meet you at your place in an hour.
By the time I get home, shower, and tidy up the house a bit, Smith is at my door with a pizza large enough to feed a family of four and a six-pack of a hoppy beer we both like.
“I hope you like cheese on your pizza,” he says, with a cocky half-smile, “because I know you don’t like it on burgers.” I shove his arm playfully and take the box, setting it on the counter while I get out plates.
“As long as it’s not covered in anchovies, I’m happy. I don’t have beer glasses. How about these?” I hold up one of the tall etched tumblers that was in the cupboard when I moved in.
“Don’t bother dirtying glasses on my account. The bottle’s fine.” He uses the opener from his keyring to pry off the cap from two bottles and stashes the rest in the fridge. “Let me see the restraining order.”
I hand Smith the paperwork, watching him closely while he reads. As usual, his face gives little away. “It’s signed by a judge,” he says, folding the order carefully and stuffing it back into the envelope.