The Next Right Thing (Harlequin Superromance) (22 page)

“He’s going to be pis—”

“And rightfully so, but I have a feeling he’ll also be overjoyed to know you’re safe and with friends. Now call him.”

“I’ll text him. I don’t want to hear a lecture.”

“Okay, text him. And add that I’m happy to drive you to the airport. The girls would be disappointed if we didn’t stay for dinner, so tell him we’ll leave at six, and I’ll have you to the airport by six-thirty. That’s plenty of time for the flight.”

Emily took a few moments to type the message. “It’s sent.” She looked at Cammie. “What did you mean by ‘calling a kettle black’?”

“It’s a saying that means because someone’s done something, they have no right to tell someone else it’s wrong to do.” Or something like that.

“Sheesh,” Emily said, looking down at her cell. “He must have been watching his phone nonstop because he’s already written me back.” She read in silence for a moment. “He says that’s fine.”

“Okay. Do me a favor?”

“What?”

Cammie wasn’t one of those people who found relief in confession, but lately she seemed to be changing that habit. “Yesterday, when you said you wished I were your mother, my heart soared.” She looked around, giving herself a moment to settle a rise of emotion. Meeting Emily’s gaze again, she continued softly, “If you can find it in your heart, call him Dad. And say it with love, not anger.”

Blue eyes fastened on Cammie. “It’s hard to call someone Daddy when you rarely see them.”

“Is that his fault?”

She seemed to mull it over, but her single-word answer still reeked of resentment. “No.”

“He told me he’s wanted to see you more, but you always seem to have other plans.”

“Maybe.”

“Emily.”

“Okay, I’ve turned down trips to visit him because I don’t like not knowing where I belong.” She sucked in a shaky breath and released it in a torrent of words. “When my mom gets married again, where am I supposed to go? Like, does Bernard, or whatever his name is, even want me around? Her last husband didn’t. I was younger then, so my mom could ship me off to my dad whenever it was convenient for her lifestyle. I’d just get to know him again, feel comfortable and stuff, and bam! She’d have problems in her marriage or she’d be lonely and she’d want me back. I’d start to feel like a real daughter to her, then she’d work things out with her husband and I’d be invisible again.”

It took a moment for Cammie’s mind to catch up. “But your dad was always there for you, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So...why be angry at him?”

“Because...he let this happen.”

Cammie mentally connected the dots, which created a picture in her mind that she’d known too well as a kid. “He left you with your mom and a life of constant upheaval.”

Emily turned her head to the side, as though looking at the distant mountains, but Cammie caught her peering back from the corners of her eyes.

“In your case, he and your mom divorced, but he could have also abandoned you by one day walking out the door and never returning...or by dying. Whatever the reason, it was still the same result.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Something like that.”

“You told me your mom doesn’t always say nice things about your dad. That you feel in the middle. Here’s something you can do when you’re feeling stressed. Shut out whatever is going on that’s bugging you and imagine something wonderful—your favorite sunset, a painting by a favorite artist, Tolstoy’s face.”

“But that’s not me. When something bugs me, I can’t just forget about it.”

Cammie realized that she was giving her the kind of advice that worked for her, helped her bottle up her feelings and keep from exploding. But Emily was different. More honest with her feelings. Willing to march in an Eco-Glitter rally and pick up the bullhorn when it fell to the street. “You’re right. You have to do what feels right to you.”

Emily nodded.

Cammie continued, “You need to find a way to take control of your attitude, which sometimes is all we have.”

“How?”

“You can always call me. I promise to answer.”

“You’re the best.”

“And I’m not the only person who cares about you. Your dad wants nothing more than to love you. One day, you might discover your mom is just a person, too, with failings and strengths like everybody else, and you can forgive her.”

Her breath caught in her chest as those last words left her lips. In her mind’s eye, she saw her mother’s face—long and narrow, a fragile look in her eyes—and realized she’d been there all along, whenever Cammie wanted to remember her. Always waiting for her in memories.

She’d balked at going to that place, those special remembrances, not because she hadn’t forgiven her mom, but because she hadn’t forgiven herself.

