Mulberry Park (4 page)

He peered again at the drawing of the angel, then turned the picture over. On the back side she’d written God a note:

A knot the size of a fist formed in Sam’s chest, but before he could ponder what was going on in the little girl’s mind or whether he ought to find a child psychologist for her, the telephone rang.

Who could be calling him at this time of night?

In an effort not to let the noise wake Analisa, he hurried into the hall and quickly answered.

It was Jake Goldstein.

“Hey,” Sam said. “What a coincidence. I was just thinking about you a couple of minutes ago.”

“Oh, yeah? I hope you were also thinking about golf. I called to ask you to play in the member-guest tournament we’re having at Costa Serena.”

Sam hadn’t played golf in months, and Jake belonged to a prestigious club that boasted a challenging course that overlooked the ocean. There wouldn’t be much arm-twisting going on. “I’d love to.”

“Great.”

That knot in his chest throbbed.

No, Sam realized, it
wasn’t
great. He had a niece who was writing notes to God and asking for more of Sam’s time and attention.

What kind of guardian would ignore that?

Only one who had a big
LOSER
sign pasted on his forehead.

Sam cleared his throat. “Wait a second, Jake. When is the tournament?”

“Next weekend. I would have called sooner, but I’ve been busy working on an appeal for a new client of mine, Russell Meredith.”

“I’m aware of the case,” Sam said.

A couple of years ago, the software exec’s vehicle had struck a child on a bicycle. For more than twenty-four hours, while little Erik Harper had been on life support, the police had scoured the community looking for the driver who’d left the scene of the accident. Finally, Meredith had turned himself in, saying he hadn’t realized his car had even hit the kid.

“Oh, that’s right,” Jake said. “You handled the civil suit the boy’s parents filed.”

Sam had managed to get the Harpers nearly five million dollars, which he’d hoped had helped them get on with their lives.

“The jury must have been putty in your hands,” Jake said. “It’s hard not to sympathize when the victim is a kid and the parents are grieving.”

“The Harpers lost their only child. Plus they were at the scene and watched the accident happen. The jury would have needed cast-iron hearts not to be moved by that.”

“Yeah, I know. And I’m afraid the parole board is going to see it the same way. But it was a tragic accident that could have happened to anyone.”

“
Accidents
happen all the time. But
this
was a case of hit-and-run.”

“There were mitigating circumstances.”

“Meredith might have been intoxicated,” Sam countered. “Drunk drivers are prone to flee the scene of accidents. And by the time he turned himself in, it was too late to prove one way or the other. Besides, he had a prior DUI causing bodily injury.”

“That prior had been on his twenty-first birthday, and the injury was minor. He hasn’t been in any trouble since, and I have witnesses who say Meredith was as sober as a nun and as law-abiding as an Eagle Scout.”

“You probably should have defended him in the criminal trial.”

“I wish I had.”

A wry grin pulled at the corner of Sam’s mouth. He and Jake were both practicing attorneys who could take either side in a case and present strong opposing arguments. In fact, they often did, even cases they discussed between shots on the golf course. “So what are Meredith’s chances for parole?”

“It’s hard to say. He’s been a model prisoner, and I’ve never seen anyone more remorseful.”

“Well, he
ought
to be sorry,” Sam said. Meredith had slammed into Erik, knocking him and his bicycle into the shrubbery that grew along the road, then continued on his way.

The line grew silent.

Normally Sam made a point of distancing himself from his cases, yet this one had been particularly tragic and unsettling for everyone involved.

“Anyway,” Jake said, “About the tournament—”

Sam cleared his throat. “You know, as much as I’d love to play, I can’t take the time off right now.”

“Work keeping you too busy, huh?”

“I’m afraid so.” Sam glanced over his shoulder at the open door to Analisa’s room. He also had an unexpected problem on the home front. “But I’ll make time soon. Maybe next month.”

After they ended the call, Sam started down the hall toward his own room, but paused momentarily by Analisa’s open doorway. He took one last look at the picture she’d drawn, the angel named Erik. For a moment, a goose-bumpy shiver ran up and down his arms.

How weird was that?

He shook his head, quickly disregarding the coincidence. Even if he were foolish enough to believe in fairy tales or some spiritual
Twilight Zone
, Erik Harper had curly dark hair, not spiky blond.

