Sister Dear (13 page)

Caroline grimaced. “Don't make me go back to my mom. I don't want to. I hate her.”

Emma drew in a sharp breath. “Well.” She thought quickly. “I promise you don't have to do anything, not right now,” Emma
replied, inhaling through her nose, trying to keep calm. She forced herself not to smile. “It's been a rough week for everybody. I just want you to be happy.”

“Thank you.” Caroline sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with the back of her hand. “But is there a deadline for when I have to go and live with her?”

“I don't think so, but I don't know for sure,” Emma replied. “Let's not worry about that right now.” She hoped Caroline didn't see how tightly she was balling her fists, her nails digging into the skin. When she looked down, forcing her hands to relax, the little half-moon marks had almost drawn blood.

Caroline's questions were valid. When would she have to move? Would someone force her? Who would make that decision? And how?

Emma patted Caroline's leg. “No one's rushing you. No one's made any decisions.”

“Okay,” Caroline said. She shut her eyes and tucked her knees in close to her body, like a terrified little girl. “What if I didn't have to go? Ever. What if I stayed here and you . . . adopt me?”

Pulse throbbing in her temples, Emma resisted jumping up to celebrate. This was more than she'd ever dreamed about.
Of course
Caroline belonged with her.
Of course
they should stay together.

“I'm serious. You could.” Caroline shrugged, blinking her brown eyes wide and spreading her palms to the ceiling. “Why not? You're already my guardian.”

“Sweetheart, I'll look into it,” Emma said, smiling. “I promise.”

Caroline threw her arms around her aunt and squeezed tight. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

For a long time, Emma held her. Finally, Caroline's breathing slowed. She yawned and rubbed her eyes.

“We can talk about all of this later. Sleep well.” Emma settled
her niece on the bed, drew up the covers, and kissed her head before leaving the room.

Maybe Killer Blue was right. Caroline might be on the edge of never. But that was right now. It wasn't permanent. Allie couldn't come back and assume her daughter would want her back, or that anyone else did either. Life didn't work that way.

No matter what, she couldn't allow Allie to ruin Caroline, to twist her heart and mind, to turn her against her own family. She wouldn't let it happen.

She'd adopt Caroline and the talk in the town would settle down; Allie's parole would become old news; there'd be something else to gossip about. Football, the county fair, church suppers. It didn't matter. Eventually, families would return to their routines. The Marshalls would too.

And then Caroline's broken heart would heal. Caroline would get stronger. Caroline would be happy again. She'd turn out all right . . . but only if Emma helped get her through it.

And maybe everyone else, including Allie, needed a gentle nudge to get out of the way.

Emma tapped her fingers on the sofa. She eyed the newspaper, with the real estate section on top. There was a short article about a Dr. Natalie Harper buying her father's building and taking over the veterinary practice. Some other business deals followed.

Pushing herself off the sofa, Emma retrieved a small but very sharp pocketknife from the kitchen, cut out the article, and slipped both into her jeans.

It was proof. Things changed. Life went on. She didn't have to wait or wonder. And Emma could right some wrongs now. She
could
help move things forward.

No good ever came from looking back anyway.

SEVENTEEN

ALLIE

August 2006

The screen door slammed hard. “Game time,” her father called out, seat cushions tucked under one arm.

Caroline popped out the door next, pompons in hand. “Ready, Mommy?” she asked, shaking the shiny streamers.

“Ready.” Allie grinned, gathering Molly's leash and latching the clip onto her collar. Her dog, still a puppy, had been handpicked by Coach Thomas to serve as the school's mascot. At first Allie had politely declined the coach's request, stating the obvious—Molly was a Lab, not a wolverine; she was a puppy; she might not react well to the crowd. In the end, after much cajoling by her sister, Allie relented and allowed a trial run. To her surprise, Molly enjoyed the spotlight, sitting on the sidelines next to the line of players during practice, watching the ball travel up and down the field. They would see what happened during a real game.

