One Summer’s Knight

Chapter 3

“The thing is, I can’t afford to pay you.” She said that in a raspy, embarrassed voice, sitting on the edge of her chair and staring at him, almost, it seemed to Riley, in defiance.

She reminded him of a wild rabbit he’d once caught in a snare he’d set in the woods. He could still remember the way it had felt in his hands, trembling but not struggling, resigned to the inevitable but wanting so desperately to be somewhere-anywhere-other than where she was. He’d let the rabbit go that day, knowing it meant he’d go hungry to bed again.

She swallowed and went on; he thought it seemed easier for her now that she’d gotten the worst out. “I don’t have any money and my credit is shot. I can’t go to my family for help…”

Of course not, thought Riley. Pride. Way too much pride.

“I already owe them so much for that hospital bill. I do have a lawyer, sort of-she’s a family friend and her husband’s a private investigator, too-but they have…things going on in their own lives right now. Personal stuff.” She shifted in her chair. Her fingers curled over the top of her handbag; her knuckles whitened. “I just can’t burden them with my problems-I won’t. But-” she took a breath “-I’m not asking for charity.”

Of course not, Riley thought, regarding her with half-closed eyes, his face once more cradled on his hand, index finger pointing at the corner of his eyes, little finger across his lower lip. God forbid, Summer Robey, that you should ask anybody for anything.

“I mean, if you will take me on as your client, I will pay for your services-I just can’t pay you with money. What I thought was…I’d offer something in exchange-you know, like the barter system? They used to do that back in the old days-like, a farmer would pay with a pig, a miller with a sack of flour…”

Riley was hard-pressed not to smile. His chest tingled with a strange anticipation as he murmured, “Well…now that’s an interesting idea. What in particular did you have in mind?”

Her cheeks were bright with embarrassment, but he’d expected that. What touched him more was the determined light in her eyes, a little glow of courage that was like a candle held high in a dark and lonely woods.

“Obviously, I don’t have anything to give you, except for myself. Oh, Lord.” She abruptly closed her eyes. “I didn’t mean that like it sounded. Please don’t think-”

“Mrs. Robey, I never did for a moment, “ Riley said kindly. He was grateful for the excuse to smile.

“What I meant was, I thought I could offer my services…” She stopped again, put a hand over her eyes and muttered, “Oh, God, that wasn’t much better, was it?” Riley was openly, if silently, laughing. She uncovered her eyes and glared at him “What I mean is, I could work for you.”

“Uh-huh.” It took a gallant effort, but he managed to straighten his face. “Well, now, that sounds interesting. Doin’ what, exactly?”

She looked desperately around her. “Well, like I could do your filing for you, you know, answer the phone…”

“I have both a part-time law clerk and a full-time secretary slash-receptionist to take care of that for me,” Riley said gently. The truth was, Danell, his secretary, did have a vacation coming up. He’d been putting off calling the temp agency; he dreaded it so. But something in him-the devil, most likely-was entertained by the situation, and he couldn’t bring himself to let Summer Robey off the hook. Not that easily.

Her brows had drawn together as she racked her brain for another offering “Well, I am a veterinarian. How about-”

“Sorry. No animals. Pets or otherwise.”

“Ah-hah.” She drew a shallow breath and he could see her relax, as though she’d already accepted defeat and was just spinning her wheels. “I could clean your house…mow your lawn…”

“I have a cleaning service. And a gardener.”

“Wax your car, carry your golf clubs…”

Riley stood, rounded the corner of his desk and put a firm hand under her elbow. The look of dismay on her face as he raised her to her feet was like a high-powered lamp; he didn’t have to see it to know it was there.

“I’m sure we’ll think of something you can do for me, Mrs. Robey,” he drawled. The muscles in her arm jerked beneath his fingers. As it had with that bunny rabbit all those years ago, pity overcame him and he let her go. “And I mean something even your dear old gray-haired mama would approve of.”

She surprised him with a breathless laugh. “I don’t know if that’s all that reassuring.” She was clutching her pocketbook in front of her like a weapon, as if a street mugger had her by the elbow. “Last I heard, my mother had dyed her hair marigold and was into massage therapy.”

