Family Tree. Сьюзен Виггс
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questions and weird silences and forced conversation. She didn’t want to subject him to that.
He stood for a moment, looking down at her. Then, with unhurried deliberation, he cupped one hand around her head and the other at her waist. With a gentle tug, he pulled her against him, leaned down, and kissed her.
She knew instantly that it was that kind of kiss, the kind that had the power to stop time. She would lie awake thinking about it half the night, and wake up in the morning still dreaming of this moment. It was the best feeling in the world. She had never felt this way about anyone. Ever. It was intense and euphoric and wholly exciting. Now she couldn’t imagine how she’d lived for eighteen years without this blissful sensation.
“See you around,” he whispered.
“Bye, Fletcher.”
After he drove away, she walked into the house without even feeling the floor beneath her feet. Her family sat around the long table—her mother; Kyle and his wife, Beth; and the kids.
“Looks like a winner’s smile on your face,” Beth said, setting some cut up green beans on Lucas’s high-chair tray. “Did you bring home first prize?”
“Not even close,” Annie said, still floating in a cloud of bliss. Kissing Fletcher Wyndham was so much bigger than a dumb award. She couldn’t even remember what disappointment felt like. She drifted over to the sink and washed her hands.
“The competition must have been rigged, then,” her mother said loyally. “No way something could taste better than your beer cheddar soup. I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
“It’s fine.”
“Did your friend like the competition?” asked Gran with a knowing look.
Annie couldn’t stop smiling. “Fletcher liked it,” she said softly. “He likes me.”
“Fletcher Wyndham? That new boy?” Mom asked.
“He’s not new anymore. He’s been working the whole sugar season, right, Kyle?”
Kyle merely nodded, leaning over to cut up Dana’s chicken.
“I don’t think he should be hanging around so much,” her mother said, passing the breadbasket. “You seem distracted by him.”
Annie flashed a smile. “Uh-huh.”
“You need to focus on your future.”
“I just spent the day at a competition.”
“True, but you said you didn’t do as well as you usually do. Could that be because you were distracted?”
“Yes, exactly,” Annie said. “I was making googly eyes at Fletcher and I didn’t cook well.”
“Oh, sweetie. You know that’s not what I’m saying. I just want to see you going for your dreams.”
“That’s what Dad did, and you’re still mad about it.”
Beth and Gran watched Annie and her mom like spectators at a tennis match. Kyle and the kids dug into their dinner, oblivious.
“Your father left his family behind. It’s completely different. Annie, this is your special time to create the life you want, all by yourself. You’re at the beginning, when anything is possible. Don’t let your choices be influenced by this boy.”
“Mom.” Annie bristled. “You don’t even know him.”
Her mother pursed her lips. “I know more than you think. You mark my words, Fletcher Wyndham will never give you anything but trouble.”
Now
All rise. The court is now in session,” the bailiff announced, “the Honorable Fletcher Wyndham presiding.”
“Please be seated,” Fletcher told the room as he took his place at the bench. The courthouse was a venerable old building, its chambers drafty with echoes that seemed to whisper a sense of gravitas to the setting. Not so long ago, Fletcher used to walk past the place on his way to school or to his dad’s garage, never imagining this would one day be his domain.
There was a general shuffling and scraping of chairs, a thumping of briefcases, and murmured conversation as people settled in. As he arranged his papers and gavel, Fletcher scanned the courtroom—clerks and lawyers, a few nervous-looking clients, Natty Gilmore from the Gazette, the court reporter and deputy, an observer or two. All eyes were trained on him.
When he’d first taken the bench, Fletcher used to feel massively self-conscious, entering the courtroom in his robe, knowing he was the center of everyone’s attention. Knowing he sometimes had the responsibility of changing the direction of someone’s life. Who would he help today? Who was hurting, angry, frustrated? Who had done something completely stupid and needed a way out? What fine shadings of the law would he interpret?
He felt his mobile phone vibrate in his pocket, but ignored it. His rules for mobile devices in the courtroom were strict, and he adhered to them, too. Friday-morning court was a grab bag. He and his secretary had already reviewed the day’s administrative matters and routine proceedings. Today’s schedule yielded the typical variety of business—a status conference, hearings, requests—with one possibly interesting twist. Earl Mahoney was suing some guy from Texas for selling him a breeding bull that had turned out to be sterile. The seller allegedly knew the bull couldn’t perform, but sold it anyway. Trouble was, Vermont had no jurisdiction over Jimbo Childress, the Texan, because Jimbo had never been to Vermont or done business there. Earl, never one to give up, had arranged it so Childress “won” a free leaf-looking trip to Vermont last fall to view the glorious colors of autumn. As the unsuspecting Texan settled into his cozy B&B in the charming town of Putnam, a process server had delivered the summons to him.
Tag, Jimbo, thought Fletcher. You’re it. He allowed the suit to go forward. And then he thought, Damn. I love my job.
Although he worked methodically through morning court, Fletcher never allowed himself to get bored or impatient, even though a good number of cases were tedious. He never allowed himself to check his phone, which had been vibrating with text messages every few minutes. He kept his attention on the cases before him. Some were frustrating or impossibly petty, like the woman claiming damages for emotional distress caused by visiting a haunted house at Halloween, or the man suing the school district after his son was cut from the hockey team for skipping class. Others involved ridiculous amounts of paperwork. A seventy-five-page motion was not uncommon, and Fletcher was one of those judges who read everything.
That was his job. And he knew from painful personal experience that a person’s day in court might just be the worst day of his life. The least a judge could do was pay attention.
Today, Earl Mahoney left, satisfied that his sterile-bull issue would be resolved. A couple of motions were granted, a subpoena quashed. After the lunch recess, Fletcher endured a two-hour debate from opposing lawyers over a property-rights dispute. More motion hearings. A status conference. A merits hearing. In a small town, a judge had to wear many hats, dealing with whatever came through the door.
The bailiff passed a note to him. Fletcher looked at it briefly, and instantly felt a knot tighten in his gut.
“We’re going to take a fifteen-minute recess,” he said, punctuating the statement with his gavel. He exited through the side door and went down a short hallway to his chambers.
The door was ajar. Inside, a boy wearing Fletcher’s extra robe was standing on an upended wastebasket so that the robe draped to the floor, making him look freakishly tall. He brandished a letter opener like a weapon. No, like a wizard’s wand. He was working his way through the entire Harry Potter series, and dreamed of going to wizard school.
“Hey, Teddy,” Fletcher