Mulberry Park (7 page)

“Not anymore.” Sam didn’t mind defending clients who were actually innocent or those who had screwed up and were somewhat remorseful, but his last defendant had been a real sleaze and as guilty as sin. “I got burned out and wanted a change.”

“I can understand that. So what are you working on now?”

“A divorce for a domestic violence victim.”

“Be careful, you can get burned out on those, too.”

Sam knew what Jake meant. It was tough for most people to understand the dynamics at work when a victim remained in an abusive relationship. In this particular case, the battered woman had stayed with the brute she’d married until her oldest son, a nine-year-old, felt obliged to defend her. In his haste to get to her side, the boy “accidentally” fell down some stairs and broke his arm. The cops bought the bogus explanation, but Sam didn’t.

James Danrick, the victim’s husband, might be an exec dressed in an Armani suit, but he wasn’t any better than Sam’s old man had been.

“I’ve taken a personal interest in this case,” Sam admitted. “And I want to do the best job I can representing her.”

“Is there something making this case any tougher than the norm?”

“The husband comes from money and made a mint himself, but he kept his wife under his thumb and control for years, refusing to let her work or pursue any kind of life outside the home. And her escape to a women’s shelter has pretty much left her penniless.”

“Should be a slam dunk,” Jake said.

“I thought so, too, until I learned Judge Riley has been assigned to the case.”

Jake blew out a whistle. “That’s too bad.”

It was known in legal circles that the Honorable Alfred Riley had very little sympathy for women. He’d even tap-danced around a sexual harassment suit that had been filed against him a few years back.

Sam had gotten word of the judicial assignment on Sunday evening, just as he’d sat down to dinner, and a profanity had slipped out of his mouth.

Analisa’s gasp told him he’d tumbled off any pedestal on which she might have placed him.

“I’m sorry,” he’d told her later, knowing her father wouldn’t have approved of the inappropriate comment, either. Sam was going to have to watch his Ps and Qs around her from now on. Or rather his damns and hells.

“That’s okay,” she’d said. “God forgives you, too, Uncle Sam.”

Yeah, well it had been Analisa’s forgiveness he’d been seeking. He figured God—
if
He was up there, even casually keeping watch on things down here—hadn’t been too happy to hear of Judge Riley’s assignment either and would have understood Sam’s frustration.

“Who were you talking to?” she’d asked. “And why did you get mad?”

“That call was from a woman I work with. And I wasn’t angry at her. Just upset about some news she gave me.”

“Why?”

Sam had meant to skim over the question, but the innocence in Analisa’s eyes had a way of tripping him up sometimes, and he was never sure what to say to her.

The truth, he supposed.

“The lady told me that Judge Riley was assigned to one of the cases I’m working on. And that’s not good news for me or my client.”

“I’ll ask God to fix it for you.”

Her faith had merely unleashed another kind of frustration. How far was she going to take all this God stuff?

As far as he was concerned, she was barking up the wrong tree when it came to divine intervention.

“So what’s up?” Sam asked Jake.

“I heard that Claire Harper has you on retainer, and I called to ask if you’d talk to her for me.”

Sam leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking as he swayed. He knew where this conversation was heading, but asked anyway. “What about?”

“It would be nice if she’d write a letter of recommendation for Russell Meredith’s parole hearing.”

“You’re dreaming. She’ll never do that.”

“Then maybe you can persuade her not to fight his release.”

“That’s not going to happen, either.”

“If she knew how tough Russell’s incarceration has been on his son, she might. Or if she knew how sorry he was that the accident happened.”

How could Russell not be sorry? He killed a child and destroyed a family.

“Will you give Mrs. Harper a call as a favor to me?” Jake asked.

“I have reason to believe it’s a waste of time.”

“But you’ll feel her out?”

A part of Sam wouldn’t mind having an excuse to contact Claire Harper or meet with her. Yet he feared the compulsion to pick up the phone and dial her number also had something to do with the color of her eyes and the lilt of her voice.

There was something about Claire that tugged on his heartstrings, what few he had, and he found himself sympathizing with her more than he should, more than was wise.

