The Next Right Thing (Harlequin Superromance) (21 page)

Cammie stepped toward him, arms extended, and when they hugged, a silent, awkward embrace, the world almost shifted to normal. He closed his eyes as he smelled her scent, felt the silkiness of her hair as the wind blew strands against his cheek. The back of her T-shirt felt damp, and underneath it, her body felt firm.

He wanted to give in to the moment. To pretend nothing had happened.

“Marc, I—I love you.”

More words hitting him like hammer blows. He pulled her closer, close enough to whisper into her ear, “The last time you said that, you took it away in your next breath.”

He felt her stiffen slightly as he stepped away and dropped his hands.

They simply stared into each other’s eyes, and he noticed how the sparkle in her green eyes had dimmed, and how the corners of her lips turned down. He wanted to see her smile and to tell her that everything would be all right. But he couldn’t lie. His association with Cammie had to end. For himself, he knew the toll this would take in sleepless nights and waking memories, and he thought how time aged people more kindly than heartache.

But their relationship could never work. Not after today.

And yet he’d been so ready. As a kid, he’d often dreamed of his dad returning home and all of them being a family again. After his own divorce, then the debacle with Gwen-Laura, he’d been afraid of such dreams. But with the gradual understanding that his feelings for Cammie went back years, and after their night together at the beach, he’d realized how self-defeating it would be to let old fears stand in the way of happiness. He’d been ready to complete the circle, to be a family, with Cammie.

It hurt like hell to watch the dream die.

“I’m sorry, Cammie....”

* * *

T
IME
SUSPENDED
—it could have been seconds, possibly minutes—as Cammie listened to him explain that it was over. His words fell on her, slicing through her with a sorrowful grief, piercing something sacred and fragile deep inside.

When his words finally stopped, she gave her head a slow, disbelieving shake. “My,” she whispered, “it must be wonderful to sit so high up there, knowing what’s right and wrong, black-and-white.”

“Says the woman who likes to slide into the gray.”

She mentally flinched, but held herself still, impassive. His accusation hit a wall. She was tired of apologizing for being who she was—a risk taker, a woman who would rather take a chance and pay the consequences than cower in fear and uncertainty.

“Yes, I’ve waded into questionable areas,” she said over the rising winds. “Sometimes taking those risks means I’ve solved cases, some high-profile cases that brought you acclaim and money, Marc.”

“But at the time,” he said quietly, his brow wrinkling, “I didn’t know—”

“Really? Absolutely
no
idea how I might have possibly found evidence of, oh, where that woman was buying drugs in the Campbell case, or how the husband was siphoning money to his girlfriend in the Verdon case?”

He gave her a lengthy, perplexed look as though trying to see inside her brain. “You’re saying you illegally discovered evidence in those cases?”

“No. In the Campbell case, I attached a GPS on a vehicle registered to our client. In Verdon, I did a trash hit and found ATM receipts. In both cases, there were no issues about how I found the evidence. In the wrong judge’s court, however, my means
could’ve
been considered illegal. If that were true,
you
would’ve been viewed as complicit in my breaking the law.”

“Hypothesizing how a judge might have ruled doesn’t change the fact, Cammie, that you have a bad habit of willfully bending the law. That’s what stands between us.”

“No, what stands between us is that I’m not
perfect.
That I’m willing to stumble and even fail, in search of the truth. I’d rather be in the gray, and be real, than be like you, afraid to not be
exactly
right or wrong. Hate to break it to you, Marc, but your father’s in the gray and so’s Emily. Actually, so’s most of the world. That’s why you sit in that house alone, a perfect man in his perfect world.”

He impaled her with steely blue eyes. “I think we’ve said enough.”

She was about to turn away when she stopped herself. Despite their angry words, she owed it to him to let him know that Laura wasn’t pregnant. Timing of the news wasn’t exactly opportune, but if she didn’t tell him now, when would she get another chance? It was only fair he knew before the deposition, and not be hit by the obvious fact when Laura walked into the room.

