The Next Right Thing (Harlequin Superromance) (26 page)

“Nelson Mandela went to prison,” answered Emily.

“Speaking of political activists...” He tapped buttons on his smartphone. “Your blog posts on the internet show you to be quite the little radical. Let me see here...this is a quote from April. ‘We must remember that the more days we spend in jail, the more change we can effect.’ Did you write that?”

“Yes, but—”

“Here’s another one,” he interrupted. “‘The property rights of the ruling class are meaningless and must be sacrificed to the will of the people.’ You write that, too?”

“This isn’t fair.”

He drilled her with a hard, level look. “Please answer the question yes or no, Miss Hamilton.”

“Yes.”

“Your grandfather took the property of others to accommodate his whims. Like father, like son, like granddaughter.” He shifted his attention to the judge. “The witness can step down now.”

Reading Emily’s startled look, Marc indicated with a quiet nod that she needed to comply with the D.A.’s request and exit the witness box.

While walking past his seat, Emily flashed him a this-is-so-wrong look. He agreed, but kept his face immobile, stoic, because his next task was the toughest yet.

“Your next witness, Mr. Hamilton?” the judge asked.

“By agreement of the parties,” he said, “I’m moving to admit petitioner’s exhibit A, the statement from Dr. Christenson, prison physician at the Arrowhead Correctional Center at Canon City, Colorado.” He eased in a calming breath before reading from the statement. “‘Harlan Hamilton is a seventy-four-year-old Caucasian male who appeared at this facility numerous times over the past four years with symptoms consistent with advanced renal failure. The prison hospital, at some great expense, has conducted tests that confirm Mr. Hamilton is in the—’” Marc felt as though his throat was filled with marbles, but forced himself to continue “‘—end states of renal failure. Without further treatment, which unfortunately is not available to inmates at this facility, his life expectancy is eight to twelve months.’”

“That’s unfair!” cried Emily from her seat in the gallery. “Nobody told me!”

Marc glanced behind him. Emily had taken a seat next to Cammie, who had her arms around the girl and was quietly talking to her.

“One more outburst, Miss Hamilton,” the judge said gently, “and the bailiff will escort you to the hallway.” He looked at Marc. “Any further witnesses?”

Marc glanced again at Cammie and Emily, both of whom looked stricken. It wasn’t fair that they’d learned of his father’s prognosis in such a public setting, but he hadn’t received the physician’s statement until minutes before the hearing.

As his gaze locked with Cammie’s, it was as though the brightness in the room dimmed, the way the world fell into shade when clouds blocked the sun. Around them, shapes blurred, lost their contrast. Only the two of them were clear and defined—call it sixth sense, but he knew she knew what he was about to ask.

Her expression told him her answer. No.

Holding her gaze, he subtly made the gesture—
trust
—that she’d shown him that night that seemed so long ago, yet had only been a few months. The gesture the little girl had made to her deaf mother.

Trust me, Cammie.
I need you, my family needs you
.

* * *

C
AMMIE
RECOGNIZED
the hand sign. Trust.

She knew Marc wanted her on the stand to testify about Harlan’s character. Her first instinct had been not to do it. She hadn’t prepared her testimony, wasn’t ready to be cross-examined by Berto the Bastard. Call her weak, but she also didn’t know if she could set aside her own unresolved issues to help anyone else, even a deserving man like Harlan.

But Marc was asking her to trust him. To take the risk, to believe that, under his guidance, she wouldn’t fail Harlan...or Emily...or even Marc.

Her heart pumping spastically, she stood, crossed to the witness box and took a seat. After taking the oath and stating her name for the record, she mentally psyched herself for Marc’s questions.

“Miss Copello, how many years have you worked as a private investigator?”

“Ten.”

“You’ve also written articles on the profession for
Professional Investigator Magazine
and have taught courses on private investigations at state private-investigator conferences, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Do you recognize the man seated to my left?”

“Yes.”

“Who is he?”

“Harlan Hamilton.”

“Have you had the opportunity to work on Mr. Hamilton’s behalf through my office over the past few years?”

“Yes.”

“Precisely, what did you do?”

“I met with him personally at the Arrowhead Correctional Center. I interviewed him to help develop his request for release, which included identifying victims so that I could transport restitution to them.”

