Mulberry Park. Judy Duarte
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After checking in with the receptionist, she took a seat on a black leather sofa in the waiting room, crossed her legs, and reached for a Psychology Today. She thumbed through the pages, but couldn’t find a single article to pique her interest, so she returned the magazine to the table where she’d found it.
An appointment with Samuel Dawson had been a good choice, she decided. Now there was no need to rehash the painful details with a new attorney who would have to be brought up to speed on the case.
She glanced at her wristwatch: 11:28. Surely someone would call her soon. She was anxious to get some solid legal advice, yet for some reason, she felt a bit uneasy and self-conscious.
Maybe it was just her reason for being here that made her hands clammy, her nerves taut and on edge.
She brushed her damp palms across the top of her lap, then opened her purse and withdrew the letter from the parole board.
Before she could read it again, a baritone voice called her name. “Mrs. Harper?”
“Yes.” She glanced up to see Sam Dawson, a handsome man in his thirties, wearing a black suit. Expensive, she suspected.
He was tall, well over six feet, with broad shoulders and a square chin. His light-brown hair appeared to be sun-streaked, as though he spent more time outdoors than in the office, yet she doubted that was the case. Attorneys who’d just made partner probably didn’t have much free time on their hands.
She stood, and he clasped her hand in greeting, a grip that warmed the chill from her fingers.
His confident touch was a balm to her frayed nerves. “It’s good to see you again, Claire.”
“Thank you.”
“Let’s go to my office.”
She followed him down the hall until they came to an open door, where he paused and stepped aside, allowing her to enter first. As she passed by, she caught a whiff of his cologne, something ocean-fresh and musky.
It had been ages since she’d noticed scents. Not just a man’s; a lot of things no longer smelled the same. The morning coffee for one. And even the rosebushes that lined Mrs. Wilcox’s picket fence on Applewood Drive.
“Please have a seat,” Sam said.
She chose one of the black, tufted-leather chairs that sat before his mahogany desk.
Had this been his office before?
She couldn’t recall.
“What can I do for you?” His gaze locked on hers for the briefest of moments, and the intensity in his eyes—a vivid green in color—made it difficult to speak.
She handed him the notification she still clutched, holding onto the envelope. “Russell Meredith is up for parole on the twenty-fourth of July.”
“Actually, I’d heard that.” He took the letter and read the contents.
“And I want to make sure he serves every day of his sentence,” she added, thinking it only fair. After all, Meredith had gotten off easy. It was Claire who had received the harshest punishment, one that would last a lifetime.
Sam lifted his eyes to hers and nodded. “I can understand why.”
She might be wrong, but he seemed to recognize her pain. She’d felt it in his handshake, seen it in his eyes, heard it in his voice.
“The letter says I don’t need an attorney, but I think that’s the best way for me to go. Don’t you?”
“Yes, of course. I can either represent you or advise you so that you can go before the board on your own. Either way, I’ll do whatever I can for you and your husband.”
Her chest tightened and her stomach clenched, reminding her that there was still some rehashing that needed to take place, still a few things Sam didn’t know.
She cleared her throat, buying a moment for her emotions to rally. “If Ron wants to object to the parole, he’ll have to get his own counsel. He and I were divorced about a year ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
She shrugged. “It was all pretty simple. We divided things as fairly as possible and had a single attorney draw up the papers. He…we…just wanted it to be over.”
A little surprised at herself for sharing the details, she didn’t elaborate any further and was glad he hadn’t pushed for more.
They discussed his retainer and fees, and she signed the standard paperwork. When he’d finished explaining what she could expect at the hearing and had answered her questions, she felt much better. Having someone in her corner, especially one so knowledgeable, was reassuring.
She stood, indicating that their meeting was over. “Thank you, Sam. I appreciate you helping me with this.”
“You’re welcome. In the meantime, I’ll do a little research in case there’s something we’re missing. More details on that prior DUI might be helpful. I’ll give you a call later in the week and let you know what I found.”
“All right.”
As Sam stood to escort her out, she faced him. “What do you think? The truth. What are our chances of swaying the parole board?”
“Actually, it’s hard to say. But we’ll give it our best shot.”
She nodded as though he’d offered her what she needed to hear.
He hadn’t, though. Not really. There was a gaping hole in her life and her heart.
A hole nothing could fill.
Chapter 4
Claire might end her run each evening at Mulberry Park, but she made it a point to arrive after most people had taken their children and gone home for dinner.
So what was she doing here on a Saturday at noon, her car idling in one of only a few empty stalls?
She glanced across the console to the passenger seat, where a crayon-sketched angel named Erik rested. His gold halo was askew on a Bart-Simpson-style head of yellow hair, while big blue eyes with spiky black lashes looked up at her, and a crooked red grin tweaked her heart.
Yesterday, while peering up into the mulberry, Claire had spotted the picture on the lowest branch. Analisa’s depiction of Erik-the-Angel didn’t even remotely resemble her sweet, rough-and-tumble son, a boy with dark curly hair and golden-brown eyes.
In fact, Claire had reason to believe Analisa had drawn a male version of herself.
Erik looks a lot like you, she’d written in her response to the first letter. She hadn’t meant that literally, but had been suggesting a commonality, since both of them were innocent children who’d been unfairly separated from their parents by death.
She blew out a ragged sigh. If Ron were still a part of her life, he’d tell her she was crazy, that she’d been foolish to quit seeing the shrink. And she’d be hard-pressed to argue with him.
Again she had the urge to leave, but scanned the park instead. The only person she recognized was Walter, the white-haired Korean War vet who’d caught her in the tree several evenings ago. Today he was seated at a table in the shade, not far from the restrooms.
Would he recognize her in a crisp, ivory-colored blouse and blue linen walking shorts rather than running gear? She suspected he might.
If she ever decided to get out of her car, she planned to keep a low profile, sit a while and watch the children from a distance—something she’d been unwilling and unable to do after Erik’s death.
She remained behind the wheel a moment longer, then reached across the console and turned the angel picture facedown in the passenger seat. Next she climbed from the car and locked it.
Before heading toward the park grounds, she adjusted her sunglasses.