A Bridge to Love (23 page)

“Mrs.
Handley called to see how you're doing,” Kate said to Clay as she carried lunch
into the family room. “Would you tell me again exactly what happened when you
got bitten?”

“Sure,
Mom,” Clay said, and gave Kate a more detailed description of the dog fight
than she was comfortable hearing.

“I
just want to make sure I know a couple of facts,” Kate said when he had
finished. “Thunder was definitely on the sidewalk and not in the lady's yard?”

“Definitely,”
Clay said. “We know that some yards have electric fences for their dogs so we
keep our clients out of people's yards.”

“Your
clients?” Kate laughed. “I like that. And this other dog was definitely loose?
No electric fence?”

Clay
shook his head. “No fence. He came right down onto the sidewalk.”

“Do
you agree, Patrick?”

Patrick
nodded solemnly.

“Thanks,
boys. I'm going to call Mrs. Handley and reassure her that Thunder was not the
attacker.”

“Thunder
and I were both victims,” Clay said wryly. “I bet there's not a mark on that
other dog.”

Kate
went back to the kitchen and called Barbara Handley's number.

“Oh,
Kate, I'm so glad to hear from you. I've been so worried about Clay. He's the
nicest boy. And so's Patrick,” Barbara said. “How is Clay's hand?”

Not
wanting to worry the elderly woman, Kate said, “It's going to be fine. He had
to have a little surgery, and he's all bandaged up now. How's Thunder doing?”

Barbara's
voice wavered. “He's got some bandages, too. The vet gave him some shots, just
in case, and said that he would recover. But he seems depressed. And Mrs.
Lattuca – that's Pal's owner – claims that he's vicious and should be put to
sleep. I don't understand it; he's never attacked another dog before.”

“Well,
according to Clay and Patrick, he didn't attack,” Kate said firmly. “Clay
doubts that Thunder even bit Pal in self-defense. And he says that Pal came
onto the sidewalk to get at Thunder.”

“Oh,
that's such good news! I mean, not that Pal attacked Clay and Thunder, but that
it wasn't Thunder's fault. That's such a weight off my mind,” Barbara Handley
said, still sounding as though she was near tears. “I was afraid I'd have to
put Thunder to sleep.”

“Don't
even think about it,” Kate said, reassuringly. “Would you like me to call Mrs.
Lattuca?”

“Would
you? That would be so nice of you. I'll give you her number.”

Kate
was about to say good-bye when the older lady said, “Kate, I should warn you
that Mrs. Lattuca is not a very nice person. She used rather strong language
with me. And she seemed very sure it was Thunder's fault.”

“We'll
see about that.” After hanging up, Kate looked at the phone number as she
considered the best way to approach the not-so-nice Mrs. Lattuca. She decided
that as always, being pleasant and polite was a good way to begin.

“Mrs.
Lattuca? This is Kate Chilton. I'm the mother of the boy who had a problem with
your dog Pal.”

“Pal
isn't the problem. That German shepherd is the problem. He attacked my Pal for
no reason in his own yard. Your boy couldn't control him so I had to intervene.
If your child got bitten, it's his own fault.”

Kate's
temper began to simmer. Pleasant and polite was clearly not going to do it.
“I'm afraid that I have to disagree. Both of my children have confirmed that
your dog came onto the sidewalk to attack Thunder and that Thunder did not even
bite back. Clay tried to get hold of Pal's collar to separate the dogs, and Pal
bit his hand. I am acquainted with Thunder, as are many people in this
neighborhood, and we all know that he is not a vicious dog.”

“Your
boys are lying to try to stay out of trouble. That German shepherd should be
put to sleep. Pal has bite marks all over his face and neck.”

“Would
your veterinarian be willing to confirm that?”

“I
didn't take him to the vet.”

“He
has bite marks all over his face and neck, and yet you didn't take him to the
vet?”

“I
haven't had time,” Mrs. Lattuca said, sounding slightly defensive for the first
time. She went back on the offensive immediately. “But I'm going to call Town
Hall and file a complaint against that German shepherd. He should be put to
sleep before he attacks anyone else. And your children should not be walking
dogs they can't control.”

Kate's
blood was at full boil but her tone was icy. “Mrs. Lattuca, I made this
telephone call with the intention of straightening out a misunderstanding
between neighbors. However, your attitude and accusations have changed my
intention drastically. I am now considering suing you for my son's medical
expenses and his pain and suffering. Your dog was loose in a town with leash
laws. Your dog attacked another dog – who was leashed – without provocation on
public property. Your dog did serious injury to a child who tried to protect
the leashed dog. You will be hearing from my lawyer, Georgia Jenson, from
Cravath, Swaine, and Moore.”

