Trial Courtship. Laura Abbot
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Her jaw ached. “Where’s Nicky?”
Claudia turned to the six-burner stove and began stirring the gravy. “Up in Richard’s bedroom with his grandfather.”
She should have guessed. Bert and Claudia had made a shrine of their only child’s room. She shrugged out of her coat and laid it carefully over the back of a kitchen stool. “I think I’ll go say hello unless there’s something I can help you with.”
Claudia’s spine straightened. “No, thank you. On your way upstairs, dear, would you please hang your wrap in the guest coat closet?”
Heaven forbid I clutter the spotless kitchen. Andrea escaped down the hall, the ritual offer of help having been refused, as always. What could an unmarried businesswoman who grabbed takeout on the way home from work possibly know about gourmet cooking?
She started up the stairs, caressing the timeworn carved oak bannister. On the fifth step she paused. As it always did, the large illuminated oil portrait of Rich as a college man, which hung on the wall of the landing, overwhelmed her. Dressed in a white sweater, he sat in the stern of a boat, his left hand casually holding the tiller, his curly black hair wind-tossed, his complexion glowing with a sailor’s tan. Each time she climbed these stairs, no matter what the angle, his dark, thoughtful eyes seemed to follow her. He had been a striking young man, and her sister Tami had been lost the first time she clapped eyes on him at a frat party her freshman year at Ohio State.
Andrea sighed, then continued toward the second floor. Despite the off-white walls, spacious airy rooms and tasteful, but understated furnishings, the house felt lifeless, as if it would be irreverent to laugh aloud. And this in a home that used to ring with the laughter of Rich and his friends. Ever since the accident, both Bert and Claudia, like the house itself, seemed different—empty, brittle, edgy.
From Rich’s old room, she could hear Bert’s deep voice. She approached and stood quietly in the doorway. Nicky perched on one of the twin beds, his hands clasped politely in his lap. His grandfather sat beside him holding a trophy between his knees. “...and this one your dad got when his Little League team won the championship. Do you remember what I told you about the double play he made against Creamfresh Dairy?”
Nicky nodded dutifully while Bert extolled Rich’s feats on the baseball diamond. Andrea took in the familiar room—done in a blue-and-red nautical theme. Model sailboats lined the long shelf over the beds and on the opposite wall a bookcase was crammed with additional trophies, framed certificates, a leather mitt molded through use to fit a youthful hand and a framed picture of Tami and Rich at a sorority dance. As if his mother had made a concession to youthful idiosyncrasies, on the far wall hung posters of Bruce Springsteen and the Rolling Stones. Not a cobweb or dust bunny anywhere.
“...so what do you think, son? Pretty impressive, huh?”
She could hardly hear Nicky’s mumbled, “Yes, Grandpa.”
Bert stood, studying the trophy in his hand, then crossed to the bookcase where he carefully replaced it before picking up the stained mitt. He looked at Nicky. “Pretty soon you can use this when you play ball.”
Nicky fidgeted, pinching the bedspread with his fingers. “Maybe.”
Bert replaced the mitt, then tousled Nicky’s hair. “That will be this spring, right?”
Nicky stared at the floor. “I guess.”
Determined to rescue her nephew, Andrea entered the room. “Gentlemen, ready for dinner?”
Bert peered at her over the rim of his glasses. “Hello, Andrea. We didn’t hear you come in.” His tone made her feel like an unwelcome intrusion.
Nicky leaped off the bed and came to stand beside her, his arms around her waist. “Hi, Andie.”
She put a hand on his shoulder. “Did you have a good day at school?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Great. Let’s go downstairs and you can tell us all about it over dinner.”
After they were seated around the antique cherry dining room table, Claudia placed the pork roast, aromatic with garlic and rosemary, on the damask place mat in front of her husband. He dished up the servings, then passed a plate to each of them. Claudia ladled broccoli beside Nicky’s meat portion. He bit his lip and looked pleadingly across the table at his aunt.
“Your Mimi wants you to try her special recipe, Nicholas,” Claudia cajoled. “You and Andrea need to eat more vegetables.”
How would Claudia. know? Did she think they consumed nothing but greasy burgers and pizza? Nicky tolerated peas, beans and squash, but he hated broccoli. Andrea watched as he manfully shoveled a teaspoonful of the offensive green into his mouth, his jaws moving mechanically as he attempted to chew and swallow the stuff. She tried to divert Claudia. “The gravy is delicious.”
Claudia smiled smugly. “Thank you, my dear. Richard loved my gravy. Unfortunately your sister never mastered it.”
Bert set down his fork and cleared his throat. “Andrea, Claudia tells me you’re on a jury.” He raised his eyebrows inquisitively while he buttered his roll.
“Yes.” Why was it such a strain to conduct a conversation with these people? The three of them had loving Nicky in common, didn’t they? “It’s a murder case.”
Claudia’s fork clattered to her plate. “Oh, my.” She threw a nearly imperceptible nod toward Nicky as if Andrea had just brought up an objectionable topic.
For the first time since she’d arrived, Nicky’s face brightened. “Cool. Tell me about it.”
“Must we talk about it now?” Claudia frowned at Andrea.
“I wanna hear, Andie.”
“Actually, I’m not supposed to discuss the case itself. Mostly this afternoon we listened to the judge and the attorneys’ opening—”
“Nicholas, put your napkin back in your lap,” Claudia hissed, “and finish that broccoli. That’s a good boy.”
“How long do you think your jury duty will last?” Bert asked.
“I’m not sure, several days maybe.”
“I have a wonderful idea,” Claudia chimed in. “Nicholas can stay with us while you’re on jury duty. That way you won’t have to worry about him. Don’t you think that’s best, Bert?”
Andrea’s heart sank.
“...pack his things, and I could pick him up from school,” Bert was saying.
“Excuse me, but much as I appreciate your offer, I think it’s important for Nicky to continue with his normal routine.”
Bert turned to Nicholas expectantly. “What would you like to do, son?”
Nicholas flushed. “I...I don’t care.” He stared at Andrea beseechingly.
Andrea wiped her mouth with her napkin and tried to pull herself together. She would not be manipulated by these people. “No. Nicholas will stay with me although I’d appreciate being able to call on you for help. Now, while we finish this delicious dinner, why don’t you tell us about school, Nicky?”
Recognizing a reprieve, Nicholas picked up the verbal ball she’d tossed to him and began telling them about some new computer software the fourth grade was using in social studies. Andrea consciously slowed her breathing, unclenched her hands and picked at the pork roast, aware of the frozen expressions on the faces of her hosts.
“WHY DOES MIMI make me eat broccoli?”
Andrea maintained a neutral expression and concentrated on her driving. “Because it’s good for you.”
“Yuck. If I were God and was gonna make somethin’ good for kids to eat, it sure wouldn’t taste like that.”
“Well,