As Molly pulled to walk faster, Allie heard the strains of the marching band warming up in the distance. The drums beat out a rhythm; trumpets sounded, preparing for the rush of players on the field. Caroline climbed onto her grandfather's back. Allie grabbed
Emma's hand, pulling her forward and laughing. Her mother trailed behind, stopping to chat with a neighbor over a hedge.

The stadium was less than a mile away.

After dropping Molly off with one of the water boys who promised to watch her every moment of the game, Allie and Caroline stopped at the concession booth, peering up into the stands to find the rest of the family seated in an upper row.

After climbing the concrete stops, Allie handed Emma her Coke. “Stop pouting. We're here, right?”

Emma grimaced, shifting over to make room for her sister just as the players ran onto the field, a rush of silver and black. Minutes later, the opposing team joined the Wolverines under the goalposts, their sea of red helmets and jerseys bobbing and weaving like matadors readying for a bullfight in Pamplona. A whistle and the longest second of silence. A single coin tossed in the air. Twirling, arcing, falling.

Allie's eyes searched the sidelines after kickoff, roaming over helmets and athletic staff in Wolverine visors. After several plays, Coach Thomas called time. He frowned, his eyes glinting in the stadium lights. He yanked a team member to his feet, grabbed a piece of jersey, pulling the player inches from his face. Allie squinted for the number on his back. It was Ben's brother. After an impassioned speech, the coach released him to the field for the next play.

In the next sixty seconds, it was third down, fourth down, do or die. Then an arced pass flew through the air forty yards. Touchdown! The crowd jumped to its feet, the noise deafening. Her parents hugged Caroline.

Allie was still watching the field. Instead of celebrating, like everyone in the stands, Coach Thomas was ranting and angry. He'd drawn three players into a huddle and was shouting, slapping helmets. Grabbing jerseys and face masks. Though he was half a
head shorter, he put his hand on the chest of the tallest player and pushed hard, knocking him off balance. When the player hit the ground, Allie could swear Thomas stepped on his forearm before stalking away.

Wincing in pain for the player, Allie turned her head. Her father had seen it too.

Her father crossed his arms and frowned. “Not the way a man should lead.”

“Maybe they're coming down off a binge—crashing after a major sugar and caffeine high,” Allie murmured, half joking.

“Well, I know they're eating. A lot. They seem a lot bigger this year,” her father added. “The team's always in the weight room. Most all of the players were told to gain twenty pounds. I heard the coach has them on this special diet with supplements and protein shakes.”

Allie stopped. “Really?” She'd seen rows of muscle-building drinks at the health food store, tanned men with ripped abs and enormous biceps on the labels.

Her father nodded. “More than one parent has said so.”

Allie ran her eyes along the sideline, mentally taking measurements of shoulder pads and helmets. Her father was right.
Big
was an understatement. Some of these guys were huge. She leaned closer to her father and lowered her voice. “Wow. Um, would protein shakes do all of that?”

For a moment, her father didn't answer. Then he turned and murmured into her ear. “Doubt it. These kids are getting something, though.”

Something.
Allie licked her lips. “Like medicine?” She looked at her father.

His jaw tightened. “Maybe.”

What did that mean? Her father looked worried. Allie's mind
spun a dozen different scenarios. Did he mean something . . . illegal? All of a sudden, she felt hot. There were too many people, too many elbows and legs. She fanned herself, desperate for some air, thinking about her friends on the field, Ben's brother in particular.

2016

Allie sat at her desk, kneading her temples, trying to erase the memory.

No one else had wanted to see the coach's temper. How he handled his players. As long as the team was winning, the people of Brunswick would overlook almost anything. Allie knew that now.

She'd been so bold, actually going so far as to accuse the man of giving his players steroids to bulk up. They'd become a powerhouse team almost overnight, and the change in players, the attitudes, the aggression on the field, had been obvious.

After a moment's hesitation, Allie clicked off the job search website. She Googled the DEA website and navigated to the Office of Diversion Control, where the public could report suspected illicit pharmaceutical activities.