* * *

T
EN
MINUTES
LATER
, all the girls were sitting around the dining room table chowing down on lasagna, salad and hummus, the latter a dish Amber had insisted on making.

“Miss Copello,” Takira said, “we’d like to hear about what happened yesterday.” The girls grew quietly solemn, staring at Cammie with curious eyes, like kids at story hour.

“I’m pretty sure all of you saw it on the news,” Cammie said knowingly.

Heads bobbed.

“You’re our hero,” one of the girls said.

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Cammie answered.

“The way you went up to that officer,” Amber said, “and put your hands on his chest...”

The girls murmured words of praise.

“Awesome.”

“Really sick.”

“Boom ting.”

It was starting to feel like a hip-hop revival meeting. But Cammie wanted to get something straight.

“Thank you for your support, but I’ve thought a lot about what happened, what I did, and in some ways, I’m still not sure if my actions were...appropriate.”

“But you were so cool.”

“It was for the cause.”

“You did it to protect Emily.”

Cammie looked around the table at the girls. “It’s true, I did it for Emily. But I also did it for Marc. He’s a lawyer, as you all know, and he has some critical cases coming up. He was arguing with a police officer about his daughter’s right to free speech, but it was a volatile situation, and the police officers were getting itchy—I mean, c’mon, protestors were threatening to blow up a tractor!—and I thought any moment that police would arrest and charge Marc with obstruction of justice, impeding an investigation and maybe more.”

“That’s not fair!” Amber said, her eyes blazing.

“All I knew,” Cammie said gently, “is that if he were arrested, news of his arrest and charges would have become known by the Attorney Disciplinary Agency because they’re watching Marc so carefully—they check him out for problems every week or so—and they would’ve suspended him immediately. In that instant of understanding, I decided to take the legal bullet.”

“See,” Takira said, “you were a hero!”

“But my arrest had repercussions I hadn’t taken into consideration, so I can’t say what I did was correct.”

“But Marc gets to remain a lawyer, right?” one of the girls asked.

Cammie nodded.

“Then you did the right thing, Miss Copello.”

She took a moment to phrase her thoughts. “Girls, sometimes it might seem okay to take a bold action. You might even believe you’re helping someone or standing up for what’s right, but feeling impassioned isn’t always a suitable reason for doing something. Especially when you’re breaking the law. Take it from me, what I did yesterday has had serious consequences...without realizing it, what I did also hurt people I love.”

A motion caught her eye. Emily, standing in the doorway, was waving Cammie over.

“I told Emily I’d drive her to the airport, so I need to leave, girls, but I’ll be back. Let’s call this our goodbye and hello-again party.”

After bumping fists and hugging a few girls, Cammie joined Emily in the hallway. Together they walked into the living room area.

“He’s picking me up,” Emily said quietly.

Cammie looked out the window. Marc stood in the street, next to his parked car. He glanced at the window and she smiled, although she doubted he could see her clearly behind the glass.

“Go talk to him,” Emily pleaded.

Cammie put her hands on the girl’s shoulders. “Emily, you two need to get to the airport. It doesn’t help either of us to cram in a last-minute conversation with the clock ticking.”

The girl nodded. “When will I see you again?”

“We’ll figure something out.”

“Will you two ever be boyfriend and girlfriend again?”

“No, that’s over, but I’ll always be your Cammie, and you’ll always be my Emily. That sounds pretty good to me.” She looked into the girl’s eyes. “Remember the favor I asked?”

“I’ll keep my word, too.”

They hugged and Emily left, walking slowly down the sidewalk to the car. Marc hugged her, then opened her door. Emily paused, looked back up to the window and drew a crisscross over her heart.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A
S
THEY
DROVE
AWAY
from Dignity House, Marc debated with himself on what he should say to his daughter. She needed to know that running off without telling him wasn’t okay, but she knew that. It was why she’d texted him. And he was so damn glad to see her that he couldn’t bring himself to scold.

“I wish you’d told me ahead of time that you wanted to see Cammie, Amber—I mean Daearen—and others, but I’m not mad at you. I’m glad you’re safe.”