Kate
hoped that Mrs. Lattuca didn't know that Cravath wasn't in the business of
prosecuting dog bite cases.

“You
can't sue me,” the other woman blustered.

“Try
me,” Kate said. “This conversation is over.”

“Wait!”
Mrs. Lattuca hesitated a moment, then said grudgingly, “I won't file a
complaint about the other dog.”

Kate
waited.

“What
else do you want?”

“An
apology.”

“For
what?”

“For
accusing my children of lying.”

“I'm
sorry. They didn't lie.”

“And
now the truth, please,” Kate said implacably.

Mrs.
Lattuca made a sound of disgust. “Pal got loose from his stake in the backyard.
I keep him tied up because we don't have a fence.”

“Has
he ever attacked anyone else?”

“No.
Well, once. But it was a long time ago.”

Kate
controlled her desire to scream at the woman. Instead she said with ice
dripping from every syllable, “Mrs. Lattuca, I do not believe in destroying
dogs because they have bad owners. However, if I ever see or hear of Pal being
loose again, I will not only report him to Town Hall, but I will slap a lawsuit
on you so fast that you won't know what hit you. So I suggest that you invest
in a good fence.”

Kate
was about to hang up when she had another thought. “I also expect you to call
Barbara Handley to apologize to her and assure her that Thunder is safe.”

“You
snotty bitch!” Mrs. Lattuca shrieked. “You can't make me call anyone!”

“If
you don't, my next call will be to Cravath, Swaine. And you had better be very
polite to Barbara. Good-bye, Mrs. Lattuca.”

Kate
could hear the woman swearing as she hung up.

Six
months ago, she would never have threatened a lawsuit or forced someone to
apologize to someone else, even if she knew that she was right. Georgia would
be proud of her. Even better, she was proud of herself.

Barbara
Handley called five minutes later to describe the miraculous turnaround in
attitude of the previously nasty Mrs. Lattuca. Kate smiled as she listened, the
feeling that she could take care of her own flowing like wine through her
veins.

Twenty

Kate
had dozed off while sitting in the den with Clay and Patrick watching
Star Wars
. The peal of the doorbell
startled her awake. “Mom, the door,” Patrick said without taking his eyes off
the television screen.

She
stretched quickly and went to the front door. Randall Johnson stood on the
porch. Kate gasped at his appearance.

“Randall,
what happened? You look awful.”

He
ran a hand over the stubble on his chin. “I haven't gotten around to shaving
today.”

His
beard was the least of his problems. “Come in,” she said, making a waving
motion for him to enter. His face was battered, and his clothes were a mess.
“Would you like some coffee?”

Randall
winced. “No more coffee. My stomach feels like hell.” He limped into the living
room and dropped onto the couch, letting his head fall back as he closed his
eyes.

Kate
looked him over to decide what he needed most. He had a black eye and a cut on
his cheek. The knuckles of his hands had cuts and bruises scattered across
them. His suit jacket was ripped in several places, and his once-white shirt
was grimy and bloodstained. His whole posture indicated exhaustion and
something worse that she couldn't quite put a name to.
Defeat
?
Despair
? Not
words she generally associated with him.

Tending
bodily wounds was easier than dealing with emotional ones, so Kate collected
ointment, Band-Aids, a washcloth and a towel. She stuck her head into the den
and told the boys that Mr. Johnson was here, and not feeling well, so they
should continue to watch their movie. Clay and Patrick looked at each other and
then at her. She hurried back to the living room. Randall grunted when she sat
down beside him. “Did I hurt you?” Kate asked.

“I’m
just sore all over.”

“I’m
going to clean up your cuts and put some antibiotic ointment on them. It may
hurt a little.”

He
started to object, then said, “Oh, all right.”

She
smiled at his grumpiness. Holding his left hand on her thigh, she gently
cleaned away dried blood and spread ointment on the cuts, bandaging the worst
ones. She moved to his other side and did the same for the right one. He
smelled of smoke, alcohol and sweat.

She
folded the washcloth to a clean side and began working on his face. A bruise
stretched across one cheekbone and the other bore a deep cut. Thank goodness
his nose seemed undamaged. As Kate gently soaked the dried blood from his
whiskers, she tried not to remember how his lips had felt on various parts of
her body. But her pulse quickened just the same. She finished her
ministrations, then hesitated a moment. Deciding that his condition warranted
it, she gently smoothed his hair back from his forehead and dropped a
feather-light kiss there.

