Ties That Bind (19 page)

“C
an I bring you anything else?” The waiter, who had introduced himself as Tony when we first sat down, glanced at the still-untouched bill.

I looked up and smiled. “Ummm. A little more coffee? Decaf.”

Tony smiled, but only with his mouth. “Sure. You want me to clear away the dessert plates?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Watching him leave, Paul spoke out of the side of his mouth. “I think Tony wants to go home.” We both reached for the check.

“I've got it,” he said, pulling it away. “It's the least I can do after making you sit here all night listening to me gripe. Sorry.”

I waved off his apology. “It was a fair exchange. You were very patient listening about my troubles with cranky Ted Carney.” I gulped down the last sip of coffee, now lukewarm. “
And
the cranky boiler. I'm so glad winter is almost over.”

Tony returned to top off our cups. Paul handed him the black plastic bill folder with his credit card tucked in the top.

“It's a wonder you and Sherry haven't come down with pneumonia,” he continued. “But I'm glad things are going better now that Reverend Tucker is mentoring you.”

“I like Bob. He's a good listener.”

“So are you.” Paul blew on his coffee before drinking it. “It's bad enough you have to listen to the tales of woe of a single father raising a juvenile delinquent ….”

“Will you lighten up? Getting caught smoking one cigarette does not make James a juvenile delinquent.”

“It doesn't make him citizen of the month either. Didn't they realize that if eight of them were in the bathroom, all smoking at the same time, it would set off the alarm?” He shook his head in disgust. “Knuckleheads.”

I laughed. “And you were worried about him making friends.”

“Well, yeah …I was kind of hoping he'd make
smarter
friends.”

“I'm sure two weeks of detention will add at least ten points to their IQs. Don't worry. It's just the age. They're testing their limits. And you made it very clear what the limits are.”

“Well, I was proud of him for taking his punishment like a man. He's going to be washing a lot of windows next week, but he didn't gripe about it, just said he was sorry and that it wouldn't happen again.” Paul smiled and stirred another packet of sugar into his cup. “I don't think it will either. Those cigarettes made him sick as a dog.”

“James is a good kid. And it seems like he's finally settling in.”

“You were right about me working with the youth group. I think it helped a lot. And I enjoy working with the kids. And Margot. Mostly. All but the part where she's driving me crazy and torturing me.”

Letting his head droop, he heaved a melodramatic sigh and pretended to beat his head against the table. “This is pathetic. I'm forty-two. I'm too old to be suffering adolescent angst over a woman who won't give me a second glance.” With his head still on the table, he mumbled, “I hate this.”

“I'm sorry.”

He jerked his head up. “You should be. This is all your fault. You're the one who introduced us. Now I can't get her off my mind.” He peered glumly into the bottom of his cup. “But I guess I'll have to. She obviously has no interest in me.”

The poor guy. I really felt for him.

“Margot has so much on her plate right now—her niece, her parents, this court battle, plus she works full-time. Maybe it's just an issue of timing.”

“Or maybe she's just not that into me. Can't you do something? Talk to her or something?”

“You mean like pass her a note in study hall? You've been spending too much time with teenagers. Maybe she's gun-shy,” I offered. “You know she was dating another lawyer in town, Arnie Kinsella, for more than a year. He had commitment issues so bad that when Abigail Spaulding said something about the two of them getting married, Arnie passed out cold ….”

“He what?” Paul's expression was incredulous. “You've got to be kidding.”

“It's true. Ask anybody. There were plenty of witnesses. He fell face first into his dinner at the Grill on the Green restaurant. Margot broke up with him after that, but it was a pretty public humiliation. You can see why she might be a little nervous about getting into another relationship, especially with another lawyer, until she is really sure of her feelings and yours. I think you just need to give it time, Paul. For now just be her friend. Spend some time getting to know her.”

“That's what I've been trying to do! Tonight, for instance, I invited
both
of you out to dinner. I thought that would be more casual, you know? Less pressure on everybody.”

“I know,” I replied, nodding my approval. “And I'm sure if she hadn't had her quilt circle tonight, she'd have come. Ask her another time. What about that gig you were looking into for Thursday nights? Playing at the pub in Warren? Did you get it?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Starts next week.”

“So why don't you ask Margot to come hear you play?”

Paul lowered his head, practically glaring at me. “What makes you think she'd come all the way to Warren to go on a date with me? She wouldn't even let me give her a lift to the inn.”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh my gosh! Will you quit being so pathetic? She didn't need a lift. She had her car.

“Anyway, don't think of it as a date; think of it as a friendly gettogether. Less pressure. If you want, I'll come too. That way it won't feel so awkward. You've got to be persistent. And patient. Margot was rejected in a very public and embarrassing manner. It takes a while to get over something like that.”

“Well. Maybe you're right,” he said. “It's worth a try anyway. You're sure you don't mind coming along? It would make things easier, less tense.”

“Of course I don't mind. I like jazz.”

