Fat Girl (29 page)

I don’t want to feel the grief.

I shove myself to my feet, and hunger pangs cramp my stomach. I haven’t eaten since Saturday, or stepped foot inside my kitchen since I flushed twenty-one months of hard-earned abstinence down the toilet.

Yesterday I subsisted on coffee from the corner bakery and resisted the mouth-watering pastries. My stomach growls again and I know that sooner or later I have to eat. Experience tells me that giving into another day of starvation out of fear and a desire to punish myself is more likely to trigger a binge than putting something nourishing into my body. I force myself to the kitchen and pull up short at the entrance.

Visions rush forward of Mick’s hot, hungry mouth on my lips, my neck, and my nipples. I grasp the wall, bombarded with the sensation of how it felt to have his fingers inside me, thrusting with quickening strokes…oh God…will my home ever be free of Mick? Will I?

My past is once again chasing me. For almost two years,
I held it together. And in less than a week, what was once semi-controlled is now out of control. What was once somewhat peaceable is now chaotic. The tidy threads of my life are starting to unravel. And I can’t let them.

I learned through therapy that it’s when I start thinking about the things I can’t control that I feel the overwhelming urge to eat. I can’t control my feelings for Mick, but I can control what I do about them. To regain my footing, I concentrate on taking slow, deep breaths and focus on each muscle in my body relaxing as I breathe away the anxiety.

Ten minutes later, calmer, I shower and dress in a black power suit that gives me the armor of professional composure I need. I disguise the shadows beneath my eyes with a thin layer of concealer and wrestle my curls into a low ponytail. I make a pot of coffee and a mental note to call Dr. Roland’s office to move up our monthly appointment.

I clear my fridge and cupboards of anything that could be used for a binge. Then I grab a yogurt, pour coffee into a commuter cup, and go.

I arrive to an empty office. Lena won’t be in until after ten, which is just as well. I could use a little time to myself before answering questions about my weekend. I usually have a good poker face, but I’m not sure I would this morning.

On my desk, the orchids and lilies still fresh and vibrant, mock my memories and the anguish I feel. Biting my lip against the threat of tears, I carry the flowers into the kitchenette and dump them in the compost bin. But I can’t bring myself to toss out the vase. I store the crystal in the bottom cabinet, out of sight, and make a mental note to ask Lena to sell it on eBay and donate the money to a children’s cause.

Upon exiting the small alcove, the phone rings. Trepidation seizes my lungs. I ignored Mick’s calls yesterday. He left six messages, all asking how I was and for me to call him. He even stopped by last night. But awareness of my weakness for him saved me from opening the door.

Stretching across Lena’s desk, I check Caller ID and see the name I’ve been waiting for light up the screen. Thomas Jackson. Finally. “Deeana Chase,” I answer.

“Well, good morning, Ms. Chase,” he says, far too chipper.

Annoyed that he left my client to stew in uncertainty all weekend, I don’t waste any time with niceties. “After Saturday’s failed visit, Mr. Jackson, I trust your clients have come to realize that a custody battle won’t earn them a relationship with their grandson.”

“On the contrary, Ms. Chase, they are more resolved than ever to return the boy to his rightful home in Kentucky. A fact I’ve just shared with opposing counsel, Calista Sanchez. I look forward to meeting Wednesday afternoon to present legal positions, unless”—he pauses for dramatic effect—“that doesn’t give you enough time to prepare.”

Evidentiary meetings can take weeks to prepare for. And having acquired this case only five days ago, I’ll have to scramble. But I won’t let him catch me sweating.

“I’m not only ready, Mr. Jackson,” I say, “but eager to speak on Dwayde’s behalf.”

WHEN LENA ARRIVES AT TEN THIRTY, we get to work.

“Start gathering whatever information you can on Charles and Joan Franklin and their daughter, Joyce. I want to know what she was like in high school...who her friends were…when she started using drugs, who she dated…and any clues as to the identity of Dwayde’s father.” The “unknown” marked on his birth certificate doesn’t jibe for some reason. Intuition tells me the answers lie somewhere in there.

“Got it,” Lena says, taking copious notes. “Do you need anything more on Victor and Isabelle Torres?”

“Not at this point, thanks. But,” I add, careful to keep any hint of emotion out of my voice, “see what you can find out about their close family friend, former NBA star Micah Peters. He was in the news recently for hitting a reporter. I want to know more about that and if there is any dirt that might reduce his credibility as a witness and a person of influence in Dwayde’s life. Make that your priority for this meeting.”

“Whoa. Back up,” Lena halts my instructions.

“What is it?” I ask, though I already know what’s coming.

“Is Micah Peters your Mick?”

“Mr. Peters is a witness I need to make sure is reliable. You can be certain Jackson has already checked him out.”

Lena starts to say more, but my look warns her that I’m not in the mood.

ON TUESDAY NIGHT, I’M WAGED in an intense blood battle. It’s down to seconds when I swing too soon and give Dwayde the opportunity to take my warrior down with one deadly plunge of his sword.
Game over.

“Whoo-hoo! I whooped your butt!” He jumps off the couch to do a victory dance, rousing Rufus from his nap. “Sixth time in a row.”

“You keep getting lucky.”