She cast him a sidelong look. “I should have told you. I’m sorry.”

He stared at the road, more than a little surprised at the apology, but not wanting to overreact.

“Your suitcase is in the back,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“Hungry?”

“I ate with the girls at Dignity House. It was Cammie’s going-away party. There was a cake, too, but I wouldn’t have eaten any even if I’d stayed. Did you know refined sugar is sometimes filtered through bone char?”

“No, I didn’t.” She hadn’t spoken that many words to him in the past twenty-four hours. “It was a going-away party?”

“Yeah, she’s finished her community-service hours, but she told them she’s coming back. Daearen said that Cammie coming back means the girl planet will thrive, but I didn’t know what she was talking about.”

Just like Cammie to not give up on people. Yesterday, she wasn’t giving up on him, either, until he’d forced the issue. In the hours since, he’d had the uncomfortable realization that he dealt much better with people in a courtroom, where everyone was at arm’s length, than with those in his personal life.

“They have satellite radio in this rental,” he said. “Want to find a station you like?”

“Sure.”

Emily selected a station playing a rapid-fire song with eerie guitar chugs. For once, he recognized the music.

“I love this band,” she said, her head bobbing in time to the beat.

“Me, too. Green Day.”

“This is one of my
favorite
songs. ‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams.’”

They were talking. She was sharing a piece of her world. Maybe he wasn’t such a bad part-time dad, after all.

“Green Day,” he said. “I never really thought about it, but did they name themselves that because they’re eco-activists?”

She gave him a funny look. “It stands for a day of smoking weed. You know? A green day. But they’re also an eco-friendly rock band. Like, they’re really big on alternative fuel sources.”

The words
smoking weed
stuck in his head. He’d never had a talk about drugs with her, but now wasn’t the best time. Better to enjoy rebuilding a rapport with his daughter—after all, they only had a few more days together before she returned to her mom.

He listened to the vaguely familiar lyrics about walking alone. It seemed to foretell his future. He was alone, walking alone. Living alone in his big, empty house.

“This is a political song,” Emily continued, “about the alienation of the people by the government. And by the way, I don’t smoke marijuana, in case you’re curious.”

For a moment, he was dumbfounded at the out-of-left-field admission, but glad nonetheless.

“But I suppose,” she continued, moving slightly to the music, “if I knew it were grown without chemicals, I might try it.”

Gladness was really overrated.

“Well,” he said, minding his words, “I can only request that you refrain from ingesting mind-altering pharmaceuticals, legal or otherwise, unless they’ve been prescribed by a physician. But if you were to experiment, please practice restraint and moderation.”

“In other words, don’t do drugs.”

“Right.”

“Daddy, are you okay?”

Daddy.

He had to grip the wheel and blink to keep the road in focus. Ever since his daughter had gotten into the car, he’d been on a roller coaster of emotions, definitely not his style.

And now she’d called him Daddy.

He shoved down the feelings that roiled up within him, half inclined to say, “Hey, Em, why were you holding back?” but he didn’t want to put her on the defensive.

Instead, he took a quiet moment to calm down, hold the word
daddy
close. He wanted to remember the sound of her voice, the overhead slate clouds, even the pop-rock tune blasting in the car. So many times these past few years, he’d hated the world for dropping him from the family equation and putting a minus in the father column.

But at this instant, he was 100 percent Emily’s father. No part-time about it.

“Daddy?” she repeated.

He cleared his throat. “I’m fine.”

“Is it about Cammie?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer.

“Maybe you two could talk and work things out.”

“Too much has happened. Let’s leave it at that.”

Even if they tried, he feared he’d grow to resent her for what she’d done, and she’d inevitably grow angry and bitter with him for his resentments. He’d seen it happen over and over in legal cases he’d represented. He’d lived it, too, in his former marriage.

She twisted a dial, turning down the volume.

“I want to tell you something,” she said softly.

“I’m all ears.”