“Okay. Thanks,” he said, sounding somewhat more hopeful. “You know, I don't know who this Kinsella guy is, but he must be crazy to have let Margot slip through his fingers like that. How could he have let her go?”

Paul leaned toward me, resting his forearms on the table. “She's so bright and funny and she's got this … I don't know, this innocence about her, but at the same time, she's incredibly smart. James is crazy about her. She's just so beautiful, inside and out. After what her parents pulled, you'd think she'd be furious, but she never says a word against them. I've never heard her say an unkind word about anybody. At first, I thought she was too good to be real, but I think Margot might be the most genuine person I've ever met.

“And beautiful!” he exclaimed. “Have you noticed the way her skin glows? And her eyes. I've never seen eyes quite that shade of blue. And …”

I listened as Paul went on, or at least I made every appearance of listening. It wasn't that I wasn't interested, only that I'd heard it all before. Paul was head over heels and, while it is sweet to see, after a while people in that condition can be pretty boring. But I understood. He had to talk about Margot. He couldn't help himself.

When I fell in love with Tim, I bored my family and friends with an endless litany of his virtues, good looks, personal history, plans for the future, and the repetition of every adorable thing he'd ever said to me. Once we were married and a little time had passed, I stopped telling everyone everything I could about my fabulous husband. Not because the passage of time made him any less fabulous in my eyes, but just because I learned to restrain myself.

Let him talk. He's in love, and that's not something that comes along very often. Most of us are lucky to find it even once in a lifetime. I was.

I yawned. I didn't mean to, but it had been a long day.

Paul looked at his watch. “Sorry. I should let you go home.”

“That's all right,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to stifle another yawn. “I'm just a little worn out. Clementine woke me up at five this morning.”

We got up from the table, saying thanks to Tony and giving him a wave as we headed to the door. “Hang on a minute. I left my jacket hanging on the coat rack by the restroom.”

“Wait right here. I'll go get it.”

Paul walked to the back of the restaurant and disappeared around a corner. At the same moment, a voice said, “Reverend Clarkson?”

I turned around and saw a man wearing black-framed glasses and waving. He was sitting at a table near the window, eating alone.

“Hi, Arnie,” I said, walking toward him. “Do you always eat this late?”

He had obviously just been served. His steak was only missing one bite and his baked potato hadn't been touched.

“I was working late—working up some notes for Margot's case. It's a mess. Her dad is serving as his own attorney. He keeps asking for all kinds of motions and information and generally doing whatever he can to make things as difficult as possible. I don't know if he's doing it on purpose or by accident, but it amounts to the same thing. Don't suppose you'd care to join me, would you? I hate eating alone.”

“Thanks, but I've already had my dinner. But why are you eating alone? Word around town is that you've been seeing Kiera Granger.”

Arnie made a wry face as he chewed a piece of steak. “Well, the word around town is a little behind the curve at the moment. Kiera and I broke it off.”

“Oh. Sorry to hear that.”

Arnie shrugged. “It's better this way. We're still friends.”

First Margot; now Kiera. For a man with so many friends, Arnie Kinsella seemed to spend a lot of time by himself. I spotted Paul, returning with my coat draped over his arm, and motioned him to come over. “Have you two met?”

Arnie rose halfway from his chair and stuck out his hand. “Arnie Kinsella.”

Paul bent down to grasp Arnie's hand. “Paul Collier, nice to meet you. I've heard a lot about you.”

“Paul Collier …” Arnie mused, his face brightening when he made the connection. “Oh, right! You're the new guy at Baxter, Ferris, and Long, right? You work with Geoff Bench. A pleasure,” he said and pumped Paul's hand before resuming his seat. “I imagine you heard about me from Geoff. The court assigned him as guardian ad litem for a custody case I'm working on.”

Paul nodded. “Margot Matthews is your client,” he said. “I know. She's a friend of mine.”

Arnie raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“We've been volunteering together at the church, working with the junior high kids. Margot's a terrific lady.”

“Absolutely,” Arnie said, looking down at his plate as he loaded his fork with potato. “A little intense sometimes, but …”

“Intense?” I asked, feeling a prick of irritation. An exact transcript of the exchange would lead you to believe that Arnie's regard for Margot mirrored Paul's, but his casual, almost dismissive tone told the real story. “In what way? You mean intense in her faith?”

Arnie jerked his head up, as if surprised by my line of questioning and the bite in my voice. I was a bit surprised myself, I must admit. Margot is a friend, so it's natural that I'd spring to her defense, but I'm a minister first, and Arnie is a member of my congregation. You can't tell by looking at him, but I'm sure he has scars of his own. Everybody does. Why else would a man who hates being alone on a Friday night find it so hard to stay in a relationship?

The barest blush of pink flushed the top of Arnie's ears. He swallowed quickly. “No … I mean … yes. Margot is intense about her faith, but there's nothing wrong with that. I… I was thinking more about her relationships. She's very … well, she's just intense. That's all.”

He looked toward Paul, hoping to find an ally. “Sounds like you've spent a lot of time with her. I'm sure you know what I mean.”