Now, there was a thought. Riley allowed himself to dwell on it just a little bit while he eased her toward the door. But not for long, he did have a client waiting He reached past her for the doorknob “Now, first thing we’re gonna want you-”

She spun around suddenly, putting her back up against the door so he couldn’t open it, and at the same time trapping herself there between it and him. Her eyes, on a level with his chin, were silver as summer rain. “Does this mean…?”

Riley nodded, enjoying himself a lot more than he should have. “Well, sure. You’ve got yourself a lawyer.” He smiled down at her, a big wide one that showed his teeth. “A good lawyer.”

“Oh, thank you.” The words were a whisper, borne on a breath.

And he suddenly felt the need of one himself, his brain, for some reason, having become oxygen-deprived. He gulped for air before he said, “Mrs. Robey-”

“Please-it’s Summer.”

Summer? And he thought, Oh yeah, it is Hazy, hot and humid, and charged with electricity.

He got the door open and ushered her into the cool of the hallway. “Summer, what I’m gonna want from you is all the information you can come up with on your ex-husband-social security number, driver’s license number, credit cards, any aliases he’s used in the past, friends, relatives, habits and haunts-okay? I’m gonna want to get my investigator goin’ on this as soon as possible. And I’m gonna see if I can get the police to put some surveillance on your house and your phone, if that’s okay with you.” While he waited for her nod, he slipped around her and got to the waiting room door first. He opened and held it for her but kept her there with a touch on her elbow as he said in a low, private voice, “In the meantime, next time you hear from the FBI, I want you to give me a call, okay? And don’t say a word until I get there. Not one word.”

“I won’t,” she whispered. “Mr. Grogan…thank you Thank you so much.”

He nodded and watched her walk across the waiting room and out of his office Then he hauled in a discreet breath of oxygen-rich, lemon-furniture-polish-scented air and smiled encouragingly at the client who was pacing a path in the Persian rug. Muttering, “Be right with you,” he closed the door, then ducked into his secretary’s office.

“Danell,” he said briskly, “we’re gonna want to open up a file for Mrs. Robey. And would you see if you can get Tom Denby on the phone? If you can’t, leave him a message, tell him I’ve got a job for him. Oh-and let’s see, who do we know over in Augusta that might be able to get us a favor outta their police department? Look into it for me, would you?”

Danell slanted him one of her looks. “You got a billing address?”

Riley stopped short. Damn. He’d been hoping he could make it out of the office before the subject came up. He gave a blithe little wave without turning around. “Just bill it to the firm for now.”

“You said no more pro bonos. You told me to shoot you in the legs if you even looked like you were gonna take on another one.”

He hitched up his shoulders and peeked winningly at his secretary over one of them. For a girl not out of her twenties, Danell did have a look that could make him feel like he was twelve and trying to sneak by with a copy of Playboy under his shirt. “Who said anything about pro bono?”

She stared him down. “We’re way over quota for the month, you know we are.”

He hesitated for a moment, then walked back to Danell’s desk, put his hands on the edge of it and leaned on them. “Find a way to fit this one in,” he said softly, meeting her eyes. “Just this one more. Okay? I have a feeling it’s gonna be important.”

It had turned hot and muggy since the weekend, and since the Oldsmobile’s air conditioner didn’t work, the first thing Summer did when she got into the car after seeing Riley was roll down all the windows. Backtracking the way she’d come, she drove through downtown Charleston and found her way to the interstate. When she hit freeway speed, she rolled the windows back up partway so the wind wouldn’t whip her hair into a frizz during the long haul back to Georgia. By the time she’d done all that, more or less on autopilot, her brain had begun to function again.