And a bright-eyed smile that Sam suspected would haunt the boy’s grieving parents forever.

Claire took the elevator upstairs to the sixth floor, strode to the solid double doors of Vandyke, Delacourt, West, and now Dawson, then entered a spacious lobby that boasted black marble, polished wood panels, and leather furniture—a validation of the firm’s success and prestige.

She took a seat that allowed her to peer out one of several floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a view of Mulberry Park and the city beyond. The office didn’t seem too familiar, but she’d only been here once to sign papers. It had been Ron who’d usually met with Mr. Dawson.

Of course, back then, Claire had been a zombie, barely able to put one foot in front of the other.

After checking in with the receptionist, she took a seat on a black leather sofa in the waiting room, crossed her legs, and reached for a
Psychology Today
. She thumbed through the pages, but couldn’t find a single article to pique her interest, so she returned the magazine to the table where she’d found it.

An appointment with Samuel Dawson had been a good choice, she decided. Now there was no need to rehash the painful details with a new attorney who would have to be brought up to speed on the case.

She glanced at her wristwatch: 11:28. Surely someone would call her soon. She was anxious to get some solid legal advice, yet for some reason, she felt a bit uneasy and self-conscious.

Maybe it was just her reason for being here that made her hands clammy, her nerves taut and on edge.

She brushed her damp palms across the top of her lap, then opened her purse and withdrew the letter from the parole board.

Before she could read it again, a baritone voice called her name. “Mrs. Harper?”

“Yes.” She glanced up to see Sam Dawson, a handsome man in his thirties, wearing a black suit. Expensive, she suspected.

He was tall, well over six feet, with broad shoulders and a square chin. His light-brown hair appeared to be sun-streaked, as though he spent more time outdoors than in the office, yet she doubted that was the case. Attorneys who’d just made partner probably didn’t have much free time on their hands.

She stood, and he clasped her hand in greeting, a grip that warmed the chill from her fingers.

His confident touch was a balm to her frayed nerves. “It’s good to see you again, Claire.”

“Thank you.”

“Let’s go to my office.”

She followed him down the hall until they came to an open door, where he paused and stepped aside, allowing her to enter first. As she passed by, she caught a whiff of his cologne, something ocean-fresh and musky.

It had been ages since she’d noticed scents. Not just a man’s; a lot of things no longer smelled the same. The morning coffee for one. And even the rosebushes that lined Mrs. Wilcox’s picket fence on Applewood Drive.

“Please have a seat,” Sam said.

She chose one of the black, tufted-leather chairs that sat before his mahogany desk.

Had this been his office before?

She couldn’t recall.

“What can I do for you?” His gaze locked on hers for the briefest of moments, and the intensity in his eyes—a vivid green in color—made it difficult to speak.

She handed him the notification she still clutched, holding onto the envelope. “Russell Meredith is up for parole on the twenty-fourth of July.”

“Actually, I’d heard that.” He took the letter and read the contents.

“And I want to make sure he serves every day of his sentence,” she added, thinking it only fair. After all, Meredith had gotten off easy. It was Claire who had received the harshest punishment, one that would last a lifetime.

Sam lifted his eyes to hers and nodded. “I can understand why.”

She might be wrong, but he seemed to recognize her pain. She’d felt it in his handshake, seen it in his eyes, heard it in his voice.

“The letter says I don’t need an attorney, but I think that’s the best way for me to go. Don’t you?”

“Yes, of course. I can either represent you or advise you so that you can go before the board on your own. Either way, I’ll do whatever I can for you and your husband.”

Her chest tightened and her stomach clenched, reminding her that there was still some rehashing that needed to take place, still a few things Sam didn’t know.

She cleared her throat, buying a moment for her emotions to rally. “If Ron wants to object to the parole, he’ll have to get his own counsel. He and I were divorced about a year ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

She shrugged. “It was all pretty simple. We divided things as fairly as possible and had a single attorney draw up the papers. He…we…just wanted it to be over.”

A little surprised at herself for sharing the details, she didn’t elaborate any further and was glad he hadn’t pushed for more.

They discussed his retainer and fees, and she signed the standard paperwork. When he’d finished explaining what she could expect at the hearing and had answered her questions, she felt much better. Having someone in her corner, especially one so knowledgeable, was reassuring.