“And by restitution, you mean checks to make victims whole from his theft.”

“Yes. To pay back money he stole from them when they had been his legal clients.”

“In your meetings with Harlan Hamilton, did you have conversations about his remorse over his crimes?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell us about those conversations?”

“Harlan often said he regretted his thefts. He said he thought about the pain and inconvenience he’d caused innocent people every single day. Once he cried. In fact, he was ashamed and humbled by what he had done not only to his victims, but to others close to him.”

After a beat, Marc asked, “To whom are you referring?”

“In the many hours I spent talking with him, it became very clear to me that he wanted to live the rest of his life working on behalf of others, not on behalf of himself. Harlan also yearned to be a father, and to have a relationship with his granddaughter. He was quite aware of the fact that time was slipping through his fingers, and he didn’t want to wait any more.”

“Do you think,” Marc asked with a slight hitch in his voice, “that he can be a valuable member of society again?”

“Absolutely. He can bring his background to the local legal aid society—”

“Objection, Your Honor!” Berto stood and held up his smartphone like it was some kind of sword of justice. “I’ve just looked up Miss Copello’s history on the internet, and she has
three
misdemeanors pending in Nevada, one for assaulting a peace officer, as well as a pending
felony
for complicity in an act of arson. She’s simply not a credible witness and no weight should be given to her testimony.”

“Your Honor,” Marc quickly countered, “may I respond?”

The judge, his brow wrinkled, nodded brusquely.

“Mr. Berto Martinez, as a deputy district attorney, represents the people of Colorado. Not the perfect people, but
all
people. In fact, in this very courtroom are some of those people, such as the court clerk who had her driver’s license suspended a year ago, representatives of the sheriff’s office who have been struggling with gender bias for years. Even my esteemed colleague, Mr. Martinez, was once disciplined for misrepresentations to a witness. Each one of these officers of the court have had second chances to correct their lives. Likewise, Cammie has failed, but she is working to correct her life. This also pertains to my client, my father Harlan Hamilton, in that—”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Berto interrupted. “This is about Miss Copello’s lack of credibility, reliability and trustworthiness—not about whether or not the petitioner, Mr. Harlan Hamilton, is eligible for parole.”

Judge Benning adjusted his glasses. “Mr. Martinez, your objection is overruled. First, I will hear Miss Copello’s testimony because her criminal history does not affect her truth-telling ability. Second, this
does
apply to Mr. Harlan Hamilton’s eligibility because this board is interested in why it should give him a second chance. Please continue, Mr. Hamilton.”

Marc bent his head, feeling the burden, the heavy weight, of what he should say next. Like in a relay, his words were the last to perform in this race. He needed to pull Emily’s and Cammie’s testimonies over the line to win his father’s freedom.

Looking up, he said calmly, clearly, “He should be given a second chance because life isn’t about failure. If it was, everything would be black-and-white. But there’s a middle ground, a gray area, which is where second chances live, those corrective measures people take to change not only themselves, but others—family, friends, associates, even strangers—for the better. Second chances are fueled by good deeds and amends, both of which Miss Copello has attested to. Everyone deserves a second chance. Maybe especially...my father.”

The judge turned his attention to the prosecution. “Mr. Martinez, would you like to cross-examine the witness?”

“I believe I have sufficiently refuted her testimony,” he said, obviously agitated, “and I have nothing further.”

Judge Benning addressed the courtroom. “The board members and I will now confer and announce our decision in a few minutes.”

Marc sat next to his father and placed his hand on his arm.

Harlan turned red-rimmed eyes to Marc. “Whatever happens, son, I love you.”

Marc squeezed his arm. “I love you, too.”

“That Emily...she’s a spitfire.”

Marc had to smile. “She’ll be a dynamite lawyer one day.”

“You think?”

“I
know.
But don’t tell her I said so.”

Harlan gave a slow smile. “I’d like to be there when she walks down the aisle.”

“You’ll be there.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“I’m going to take good care of you. You’re going to beat that prognosis.”

“I also want to be at your wedding.” He leaned closer and whispered, “That girl loves you, you know.”

Marc didn’t know how to respond, so he didn’t.

“Tell her you love her,” Harlan continued. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life.... If I’d been smarter, wiser, I wouldn’t have treated love like it was grass greener on the other side. Don’t let that one get away, son. Chase her, track her down, crawl on all fours if you have to, but let her know how you feel. Nothing else matters in this crazy world.”