“Over dinner, Cammie explained to us that part of the reason she forced her arrest was to protect your license. She said that if you’d been arrested, the Attorney Disciplinary Agency would’ve found out within days because they’re watching you so carefully right now.” She paused. “She did it for you, Dad. Will you think things over? Please? She took the legal bullet for you.”

After a beat, he said, “I’ll think things over, but let’s give it a rest, okay?”

“Sorry, can’t give it a rest yet. What will she do next?”

“She’s creative and smart. She’ll figure out something.”

“But she lost her dream.”

He listened to the muffled grind of tires against asphalt as they traveled a few feet, another mile. He thought about his life moving forward over time, the minutes becoming hours, then days, then years, and wondered when, if ever, he’d stop thinking about Cammie, curious if she’d ever found a satisfying career, wondering if she were happy...and sometimes, when his defenses were down, pondering what the two of them could have been.

Emily turned up the volume, and they drove in silence, listening to the “Boulevard of Broken Dreams.”

* * *

F
OUR
DAYS
LATER
, Val and Cammie sat in Uncle Frankie’s living room. It was the second time Val had visited since Cammie had left the Cave.

“If we’re gonna be Sherlock and Watson, we have gotta start getting together and planning our detective venture.”

Although Cammie had accepted she’d lost her shot at being a P.I. again—a view that Val didn’t share—she enjoyed coaching her friend on the skills, tools and techniques necessary to run an investigations business. Today they’d been reviewing different smartphone apps that came in handy in investigations, from the motion detector to the digital recorder.

“Snooper, the way I see it,” Val said, lounging on the couch and fiddling with her smartphone, “you can be the office manager. Not officially a P.I., but you can do things like pull online court records, conduct criminal background checks, that sort of stuff.” She fingered a broad green leaf of a plant on the end table behind her head. “This a rubber plant?”

“Think so.”

“Needs some water.”

Val headed to the kitchen, tossing her Havana straw hat with the paisley headband on the dining room table.

In her everyday life, Val Leroy didn’t look anything like the Christina Aguilera celebrity dealer at the Shamrock Palace. The real Val had a thing for hats. And little black dresses. Today she swore a sleeveless number that showed off a small fleur-de-lis tattoo on her left shoulder—“For N’awlins and my favorite team, the Saints.” She’d be devoid of color if it wasn’t for her bobbed red hair and ruby-red lips.

“Noticin’ my dress?” Val asked, walking back in with a measuring cup half-filled with water. “It’s crepe de chine.”

As far as Cammie was concerned, crepe de chine could be crêpe suzette. “It’s nice. New?”

“I never buy new, girl. Bought this from The Attic, that cute little vintage shop downtown. Nanny always bought me
reach-me-down
clothes—ya know, secondhand clothes—and I detested them. I swore I’d always buy spanking-new duds, right off the rack, when I grew up. That day came and guess what? I hated how scratchy they felt against my skin.” She carefully poured the water into the clay container. “Started going to vintage clothing stores and liking the softness of reach-me-downs again. Plus it’s like slippin’ into other people’s lives, ya know?”

“A definite skill for a private investigator.” Cammie thought for a moment. “Val, I have to be very careful about the type of work I’d do with you. Without a license, I can never appear to be working as a private investigator,
ever.
”

Val blinked her mink-brown eyes. “Maybe we could get an office in a law firm, and they’d hire you as a part-time paralegal. They do a lot of things private-eye-like, right?”

Cammie nodded. “Exactly the kind of tasks you mentioned, actually.”

“Well, there you have it.” Val sashayed into the kitchen with the empty measuring cup.

Although it gave Cammie leg cramps just thinking of sitting behind a desk for hours, being a quasi P.I. was better than not being one at all.

“Plus you’ll be mentoring me,” Val continued as she returned. “Teaching me things like how to do surveillance. Of course, you can’t just talk to me about it or make me read a book on the subject, I’ll need hands-on experience. Which means I’ll need you to sit with me while we’re out there watching people and taking pictures.”

Cammie smiled. “I like the way you think.”

Ding-dong.

Val looked at the front door. “You expectin’ company?”