She stood, indicating that their meeting was over. “Thank you, Sam. I appreciate you helping me with this.”

“You’re welcome. In the meantime, I’ll do a little research in case there’s something we’re missing. More details on that prior DUI might be helpful. I’ll give you a call later in the week and let you know what I found.”

“All right.”

As Sam stood to escort her out, she faced him. “What do you think?
The truth.
What are our chances of swaying the parole board?”

“Actually, it’s hard to say. But we’ll give it our best shot.”

She nodded as though he’d offered her what she needed to hear.

He hadn’t, though. Not really. There was a gaping hole in her life and her heart.

A hole nothing could fill.

C
laire might end her run each evening at Mulberry Park, but she made it a point to arrive after most people had taken their children and gone home for dinner.

So what was she doing here on a Saturday at noon, her car idling in one of only a few empty stalls?

She glanced across the console to the passenger seat, where a crayon-sketched angel named Erik rested. His gold halo was askew on a Bart-Simpson-style head of yellow hair, while big blue eyes with spiky black lashes looked up at her, and a crooked red grin tweaked her heart.

Yesterday, while peering up into the mulberry, Claire had spotted the picture on the lowest branch. Analisa’s depiction of Erik-the-Angel didn’t even remotely resemble her sweet, rough-and-tumble son, a boy with dark curly hair and golden-brown eyes.

In fact, Claire had reason to believe Analisa had drawn a male version of herself.

Erik looks a lot like you
, she’d written in her response to the first letter. She hadn’t meant that literally, but had been suggesting a commonality, since both of them were innocent children who’d been unfairly separated from their parents by death.

She blew out a ragged sigh. If Ron were still a part of her life, he’d tell her she was crazy, that she’d been foolish to quit seeing the shrink. And she’d be hard-pressed to argue with him.

Again she had the urge to leave, but scanned the park instead. The only person she recognized was Walter, the white-haired Korean War vet who’d caught her in the tree several evenings ago. Today he was seated at a table in the shade, not far from the restrooms.

Would he recognize her in a crisp, ivory-colored blouse and blue linen walking shorts rather than running gear? She suspected he might.

If she ever decided to get out of her car, she planned to keep a low profile, sit a while and watch the children from a distance—something she’d been unwilling and unable to do after Erik’s death.

She remained behind the wheel a moment longer, then reached across the console and turned the angel picture facedown in the passenger seat. Next she climbed from the car and locked it.

Before heading toward the park grounds, she adjusted her sunglasses. It wasn’t as if she was trying to hide or planning to stalk anyone. She was just curious, that’s all.

Her gaze drifted to the playground, where several kids laughed and played. When Erik had been a preschooler, she used to bring him to the park whenever possible.

He’d loved the outdoors. She had, too.

Yet now the sight of happy children—even two preschoolers squabbling over the same red plastic bucket—triggered a rumble of grief.

She had the urge to bolt before her eyes filled with tears, but that’s what the sunglasses were for. To shield her sadness from the world.

Up ahead, Walter sat at a table, his chess game spread before him. She wondered if he was waiting for a friend.

Perhaps he wouldn’t mind having company for a bit. She certainly couldn’t very well hover near the playground. If she were still a parent, she’d be concerned about a childless woman hanging out by the swings and slides.

She made her way across the lawn, and when she paused beside Walter, her shadow darkened the chessboard.

As the white-haired old man glanced up, recognition dawned on his craggy face, triggering a crinkled grin. “Come by the park to climb trees again today?”

“I’m afraid not.” She pointed to her knee, where a bandage covered another scrape she’d gotten yesterday while retrieving Analisa’s picture.

“Oops. Did that happen the day I saw you?”

“No. The time after that.”

He let out a little chuckle. “So you really are a tree-climber.”

“Not anymore.”

“Too bad. A lot of fellows my age take to bird-watching, which I always figured was a boring hobby. But I didn’t realize they occasionally spotted pretty chicks.”

She offered him the hint of a smile. “Are you waiting for someone?”

“No one in particular.”

“Then do you mind if I sit for a minute or so?”

“Not at all.” He brightened, a spark in his tired gray eyes hinting at the life still in him.

Claire brushed a few leaves aside from the green fiberglass bench, then sat and studied the playground.