“There’s one more thing, Marc, and I’m telling you this as a friend...”

He made a stopping gesture, his mouth twisted as though he couldn’t bear to utter a single word more.

“Laura—” thunder rumbled overhead “—isn’t pregnant.”

He stared at her, stone-faced, then turned and strode away.

His hard, implacable response stunned her. Maybe he hadn’t heard? Or maybe he didn’t want to believe her.

Rain started spitting from the sky as she watched his retreat, the sound of his footsteps fading until she heard nothing...as though he’d never been there.

Raindrops fell, splattering the concrete with fat gray blobs. She leaned into the gusty winds, feeling spent and fragile. But she had to be strong, had to keep moving forward with her life. If she let her thoughts wander to him, if she allowed the memories of what they’d shared to resurface, they’d tear her apart and destroy her faster than any earthly storm.

Cammie parked Phil in front of her uncle Frankie’s house and killed the engine. Rain splattered on the roof of the car, washed down the windshield. Through the blur, she could see the house was ablaze with lights, both from inside as well as the yellow porch lights and exterior yard lights.

“The electric company must love you, Uncle Frankie,” she murmured.

After a mad dash to the house, holding her purse over her head as though that might prevent the rain from drenching her, she walked inside, dragging fingers through her damp hair. Scents of tomato sauce and warm bread infused the air. Frank Sinatra was crooning “You Make Me Feel so Young,” with backup vocals by Uncle Frankie, his voice drowning the other Frank’s. Tossing her purse on the living room couch, she headed into the kitchen where her uncle and Delilah were dancing, cheek to cheek.

When Frankie saw Cammie, he stopped and called out, “My li’l
figlia!”

Delilah, wearing a low-cut tiger-print number and an apron with the words
Kiss the Cook,
opened her arms, her gold bracelets sparkling. “Oh, my dear, we were so worried!”

Despite Cammie’s warning to them that she was a walking water puddle, they embraced her in a group hug that reeked of Chanel No. 5, lemony-musky cologne and enough garlic to cure the ills of the world.

If only that were true.

After that, Delilah ordered her to put on dry, clean clothes. When Cammie returned, dressed in a favorite soft pair of jeans and her Nuggets sweatshirt, Frankie escorted her to the dining room table and poured her a hefty glass of Chianti while Delilah served a little plate of olives, cheese and nuts, “to whet your appetite, dear.”

While Delilah stayed in the kitchen to monitor the boiling pasta and sauce, Frankie sat across from Cammie and poured himself another glass of wine.

“Marc told me you and Delilah took back the rental car and delivered Phil to the parking lot,” she said, trying to sound together, maybe even normal. “Thanks for doing that.”

He shrugged. “That’s what family’s for.” He gave her a knowing look. “Marc, he wasn’t so happy with what happened this afternoon.”

“That’s right.” She took a sip of her wine.

“He didn’t give no particulars, but—” Frankie shrugged dramatically “—it was obvious, y’know? I mean, who hasn’t seen my niece, the revolutionary, getting arrested on the news?”

“Oh, sweetheart!” Delilah called out from the kitchen. “Your face against the asphalt like that!”

“But she looks okay now, kitty doll,” Frankie yelled back, tilting his head to check out Cammie’s cheeks. “Don’t see no oil spots or scratches.” He leaned back in his chair. “So, where was we? Yeah, Marc wasn’t real happy—”

“We broke up.” She figured it was easier to simply say it.

Her uncle blinked. “I never even knew you two’s were together. Can I tell Del?”

“No need,” Del called out. “I can hear fine from the kitchen.”

Cammie had to smile despite her misery. “It’s okay that Del knows. After all, we’re family.”

“I was worried sick about you being in that jail,” Delilah added.

“I’m fine.”

“Those gangs...I told you about that documentary I saw.”

“There was no gang warfare in the Clark County Detention Center. Well, there might’ve been if anybody changed the soap-opera channel.”

“Soap opera?”