Oh, Lord, I did it. She had herself a lawyer. A good lawyer. She felt confident of that. She’d done some research on this Riley Grogan, and from what she’d been able to gather, he was one of the best in Charleston, South Carolina. Relatively young-not much more than forty-but already highly respected… and rich, which was maybe a better measure of his effectiveness. He was also single, which she gathered was somewhat of an uncommon state for a respectable Southern male past twenty-five years of age to be in. Coupled with the fact that the man was handsome as sin, was known to dress as impeccably as any blue-blooded aristocrat, and had a reputation for being suave as the devil himself, that might have raised a few eyebrows and more than a few slyly phrased questions, were it not for his regular appearances at Charleston social functions with one marginally famous beauty or another draped on his arm. Hostesses known for their elegance and sophistication, it was said, were often reduced to stammers and blushes in his presence. If Riley Grogan still reigned at the top of a short list of the South’s most eligible bachelors, then the consensus of opinion-especially among mothers of Charleston debutantes-was that it must be because he simply hadn’t found the woman who could live up to his standards of beauty and style, wit and intelligence.

All of which impressed Summer not the slightest bit. She cared nothing for the man’s looks, pedigree or sexual orientation. There was one thing she cared about, and one thing only: what kind of lawyer was he? The Riley Grogan she’d run up against that day in court, that was the man she wanted working on her side. She had no use for charm and elegance. What she wanted was the street fighter-someone cold, calculating, ruthless and manipulative, tough as nails and mean as a snake. After all, her children’s lives were at stake.

Oh, but there was no use denying it-he had made her knees go weak just now. What was it about the man that made her blush and stammer like a hillbilly in her first town dress? What was it about Riley Grogan that ate away at her confidence so? She’d never suffered from a lack of poise and self-assurance before, not since she’d learned the hard way that a handsome face and winning personality were foolish ways to measure the worth of a man. Hal Robey’d had a smile so sweet it’d fool bees into thinking it was honey, as her dad used to say.

But Riley, now…what he had was something different than your ordinary, garden-variety charm. Something more. What he had was an elegance so effortless that it could make even duchesses feel inadequate and prima ballerinas trip over their feet. And by the time she’d reached the Highway 78 turnoff to Augusta, Summer had decided that she knew what it was that gave the man that elegance. It was the very same quality that made him so intimidating in a courtroom-quietness. Riley Grogan was quiet the way a big cat is quiet, like a leopard draped along a limb or a lion lounging in the shade of a banyan tree, somnolent and relaxed, in the absolute certainty that he is undisputed lord of all he surveys.

A sudden shiver ran through her, a joyous little energy surge. Oh, but it felt good to be plugged into such awesome power and massive self-confidence after so many months of fear and uncertainty. Everything was going to be all right now.

At a stoplight in Augusta, Summer checked her watch and decided there wasn’t going to be time to stop at the Winn Dixie before she picked up the kids. The church day camp she’d found for them allowed for some flexibility in pickup times, but she was running late as it was and she didn’t like to push it. The day camp had been a lifesaver. She’d found out about it from Debbie Mott, her boss’s wife, who was sending her kids there as well.

The children were waiting for her outside in the heat instead of in the air-conditioned building as they usually did. From halfway down the block, Summer could see them sitting on the brick planter that ran along the walk in front of the church. Both had the same pose-elbows on knees, chins propped on hands-but somehow David’s attitude managed to convey dejection, while Helen’s had the ominous look of a small black storm cloud

Uh-oh, Summer thought as she pulled up to the curb, her recent euphoria only a memory. What now?

“Hi, babes,” she sang out with cheerful optimism, wincing as David wrenched open the car door and clambered across the back seat without answering, followed by Helen, who flounced in after him and gave the door a mighty tug that latched it on the first try Her heart sank farther as she beheld their flushed faces; the Waskowitz skin couldn’t keep a secret if lives depended on it. She turned to smile at her offspring over the back of the seat. Two pairs of eyes flicked at her like beacons, but neither was smiling. Her son’s eyes shimmered with embarrassed tears; her daughter’s were bright with fury. “Did you have a good day?” Summer asked with faint hope.

The only reply was a click, as David fastened his seat belt and turned to gaze steadily out the window. Helen scooted forward and pushed an envelope over the back of the seat, then fanny-walked herself back into place.

Summer caught the envelope and said brightly, “Oh, what’s this?”

“It’s a note from Mrs. Hamburger,” said Helen in a disgusted tone. “She wants to speak to you.”

“It’s Mrs. Hammacher,” Summer automatically corrected her, then sighed with foreboding. “Oh, honey, what did you do?”