Paul narrowed his eyes and tilted his head to one side. “No,” he said slowly, “can't say I do. I do know she's a woman in a million and that the man who won her heart would be the luckiest man in the world. And the one who let her get away? Well …I can't imagine anybody crazy enough to let that happen, not without a fight. But if somebody did, I'd sure feel sorry for him.”

A quick smile creased Paul's face, as if he was suddenly surprised to realize how long he'd been going on, but that wasn't the case. Every word he'd uttered was absolutely intentional.

“Hey,” he said affably, nodding toward Arnie's plate, “we're keeping you from your dinner. Sorry about that. It was nice to meet you, Arnie.”

“You too.” Arnie shook Paul's extended hand and began to rise from his chair.

“Enjoy your food,” Paul said before walking away.

I had to follow Paul, but Arnie looked so forlorn. I felt bad for him. I reached out and touched him lightly on the shoulder.

“Good night, Arnie. See you on Sunday?”

He glanced up and his lips bowed into a robotic smile. “Sure.”

Paul helped me on with my coat before opening the door, letting in a sharp blast of cold air. I glanced toward the back of the restaurant and saw Arnie sitting at the table, knife in one hand, fork in the other, eyes fixed on a distant wall, lost in his private thoughts.

E
very day, either before work or after, I drive to the hospital, ride the elevator to pediatrics, check in with nurses, and walk down the yellow corridor with the bright mural of rainbow colors that curl like spools of unwound ribbons to room 322.

Olivia has had a score of different roommates since they moved her to the pediatric ward. Caleb, age nine, suffered bruises and a broken arm after falling off a bicycle. Emily, also nine, had an asthma flare-up. Lauren, age eleven, had emergency surgery to remove her appendix. And Michael, only four, who was here for a whole week, had broken ribs, and black eyes, and surgery on his wrist after a car accident.

Children come and go quickly in room 322, except Olivia. And all of them are happy to talk to me, except Olivia. Every day I sit by her bed, chattering away about what happened at the quilt shop or the church the day before, or about a funny show I saw on television, or about how I'm remodeling the spare room in my house into a bedroom with lilac painted walls and white ruffled curtains at the windows, or the quilt my friends and I are making to go on the bed, or how I've been thinking about going to the humane society and picking out a kitten, or anything else I can think of.

I talk to her about everything in the world, everything but the custody battle. She has enough uncertainty in her life without hearing about that mess. But she never says anything in response.

Sometimes I feel like an idiot, talking to myself day after day. She doesn't talk to my parents either. I heard that from one of the nurses, not from my parents. The only time they speak to me is during our occasional, unproductive mediation sessions, and then mostly to tell me how unfit I am to raise a child and how it's all my fault that Olivia won't talk, that if I hadn't insisted on telling her that Mari had died everything would be fine.

Well, I'm sorry, I don't want to be disrespectful, but that is just ridiculous. We had to tell her. Not telling her would have been a lie, and if we started off by lying, Olivia would never trust us, not ever. And maybe she still won't, but I have to believe that, eventually, there's hope. Isn't there?

That's why I keep coming here day after day, because Olivia needs me, even though she doesn't know it.

 

There was no one at the nurses' station when I arrived. Olivia's room was empty too. Logically, I knew there was no reason to panic; she's out of the woods now. But my heart raced as I walked quickly back down the hall, peeking into doors until I found a nurse who was putting a blood pressure cuff on a teenage boy.

“She's fine,” the nurse said with a smile. “Hang on just a minute and I'll take you to her.”

I followed her down the elevator to the second floor and to a large room with mirrors on the walls, mats on the floors, and rows of dumbbells sitting on racks—the physical therapy room. In the far corner stood a set of very low wooden and metal parallel bars, like gymnasts might use. A white-coated physical therapist stood behind, offering support and encouragement while Olivia, looking pale and nervous, gripped the bars tightly and limped slowly forward, so focused on the task that she didn't notice me enter the room.

I stood in the doorway with my fists clenched and pressed my lips together to keep from crying out as my niece moved inch by painful inch toward the end of the bars. When she finished, the therapist whooped with delight and scooped Olivia up in her arms before depositing my exhausted but smiling niece into a waiting wheelchair. Applauding, I ran across the room and knelt down next to her.

“Olivia! Oh, honey! That was amazing! You did it! You really did it!”

I looked up at the therapist, who was grinning from ear to ear. “When did the casts come off?”

“Just this morning. She's a little wobbly and weak still, but we'll build those muscles back up. If she keeps going like she started, we'll be able to discharge her soon.”

“Discharge her? To where?”

The therapist, who obviously didn't know about our personal situation, looked confused. “Well … home. Once she can walk, there'll be no reason to keep her here any longer.”

She smiled down and ruffled Olivia's hair. “Hospitals are for sick people, and you're not sick anymore, are you? I'm sure you'll be much happier once you get out of this place and back home.”

Still kneeling, I turned and looked into Olivia's wide, solemn eyes. She said nothing, but her thoughts were easy to read. Where was her home now?

I wish I knew.