Randall
smiled without opening his eyes. “I saw you do that to Clay in the hospital. I
must look worse than I thought.”

“I
guess you haven't been near a mirror today,” she answered. “Would you like to
tell me what happened?”

The
smile vanished instantly, and the bleak expression returned. “Not yet. Just sit
here with me.” He reached out and found her hand. “How's Clay doing?”

Tears
welled up when he wrapped his hand around hers. She very gently laid her free
hand on top of his. “Just fine. He really wants to thank you in person for
introducing us to Dr. Lane.” She thought it would help if she just kept on
talking. “Patrick's planning to pester you for a helicopter ride so he can keep
up with Clay.”

“That
can be arranged if his mother agrees.”

“I
suppose that I can't stand in the way of balancing the scales of sibling
rivalry. Even if it means another flight for me.

“You
don't have to go.”

“Yes,
I do. I couldn't bear to be alive if my children crashed.”

“Tom
Rogan always says that mothers are saints, but it sounds more like martyrdom to
me.”

Kate
was relieved to hear the sardonic edge return to Randall's tone; it temporarily
dispelled the bleakness.

“Actually,
Janine is such a terrific pilot that I really didn't mind flying too much. The
next time, maybe I can even admire the view.”

“I
knew from the beginning you had guts.” He shifted and flinched, opening his
eyes to stare at the ceiling.

It
wrenched at her heart to see his strength flattened like this. He didn't seem
to want to talk, so she suggested one of her favorite forms of comfort. “Would
you like to soak in a nice hot bath? It might take away some of your aches.”

“Do
I stink?”

“You
smell like a really cheap bar,” Kate admitted, making an educated guess.

“Bingo.”
He grimaced. “If I smell like Dobie's, I definitely stink.” With another brief
flash of his usual self, he turned his head toward her and said in a low voice,
“Will you scrub my back?”

Kate
laughed. “You're in no condition to think about me scrubbing your back.”

Instead
of throwing back a joke, his gaze focused intently on her face. “The only good
idea I've had in the last twenty-four hours is having you scrub my back.” He
turned away and gingerly lifted himself off the couch. “But I guess that would
be pushing your hospitality too far. I should go home and bathe myself.”

“No,
you shouldn't!” Kate was on her feet instantly blocking his way out. “I'll run
the bath. I'll scrub your back or wash your hair or do whatever else you need,
but you're not leaving until I say you can.”

Randall
looked down at her from his superior height. “How are you going to stop me?”

“By
any means necessary. I can call on reinforcements if I need to,” she reminded
him, nodding toward the den. She took his hand again, to gently pull him toward
the stairs. “Come on. To the bathtub with you.”

He
stood like a rock for a moment, then gave in and went with her. “I don't want
anyone to get hurt. I won't hold you to your offers, except running the bath.”

“You
see, you are a nice man,” Kate said teasingly. She wanted to coax another smile
from him.

But
her remark had the opposite effect. His face hardened to granite. “So I've got
you fooled.”

Kate
didn't hear him; she had suddenly realized that to get to the bathtub she would
have to take him through her bedroom; the boys' bath had only a shower. She
shrugged inwardly; Randall's need for comfort was greater than her need for
privacy. She took him to her bedroom, saying, “Let me turn on the water, and
I'll get you some towels.”

The
bathroom retained its original Victorian tile in a black and white pattern, as
well as an enormous claw-footed bathtub. Kate turned on the brass taps and
adjusted the water to a just-bearable temperature that generated lots of steam.
She piled up two big bath sheets and a washcloth beside the tub. When she
returned to the bedroom, Randall was standing at the window with his back to
her.

“Your
bath is...”

Her
voice died as Randall turned around. His shirt was unbuttoned and open over his
chest. He was in the process of pulling his belt out through the belt loops.

She
wanted to lay her hands on the warm skin his shirt exposed and feel the texture
of the dark hair sprinkled over it. She wanted to pull off her own shirt so
that she could press her skin against that solid wall of muscle. She wanted
those big hands…

Randall's
voice was like sandpaper. “If you look at me like that, you'll be joining me in
the bathtub.”

She
forced her gaze to drop as she smoothed an imaginary wrinkle in the quilt on
the bed. Her voice was as rough as his. “I wasn't expecting to see your...to
see you undressing.”

Suddenly,
his hands were covering hers, and he leaned forward across the bed so that his
face was inches away from hers. “Don't apologize. It makes me feel...” He
stopped and frowned. “Human.”