When she’d come to his office the other day, her waiflike smile, as faint as it had been, had touched him in a way that made him feel a bit heroic, which was a little unsettling when he didn’t have anything to offer that another attorney couldn’t provide. An awkward sense of responsibility had hovered over him, making him wonder whether he should have taken the case.

“So what do you say?” Jake asked.

“I’ll give it some thought.” But he hadn’t given it much.

Twenty minutes later, after walking to the nearby deli and picking up enough sandwiches, chips, and cookies to feed three starving attorneys rather than himself, a child, and an older woman, Sam walked across the parking lot to Mulberry Park. He’d dressed casually today in a light blue golf shirt, khaki slacks, and a pair of loafers he’d chosen for comfort rather than style.

The warmth of the sun and a cool ocean breeze mocked the confinement of his office on a Saturday morning.

How long had it been since he’d spent an entire day outdoors? For the life of him, he couldn’t remember.

As he approached the playground, he saw Analisa at the top of the slide. When he and her father had been kids, they’d spent a lot of time at the park on the weekends. It had been one way to avoid going home and getting yelled at for something they may or may not have done—at least, until they’d gotten to an age and size that would allow them to yell back. To tell their old man that if he laid another hand on them or their mother that the paramedics would have to mop him off the floor.

Sam spotted Mrs. Richards seated at a bench, not far from where an attractive brunette wearing black slacks and a white cotton blouse handed a young boy a helmet and pads. The young woman stood about five-four, her hair swept up into a twist, her eyes hidden behind sunglasses.

As he drew near, the brunette turned and her lips parted.

Claire Harper?

When she lifted the dark lenses and rested them on top of her hair, the answer was clear. To say he was taken aback—albeit pleasantly so—was an understatement. He and Jake had just been talking about her. How had she come to know Hilda?

“Hello, Sam.” She reached out her hand, soft and manicured, yet devoid of polish or jewelry.

“What a surprise.” The clichéd response thudded in his ears, and he wished he’d come up with something more clever.

When she glanced at the cardboard box of deli food he balanced in one arm, he lifted it and grinned. “I brought lunch. As you can see, there’s plenty. Would you like to join us?”

A smile sparked her green eyes and dimpled her cheeks. “Thanks for the offer, but I have some errands to run—clothes to pick up at the dry cleaner, some weekly grocery shopping to do.”

“Have you eaten?” he asked.

“No.”

Maybe he ought to insist she at least take something with her. She was thinner than she’d been during the civil trial, but he doubted that was because she’d gone on a diet. Instead he imagined that she’d thrown herself into her work and had skipped meals because there was no one around to encourage her to eat.

The weight loss hadn’t looked bad on her, though. She was still an attractive woman.

Sam glanced down at the sandwiches wrapped in white butcher paper, at the brightly colored bags of different chips, at the plastic containers of fresh fruit. Then he shrugged a single shoulder and tossed her a playful grin. “I was hungry when I placed the order, and I forgot Analisa couldn’t eat as much as some of the attorneys in the firm. There’s going to be a ton left over. You’d be helping me out by joining us. Most of it will probably go to waste.”

She seemed to ponder the offer, but just for a moment. “All right. Thanks.”

With her sable brown hair swept into a neat twist and a calm demeanor, she appeared to be a woman in control, although he suspected that wasn’t the case. Something told him that the pain still lingered and that her life hadn’t returned to normal.

He wondered whether it ever would.

It was too bad that her husband had divorced her, leaving her to grieve alone. Couldn’t Ron Harper see what Sam could? The loss of her son, first, and then her husband had obviously taken a toll on her.

Her scent was soft and feminine, and he felt compelled to compliment her on it, to mention that he liked the way the sun highlighted strands of gold in her hair. To tell her she looked especially nice today.

Instead, he kept quiet.

If he’d met Claire Harper in a bar, he’d know just what to do, what to say. But this woman who was also a client had him feeling like a freshman geek with a crush on the prom queen.

And Sam, who’d actually kissed the high school prom queen when he’d been in the ninth grade, had never been the least bit self-conscious around women or clients in his entire life.

So now what?

Sam the Geek was in uncharted water.

I
t had been ages since Claire had taken part in a family picnic. Ages since she’d wanted to.