Helen stared at her shoes and was stubbornly silent.

“David?”

He turned from the window with a look of reproach, as if, Summer thought, whatever it was was somehow all her fault. “She filled up a water pistol with grape juice,” he said in a hollow tone “During morning snack time.”

“Oh, Helen.” Summer closed her eyes. “Please tell me you didn’t actually squirt anybody with it. Grape juice?”

“Well, I did,” Helen muttered defiantly, watching her Marvin the Martian sneakers bob up and down. “I squirted Jason.”

“Jason? Jason Mott?”

“You should have seen him,” David put in eagerly. “He had on one of those neat T-shirts, you know, with the red-and navy-blue designs on them, the ones that cost about fifty bucks and you said I couldn’t have one? It was all purple, Mom.”

“Oh, Helen. Why?”

Helen’s chin, fragile-looking as a blossom and an infallible barometer of her intractability, jutted upward. “Because he was being mean to me.”

“Mean to you?” Summer’s hopes flared; here, at least, was the possibility of some mitigation. “How?”

“Well…” The shoes bobbed furiously. “He said I talk funny.”

“You do talk funny,” said her brother.

“Do not!”

“David…”

“He talks funny. And he called me a name.”

“What name?” Summer braced herself. “Come on, honey, tell me what Jason called you.”

“He…he called me a yankee,” Helen huffed. “I don’t even know what that is. Mom, what’s a yankee? It sounds nasty.” Her nose wrinkled in disgust.

All Summer could do was shake her head; she had a hand clamped tight across her mouth to hold back a gust of laughter.

“Plus, Jason told Keisha her hair looked ugly and hurt her feelings. She was crying.”

“Who’s Keisha?” Aha, this sounded better. Definitely grounds for justification.

“Keisha’s my friend, and her hair’s not ugly,” said Helen. “She has millions and millions of little tiny braids. Mom, can you do my hair like that?”

“I doubt it.” Summer looked at her daughter’s rather sparse blond curls. Both of her children had inherited the Waskowitz coloring, like their aunt Mirabella-fine red-gold hair and fair, tell-all complexions. “And don’t try and change the subject, little girl. Jason was wrong to make Keisha cry, but you still shouldn’t have squirted him with grape juice, of all things.” A delayed realization struck her. “And where did you get a water pistol, anyway? You know how we feel about toy guns of any kind.”

The two children exchanged guilty looks.

“David?”

“Don’t look at me, Mom.”

“Helen? Answer me this minute. Where did you get the water gun?”

Helen stared at the toes of her sneakers, which were no longer bobbing. Her chin sank onto her chest. “I took it.”

Oh, God. It was worse than she’d thought. This was serious stuff, in the world of childhood, a class-A felony. “Helen,” said Summer in a voice low with dread, “do you mean to tell me you stole it?” Helen’s head moved slowly up and down Her brother made a disgusted noise. “Where? Who did you steal it from, Helen? Tell me right now.”

Helen’s voice was barely audible, and seemed to come from the vicinity of her belly button. “From Jason.”

“From Jason? You mean, you…” Shot him with his own gun?

Summer put a hand over her eyes. Silence reigned in the back seat as she counted slowly to ten, then turned back around and put the car in gear. “Buckle up,” she said briskly. “Now.” There was a subdued and dutiful click from Helen’s side. Summer had just put on her blinker and was starting to pull away from the curb when she had to hit the brakes and wait for a fire engine to roar by, siren screaming. Right behind it came another one. Then another.

“Wow,” David breathed, following their progress with avid eyes, “it must be a really big fire. Can we follow them and see, Mom? Can we?”

“Don’t be silly,” said Summer, who in adulthood had developed a city-dweller’s indifference to emergency vehicles. “Hey, what do you guys want for dinner? I didn’t have time to stop at the store. You feel like pizza?”

“Aren’t we going to get Beatle and Cleo and Peggy Sue?” David asked in a worried vice. “They’ve been at Jason’s four whole days, Mom. First you said it was just for the weekend while we were at Aunt Bella’s, and then you said just till you got back from Charleston, and now-”

“I know, I know,” Summer interrupted him with a sigh. She met her son’s accusing frown in the rearview mirror. “But I’m not sure it’s such a good idea to go over to Dr. Mott’s right now, do you? After what Helen just did to Jason? Maybe we could let things cool off a little bit first?”