“I love you, my bride-to-be, but soap operas can wait. Me and Camilla got to talk.” He turned his attention to her. “So, let’s take it from the top.”

Cammie told him about the issue of “wading into the gray” that had come up repeatedly between her and Marc. How they’d found Gwen, whose real name was Laura, in San Clemente, and after some girl-drama craziness, Cammie served Laura papers for her appearance at a deposition in five days. She explained how Marc had been counting on Cammie’s testimony at this deposition to persuade the Attorney Disciplinary Agency to not suspend his license, and how, if he lost it, he wouldn’t be able to represent his father at a parole hearing in a few weeks.

After a big sip of wine, she wrapped up the story by saying she’d screwed everything up by willfully getting arrested at today’s rally. Her actions were meant to protect Emily, and although Marc didn’t want to accept it, to protect him, too.

Frankie’s brow furrowed. “I don’t get the screwed-up part.”

“My testimony at the deposition, remember? I can’t do that now, which means his license will be suspended, which means he can’t represent his father—” She choked back a sob. “That sweet old man...will spend the rest of his life...in prison.”

And then she cried. Just let the tears fall.

After a flurry of commotion that included another group hug, Delilah plunked a box of tissues next to Cammie’s dinner plate. “When a lady’s heart has been broken, she has the right to cry at dinner, dear.”

Then Delilah set the food on the table while Uncle Frankie, who’d donned his horn-rim glasses although he wasn’t reading anything, gave his “three cents.”

“Y’know, that wading into the gray area stuff isn’t somethin’ new in your life, Camilla. You did that all the time as a kid with your mother, God rest her soul. You always wanted to protect her, and the good Lord knows, she needed protecting. I protected her, too, but you were the one who was on the front line, and she leaned on you, too.” He put some salad on Cammie’s plate. “Eat, it’s good for you.”

She did what was good for her.

As he served salad to himself and Del, he continued, “Risking your own well-being for another isn’t somethin’ new, either. I remember coming over when you were ten, maybe eleven, and you were trying to get your mother out of that old Ford Escort she used to drive, remember? It was running in the garage with the door closed. Lucky I dropped by—you didn’t know that both of you could be overcome with carbon monoxide. I brought your mother inside, and called 9-1-1.”

“I remember,” Cammie said solemnly. “She was in the hospital for several days, and you and Reggie stayed with me.” During that time, her uncle and aunt had done everything in their power to help Cammie recover from the traumatic episode, including the three of them attending several meetings with a school counselor. She remembered how scared she’d been for her mother’s well-being, as well as angry at her actions. After that, she’d been more vigilant than ever about her mom’s safety.

He turned thoughtful. “Y’know, Camilla, I’m gonna give you another perspective on living, and I’d like for you to hear me out. Maybe it’s okay sometimes to live a black-and-white life, to know what’s wrong, to do what’s right. Look at Frankie and the pope.” He gestured to their photos on the wall.

She and Delilah looked.

“Frankie, he pretty much always lived in the gray, y’know? But the pope!” He crossed himself. “He understood black-and-white, and he helped many of us live by it. After all, with black-and-white, you can trust your choices.” He took a sip of wine, set down the glass. “And ’nother thing. I like how you take care of others—your mother would be proud—just make sure you take care of Cammie, too.”

“Your uncle is a wise man,” Delilah murmured.

“And one more thing.” He looked intently at Cammie, his eyes big and shiny behind the thick lens. “You want I help Marc understand the situation? Because after your uncle Frankie talks to him, your world could again be a beautiful place full of lollipops and rainbows.”

Cammie nearly choked on a bite of pasta. After swallowing, she said quietly, “I think Marc has enough on his plate without that conversation, but tell you what. I might ask you to give that speech to the car mechanic next time I take in Phil.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

O
N
T
HURSDAY
,
AT
5:00
P
.
M
.,
Marc was in the living room of the suite at the Aria, his suitcase open, looking around for any last items he needed to pack. In the corner, he spied a wad of black material. He walked over and held it up, reading the white block words on the front of the black T-shirt.