As she stood awkwardly beside the fiberglass table, Sam removed the sandwiches, chips, and fruit from his box. In a way, she wished she’d declined his invitation for lunch. In another, it seemed as though it might be time to venture into the world again.

Hilda, who’d gone to retrieve Analisa and take her to the restroom to wash up, returned with the child, whose pastel-colored butterfly barrettes held back the sides of her blond hair.

Yet it was more than Analisa’s outward appearance that gripped Claire’s heart, it was her sweet spirit, her innocent faith.

“Analisa,” Sam said, “I’m not sure if you know Mrs. Harper or not. She’s a friend and a client of mine.”

Claire smiled, thinking the word “friend” was pushing it a bit, yet the idea touched her in an unexpected way. “I’ve seen you playing, Analisa. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

The child, who held a dark-haired doll in her arm, wore a pair of pink shorts, a white eyelet blouse, and a sweet smile. “I saw you before. You were sitting by Mr. Klinefelter. Are you
his
friend, too?”

During the past three years, Claire had burrowed into an emotional fetal position, letting several friendships wither from neglect. She’d known it was wrong, but at the time, she hadn’t had the energy to do anything about it.

Perhaps she still didn’t.

Vickie had called again yesterday, leaving a message on Claire’s answering machine. “Just checking in,” Vickie had said. “I miss you and thought we could spend some time together. Maybe at the new spa in Del Mar?”

Claire hadn’t returned the call yet, although she knew she should. Vickie might stop reaching out altogether one of these days, and Claire couldn’t blame her if she did.

Friends like Vickie didn’t come along every day, but the pain of being around a happily married woman with healthy children was a bit too much for Claire to handle.

But Mr. Klinefelter? The old man who hung out at the park?

“I’ve met him a time or two,” Claire admitted to the child. “And we’ve chatted, but I wouldn’t call him a friend.”

Analisa nibbled on her bottom lip, then zeroed in on Claire. “But do you know how to play
chest?
”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“That’s too bad.” The girl’s shoulders slumped, and her brow furrowed.

Claire suspected she’d been hoping to find an opponent for Walter. Or, more likely, she’d been expecting God to provide one, and she’d hoped Claire had been duly appointed.

“Ham, turkey, or pastrami on rye?” Sam asked, drawing Claire’s attention from her musing.

“Turkey, please. But only half. Maybe someone else can share with me.”

“Look at the size of those sandwiches,” Hilda said. “We’ll be able to feed an army with the leftovers.”

“Like I said…” Sam tossed Claire a crooked grin. “I forgot who I was ordering for. Besides, I’m hungry.” Then he reached into the box for the sodas. “I’m afraid I only purchased three drinks at the deli, but if Hilda has any paper cups, we can make this work.”

“I brought herbal tea for myself, so those three sodas will be plenty for you.” Hilda slipped her hand into a large canvas tote bag, and her smile soon morphed into a grimace of perplexity. “Oh, dear. Where’s my thermos?”

“Did you leave it in the car?” Analisa asked. “Like last time?”

Hilda faltered momentarily, then brightened. “Maybe so.” As she got to her feet, she added, “You all go ahead and eat. Please don’t wait for me.”

After the elderly woman headed for the parking lot, Analisa bent forward and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Sometimes she forgets stuff, and I have to remind her.”

Sam didn’t seem too concerned about the comment, but Claire, who’d been privy to the child’s pleas to God, wasn’t so sure. Children didn’t always have a grasp on what was going on in the adult world, yet Analisa seemed to be unusually aware of everyone around her, including the grown-ups.

As they sat at the picnic table and began to unwrap sandwiches and pass out chips, fruit bowls, plastic forks, and napkins, Claire couldn’t help but steal a glance at the child. The doll she held, a brown-haired baby with tan skin and dark eyes, was a bit tattered and worn, but in a Velveteen Rabbit way.

“You have a nice baby,” Claire told the girl. “What’s her name?

“Lucita.” Analisa carefully propped her doll on the table, so that it sat beside the sandwich. “She used to belong to my friend, Soledad. But when Uncle Sam came to get me at Rio del Oro, and we had to leave, Soledad gave her to me.”

“Analisa has plenty of dolls at home,” Sam said, “all brand-new. But she prefers that one.”

