“You wish to address that, Mr. Bilton?” Judge Forrest asked.
“No, your honor,” he said. “We just request that testing proceed as soon as possible.”
“Very well.” The judge gestured to someone sitting in the gallery Miranda suspected was from the testing service. “Mr. Oakes, please sit at counsel table there, and Mrs. Donovan, you sit with the child at this other table in front of me.”
“We do have one other small request, Judge Forrest,” Cord said. “My client has never met the subject of this action, had never actually seen him with his own eyes until a few minutes ago in this courtroom.”
“So what are you asking of me?”
“We'd just like a bit of time—maybe in a conference room here at the courthouse—for a brief intro.”
“But your honor, we don't even know the results of the test,” Elizabeth Minton interjected.
Judge Forrest looked at the child, then at Prent, then her eyes traveled to the back of the courtroom where Drake Mercer had reentered.
“Mr. Mercer?” the judge addressed him.
“Oh, is this a confidential hearing? I'm sorry. I just came back to look for my scarf. Can't seem to find it—”
“Mr. Mercer, I'm appointing you as guardian ad litem for this child,” the judge said.
“Uh…”
Judge Forrest turned to a deputy sheriff standing at the end of the long wooden bench.
“Bailiff, please escort the parties to the grand jury room at the end of the hall. I don’t believe the grand jury is meeting today, so that room should be available.”
The deputy nodded and took a step forward.
“Wait, please,” pleaded Elizabeth Minton. “What are the ground rules? How many people are allowed in? How long? And what is the subject of this proceeding to be told about what is happening?”
“Five minutes with parties and counsel.”
“What about Mr. Oakes’s mother and girlfriend?” Cord asked.
“Counsel for the parties and Mr. Mercer will approach the bench while the testing is done now in the court’s presence.”
Cord went to the bench while Prent took a seat alone at the counsel table. The grandmother sat at the opposite counsel table and pulled the still-squirmy Peter onto her lap.
As the lawyers conferred with the judge, a woman wearing latex gloves and a lab coat came to Prent and, after getting some information from him, swabbed his cheek. She repeated the process with Peter, who Miranda heard ask his grandma whether he was sick.
“No, honey,” she said and held him tightly on her lap, “just a little test.”
“What kind of test?”
“To make sure you’re a rascal,” she said, tweaking his nose.
“But you already know that because that’s what you tell me all the time,” the boy whined.
Prent laughed out loud at the boy’s rejoinder, but the grandmother bristled at his amusement.
The bench conference broke up, and Judge Forrest adjourned court. All stood as the judge left the bench and disappeared through a side door. Prent and Cord rejoined Miranda, Maisie, and Davina in the gallery where Cord told the small group that Peter, his grandmother, and Elizabeth Minton would first proceed to the grand jury room, followed by Drake Mercer and the sheriff’s deputy.
“We’re supposed to wait here a few minutes. The deputy is going to talk to the child about his job, and then Drake is going to talk to him about his hobby.”
“What’s his hobby?”
“Kayaking and canoeing,” he said. “We go in, say hello. Prent gets to shake hands. You can’t tell him you’re his dad, you can’t hug him.”
Davina protested, but Prent shut his mother down.
“It’s better than nothing. Besides, I don’t want to overwhelm him—or me, for that matter.”
Prent’s eyes roamed to the back of the courtroom.
“Looks like Kurt has left.”
“And so has Mom,” Maisie noted.
“All the better,” Cord said. “The fewer people to make this more complicated than it already is.”
After waiting a tense ten minutes, Cord said it was time to go. The group exited the courtroom and turned left, while Maisie took a seat on a bench since she wasn’t one of the individuals allowed into the room. Prent held out his hands to his mother and to Miranda, and the trio walked hand in hand, with Prent in the middle down the hall and with Cord leading the way.
Miranda felt Prent trembling.
“Take a deep breath or two,” she advised as Cord knocked on an old wooden door with a large rectangular brass sign that read GRAND JURY ROOM.
Drake opened the door.
“Hi. Come on in. We were just talking about what we do,” Drake gestured to the deputy.
“I want to be a sheriff like him,” Peter said, pointing to the deputy. “Then I’ll be able to have my own pair of handcuffs!”
“Peter, this is Mr. Oakes, Dr. Chaplin, and Mrs. Oakes, Mr. Oakes’s mom. They wanted to say hello to you today.”
“Hi,” the boy said, walking up to Prent first. “I’m Peter, and I’m almost five.”
Prent extended his hand. “I’m—I’m Prent.”
The boy stared at the hand, then took it and shook it exaggeratedly.
“What do you do?”
Prent squatted until he was at Peter’s eye level.
“I make barrels.”
“Why barrels?”
“People need barrels to store things.”
“Oh, yeah,” Peter said. “You make them all by yourself?”
“No, I work at a factory where they make them.”
“You own the factory?”
“Along with someone else, yeah.”
“If I had a barrel, I could make it into a hideout,” Peter said.
“That’s just what he used to do,” Davina said, laughing and pointing at Prent. “And build forts with old ones too.”