Chicks Dig Me, Fish Fear Me.

His jaw hardened even as his heart shrank. A black-and-white T-shirt—it was as though Cammie was getting in the last word.

Which she had.

That’s why you sit in that house alone, a perfect man in his perfect world
had haunted him ever since she’d said the words yesterday. Then she’d added something about Laura, but he hadn’t wanted to hear more.

He couldn’t think of the last time he’d turned his back on someone and walked away. Had never done it to a client, and there had certainly been some belligerent ones who deserved it. He’d never done it to his ex-wife, and they’d had some fights where he should have. Had never done it to Gwen-Laura, who he wished he’d walked away from the very first time their eyes met.

But he’d walked away from Cammie. And every second since then, that last grief-eroded look on her face continued to stab at his heart.

He tossed the T-shirt aside, slammed shut his suitcase and snapped the locks.

“Em,” he yelled to the closed bedroom door, “finished packing?”

Of course, she didn’t answer. She’d been sullen ever since the fiasco yesterday. Hadn’t spoken to him the entire ride to the hotel after he’d bailed out Cammie, wouldn’t even respond when he asked her if he could take her out for a gluten-free, vegetarian, green-as-they-come meal. After they’d arrived at the hotel, she’d continued stonewalling him all the way to their suite, where she marched into her room and banged shut the door.

He’d called room service for dinner, picking the most exotic, organic-sounding dish for her—a rice pasta with morel mushrooms and walnut pesto—which he’d left on a tray outside her room. Around midnight she’d opened her door long enough to take the tray inside, then made a great show of locking the door, loudly.

He’d stayed up late, watching mind-numbing TV shows whose plots and characters he couldn’t recall, his thoughts vacillating between telling himself it had been worthwhile bringing Emily out for a visit to chiding himself for thinking he could pull off being a full-time dad. And when he wasn’t thinking about that, he was thinking about Cammie, wondering why the hell she’d put herself on the line like that, even while knowing she was always one to take action and test limits.

But understanding the motivations behind her actions didn’t erase the consequences. He had a hell of a problem coming up with the deposition.

In the morning, Emily had grudgingly told him she was going downstairs to buy a green tea and gluten-free muffin, and he’d asked to accompany her. But even walking together to the bakery didn’t heal their rift, because the only thing she’d wanted to talk about was his making up with Cammie, and he’d refused to discuss the matter. Back at the hotel, she’d retreated to her room again.

The hours of the day crawled past in a slow, dull haze. He hadn’t grown closer to his daughter this trip. He’d only managed to alienate her further.

Now, finally, it was time to go. This vacation from hell was over. He glanced again at the closed door. “Em, we need to check out, grab a bite to eat and get to the airport.”

Silence.

He headed to the door and knocked gently. “Emily?”

Silence.

He tried the handle. Not locked. He opened the door.

Her suitcase lay packed on the bed. He quickly scanned the rest of the room. Her brightly patterned eco-friendly purse, made of recycled candy-and-gum wrappers, was gone.

He walked back into the main room, looked around as though maybe she’d magically materialized in the few moments he’d stepped into her bedroom. He checked the bathroom off the entrance way.

No Emily.

He called her cell phone and got her voice recording.

For once he hoped she was ignoring him. He didn’t want to think of other, darker, reasons why she might not be answering.

He went to the room phone and called the front desk. “Get me security.”

Within seconds, he had Iona on the line.

“I remember your daughter well, Mr. Hamilton. There have been no recent reports of an underage person fitting her description in the gambling areas. How long has she been missing?”

The last time he’d talked to her had been around three-thirty when he’d knocked on her door, said he was going downstairs to pick up a fax in the hotel business center.

“About an hour and a half.”

“That’s not very long. Maybe she went shopping?”

“I doubt it.” Not Emily’s style to wreak revenge through a decadent capitalist shopping spree, but on the other hand, what better way to punish a bourgeoisie father?