“That’s because Soledad loved her so much.” Analisa caressed the scraggly brown hair, then offered Claire a smile. “Me and Soledad didn’t used to like each other. But when Mommy died, I had to stay with her family for a while, and she was nice. So we made friends. Then, when my daddy died and I had to go with Uncle Sam, we cried and cried. Soledad said that since she still had her parents and I didn’t, she wanted me to have Lucita. So I have to take really good care of her.”

An ache settled in Claire’s chest. Did Sam realize Analisa had lost not only her parents, but a friend, too? A child who’d given up her prized possession to the little girl she’d never see again?

Had he made arrangements for the children to talk on the telephone? To write? To keep in touch somehow?

“Know what, Uncle Sam?” Analisa adjusted the doll, making it face her bowl of fruit.

Sam unwrapped the pastrami on rye, then tore open a bag of tortilla chips. “What’s that, honey?”

“Trevor said that dolls are dumb.”

Sam popped a chip in his mouth. “Who’s Trevor?”

Analisa pointed toward the playground, where the boy sat on the down side of the teeter-totter all by himself. “There he is.”

Sam slid a glance at Claire, eyes sparking, a grin tugging at his lips. “Someone needs to teach Trevor a little tact, especially when it comes to dealing with girls.”

“What’s
tact?
” Analisa asked.

“It’s choosing your words carefully,” her uncle told her, “so you don’t offend someone.”

“What’s
offend
mean?”

He cleared his throat, glancing at Claire, before returning his attention to the child. “It means to hurt them or upset them.”

“Then Trevor really needs to learn it.” Analisa lifted the top off her sandwich and removed the slice of tomato.

“Trevor is still a child,” Claire said in the boy’s defense, “so that means he still has a lot to learn.”

“You’re a boy, too,” Analisa told Sam, “so maybe you can talk to him about it.”

“I don’t think a stranger ought to tell him about that sort of thing. Besides, it’s a lesson his parents should teach him.”

“Why don’t I talk to him?” Claire said. She had no idea why she’d volunteered, yet now that she’d opened her mouth, she wasn’t sure how to backpedal. “I’ll explain that Analisa loves Lucita as much as or more than he loves his skateboard.”

It’s the approach Claire would have used if Erik had been the one to make light of a doll that had become much more than a toy.

A shadow of sadness skulked over her again, as it often did whenever she thought about her son, and she tried her best to ignore it.

About that time, Mrs. Richards returned to the table with a thermos, unscrewed the lid, and filled a red plastic cup with herbal tea. Then she looked up and smiled sheepishly. “I knew I’d brought it today. I always do.”

Analisa agreed. “Mrs. Richards loves tea. And when she was a little girl like me, she used to have tea parties.”

Hilda smiled, then took a dainty sip from the plastic cup.

For the most part, they ate their lunch in silence. When Claire had finished her sandwich and fruit, she excused herself, saying she had to go. “I need to stop by the dry cleaners and the grocery store.”

Sam got to his feet. “If it’s okay with you, I’ll walk you to your car.”

“All right.”

As Sam began to pick up the used napkins and wrappers, Hilda shooed him away. “You go on back to the office, Mr. Dawson. I’ll clear the table. It’ll give me something to do.”

“All right, Mrs. Richards. Thanks.” After saying good-bye to Analisa and telling her he’d see her at home, Sam walked with Claire to the parking lot.

There was a light wind from the west, a salty ocean breeze that stirred the scent of his musky cologne. Their shoulders brushed once, twice.

The first time it happened, she didn’t think much of it. She just basked in an awareness of his bulk and his warmth. But the second touch triggered a flutter in her pulse that suggested they could become more than the friends he’d claimed they were.

Not liking the direction her thoughts had drifted and looking for a distraction, Claire glanced up ahead and saw Trevor. When his gaze met hers, he lifted his hand and wiggled his fingers.

She waved back. She’d promised to talk to him about Lucita, and she would—later. After Sam left.

For some reason, she felt compelled to extend her time with Sam, although she refused to ponder why.

“You know,” he said, interrupting her thoughts, “I’m not used to dealing with kids, especially girls.”

“I’m sure you’re doing just fine.”

He shrugged. “My home life was crappy when I was growing up, and to be honest, I never really saw myself becoming a parent. So, needless to say, I’m out of my league.”

