The Next Right Thing (Harlequin Superromance) (14 page)

“Oh?” Delilah looked very interested.

“Yes, I’ve accepted Marc’s job offer.”

Before Delilah could emit another “Wonderful!” Cammie quickly continued, “Emily, your dad will be dropping you off at Dignity House around six.”

The girl clapped her hands. “Wonderful!”

* * *

T
HAT
NIGHT
AT
D
IGNITY
H
OUSE
, Takira kept trying to lead the girls in another Dinki Mini dance, claiming she needed to practice it for the school talent show. Cammie countered that unless the public school system was now staging burlesque shows, Takira wasn’t performing the Dinki Mini there
or
here, and if the girls didn’t start opening their books, study hour would end at eight instead of six.

After some grumbling and looks, the girls settled into their studying. Except for Amber aka Daearen, whose nose had been in her social studies book the entire time. Cammie had asked her a few questions to get the girl to open up, but Amber only offered monosyllabic answers, if that.

At six o’clock, one of the resident counselors, a prematurely gray thirtysomething with earnest eyes, joined them and herded the girls to the kitchen. Volunteers like Cammie often worked study hour by themselves; otherwise there were always two adults on the premises. Posted in every room was also the phone number for an on-call nurse.

While waiting for Marc and Emily’s arrival, Cammie sat on the porch in a white plastic chair, watching the winds torment a couple of trees across the street. Dignity House sat on a couple of acres with no other houses in the immediate vicinity. The isolation was a good thing. Most neighborhoods aren’t thrilled to have a facility like this next door.

From the porch, Cammie looked to the west, across a wide, flat, dull-colored landscape of scrub and juniper, to the jagged outline of rocky foothills. In the distance, she could see the snow-covered peak of Mount Potosi. She hadn’t done a lot of exploring outside Las Vegas, but Frankie had told her that the town of Pahrump was in this direction. She’d like to go there. Mainly because saying “Pahrump” made her grin. And the town was the site of the famous Chicken Ranch, a legendary brothel. Pahrump might have some interesting stories to tell.

The strong gusts of warm air made her skin itchy. Or maybe it was being a P.I. again.

Each investigation was like taking a road trip. You knew the destination, but nobody handed you a map for how to get there. Sometimes you bounced over a clue before realizing its importance, other times you ran smack into a dead end. Good news or bad, you kept moving forward—or what you hoped was forward—to find the answer.

When she’d worked at Hamilton & Hamilton, she knew Gwen well enough to say “Good morning,” “Have a good night” and “Are the checks ready?” Otherwise, they didn’t talk. Cammie dredged her memories for any recollections of photos or mementos on Gwen’s desk. She’d often seen a lipstick-stained coffee cup with a logo of a chicken on a skateboard, which had always struck Cammie as odd because Gwen didn’t have much of a sense of humor. There were no pictures of family, not even of Marc. A large mirror. Of course.

Otherwise the desk had always been neat. Immaculate, even. Like somebody who hadn’t planned on staying long?

The Prius parked at the curb. Marc and Emily exited, the breezes fussing with Marc’s hair. Emily, smart girl, wore hers in a long braid.

He wore the same blue T-shirt and jeans that he’d worn that afternoon. She swore she could still smell his apple-cider scent, feel the hard contours of his body pressed against hers, see that look of need in his eyes.

Damn those doughnuts anyway.

“Hi.” Marc stepped onto the porch, dragging his hand through his mussed hair. “Winds are picking up.”

“Locals say it’s only windy in the fall and spring, and after that, the rest of the year.” She mentally congratulated herself on sounding upbeat and pretty darn near close to normal.

“That’s why the Indians named this place Las Vegas,” he said. “It means ‘hold on to your hats.’”

“I didn’t know that,” she said.

“Made it up.” He winked.

“Huh.” She’d never seen him wink before. Seemed they were both trying to be their best light-and-bright selves.

“Good to see you, Emily.” Cammie peeked in the fabric bag the girl carried. “Wow, look at all that food!”

“We picked up some extra things at the organic market,” she said proudly.

“Cool. Everybody’s in the kitchen. Follow me.”