“Cool!” Peter said, looking up at Prent with admiration.
Peter stared at Miranda.
“You’re a doctor?”
“Yes.”
“What kind? Do you operate on people?”
“I do, but mostly I help deliver babies.”
“Oh,” Peter said, unimpressed by Miranda’s credentials. “Well, I still want to be a sheriff.”
“And I think that’s enough,” Mrs. Donovan snapped, rising from her chair along the side of the room. “I can’t believe we’re doing this, that you’d put this child through something like this in public without even knowing that you’re the—”
“Hold on, ma’am,” Drake said in a stern tone to Mrs. Donovan, “you need to watch your words very, very carefully in here.” He pointed to Peter, who wasn’t looking at him.
“Just who the hell do you think you are?” she hissed at Drake. “Who the hell do you think any of you are?” she asked, casting a vicious look over all in the room.
Elizabeth Minton pulled her client into a corner of the room.
“It’s time to go,” Cord said.
“But it’s not even been five minutes, has it?” Prent asked, looking distraught.
“Trust me, it’s best we leave right now,” Cord said, looking at Drake and then the deputy.
Prent waved to Peter, who was much more interested in a pen he’d found on the floor.
“See you later,” Prent said in a rough voice.
“’Bye,” Peter said, his attention completely focused on the pen.
The last thing Miranda saw as they left the room was Mrs. Donovan giving them the evil eye as she huddled in the corner with Elizabeth Minton, who looked equally angry. But the attorney’s frustration was directed at her client.
No one was in the mood for Maggioli’s. Davina went home claiming fatigue, and Maisie said she needed to get to work since she’d told her boss she’d arrive after lunch. Prent returned to Cord’s office for a brief conference, and Miranda told him that after taking Maisie home she would meet him at his house. She could let herself in
with that new key.
When Miranda arrived at Prent’s place, the carpenters were in the far backyard working on the tree house down by the creek. They had a good start on the project, and Miranda could distinctly see a small frame, supported not only by the tree but by thick posts underneath.
When would Peter see that tree house? If that grandmother’s attitude were any indication that day, it could be quite some time before the youngster could enjoy the special place.
Miranda found a frozen pizza and popped it in the oven in anticipation of Prent’s arrival. A few minutes after it was done, Miranda heard the distinctive ding that indicated someone was coming up the long driveway, and she met Prent at the garage door entrance off the kitchen. They embraced in the doorway, with Prent looking completely drained. Miranda pulled him into the house, took his coat, and told him to sit at the kitchen table.
As she sliced the pizza and put plates on the table along with glasses of water, Prent sat in silence and looked like he was on the verge of tears. Once she sat, he reached for her hand.
“Thanks for being there today,” he told her.
“No other place I’d rather be,” she said. “Are you okay?”
“Not really,” he admitted and released her hand to pick up his glass of water. “I think that was my worst-case scenario for the day, other than actually having Peter cry or get upset. At least that didn’t happen.”
“What’s next?”
“Wait on the results. Cord says once we have those, we move for full custody. Cord’s instincts were right on the money—that woman’s been stalling to keep that kid.”
“Why did we have to leave so suddenly?”
“Cord was damned smart. He wanted the deputy and Drake Mercer to see that we were doing the right thing by avoiding further confrontation, that we had the best interests of the child in mind rather than putting our own interests first. If it comes to one or both of them testifying in a custody fight, they’ll be able to relate what happened, and hopefully the judge would see that we did the proper thing.”
The term custody fight rattled her.
She’d been on edge for weeks not knowing what was going to happen with the paternity matter, and now things had worsened. Although she’d accepted the idea of Prent having a child, Miranda had not steeled herself for a custody battle.
Distracted and nervous, neither ate much and lunch was over quickly, after which Miranda cleaned up while Prent went into the living room to build a fire. The day had gotten colder, with a light snow predicted, and when Miranda smelled the welcoming aroma of the burning staves she knew Prent used as kindling, she abandoned her efforts at tidying the kitchen and joined him on the couch in front of the fireplace.
He put his head in her lap, and she felt him start to shake with the force of his grief.
Prent’s sobs soon wracked his body. She felt helpless as she cradled him in his fear and anger, wishing she could do more but knowing she was giving the most she could at that moment. He sat up after his crying ebbed, and she put her head on his shoulder.
Gradually, naturally, hands moved over clothed bodies until fingers crept underneath waistbands, shirts, and pants. Clothing was tossed aside until they were both nude and Prent was gently easing Miranda onto her back on the couch. His hand stroked her until she reached for his length and guided him inside her. Moving slowly and deeply into her, Prent’s strokes brought her to that sweet peak, and Miranda clenched around him, moaning his name as she climaxed.
After he found release, they remained entangled and connected for a few minutes until Prent moved to the floor and she joined him. They covered themselves with one of the blankets from the couch, and Miranda fell asleep on Prent’s chest, happy to be together, happy to be home.
24
On a rainy Saturday in March, Miranda found herself on the road to Littleham for the morning’s clinic at Commonwealth Cooperage. The gloomy weather was an excellent reflection of the mood both she and Prent had been in for the past two weeks.
