“Couldn’t his animosity stem from the horrific way he lived all those years with his mother?” Lexie suggests. “From his perspective, they didn’t locate him until he was out of his crappy situation and already settled in with a family he loves. Adding to that, they want to uproot him from Chicago and everything he knows to live on a ranch in Kentucky. What child wouldn’t be hostile under those circumstances?”
“True,” I agree. “But I saw his reaction when his grandparents mentioned Dasher. He remembered that horse. And his anger is not consistent with them being strangers. I can’t put my finger on what he’s hiding or why, but my spidey sense tells me there’s more.” I’m too familiar with what secrets and lies look like not to recognize them. And Dwayde is safeguarding something big.
“So what made the visit disastrous?” Jordyn asks, raising her wineglass to her lips.
“When Charles Franklin told Dwayde he belonged in Kentucky with them, he blew up. He shouted that the Torreses were his only family and ran from the suite.” My friends pause in the middle of sipping their wine. “The grandmother was in tears, and I stayed behind a few minutes to persuade the grandfather to drop the case. I shouldn’t have taken the time then, but I wanted to strike while the emotions were fresh. Not that I think it made any difference. The Franklins are as determined to have custody as Victor and Isabelle are. But my delay gave Dwayde a good head start, and by the time I got out of there, he was gone.”
“You must have flipped!” Jordyn says.
My heart races at the memory. “After twenty minutes of asking around and searching…convinced he had run away, I was just about to call Victor—can you imagine his reaction to hearing his foster son had gone missing on my watch?” I shudder at the notion. “Fortunately, it wasn’t necessary.”
“Whew!” Lexie says. “Where did you find him?”
“I didn’t exactly find him,” I hedge, which makes my friends fix me with What-aren’t-you-telling-us looks. There’s no way I can avoid answering, so I say with as much nonchalance as I can muster, “Mick called me to say Dwayde had turned up at his place.”
“Holy shit! You spoke to Mick today!” Jordyn says at full volume, and this time I’m the one to glance around the restaurant to see if anyone has noticed her outburst.
“I saw him earlier when I went to pick up Dwayde from the community center for the visit. Then I spoke with him when he called. Both interactions were brief.” That’s mostly true.
Wagging her index finger at me with dramatic flair, Jordyn says, “I’m calling bullshit, Deeana Chase. It doesn’t matter how brief. Not only did you speak to your ex, you saw him and didn’t mention it. Why?”
For the same reason I didn’t tell them about Mick’s call on Thursday night or the flowers he sent on Friday. “There was nothing much to tell. Our paths are going to cross in the course of this case. I knew that going in. The point is that Dwayde’s safe, not that I saw or spoke to Mick.”
“You expect me to believe that’s all there is to it?” Jordyn huffs and Lexie’s eyes on me are just as doubtful.
“Yes.”
What else can I say? That despite everything, Mick still has the power to knot me with desire and break my heart in two? That one look from him has me torn between running for cover and running my hands all over his body? That speaking to him leaves me feeling hollow and lonely? That every interaction tosses me into a chaotic emotional mess?
I can’t say any of that. Because somehow admitting out loud what Mick does to me would give the feelings power. And if I allow Mick that kind of power, it will diminish his betrayal and all that I lost.
AT EIGHT O’CLOCK, I CALL it an early night, having managed to evade my friends’ questions about Mick. Once home, I unload my shopping bags and hang up my dress in the bedroom closet, lamenting that I allowed myself to be talked into such an outrageous purchase. Then, feeling unsettled by the entire day, I pile my hair on top of my head and take a soak. The claw-foot tub is just one of the old-fashioned features that made me fall in love with the house.
Sinking into the warm, vanilla-scented bubbles, I stay until the suds dissipate and the water cools. I towel off and dress for bed in flannel pajama bottoms and an oversize T-shirt. But I’m too wired to sleep.
The silence of the house gets to me. I’ve lived alone since I was eighteen and had gotten used to the lack of noise. But tonight it feels too quiet, too empty.
I check messages and find a text from Dwayde:
sry ms c 4 taking off i thought ud make me go back uncle mick said u were worried sry
Regardless of how much Mick dislikes me, I suspect he told Dwayde to apologize. That only amplifies my feelings of guilt about my own running away. But what else could I have done? I couldn’t see any other options at the time. I did what I had to, and my decision cost me dearly. Before I tear myself down any further, I turn my thoughts back to Dwayde and respond:
Tx for your apology. I would not have made u go back. I’m on your side. Trust me to help u. I’ll call tomorrow, so we can talk.
I take a seat at my desk in the spare bedroom turned home office and log on to my laptop. Though Lena normally does the research, I’m in desperate need of a distraction. I enter the online legal library and search for precedents involving custody disputes between foster families and extended relatives in Illinois. The documented cases are few and far between. In all except two, biology won, with aunts and uncles or grandparents being awarded custody.
I bookmark the two anomalies in which judges ruled that the removal of the child from the foster parents would cause greater harm, and log off. As the screen goes black, I sit there, thinking of my own foster family. Of the way Maria would copy my every move, as younger sisters do. Of baby Gabi cuddling up next to me for a bedtime story, her chubby hand resting in mine. Of Victor ruffling my curls and calling me “brat” even though, quiet and self-contained, I was far from that. But it was his way of showing affection.
I remember as if it were yesterday, Mama T’s softly accented voice calling me herpreciosa hija—precious daughter—and her warm hugs that would wrap around me like a fleece blanket. The sound of Papa T’s laugh, deep and robust, and the scent of motor oil that clung to his shirts no matter how many times they were washed.
Every Sunday, we would have brunch, and if weather permitted, play softball in the backyard. Sundays were my favorites.
I didn’t believe families like the ones I’d seen in reruns of theCosby ShowandFamily Tiesreally existed. In my world, fathers left and mothers couldn’t cope. The notion of a close family was a myth, a fantasy, to me—until the Torreses.
Swiping at the tears, I pick up the phone and start to dial the number in Springvale I still recall by heart. I stop. What would I say? Would Mama and Papa T even want to hear from me? Or do they despise me as much as Victor and Mick do? Those questions torment my psyche as I listen to the dial tone. Eventually, the recorded operator’s voice sounds in my ear, asking me to hang up and try my call again.
I set the cordless phone down in the cradle. Loneliness edges its way in deeper, taking me to the fridge three times. Open. Close. Open. Close. Open. Close. I try reading. Open. Close. I try watching television. Open. Close. But nothing helps. Before my willpower completely abandons me, I roll the yoga mat out onto my living room floor, light the candles for atmosphere, and put on a jazz CD.