The kitchen was at the rear of the house. It was a large room, the result of combining the original much smaller kitchen and a glassed-in patio. In its former life, the tri-level house had been a men’s room-and-board residence, and the proprietress and her family had cooked meals back here. As Dignity House, the girls and staff together cooked all meals, a task meant to foster the mission statement posted on various walls—community, responsibility and leadership.

Some of the girls were arranging dishes. Others were preparing drinks and setting out food. Through the windows that looked out on a strip of grass and some lawn chairs, Emily saw two of the girls talking earnestly to the counselor.

“Everyone,” Cammie said loudly, “this is my friend Emily, who’s joining us for dinner. She knows a lot about organic food and cooking healthily, and we can learn a lot from her.”

Emily, smiling nervously, set the bag on a small side table. She wore a Make Love, Not Trash T-shirt with a long skirt and a pair of sandals. Her pulled-back hair emphasized her pink, freshly washed face.

The girls stared at her in silence.

“Look who’s coming to dinner,” Takira muttered. “Taylor Swift.”

“Takira,” Cammie warned quietly.

“Well, she ain’t no hoodrat,” added another girl.

A smattering of giggles.

“Hey,” said another, “be easy on the bougie.”

Marc looked around and smiled, although you could see his patience was thinning. “My name’s Marc and I’m Emily’s father.” He put a supportive hand on her back. “She’s here because she wanted to meet you. In fact, she brought organic food to share with you. But if you can’t speak respectfully to her, she’s leaving.”

Cammie had never seen so many eyes grow wide, but Marc was right. The girls had behaved badly, probably out of jealousy, and Cammie should have stepped in first to put a stop to it. She was, after all, the one in charge here.

“Girls,” she said, “let’s—”

“Anybody else have something to say?” Marc said.

She started to override his churlishness, but stopped when she saw the fiercely protective look in his face. This wasn’t about him being rude or defensive, this was him being a father defending his daughter.

“Because I invite you to step forward and speak your mind,” he continued. “But one
caveat
—I challenge you to share something meaningful and important, because it doesn’t take much intelligence to deride others.” He looked around the room, making eye contact with each and every girl. “On the other hand, it takes character, a person destined to be a leader, one who chooses to educate and uplift her fellow humans, to take the floor. Who would like to speak now?”

Amber drifted forward, her large dark eyes staring intently at Marc as though to ensure he was properly listening.

“The world’s going to end in 2016,” she said quietly.

A crash shattered the silence.

“Shit, it’s ending now!” one girl yelled as she dove for cover. Several girls ran squealing into the dining room, others fell to the floor. Air rushed through a hinged window that had been blown open by a fierce blast of desert wind, the force propelling the window against the wall and shattering its panes. Dust swirled, papers fluttered, glasses smashed onto the floor. Instinctually, Cammie gathered Emily and a few other girls and made them crouch low to the ground, their hands over their heads as if they were in a plane that was about to go down.

Air rushed through the room. A steel bowl rattled across the floor.

Then, silence.

Cautiously, Cammie looked up.

Marc stood at the broken window over the sink, pressing the top of the side table over the gaping hole to block the wind. His shirt had ripped at the armhole, exposing a tanned, muscled deltoid. He looked over his shoulder at Cammie and grinned.

“When I lifted the table, caught the leg in my sleeve. Tore the shirt getting it loose or I’d have gotten to the window sooner.”

The way his hair fell over his forehead, that isn’t-this-just-the-damnedest-thing grin and that flash of muscle, he looked like a rugged, save-the-day hero on a romance book cover.

There was a time she would have found such an image to be silly or superficial, but at this moment it hit her completely differently. He’d been quick thinking, strong, protective. No paperback hero, but the real deal.

She straightened, trying to ignore the small, hot thrill in the pit of her stomach. “Everybody okay?” she asked, helping the other girls up.

“Fine.”

“Yes, Miss Copello.”

“Got a toolbox around here?” Marc asked.

“There’s one downstairs,” Takira offered. “I’ll go get it.”

As she jogged out of the room, Cammie said, “Let’s get things cleaned up.” Everybody pitched in without a single gripe.