A dark-haired girl with pigtails walked along the wooden beam that bordered the sandbox, her arms outstretched for balance while she tottered along, placing one foot in front of the other.

On top of the slide, another girl perched, ready to shove off. The sides of her hair—white blond—were held back with red barrettes.

That could be her, Claire realized, but there had to be hundreds of other possibilities in a city the size of Fairbrook.

Finally, she voiced her question. “I don’t suppose you know a little girl named Analisa?”

“I generally steer clear of the kids, but I do know that one. She comes with her nanny nearly every day. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondered.”

Walter lifted a gnarly, liver-spotted hand and pointed toward the slide. “That’s her. The little blond tyke who just landed in the sand and is now walking toward the swings.”

“Cute kid.”

“Yep.”

Analisa wore a red cotton blouse, denim shorts with a ruffled hem, and white sandals. She appeared to be clean and well-cared for.

Claire watched as the child backed her bottom into the seat of a swing and began to pump her little legs, soaring toward the sky. “What do you know about her?”

“Not much. She used to live with her parents in a foreign country. I forget which one—Guatemala maybe. Anyway, from what I understand, they were missionaries and died. Now she lives with her father’s brother.”

Unkel Sam,
Claire realized. A man who worked more often than a lonely, grieving child would like him to.

If Claire had a chance to speak to Analisa’s uncle, she’d tell him to find more time for the girl. To enjoy her while he had a chance to appreciate all he’d been blessed with.

“Why the interest?” Walter asked.

Claire shrugged. “I…uh…found a letter she’d written.”

“To who?”

Did she dare confide in a virtual stranger and tell him she’d entered a pen-pal relationship with a child who thought she was corresponding with God?

You need to go back and see that doctor again
, Ron had told her over and over.
There’s other medication they can prescribe.

If Claire had been able to take a magic pill to make the overwhelming sadness go away, she would have gladly done so.

People grieve differently
, the psychiatrist had told her.
Your husband has put the death behind him, but you’re not ready to. And that’s okay.

The doctor had also agreed that married couples ought to support one another, to respect their differences. Instead, Ron had begun to spend more time at the office and less time at home. His absence, along with the emotional distance that separated them even while they were in the same room, pushed her to agree when he finally suggested they divorce.

Claire searched the old man’s face. Something decent flickered in his eyes, although she couldn’t quite put her finger on exactly what it was.

“Just between you and me?” she asked.

“I’m good at keeping secrets, especially when I don’t have anyone to tell.”

Sincerity in his tone gave her cause for relief. Sympathy, too. It seemed they had more in common than either would have guessed, and she felt compelled to confide in him. “Analisa wrote a letter to God and placed it in the big mulberry in the center of the park.”

He arched a bushy white brow. “So that’s what you were doing when I spotted you in that tree.”

“Actually, the first letter practically fell in my lap.”

“How many has she written?”

“Two. And yesterday she left me a picture she’d drawn.” Rather, she’d left it for God and Claire had taken it home and placed it on the refrigerator overnight. Now it sat in her car.

Walter didn’t object or accuse Claire of doing anything especially odd, so she added, “I felt sorry for her. She wanted to know if her parents were happy in Heaven. I told her they were, but that they missed her.”

“You believe that?” he asked.

Claire shrugged. “Once upon a time I did.” And she wanted to now, but somehow it was difficult believing that a loving God had taken her son, leaving her to wallow in grief and trudge through life alone.

As a child, she’d believed angelic choirs sang in the clouds and walked along streets of gold. But the thought of Erik being anywhere other than in a satin-lined box under six feet of sod was hard to imagine, even though she’d tried.

Walter didn’t respond, and she was almost sorry he hadn’t.

“I suppose you and I are on the same page,” he finally admitted. “I’ve got a lot of friends who’ve passed on. Too many, actually. And I’d like to believe I’ll see them again, but the truth is I’m not so sure.”

A part of Claire had hoped for more from him, reassurance or some kind of confirmation. Yet she realized he’d probably had a few faith-busting trials of his own. Somehow, commiserating didn’t seem to be anything that would help either of them.

“I used to believe,” she told him. “Now I merely hope.”

“You’ll probably get a few brownie points for renewing a child’s faith.”

She chuffed. “Maybe so, but taking up a pen and claiming to be God could just as easily trigger a well-aimed lightning bolt.”