“Things” meaning Jason’s mother, Debbie. Debbie Mott was a former high school cheerleader and beauty queen who’d given up on getting her figure back after her third child and made up for it in the self-esteem department by being somewhat of a snob. Summer was well aware that she wasn’t Debbie’s favorite person-she had good instincts for things like that-and suspected it had something to do with the fact that she spent most of every day sharing the intimacy of a motor home with Debbie’s lean, lanky and still reasonably good looking husband. Summer didn’t really think Debbie had enough influence in such matters to get her fired over this grape juice incident, but the next meeting between them didn’t promise to be a pleasant one, and it definitely wasn’t something she felt like tackling on an empty stomach. She’d call first, she told herself. This evening, when Dr. Mott was likely to be home to referee.

She watched David’s eyes spark with understanding, then flick resentfully toward his sister. “I guess,” he said unhappily. “It’s just, I hope they don’t think we abandoned them, or something. Jason said his mom made Cleo stay on the porch because she was making so much noise. He said she says bad words. Does she, Mom? How come I never heard her say any bad words?” He sounded disappointed.

“Maybe she never felt the need to,” Summer muttered. She sought her son’s eyes in the mirror once more. “Honey, I miss the animals, too, but they’ll be fine at Dr. Mott’s for one more night, okay? I promise we’ll go get them tomorrow. Right now, let’s have something to eat-I’m starving. So how about it? Pizza sound okay to you guys?”

“Can we have tacos?” Helen piped up. “We haven’t had tacos for a million years.”

“Then we’re definitely due. What about it, Davie? Tacos okay with you?”

“Sure.” In the mirror, Summer watched him shrug and go back to staring out the window, his face somber, a vaguely depressed slope to his shoulders.

Sadness tightened her throat and lay heavy in her chest. Oh, sweetheart, these burdens of mine are way too big for your shoulders. Please don’t try to bear them for me. You’re only nine years old. I’ll make it up to you, she promised her son silently. We’re going to come through this all right.

Since tacos were way too messy to eat in the car, even one as decrepit as the Olds, Summer parked it and they went inside. She wasn’t particularly eager to get home, anyway, and with the animals at Dr. Mott’s, she could think of no reason to rush. It hadn’t always been so. Once, “home” had meant her nest, her haven, her place of belonging. These days, “home” was the soul-sapping bleakness of a cramped mobile home, where every rust streak and shriveled blade of grass was a reproach and a reminder of her failures. And where, more recently, the ringing of the telephone carried with it the electric shock of fear.

But, she reminded herself, at least now I have a lawyer. A good lawyer. Riley Grogan. His confidence and quietness filled her. In her mind, his eyes regarded her-cool, blue and appraising. Unexpected warmth flooded her cheeks and spread into her chest

I’ll find a way to pay him, she vowed. I know he doesn’t believe that, but I will.

Though it would be difficult, she acknowledged, since he lived so far away. Well, of course, she had no idea where he actually lived, but his law offices were in Charleston, so she had to assume he lived somewhere nearby. What must his home be like, a single man, a wealthy man, with no kids and no pets? It was hard for her to imagine. As elegant and imposing as the man himself was, probably. But godawful lonely. Maybe.

“Mom?”

She started and focused guiltily on her son, who had obviously just asked her a question of some importance. The children had been bickering over the movie monster action figures that had come in their kids’ meals when she’d tuned them out and given her mind permission to wander. But how had she gotten so far off the mommy-track?

“Yes, hon-I’m sorry. What?”

“I said, do you think Jason’s mom will still let us swim in their pool?” His red-gold hair hung slack, waving a little, as he tilted his head sideways to accommodate a bite of taco. His blue eyes regarded her somberly as he chewed, then swallowed with an audible gulp. “Mom, what am I gonna do if I can’t practice? I’ll be so out of shape, I’ll never be able to make the swim team again. And it’s all because dodo, here-” he gave his sister a fierce nudge in the side with his elbow “-just had to go and squirt grape juice all over dumb old Jason.”