“No.” Frankie and Delilah had left that morning on a weeklong trip to San Francisco and the wine country. “Maybe it’s a delivery.”

“Or maybe it’s lawyer boy.”

Just the thought of seeing Marc again made Cammie’s heart race. As much as she told herself that it was over between them, her body was having trouble understanding.

“Lawyer boy is in Denver,” she said, heading to the front window, “prepping for his deposition tomorrow.”

“That means you’re going to be there, too. At the deposition.”

“Not now, not after what happened.” She peeked between the slats in the blind.

She felt as though her racing heart screeched to a cold stop.

On the porch stood Laura McDonald.

Stepping away from the window, Cammie held her finger to her lips.

Val, her eyes wide, nodded that she understood to keep quiet.

As the doorbell rang again, Cammie tip-toed over to her friend.

“Gwen—that woman I told you about—is here,” she whispered. “Go to my bedroom.”

“You’re gonna answer the door?” Val whispered fiercely, her eyes wide as coasters. “That girl’s missing a few bulbs in her chandelier—”

“Hush. Nothing’s going to happen on the porch.”

“Don’t let her inside.”

“If something goes wrong, I’ll yell
Tolstoy
and you grab that bat I keep next to my bed and get your behind out here.”

“Who’s Tolstoy?”

“Go,”
Cammie ordered in a hushed tone, tugging her smartphone from the pocket in her jeans. She pulled up the recorder app, checked the settings and turned it on.

She watched Val slip into the bedroom. Crossing to the door, Cammie stuck the phone in her jean pocket.

Easing in a calming breath, she opened the door.

Laura looked as though she’d had a Fortune 500 makeover. She wore a camel-hair jacket over a pristine white turtleneck, and tan slacks with creases so sharp, a person could get cut on them.

“Cammie,” she said in a voice that matched the look. “I behaved badly the other day. Will you accept my apology?”

The air suddenly felt thin, as though Laura had sucked all the reality out of it.

Cammie eyed the red Viper in the driveway. No one was in it. She scanned the area. Except for Mrs. Osborne checking her mailbox across the street, nobody else was in the vicinity.

She turned her attention back to Laura. “How’d you know I’m living in Vegas?”

“Researched your name on the internet, saw you had a P.I. business here in Vegas, but when I called the number it was disconnected. Then I remembered your uncle Frankie calling the law firm in Denver, and it was easy to find Frank Copello’s address, but not his phone number.”

“It’s unlisted.”

Laura nodded, her diamond-stud earrings twinkling in the light. “I thought I’d drop by, ask him how to reach you, but here you are.” Her smile was a parody of warmth.

“So you drove all the way from San Clemente just to apologize?”

“Actually, I have clients in Vegas.”

Clients? As in other people to rip off? “And a deposition in Denver tomorrow.”

“Yes,” she said, with an almost imperceptible twitch of an eyebrow, “I do. After my meeting, I’m driving there.”

“Long drive to do alone.”

She shrugged. “Eleven hours. I’ll stop halfway and spend the night. I’ve done it many times.”

Cammie wondered what those many times were about as her gaze dropped to the plush leather shoes, up to the black leather bag embellished with
Prada
in gold letters. Cammie wasn’t a shopper, but even she knew that purse alone would cost at least a week of a P.I.’s salary.

“You’re probably wondering what kind of business I’m in.”

Cammie met her eyes. “Got me there.”

A bank of clouds moved over the sun, casting the street in shadow. The gloom added to the sour premonition in Cammie’s stomach.

“My business is another reason I wanted to talk to you. May I come in?”

“You carrying?”

“No.”

“Although I’m just thrilled to pieces to see you again, we share a certain history. May I see inside your Prada?”

Laura started to open it herself, then changed her mind and handed it to Cammie. “I have nothing to hide.”

I bet.
She opened it, rifled through several tubes of makeup, a leather-covered checkbook, keys, a shiny gold iPhone case. Not a lived-in purse like Cammie’s, whose layers of odds and ends were like an archeological dig of her life. In contrast, Laura’s handbag was like a showcase. A little too perfect, a little too staged.