“Nah. From what I understand, God’s big on the Golden Rule.” Walter chuckled. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure what I would have done if those letters had fallen to me. Probably tossed them in the trash.”

Claire hadn’t even wanted to admit to Erik that Santa and the Easter Bunny weren’t real. She fingered the hem of her shorts, then brushed at the edge of the adhesive bandage that protected the scrape on her knee. “I hope I did the right thing.”

“Not to worry. In fact, I admire you for what you did.”

Claire turned, caught his eye. For a moment they shared some kind of connection, although she’d be darned if she knew what it was.

Walter tossed her a wry grin. “I have no delusions about the Ol’ Boy Upstairs being all that proud of me—even though I’ve straightened out my sorry life in the past couple of years. And I don’t pretend to have an inside track.”

Claire certainly didn’t. She watched the girl for a moment longer. Analisa now had a face. On the outside, she appeared clean and healthy. But if her uncle didn’t have time for her, were her emotional needs being met? And if not, to what extent did Claire want to get involved?

Oh, for Pete’s sake. She was barely taking care of her own emotional needs. What did she have to offer anyone else?

She got to her feet and excused herself. “It was nice chatting with you, Walter, but I’ve got to go. I have errands to run.”

“I’m here most every day. Anytime you want someone to spot you while you climb trees, I’d be happy to. ’Course, if you tumble, I’m not as strong or quick as I used to be.”

“My tree-climbing days are over.” She offered him a smile that held more warmth than the last. “Thanks for sharing your table.”

“Any time.”

She nodded, then headed toward her car. As she retrieved the keys from her bag, an old van pulled into the parking lot, the engine grinding to a halt. She stole a glance at the driver—a Latina who looked familiar.

For a moment, Claire had a difficult time recalling where she’d seen her before. Then she remembered. It was a woman who’d come in for a loan a week or so ago. Maria Somebody. Rodriguez?

Averting her head, Claire aimed her key at the car, clicked the button, and unlocked the door. Then she quickly climbed in and turned the ignition.

There was no need coming face-to-face with the woman she’d been unable to help. Why make either one of them feel uncomfortable?

But as she glanced into the rearview mirror, it wasn’t Maria’s gaze that she wanted to avoid.

Maria Rodriguez pulled the twelve-year-old minivan into the parking lot at Mulberry Park. From the sound of the motor, she suspected the transmission was slipping again.

Just what she needed. Another major repair.

“Analisa doesn’t always come to the park on Saturdays,” Danny said, “so I hope she’s here today. She likes the swings, too. And I’m going to show her how to jump out and land in the sand.”

“You need to be careful,
mijo
. I saw you do that the last time you were here, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Don’t worry, Mama. I know what I’m doing.”

Wasn’t that just like a child? To feel invincible? To downplay parental advice?

Maria had said as much to Tía Sofía when she’d been warned about dating the children’s father. But did she listen? Oh, no.

“You’re very brave and strong,” she told her son, “but it’s important to be wise, too. Don’t confuse courage with stupidity.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sometimes, when we have a reason to be cautious and ignore warnings of danger, it’s often because we’re being foolish, not brave.”

Her dark-haired, blue-eyed son flashed her a smile, reminding her of his father. “Don’t worry, Mama. I’m brave
and
smart.”

“I know you are,
mijo
.”

After shutting off the engine, Maria climbed from the maroon Plymouth Caravan, circled to the side door and opened it.

Danny unbuckled his seat belt. “I see Analisa’s car, so she’s here. Can I run ahead?”

“No, you need to help me.” Maria unfastened the harness that secured two-year-old Sara in the car seat. “You carry the lunch and place it on an empty table in the shade.”

“Okay. But can we sit next to Analisa and her
abuelita?
”

Actually, Mrs. Richards was Analisa’s nanny, not her grandmother, but Maria didn’t correct the boy. “You can ask Mrs. Richards if it would be all right if we share their table.”

Danny snatched the blue plastic Wal-Mart sack that had been packed with sandwiches, apples, and graham crackers. “Okay.”

Sometimes Maria worried that she expected too much from the boy, that she might be pushing him into a more grown-up role than was fair. But following his father’s arrest and conviction, she’d been determined to do whatever it took to make sure her children grew up to be more responsible than her husband had been.