“Quit it,” Helen whispered, nudging him back and fixing him with a narrow-eyed glare. “Or I’ll have my Godzilla chomp you to pieces.”

“Big deal,” said David with a shrug. “Your Godzilla is six inches tall. He couldn’t chomp a bug.”

“Yeah, well, you just wait. When I grow up I’m gonna have a real Godzilla, and he’s gonna eat your head.”

“Ooh, I’m shaking.”

“Well, you better be. Because-”

“Hey, guys,” said Summer. “You know what I think?” Two pairs of eyes regarded her, one expectant, one wary. “I think we’re going to have to do some apologizing to Jason and his mom. How ’bout you?”

“Not me, I didn’t do anything,” said David. Helen made a hideous face. “And,” he added spitefully, “I hope your face freezes like that. How’d you like that, huh?”

“It won’t!”

“Sure it will. If you don’t believe me, just ask Granny Calhoun.”

“Will not!”

“Ok-ay, time to go home,” said Summer firmly. She gathered up their trash and deposited it in the receptacle and herded the children, still nudging each other and whispering dire threats they thought she couldn’t hear, out to the car.

The sun was still high and hot at that hour of the evening in late June, and once they were in the car the children’s quarrel died of heat exhaustion Summer drove with the windows down, since there was no one to see her who was going to give a rip what shape her hair was in. Beyond the city’s outskirts, strip malls, fast-food restaurants and gas stations quickly gave way to scattered businesses housed in metal or cinder-block buildings set far back from the road. Freestanding yellow signboards on the grass along the highway advertised used-tire specials, live nudes and the redeeming power of faith in identical black-and-red block letters. Sickly petunias bloomed beside driveways in planters made from old tires, and kudzu encroached on vacant lots littered with trash and old campaign signs. Normally the sight of all that lush squalor filled Summer with a contradiction of feelings, a kind of depressed restlessness that was similar to the way she felt when she walked into her rented mobile home-a futile urge to tidy something she knew no amount of tidying was ever going to make beautiful. But this evening she saw the yellow polka dots of dandelions in the grassy verges and felt an uplift of spirits that was almost like hope. She’d taken steps. It was going to be okay.

Just as she was turning onto her street, she met two fire trucks, sirens silent, big engines grumbling, making their way back to the barn.

“Wow, look,” David cried, popping up in his seat so he could see better. “I bet those are the same ones we saw. That fire must have been right around here someplace. Can we go see it, Mom? Please?”

Summer sighed and said, “Oh, David…”

She guided the Olds around the gentle curve that marked the beginning of their residential neighborhood, a long row of mobile homes and modest houses, unfenced and widely spaced, separated by grass-pocked gravel driveways and marked by tipsy roadside mailboxes. Up ahead she could see another fire truck parked in the road, its lights still flashing.

“Mom, look.” David’s voice faded. Silence filled the car.

Summer drove slowly forward, only dimly aware that her heart had begun to pound. She saw people coming toward her now, people she didn’t know-her neighbors, walking alone with their arms folded, shaking their heads, or in twos and threes, talking among themselves, walking down the road, turning into driveways, cutting across lawns. Children on bicycles, pumping hard, racing their dogs home. The excitement, whatever it had been, was obviously over now.

Summer pulled the Olds onto the grassy shoulder and parked. A fireman in protective gear glanced at her, then went on with what he was doing, gathering up, tidying up, putting things away. She turned off the motor, opened the door and got out.

“Mom, that’s our-”

She turned, arms braced on the door frame, to face her children-Helen standing with her arms on the back of the seat in front of her, staring over it with round, avid eyes; David’s face, pale as the moon, his mouth a thin, frightened line. “Stay here,” she grated through clenched jaws. “You…stay…in…this…car.”

She slammed the car door and walked up the street toward the fire truck. Her legs felt strange, as if her knees had been hinged with rubber bands.

Someone approached her-a police officer. She hadn’t noticed the two radio patrol cars parked beyond the fire truck. “Ma’am, I’m gonna have to ask you to stay back outta the way-”

Summer shook her head. “That’s my house,” she said. “I live here.”