The counselor and the two girls entered through the back door, their hair tousled, looks of surprise on their faces. Cammie assured the counselor that the girls were okay, explained how Marc had closed the broken window.

“Could one of the other windows blow?” one of the girls asked.

The counselor shook her head. “We’ve all known that window needed fixing. Should’ve secured it weeks ago.”

“Is there a piece of plywood around?” Marc asked. “Something large enough to nail across here?”

Cammie thought for a moment. “Got a piece of wood that might work in my car. I use it to stabilize the camera on surveillances.”

Marc laughed. “You’re like Felix the Cat. Always got something in your bag of tricks.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” As she left, she noticed Amber and Emily working together to sweep up the broken glass. Funny how those two girls, who seemingly had little in common, had gravitated to each other and were working so well together.

Reminded Cammie of her and Marc. When they met, they were near opposites, yet they’d ended up working well together.

But would they work well together again?

Only time would tell.

* * *

T
WENTY
MINUTES
LATER
, Emily was at the kitchen counter, showing Amber and another girl how to make hummus. Other girls were cutting slices of the gluten-free, organic bread, while others were setting up plates of avocado and cheese slices, bean sprouts and other items for make-your-own sandwiches.

On the opposite counter, Marc and Cammie were chopping lettuce and tomatoes for a salad.

He’d hesitated to stay, because this evening was about Emily, but the counselor Carolyn had insisted. Out of earshot of the girls, she’d said, “We like the girls to experience a positive family environment when it presents itself.”

So here he was, the symbolic father figure in a family of a dozen or so girls, some of whom had that look of ghetto hardness he recognized from criminal cases he’d handled. Children who had learned, some before they could even talk, that only the strong survived and only fools trusted. These kids never seemed to relax, their bodies tense, their eyes constantly darting about, their brains always juggling life’s stacked odds.

He’d challenged Emily to show people respect, especially hardworking people, which these girls were, because they were trying to change for the better. It made him proud that Emily was meeting the challenge.

He glanced over at his daughter explaining to several girls that, although she didn’t eat meat, she supported organically fed livestock because they weren’t fed antibiotics or genetically modified foods.

“Why’s that so good?” asked a girl.

“Means you’re eating healthier food,” Emily said, “plus the animals are raised humanely.”

“What’s
humanely
mean?” another girl asked.

“Like how we’re being raised here,” Amber said, who had positioned herself next to Emily, “and not like what we experienced before.”

After a moment of silence, Takira said, “For sheezy!” which got a laugh.

Lowering his voice, Marc asked Cammie, “What’s
for sheezy?
”

“For sure,” Cammie said.

“I’m never going to have children,” Amber announced. “It’s irresponsible to add to a world that is already overpopulated.”

“Fewer people,” Emily added, “less ozone depletion.”

“Exactly,” agreed Amber. “You have a mother?”

“Yes,” Emily answered.

“Does she work?”

“Not if she can help it.”

“What does she do?”

“Marries men who have money.”

Marc moved his head closer to Cammie. “For sheezy,” he muttered.

Cammie shot him a smile, which he returned, but as they resumed their chopping, he mulled over Emily’s response. As much as his ex-wife irritated the hell out of him, it hadn’t felt good hearing Emily’s toss-off remark. If that’s how she viewed her mother’s “career”—as marrying for financial gain—how would that affect Em’s future relationships with men? If only he could have more time with Emily, help her nurture more positive views of men and women.

If only.

“What about your mother?” Emily asked.

“She’s dead,” Amber said matter-of-factly.

Marc darted a look at Cammie, who gave a slight shrug.

“I didn’t know,” Emily said. “I’m sorry.”

“No big deal,” Amber said. “She died when I was little. I barely remember her. I’ve lived in a lot of foster homes. Nobody wanted to adopt me but I don’t care. I didn’t want to be adopted by any of them, either. Nobody cared about changing the world, just consuming it.”

Takira and some of the other girls started singing a rap song, “Hate It or Love It,” and the mood in the room lifted as they danced and sang. Cammie silently congratulated Takira for keeping her moves G-rated.