“It’s only been a short while,” Iona said quietly. “Maybe she’s gone to the food court to get a drink or to check out some of the stores on the strip.”

After leaving his cell number with Iona, he wrote a note to Emily that she shouldn’t have left the room without telling him where she was going, that he was looking for her, that she needed to call his cell ASAP and that he loved her.

* * *

A
T
FIVE
O
’
CLOCK
, C
AMMIE
WALKED
inside the front door of Dignity House to start her stint as study monitor. The place was dark, cloaked in an eerie silence that made her nerves itch.

She flicked on a light switch.

“Surprise!”

The girls appeared magically, some scampering in from the hallway, others popping up from behind couches and chairs. They laughed and clapped and yelled her name.

Carolyn, one of the resident counselors, slowly unfolded herself from where she’d been hiding behind an armchair.

“Hi, Cammie,” she said, brushing hair out of her face. “Instead of study hour tonight, the girls asked to spend some special time with you.”

Cammie gazed at the green-and-yellow streamers looped around the room. “It’s...not my birthday,” she said in a bewildered voice.

“No, but after today, you will have fulfilled your community hours, and the girls thought they might not be seeing you again, so they asked to surprise you with this goodbye party.”

She’d been so caught up in everything else in her life, she hadn’t counted how many hours she had to go to fulfill her community service, something she’d done every single day when she’d first started volunteering.

“And we also saw you get arrested on TV,” another girl said, “so we figured we’d better have the party now in case you end up in juvie.”

“Fool,” another girl chimed in, “Miss Copello’s too old for juvie.”

Carolyn made a settling motion. “This is a party, girls, so let’s keep it light, okay?”

“Yeah,” Takira said, throwing a hip-hop move, “let’s just marinate, not agitate.”

Amber, who had been sitting solemnly at the end of the couch, stood. “And let’s appreciate the one who effectuates people like us,” she said quietly, “because we may never see her again.”

The girls grew silent, their eyes all turned on Cammie.

The looks on their faces unraveled her. Not so long ago, she’d been angry that, on top of having to pay fines, she also had to fulfill seventy-five hours of community service to regain her license. And yet, if she hadn’t had this experience, she never would have met these girls and learned their stories. She’d had it tough growing up, but her survival was a fairy tale compared to what many of these girls had experienced. They’d taught her that, despite what life has dealt, a person can still laugh and dance.

She opened her arms wide. “Get your behinds over here, ’cause I’m big into group hugs these days.”

The girls morphed into a thriving mass of bodies and giggles and tears in her arms, and she hugged them all, grabbing loose arms and hands, kissing wet cheeks.

Looking over the heads of the girls, she saw one girl off by herself, standing awkwardly, her arms wrapped around her middle.

“Amber,” she said, “we’re not complete unless you’re with us.”

Amber blinked as though surprised to be called out. “I’m...not...”

“We got a thinning ozone layer over here, Amber-D,” said Takira. “We need your skinny booty to save our girl planet.”

At first, Cammie didn’t realize Amber was smiling. The girl pulled back her lips, exposing bright shiny teeth, but otherwise her face didn’t change expression. Then her eyes turned bright, like glass, and seemed to melt a little.

“For sheezy, Amber-D!” another girl called out. “Shake it over here!”

She walked stiff-legged to the group. Hands reached out and drew her in, and as they all held on to each other—laughing and joking and sniffling—Cammie realized that they might think this was a going-away party, but she wasn’t going away. These girls were going to see her again because she was going to re-up as a volunteer. She wanted them to know that there were people who stayed with them not because they had to discharge a commitment or earn a paycheck, but that they remained because they chose to stay.

But her realization went deeper than that. Like a bright penny cast into deep waters, the understanding glinted and sparkled as it sifted through the depths of her consciousness. This wasn’t about their needing her.

She needed them, too. Maybe more so.

