The Oysterville Sewing Circle. Susan Wiggs
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in tow and no money for a lawyer, she showed up in court for a hearing. The social worker said there would be no need for a lawyer, since there was no one to dispute guardianship. The boxy, high-ceilinged room was crowded and noisy, and the kids huddled close on a bench until it was their turn. A family court advocate explained that it wouldn’t be a full formal hearing, and that the orders would be temporary.
The judge looked harried, though not overwhelmed. Just … resigned and sympathetic. He regarded her thoughtfully, studied the police report, then each of the children. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said. “I’ve read over everything personally in this case. Ms. Shelby, thank you for submitting your information so quickly.”
There had been a mad scramble for the school’s affidavits, custody evaluations, a notarized will, the police report, and the coroner’s findings. A social worker had visited Caroline’s apartment—so small, but deemed adequate to accommodate the children. While the judge shuffled through a file of papers, Addie’s teacher showed up and escorted the kids out into the hall.
Good, thought Caroline. She didn’t want them hearing what was likely to be said about their mother.
“What was your relationship to Ms. Baptiste?”
“She was my friend, Your Honor. We work—worked—in the same industry and … we were friends. Close friends.” Caroline took a deep breath, trying to ignore the bumping and whispering of other people in the courtroom. “We met as colleagues. Angelique was a model, and I’m a designer. She came to me on the night of March twenty-third with injuries from a fight. She wouldn’t call police and she wouldn’t say who hurt her. I don’t believe the kids know, either. She and the children stayed at my place. I agreed to be designated as guardian in case something happened to Angelique. I never dreamed the situation would arise.”
“Were you aware of her drug use?”
“Not at all,” Caroline admitted. “I had no idea. I still can’t believe it.”
“And yet she died in your apartment of an overdose of intravenous drugs.”
She looked up at the judge, her chest tight with anguish. “I’m no expert, but I can tell you I never noticed a single sign of that. Angelique was one of the best models in the industry. She worked hard. She loved her kids and they adored her. I wish I’d known. I wish I could have done something. Your Honor, the only thing I can do for my friend now is take care of her children.”
She thought again of Roman Blake. He’d been questioned by the police, and it was found that he had a criminal record, but he was released based on the fact that there was nothing to tie him to Angelique. He had no legal claim to the children, but Caroline was fearful of him. She needed to protect Flick and Addie.
“You understand fully that you’re making a serious commitment in every way—financially, emotionally—”
“I do understand. It’s a lot. But there’s no one else. She has no living family. I can do this, Your Honor. I always said I’d be there for her.” She snapped her mouth shut, reminding herself not to babble.
“You’re currently unemployed. Is that correct?”
“No,” she said, her chin lifting in self-defense. “I’m working independently.”
“According to your recent bank statements, you’re not bringing in enough money to support yourself, let alone two children. We need to know your plan, Ms. Shelby.”
She had lain awake half the night, agonizing over her decision. Referring to the documents she’d submitted to the custody evaluator, she said, “My plan is to take Flick—Francis—and Adeline to my home state of Washington. We will be staying at my family home where I grew up in the town of Oysterville.”
The judge studied the documents. “I’ve read the statements you provided from Dorothy and Lyle Shelby. Your parents?”
“Yes, sir. Your Honor.” When Caroline had called them in a panic, they had not hesitated, bless them. Bring those poor children home, her mother had said. We’ll sort everything out once you get here.
Assuming the judge would allow it. He looked over more papers, taking his time, making notes. Caroline scarcely dared to breathe. So far no one had asked about Angelique’s immigration status or that of the children for fear of introducing even more complications and a new round of bureaucratic horrors. Don’t ask, she silently pleaded. Please don’t ask.
The judge put aside the file and studied Caroline for a long time. “The reports do say you appear to be providing a safe and supportive situation for these children. I’m going to sign this order. I’m going to grant you emergency custody, and I will allow you to take the children to Washington, provided you commit to certain conditions.” He enumerated her duties to provide information through official channels. “I wish you the best, Ms. Shelby. I anticipate that the probate court will honor Ms. Baptiste’s will unless you’re found to be grossly unfit.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. I’ll take care of them.” Although she tried to infuse her voice with confidence, Caroline was terrified. There were moments—many of them—when she did feel grossly unfit. She was about to change her life forever, heading down a path she’d never foreseen.
You will never be completely at home again, because part of your heart always will be elsewhere. That is the price you pay for the richness of loving and knowing people in more than one place.
—MIRIAM ADENEY
Running into—literally running into—Caroline Shelby on a random foggy morning threw Will Jensen off his game.
Not that he had game, but he had athletes in training. Their morning run had been interrupted so unexpectedly that after the strange chance encounter, Will sent the team to the locker room early that morning. He offered an extra high five to Gil Stanton, the guy who had spotted the lost little girl asleep in the car.
Will tried to get his head around the idea that Caroline “I’m never having kids” Shelby had two kids. How did he not know that? How had he not heard anything through the grapevine?
One thing he did know—though not from experience—was that a missing child was every parent’s worst nightmare.
“See you in class, Coach,” said Augie Sandoval, the captain of the cross-country team.
Will drained his water bottle and headed back to the athletic compound, where his office was located. He flipped on the coffeemaker and turned on his laptop. There was a small private shower room for the coach, closer and more convenient than going back home to get ready for the day. Besides, Sierra had been up late the night before, and he didn’t want to wake her.
These days he took a lot of showers at work.
After the brutally short, not-even-lukewarm showers he’d endured during his service in the navy, a long blast of hot water was a luxury that never got old. While indulging in the morning ritual, he usually thought about his day—algebra, trig, vo-tech, office hours. After school, there would be one or more of the ubiquitous meetings—planning and development, compliance, community outreach—a couple of which he had somehow managed to be appointed to chair.
Then home to work on the house. Another consuming project, but that one was a labor of love. After his discharge following the injury, he had pursued a different dream—restoring the generations-old family home known as Water’s Edge. The rambling Carpenter Gothic had been built by