There, she went back to the year 2000, searching for investigations on pharmacists in Georgia, specifically, Coach Thomas's wife, searching for anything her attorneys might have overlooked.

Surely, if Thomas had been bold enough—even in the past—to order supplies through their family's pharmacy, the DEA would have noticed. But there was nothing. No mention of his wife, or their pharmacy.

Allie tried the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, but found that only offenders could search for their own criminal history records. Head thudding from staring at the computer screen, Allie clicked off the website and closed the laptop.

She paced the house, trying to shake off the feeling of hopelessness. She passed the calendar hanging on the wall, her next parole appointment with Gladys Williams circled in red. The woman's warning burned in her ears.
Don't go looking for trouble.

She'd intended to job search on the laptop Emma had given her—and she started out the day doing so, even jotted down a few leads. One, strangely enough, being offered with the new veterinarian in town.

An hour later, Allie found herself outside her father's old office, staring at a crumpled Help Wanted sign beneath the arms of two spiky, sprawling sego palms. Swallowing hard, she squatted down, picked up the paper with two fingers. The paper was bent, a little dirty, with tape still hanging off the edges.

Allie's heart stilled. It wasn't a great omen, but she tucked it under her arm anyway and headed for the office. The knob turned easily, and Allie stepped inside. A petite brunette with a pixie cut sat behind the counter surrounded by files and paperwork. Beside her, a tiny candle flickered, emitting the fragrance of grapefruit and tangerine.

“We're not quite open.” The woman smiled and gestured to the mountains of mail. “It'll be Monday, if you'd like to make an appointment.”

“Thank you,” Allie said.

“I'm Dr. Harper, but you can call me Natalie,” she said, extending her hand across the counter to shake Allie's. The woman's palm was soft, the grip firm. “Do you have a dog or cat?”

“Neither,” Allie answered, releasing Natalie's hand and stepping back. “I saw the sign about the job.” She held up the paper. “It must have fallen off the door. I wondered if you were still looking for someone.”

Natalie started to laugh. “They say word travels fast in a small
town, but that's amazing.” She was perky and energetic, all of forty years old, Allie guessed.

Allie flushed. “I'm Paul Marshall's daughter,” she explained.

A surprised expression crossed Natalie's face. She quickly replaced it with a pleasant smile. “Dr. Marshall said he had two daughters, correct? So you must be . . .”

“Allie.”

Natalie cocked her head and thought for a moment, pressing her fist under her chin.

Allie braced herself. She expected to be turned away, or worse, kicked out. It was possible Natalie Harper might ban her from the office altogether, even if she had a team of horses and a truckload of cash to pay veterinarian expenses.

“Did your father tell you to talk to me?” Natalie's expression remained pleasant. If she was worried or uncomfortable, her face didn't reveal a thing.

Allie bit her lip. “He doesn't know I'm here.” She paused. “I just thought . . . Well, I'm qualified to do just about everything here. I might be a little rusty, but I've kept up with the medical advancements, medications—” Allie stopped. “Sorry, I'm nervous.”

“It's fine.”

Allie reached into her back pocket and withdrew a folded résumé. She slid it across the counter to Natalie. “I know I'm not your ideal candidate. But I do have experience.”

Natalie opened the creamy parchment paper. With one finger, she traced the lines.

Allie knew each by heart. She had listed her acceptance to medical school, college honor societies, and charity work. Her last place of employment was the business in which the two women were standing.

Allie's breathing became shallow. She forced herself to slow her
pulse, inhaling deeply through her nose, exhaling out her mouth. She needed to give Gladys an update on her job status and couldn't do that if she passed out.

Natalie looked up from the résumé. “It took some bravery to walk into this office,” she said. “Even bigger cojones to ask for a job. My son got himself into a scrape a couple of years back.”

Allie stiffened.

“A DUI.” Natalie cocked her head. “He didn't even have a driver's license. After arguing with the officer who arrested him, the judge read him the riot act. He got a hefty fine, community service, and went to rehab.”