Ever since the encounter at the courthouse with Peter and his grandmother, both had been in a bad frame of mind. It had only gotten worse over the past few days since they expected the paternity test results during the next week.
But there had been one bright spot.
After the hearing, Miranda had reconciled with her mother.
Celia had explained she had shown up at the paternity hearing to see how serious Prent was about being a father and had left impressed. Although she had to bite her tongue to not remind her mother that Prent had been the one to file the paternity petition, Miranda was happy that she acknowledged Prent was doing the right thing by his child.
Prent had invited her to lunch at Shakertown after the clinic closed, but she had to decline. As soon as she finished at the cooperage, she needed to hurry back to Bourbon Springs for Lila Davenport’s baby shower at the distillery.
The afternoon would be a nice change of pace from her usual Saturdays, which had become increasingly stressful but not because of the work. The problem was that every Saturday morning, Prent was at the cooperage offices, along with Kurt as well as Minerva. She suspected that Prent and Minerva showed up to keep an eye on Kurt. It was true that since their confrontation a few weeks earlier he had kept his distance, but she still felt his hovering presence.
As she pulled into the cooperage parking lot that morning, Miranda first thought she was early since she didn’t see Prent’s car or Minerva’s vehicle.
But Kurt’s truck was there.
Not wanting to go inside and be alone with him, she sat in her car for about a minute, waiting for the rain to slacken or for Prent or Minerva to appear. Neither thing occurred, and Miranda sprinted inside as the time to open the clinic approached.
Miranda managed to make it to the clinic room at the far end of the hall, passing Kurt’s closed office door. Once at her destination, she pulled out her phone and checked her messages, wondering where Prent was. Her spirits lifted when she saw his text.
Be there soon
Patients began appearing and before she knew it there were five workers waiting to see her. It seemed that there was a nasty cold making the rounds at the cooperage, and one of the workers told her that Minerva had it quite bad. After she had seen the last of the employees, Miranda wondered whether she should call Minerva to check on her or even go to her house. She wasn’t above making a house call.
With no further word from Prent, she decided to call Minerva. But then Kurt appeared.
“Calling your boyfriend?” he asked.
Miranda barely looked up at Kurt and pretended to concentrate on her phone, hoping he would get the message and get lost.
“Worried about Minerva,” she said. “One of the workers mentioned she might have a cold.”
“I hadn’t heard.”
His voice was raspy, his breaths extra-wheezy.
“You feeling all right?” she asked.
“Yeah, why does it matter?”
“Because there’s a bad cold making the rounds through your workers and you’re wheezing.”
“I am not wheezing,” he insisted.
Lightning flashed across the room followed a few seconds later by a long roll of thunder, which caused the glass in the large windows to rattle. Kurt walked across the space and passed Miranda on the way to the windows, allowing her to confirm that Kurt’s breathing was a bit labored.
She watched him as he stared out the window into the grayness of the late winter afternoon and noticed it had darkened. Sheets of rain whipped against the glass. In the courtyard outside, Miranda saw the limbs of the Old Oak bending and swaying as the tempest descended.
“Didn’t know it was supposed to get this bad today,” he muttered and then turned his attention to Miranda. “You sure you don’t know where that boyfriend of yours is?”
“All he said was that he’d be here soon.”
“And when was that?”
“A few hours ago.”
Kurt grunted an
d shook his head. “Typical.”
Something inside her snapped at his insult.
“And just what does that mean?”
Kurt laughed.
“You should know,” he said. “Said he’d be here and he’s not. He’s not reliable.”
“Like hell he’s not,” she pushed back, ignoring the broader taunt about Prent’s past. “He’s been here every damn Saturday morning that I’ve been doing these clinics for the past few weeks, unless he’s been gone.”
“Yeah, but only because you’ve been around,” Kurt said. “And what difference does it make? You don’t know our business here.”
“Maybe I know more than you think I do.” She marched to the window where Kurt still stood, studying the now-furious storm.
“Oh, really? Then you know how I have to constantly be on the boy—”
“He’s a man.”
“Not from where I stand. Do you know how many times I’ve had to get that idiot out of a scrape? Too many.”
“So when was the last time you had to save him from himself?” she mocked.
“Just recently, as a matter of fact,” Kurt said smugly, “but I suppose you know all about that.”
“Ah, yes. Your brilliant idea to cut his income and salary.”
“He’s gone off and had a child that he didn’t even know about, and you’re still defending him? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You probably see him as your way out of your financial problems, and I guess he sees you the same way.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Don’t tell me that you two aren’t planning on getting married as soon as you can.”
Miranda was confused and embarrassed. How did money and marriage suddenly become directly connected in this conversation? Kurt was clearly implying something vulgar and grasping in her motives as well as Prent’s.
“I am not going to marry Prent—should he ask—for his money.”
His sneering, bloated face was red, and the rattle in his breathing was distinct and worsening. Despite her lingering concern about his physical condition, she was very uncomfortable in his presence and decided it was time to leave. She could catch up with Prent later.
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