Many minutes later, everyone congregated in the kitchen. Some girls were setting the table, others were filling pitchers with Kool-Aid and iced tea. Takira commandeered several girls who were retrieving foil-covered casserole dishes from the oven.

“We know you’re Italian,” she said to Cammie, “so we figured you’d like lasagna, and if you don’t, tough. Hey,” she called out to one of the girls across the room, “put some trivets on the table for these hot dishes.”

“What the hell’s a trivet?”

“Watch the language,” warned Carolyn, carrying glasses to the table.

“What the H is a trivet?” the girl corrected.

“Those iron plates with little feet,” said a familiar voice.

Emily, a strawberry-blond braid draped over her shoulder, stood in the doorway of the kitchen, smiling shyly. Wearing a pink-and-lavender dress with matching pink sandals, she looked nothing like the bullhorn toting, riot-inciting leader of the revolution from yesterday.

Takira raised a fist. “To our sistah!”

“Boo yeah!” yelled another, raising hers.

“You took the power!” Amber raised both fists.

After the whooping and clapping subsided, Emily looked at Cammie. “I wanted to see you, but I didn’t mean to interrupt a party.”

Cammie looked over Emily’s shoulder, but didn’t see Marc. When she looked back at Em, the girl shook her head slightly.

“It’s our goodbye party for her,” Takira explained, setting a serving spoon next to the lasagna.

Emily’s eyes widened. “Are they sending you to jail?”

“No,” Cammie said casually, not wanting to trigger discussions of jail and prison, which were too real for most of these girls, either for themselves or their family members. “I’ve completed my community service today, so the girls surprised me with this party. Now’s as good a time as any to share that I’d like to continue volunteering at Dignity House, so maybe this can be a goodbye and welcome-back party?”

The girls hollered and laughed.

“Do we still get cake?” one of them asked.

“Hush, she don’t know ’bout that,” chided another.

“When you come back,” Takira said, “you’ll have to tell us some sleuth stories ’cause you’ll have your bad P.I. license back.”

Cammie and Emily exchanged a look.

“Em,” Cammie said, “how about we step outside while the girls finish setting the table? I’d like to talk to you alone for a moment.”

The skies were overcast, the air still. Occasionally a breeze limped past like a bedraggled relic from yesterday’s storm.

Looking over her shoulder to ensure no one could overhear, Emily said quietly, “I thought you’d lost your chance to be a P.I. again.”

“I have, but they don’t need to know that. They want me to have my dream, and for today, I want them to be happy believing I’ll get it. Now, let’s talk about you. How did you get here?”

“Took a taxi. I’d talked to Amber earlier and knew you’d be here.”

Cammie groaned.

“I had enough money on me, so what’s the problem?”

“You’re too young to be hopping into taxis in Vegas. They’re not safe for young, innocent women. Promise me you’ll never do that again.”

“Maybe I’ll never be in Vegas again.”

“Then promise me you’ll never do it again in
any
large city. If you need a ride, talk to whatever parent is around. If you’re stuck somewhere and frightened, call 9-1-1. Now, aren’t you supposed to be on a flight back to Denver tonight?”

Emily nodded. “Eight o’clock. There’s plenty of time to get to the airport.”

Cammie waited for the other shoe to drop.

Emily rolled her eyes. “Okay. He doesn’t know I’m here.”

“I guessed as much. Where does he think you are?”

“In my room at the hotel?”

“Emily,” Cammie chided softly, putting her arm around the girl. “You have to let him know you’re here. Has he called you?”

Emily hesitated, then nodded.

“How many times?”

“I don’t know.” She wrapped her arms around her waist and shifted from foot to foot. “I’ve had the ringer off.”

Cammie hesitated, then decided to dive in. “I’m one to talk about being obstinate because I have a problem myself with being a little, oh, stubborn at times...”

The corners of Emily’s lips twitched a smile.

“But since that gives me the right to call the kettle black, now isn’t the time to be willful. Get out your phone and call him, tell him you’re here, let him know you’re okay. He’s your father, and he’s probably worried sick.”