She
tried to slide her hands out from under his, but his weight held her trapped.
She didn't want to tell him what he made her feel. “I think I should turn off
the water before it overflows,” she said instead.

He
released her by straightening. As she retreated into the bathroom, she called,
“Leave your clothes on the bed, and I'll see if I can clean them up.”

There
was a pause, and then Randall said, “Burn them. There's an overnight bag in the
trunk of my car that I keep packed for emergencies.”

Kate
walked back into the bedroom. “Give me your keys, and I'll bring it up.”

He
considered her offer for a moment, and then fished the keys out of his trouser
pocket. As she took them, he reached up and brushed the back of his fingers
against her cheek. “Thank you, Kate.”

She
summoned up a shaky smile. “You're welcome,” she managed before she turned and
exited hastily. She stopped at the top of the stairs, hefting the keys in her
hand and trying to collect her composure before facing her curious sons.

As
she walked through the den, Clay asked quietly, “What's going on with Mr.
Johnson? Is he all right?”

“I'm
not sure,” she answered honestly. “He has a black eye and looks like he may
have been in a fight. He's tired and doesn't want to talk about it.”

“Why'd
he come here?” Patrick wanted to know.

“Because
we're his friends,” Kate said, although she wondered the same thing. “And right
now he needs friends.”

“Wow,
Mr. Johnson needs us,” Patrick said. “That's weird.”

Privately,
Kate agreed, but aloud she said, “He's a person just like you and me. He has
his own problems that we don't know about.” She heard water run briefly. “I
have to get something from Mr. Johnson's car. I'll be right back.”

She
dashed out to the Jaguar parked by the curb and grabbed the black leather bag
from the trunk. Carrying it upstairs, she knocked softly on the bedroom door.
Hearing only splashing, she ventured a few steps in. Noting with relief that
the bathroom door was closed, she set the suitcase on the bed. She debated
whether to unpack it for him, deciding that handling his clothes was more
intimacy than she could deal with. She dropped the keys beside it and left.

Remembering
that Tom Rogan had asked her to call him, Kate went back to the kitchen and
dialed RJ Enterprises.

“Tom,
this is Kate Chilton. Randall's here, and I think that he's all right. I
cleaned up his cuts, and he's taking a bath.”

“Thank
God.” Tom's voice held noticeable relief. “I kept wondering when I would hear
about a smash-up involving a Jaguar.”

“I'll
try to keep him off the road, although he seems sober.” Kate hesitated a
moment. “Has he ever mentioned a bar called Dobie's to you?”

“Dobie's?”
Tom was silent as he thought. “Yes, I think he used to go there to drink when
he was underage.”

“That's
where he was in Texas. He said he smelled like it.”

“Why
would he go to some dive in Nowhere, Texas?”

“Maybe
he wanted a drink,” Kate said. “He won't talk about anything yet, but I'll keep
trying. He seems… depressed.”

“I
can't figure this out. I finally got hold of one of the Mason Bank VPs, and he
says that Randall backed out of the acquisition. No explanation, no
negotiation. He left without even going to the bank. He's been watching this
bank for years, waiting for the right time.” Tom sounded upset and frustrated.

“I'll
take care of him, Tom.”

As
she hung up, she puzzled over the business deal. She remembered Randall's story
about the wrong oil wells that he had bought anyway. Something very serious had
to have happened if he had cancelled a long-standing deal.

Kate
heard the floor creaking as Randall shifted in the tub. Then his footsteps
traveled back and forth between the bedroom and bathroom several times. By the
time she heard the door open, Clay and Patrick were debating the relative
merits of different combinations of toppings on the brick oven pizzas they had
voted on for dinner.

Randall
walked into the family room looking vastly improved. Nothing could hide the
black eye, but he had shaved and his damp hair was brushed neatly away from his
face. He was wearing charcoal gray slacks and a white button-down shirt with a
thin maroon stripe that he had left open at the neck. He dropped his overnight
bag in the corner. “Good evening, Patrick, Clay. How's the hand doing?”

“It's
going to be great, thanks to you and Dr. Lane,” Clay said. “I'm really
grateful...”

Randall
held up his hand. “Your mother has already thanked me so often that it's not
necessary to say another word. I'm glad you're on the road to recovery.” He
moved to a chair with a return of his usual fluidity and sank into it. “Did I
hear the word pizza being bandied around?”

“I'll
be happy to grill you a steak,” Kate said quickly.

“I'm
in the mood for pizza,” Randall said. “What toppings do they have?”

Patrick
took the menu over to him and then stood waiting as he examined Randall's
battered face. “Were you in a fight, sir?” he asked politely.