Mick brings those same fingers to his mouth and licks off the traces of olive oil. “Packs a nice kick, doesn’t it?”
I nod, not trusting my voice…or any other part of my body at the moment. Burning up all over, I take another sip of water. Forcing my gaze away from him, I search my bag for my phone—along with my professional composure. “Do you mind if I record you?” I ask, regaining some semblance of equanimity. I set my phone on the table. “It’s more efficient than taking notes and helps with follow-up.”
“I don’t mind,” he says, sampling more of the tray.
Clearing my throat, I turn on the recording app and state the date, time, and Mick’s full name. “Your purpose as a witness is to provide your observation of Victor’s and Isabelle’s parenting, specifically how you’ve seen Dwayde blossom under their care; anything that will demonstrate to a judge why it’s essential for his ongoing well-being to stay with his foster parents. Although opinions are allowed, you will need to provide an example or two to back up your answers.”
“Okay,” he says popping a black olive into his mouth.
My breasts go tingly.For God’s sakes, stay focused, it’s an olive, not a nipple.
“Naturally, you have a bias.” My voice croaks and I have to clear my throat again. “But your testimony must still be rooted in facts.”
“No problem. My loyalty’s not blind. I care about Dwayde and want what’s best for him. And that happens to be Victor and Isabelle. Any kid would be lucky to have them as parents.”
I like his conviction. It’ll make him a strong witness. “Tell me about that.”
Over an incredible dinner of butter-soft sea bass, Mick regales me with real-life stories and the emotions behind them, impossible to get from a file. He paints a picture of the foster parents who shower Dwayde with love and support, and the kind of discipline and solid values that will help him mature into a good, decent man.
As great a story teller as he is a writer, I’m captivated by the anecdotes and the lull of his deep voice. Even though I have him recorded, I know I won’t have any trouble remembering it all, right down to his inflections.
“Victor and Isabelle want a house full of children,” Mick tells me. “They had started trying to conceive when Dwayde came along. But given his issues then and how much attention he needed, they decided to hold off until he settled in. Now I suppose they’ll wait until after the custody case. But Mama T’s impatient for more grandchildren,” he says with a short laugh. “She was even on me about it.”
I swallow a little too loudly. “I’m sure having a family would have been difficult with your fame.”
“Yeah.” He nods, absently tracing the condensation on his glass. “I see the way the media treat the kids of celebrities. Following them around…I wouldn’t have wanted to subject a child to that. But,” he says, holding my eyes, “that’s not the reason I haven’t married or had kids.”
We’re wandering into dangerous territory. I turn off the recorder.
“The truth is, I never cared about another woman enough to pursue anything long term. How about you?” he asks. “Has there ever been another man you loved? Another man you wanted to have children with?”
His question steals the breath from my lungs. Definitely hazardous ground.
No. Never. Only you.But fate threw me the cruelest of curveballs.I twist the napkin on my lap. “I was busy with law school and then with building my career,” I hedge. “And now with my practice there hasn’t been time for much else.”
He blows out a breath. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t relieved. When we were inquiring about a lawyer for Dwayde and Calista suggested a Deeana Chase, I almost fell out of my chair. What were the odds that there was another Deeana Chase who was a child advocate? When I confirmed that it was you, I was sure that I’d find you married with a couple of kids. If I had, it would have made me crazy. I’m a selfish bastard, Dee. You were supposed to bemywife. You were supposed to havemybabies.”
In the silence that follows his speech, my heart feels as though it will burst out of my chest.
“Will you excuse me?” I say, grabbing my bag and slipping out of the booth in search of the ladies’ room.
I locate the single-stall restroom in the back. Inside, I brace my hands on the edge of the sink, hanging my head between my shoulders while my runaway emotions zigzag through my system like a pinball. I take deep breaths in an attempt to quiet them. But regret suffuses my chest, and a mournful sob escapes my lips.
I’m not sure how long I’m in here when Mick’s light tap startles me. “Dee?”
“Yes?”
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
“The storm’s moving in. We should hit the road.”
“Be right out.”
I look in the mirror at the grief and sadness soaked into my eyes. I’m still not over it. I still haven’t healed. The guilt and sorrow I thought I might have finally buried has all been resurrected. But I can’t let Mick see it. He’s smart…intuitive. He’ll start adding it up and come up with three. Me. Him. And a baby.
I splash cold water on my face and pat it dry with a paper towel. I add a little bronzer to offset the pale yellow of my skin and apply clear gloss to my lips. Then, fixing my low ponytail, I school my expression into a facade of composure and open the door.