“Yeah, right,” he gibes. “You might rule the basketball courts, Uncle Mick, but you’re on my turf now, and I’m the video king.”

Anticipating my next move, Dwayde tries to leap away, but I’m quick and wrestle him onto the rug to his shouts and laughter.

Woof! Woof!
Rufus barks, leaping between us and licking Dwayde’s face.

“Some guard dog,” I say of the bulldog mix—another lost and wounded stray like Dwayde and me that Victor had taken in. For the next few minutes, I tussle with Dwayde until he begs for mercy.

“Give! Uncle!”

“Now who’s the king?” I pump one fist in the air just as my phone plays inside the front pocket of my jeans.

I let Dwayde up to answer. Her name flashes on the screen and my heart picks up speed. “I have to take this call, Dwayde.”

He reads my expression and snorts. “Bros before bras.”

I shake my head. “Where do you come up with this stuff?”

He shoots me a dimpled grin.

“Hi,” I answer, pitching my voice low.

Dwayde makes kissy noises at me, and I slice my finger across my throat.

“Sounds as though I’ve caught you at a bad time.” Dee’s voice carries a swell of irritation, and I can feel her jealousy pumping through the phone.

She thinks I’m with a woman.

A selfish satisfaction slides in that she’s affected. Yet as much as it does my ego good, I’m not about to let her believe that—especially when I doubt that making this phone call is easy for her.

“You haven’t caught me at a bad time. That was just the sound of Dwayde kissing my feet.”

“You wish!” he protests in the background.

“Hold on a sec. I’m going to take this upstairs. Dwayde, I’ll be right back.”

Dwayde bats his eyes and I toss a pillow at him before taking the basement stairs two at a time and ducking into the empty dining room. I can hear Victor and Isabelle across the main hall talking in the family room.

“Sorry about that, baby.” I wince as soon as the familiar endearment passes my lips. I don’t want to scare Dee away. “How are you?”

“Just fine, thank you,” she says stiffly.

“I’m glad you called.”

“Yes, well, I’m calling because we’re meeting with the judge tomorrow afternoon. I thought I should check in to see if you had managed to find out anything from Dwayde. I’m sure you would have let me know if you did, but I’m just dotting my i’s and crossing my t’s.”

She’s all business. Doesn’t even acknowledge the half-dozen messages I’ve left over the past couple of days or the fact that I showed up at her door on Sunday night and she didn’t answer.

“I’m batting zero so far,” I tell her.
And not just with Dwayde.
“He insists he doesn’t remember the Franklins or Kentucky. Victor’s tried, too, with no better luck, and he’s a skilled interrogator.”

“The difference with suspects is Victor can use a heavy hand and intimidation. With Dwayde, it will take patience and gentle persuasion. That may mean chipping away a little at a time.”

Is gentle persuasion what it will take to crack
Dee’s
secrets?

I brace a shoulder against the window that overlooks the front garden. “How will this affect you in court?” I ask.

“At this point, it shouldn’t. We’re just presenting our positions, and I feel confident that I have what I need to demonstrate the strength of Dwayde’s case. If we find out anything subsequently that’s relevant to the case, I’ll bring it into evidence then. How’s Dwayde?”

“Anxious about tomorrow. But kicking my butt in video games has definitely lifted his spirits.”

She laughs softly. “I’ll let you get back to it.”

Not ready to say good-bye, I hunch my shoulders and turn my back to the hall. “The way we left things on Sunday feels unfinished.”

“It’s finished, Mick,” she says, her voice tremulous. “It ended fifteen years ago.”

Resting my forehead against the cool glass, I look out at the somber clouds swallowing up the night sky. I struggle not to give in to my hurt, determined to stick it out this time.

“The way your body still responds to me says we’re not.”

“That was a mistake.”

“I know I let you down when I walked away that night, Dee. But I was young and stupid. I messed up. I realize that now. Talk to me. Give me a chance to fix things.”

“You can’t fix this, Mick,” she whispers, sounding defeated.

“Dee—”

“Unless it concerns Dwayde, there’s nothing more for us to discuss.”

The phone disconnects. I run a hand over my hair, my emotions spinning, my frustration raw.

“Wouldn’t have thought begging was your style.”

Fuck. Just what I need.
Turning, I regard Victor entering the room. His brow is drawn down in a censorious scowl. I tuck the phone back into my pocket and step away from the glass. “Wouldn’t have thought eavesdropping was yours.”

“It is when it concerns my son. He’s the priority.”

I’m already on edge and his insinuation pisses me off. “Just like you, I’ve been here for the past two evenings. Trying to get Dwayde to open up, giving him reassurance, playing a marathon of video games. So you tell me, Victor, how am I not putting Dwayde first?”

“I’d think that was obvious. You lied about going to see Dee on Saturday night the same way you lied about hiring her. You say it’s for Dwayde, but it’s really about fucking his lawyer.”

Bright red anger flashes before my eyes, and my fist nearly shoots out to connect with Victor’s prominent chin. But I think about how much I hate being like my old man, and of thirty years of friendship. Breaking Victor’s face isn’t going to make me feel better. I unclench my hands. But I don’t trust myself to step any closer.

“Don’t ever,” I grit through my teeth, “talk about Dee like she’s a piece of tail.”

“Then stop lying to me about her,” he hisses back.