Claire’s own early years had left a lot to be desired, too, yet she’d always wanted to be a mother, to have a big family. She’d dreamed of living in the suburbs with a house full of kids and driving a loaded-down minivan to soccer practice or dance lessons.

But Ron hadn’t wanted children. “I’m not up for all the drama,” he’d said on more than one occasion.

If truth be told, Claire, who’d been an only child, wouldn’t have minded the noise, the you-started-it squabbles, or the age-old cootie wars.

“By the way,” Sam said, “I received a call from Russell Meredith’s attorney today.”

As Sam’s steps slowed, Claire turned to face him, her wistful reflection fading as quickly as her hackles raised. “What was that about?”

“It seems that Russell has been a model prisoner and has shown a great deal of remorse. There’s a good chance he’ll be released.”

“
Great
. And then what? He just goes back to his six-figure income, his home in the most exclusive neighborhood in town?”

Sam didn’t respond.

She crossed her arms. “I’ll never believe that he wasn’t driving while intoxicated that day, that he didn’t know he’d hit my son. And I told you before, I don’t want him released before he serves his full sentence.”

“I understand where you’re coming from and why you’d like to see him punished. I’m fully prepared to represent you and your interests during the hearing in the next couple of weeks. But for what it’s worth, Russell has lost a lot in the past three years.”

“So have I.” Tears welled in Claire’s eyes, and a drop slipped down her cheek. Then another.

Sam placed a hand on her shoulder, his grip warm and tender, his gaze intense, his compassion sincere. “I
know
.”

She wanted to lean into him, to rest her head against his shoulder, to seek the emotional support that had been missing from her life long before Ron had packed his things and moved out of the house. But she rallied and stood firm, going so far as to step back.

“Words can’t express how sorry I am for your loss, Claire, but punishing Russell won’t bring Erik back.”

As the truth of his words hung over her like a shroud, she gazed at him through watery eyes. “I know. Erik’s loss is something I have to live with. Something I’ll never be able to shake.”

“It’s got to be tough, but you’re not the only one suffering.”

Claire merely looked at him.

“Russell has a boy about the same age as your son was, a boy who hasn’t seen his father outside of prison in three years.”

For a moment, her resolve waffled—but only temporarily. “At least Russell still
has
a son.”

Sam, who probably never had trouble conjuring a counterpoint in court, didn’t argue.

“Thanks for lunch.” She forced a smile, then turned and walked away. For a while, it had seemed as though she’d joined the world of the living again.

But she hadn’t been able to stay.

Claire couldn’t remember the last time she’d pulled out her sewing machine or laid fabric on the dining room table in order to pin on a pattern. But that’s what she’d done this evening.

On Saturday afternoon, when she’d left the park in a rush, she’d only been thinking about getting away before Sam saw her break down and cry. And when she’d arrived at home, she’d realized she hadn’t talked to Trevor like she’d promised Analisa she would. So on Sunday, she’d returned to Mulberry Park, hoping to find the boy, but Trevor hadn’t been there. Neither had Analisa.

Rather than go home to an empty house, Claire had wandered over to the mulberry tree and sat on the concrete bench. Out of habit, she’d glanced into the branches, where sometimes there’d been a letter waiting for her.

There hadn’t been.

As she’d sat on the cold stone seat, the ocean breeze caressing her face and taunting wisps of her hair, her thoughts settled on the orphan who’d penned the poignant letters to God and her scraggly-haired doll. It hadn’t taken long for an idea to form.

On the way home, Claire had stopped by the fabric store, where she spent a surprising amount of time picking out pieces of flannel and cotton, as well as rickrack and lace. Then she chose several patterns for doll clothes.

Now, as she carefully cut a piece of pink cloth that would soon be a romper for Lucita, Claire focused on her task. In the course of the week, after her workdays, her plan was to make a stack of nightgowns, diapers, and receiving blankets for Analisa’s doll. Then she’d return to the park on Saturday with her surprise.

As the scissors snipped around the first pattern piece, the telephone rang.

Usually, Claire let the machine answer, since most of her calls at this time of night were from telemarketers, but for some reason, she reached out and took the receiver in hand. “Hello?”