Chapter Five

      Nadia Wilson was waiting for Charlotte on the front-porch swing. There was no way Charlotte could drive past without being obvious and downright rude. Asleep in Nadia’s lap was three-year-old Davy.

      Charlotte parked her van and sighed deeply as she fought against building resentment. Though her headache had eased somewhat, she had still looked forward to a nice quiet Saturday afternoon . . . a little lunch, a bit of reading, and a long, relaxing nap.

      A few minutes later, when Charlotte got a closer look at Nadia’s red-rimmed, swollen eyes and blotchy face, all of her resentment instantly disappeared.

      “Nadia, dear, what’s wrong?” she asked softly, not wanting to wake the little boy.

      Nadia looked up at Charlotte, and her eyes filled with tears. But when she tried to answer, Davy stirred, then shifted in her arms, and she made soothing noises to the little boy instead.

      Davy’s shirt was soaked with sweat. Recalling that the little boy had been ill the day before, Charlotte immediately motioned for Nadia to follow her. “Let’s get Davy out of this heat first,” she whispered.

      The moment Charlotte opened the front door, cool air from inside rushed out to greet her, and Sweety Boy immediately launched into his regular routine of chirping and fluttering his wings as he pranced back and forth along his perch.

      Charlotte shushed the little bird. “Not now, Sweety. Be quiet before you wake Davy.” She pointed toward the bedroom. “Just put Davy in there,” she told Nadia softly. “That way, we can hear him if he wakes up.”

      While Nadia settled Davy in the bedroom, Charlotte went to the kitchen and prepared two glasses of iced tea.

      “Now what’s this all about?” Charlotte asked the younger woman once they had seated themselves in the living room.

      Again Nadia’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Charlotte, I’m so sorry to bother you, but I didn’t know who else to turn to.” She took a deep, sobbing breath. “Ricco’s been—he—he’s been arrested.”

      For a moment, Charlotte was speechless. Though it was true that she didn’t have a high opinion of Ricco Martinez, she’d never thought of him as the criminal type. Lazy, yes. But a criminal? “What on earth for?” she finally asked when she found her voice.

      “Theft,” Nadia told her. “Stealing graveyard artifacts.”

      For months the Times-Picayune had been filled with articles about a ring of drug-addicted thieves who were in cahoots with antique dealers. The thieves had systematically been robbing the city’s old cemeteries, and thousands upon thousands of dollars had been made off the marble statues, urns, and benches that had been stolen.

      Charlotte frowned. “But I thought that was old news and that all of the thieves had been caught.”

      Nadia nodded. “So did everyone else.”

      Charlotte shook her head, confused. “I don’t understand. If all the thieves were caught, how could they accuse Ricco now?”

      “I don’t understand it, either. And since I’m not exactly a relative, no one will tell me anything, and they won’t let me talk to Ricco, either. What we need is a lawyer, but Charlotte—” Again the younger woman’s eyes filled, then overflowed, with tears. “I—I can’t afford a lawyer, and D-Davy keeps asking about his daddy. What am I supposed to tell my son?”

      At the mention of little Davy, Charlotte felt a tight fist squeeze her heart. She could well sympathize with Nadia’s anguish over what to tell her son. She, too, had wrestled with the same question for years. But in the end, she’d simply opted for the truth and told Hank that his father had been a soldier, killed in the Vietnam war before he was born. Only many years later, when he’d become a man, had she finally told him that she and his father had never been married.

      Charlotte reached out and squeezed Nadia’s shoulder. “Hey, one thing at a time, now,” she said softly. “If Ricco can’t afford a lawyer, the court is supposed to appoint one for him—”

      “When?” Nadia cried. “And how will I know if they won’t tell me anything or let me talk to him?”

      Charlotte gave it some thought for a moment. Then, making up her mind, she said, “Do you remember me talking about my nephew, Daniel?”

      “The one I met at your Christmas party last year?”

      Charlotte nodded. “That’s right, y’all did meet. I’d forgotten about that. Anyway, Daniel is an attorney. Why don’t I give him a call and see what he can find out for you?”

      Nadia shook her head. “I—I don’t know how I would pay him.”

      Again, Charlotte squeezed the younger woman’s shoulder. “I know for a fact that sometimes Daniel takes on pro bono cases, so for now, don’t worry about the money. But Nadia . . . I want you to promise me something in return.”

      “Anything, Charlotte. Anything.”

      “Not just anything,” Charlotte told her. “And be careful what you agree to. What I want is for you to promise me that you will think seriously about your relationship with Ricco. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life with a man who does nothing but cause you heartache and worry?”

      A stubborn, determined look crossed the younger woman’s face, and Charlotte quickly shook her head. “No! Don’t answer that question—not yet. All I want is for you to promise you’ll think about it.”

      After a moment, Nadia finally nodded. “I’ll think about it,” she whispered. “I promise.”

      The forecast for Monday was afternoon thunderstorms. Determined to get in the daily walk that she usually reserved for the evenings, Charlotte had set her alarm clock for thirty minutes earlier than usual.

      Dressed in shorts and tennis shoes, she hurried out the door. For once, she was glad it was Monday, glad to return to her regular routine.

      After working Saturday morning for Bitsy and spending most of Saturday afternoon comforting Nadia, she never did get a nap.