There was a scuffling of feet and murmurings as the judge and officers reentered the courtroom. They resumed their seats at the bench. Judge Benning leaned forward to the microphone.

“The board members and I have heard sufficient evidence to persuade us that Harlan Hamilton should be released immediately—as of this moment, in fact—from the Colorado Department of Corrections.”

“All right, Granddaddy!” Emily yelled.

“We are impressed not only with your progress, Mr. Hamilton,” the judge continued, “but also with the caring people who encircle you. And now, for the first time in five years, eight months, you may hug your granddaughter.”

As whoops and clapping filled the courtroom, Marc wrapped his arms around his father.

“Now you’re stuck with your old man,” Harlan joked, a tear spilling down his cheek.

Marc brushed it away. “Lucky me.”

Reporters descending on the table, thrusting forward digital recorders. Behind them, videographers took footage. With a loud squeal, Emily ran up as the deputy removed the handcuffs.

Harlan wrapped his trembling arms around his granddaughter.

Marc looked around the room for Cammie. She stood in the aisle, beaming at him.
Wait for me,
he mouthed.

“Emily,” Marc said, turning back to his daughter, “stay with your granddad. I’ll be right back.”

“Stay with him?” She laughed through her tears, embracing the old man. “I’m never letting him go!”

Marc looked at Cammie, but she was gone. He slipped past reporters and hurriedly walked down the aisle to the doors. Stepping into the hallway outside the courtroom, he saw her far down the corridor, walking away.

“Cammie!” He jogged after her.

She halted, turned.

He reached her and stopped. “Hey,” he said, catching his breath, “why did you leave?”

“This is yours and Emily’s time—”

“He’s close to you, too, you know.”

She looked over his shoulder. “The vultures followed you.”

He glanced behind him, saw an eager-looking reporter, her cameraman in tow, making a beeline in their direction.

“Then let me say what needs to be said.” He put his arms on Cammie’s shoulders. “I’m sorry I was so full of myself, for saying things that—”

“Shh.” She put her finger on his lips. “We both said things.”

“When I talked about second chances in there, I meant us, too.” He searched her eyes. “Do we have one?”

She hugged her stomach and looked up at him, her green eyes glistening with a look he couldn’t decipher.

“Cammie?”

“I...don’t know,” she whispered.

He plowed his hand through his hair, fighting the urge to grab her, demand a better answer. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to have played out. Today was a day of answers and celebration, but here they were like two people stuck in a past they couldn’t move beyond.

A sick feeling knotted his insides. But maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe if she knew...

“I love you, Cammie,” he whispered.

“Mr. Hamilton,” said a reporter, sticking a digital recorder between him and Cammie. “Did you think your father, Harlan Hamilton, would be released today?”

A beefy guy with a camera and the distinct odor of beer stumbled, caught himself. “Shit, sorry,” he muttered.

“One of the witnesses,” the reporter continued, “said your father planned to volunteer with the Denver legal community—is that true?”

The cameraman moved, providing Marc a view of the hallway and Cammie walking away.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

D
ELILAH
,
DRESSED
IN
A
cream-colored, cleavage-popping caftan, sat on a settee before an ornate gold-framed mirror. Looking at her reflection, she gently placed a gardenia behind one ear.

“What do you think, dear? Too much?”

Cammie and Delilah were in the bridal dressing chamber at the Las Vegas Elvis Chapel. On the outside of the door were the words
For Elvis’s Ladies
scrolled around a picture of The King in a white jumpsuit and cape, bowing on one knee, looking like a Prince Charming who had naughty on his mind. The inside of the room was decorated with posters from Elvis’s most popular movie,
Viva Las Vegas,
that showed him and Ann-Margret dancing, kissing, singing and more kissing. Over the speakers, Elvis crooned the heart-wrenching “Wonder of You.”

“Considering where we are,” Cammie said, “it’s a little difficult to say anything’s
too much,
but I think the gardenia is perfect. Especially as you decided to not wear a veil today.”

Standing behind Delilah, Cammie checked out her reflection in the mirror. She wasn’t “showing,” but the sexy red dress was so tight around her middle, it was difficult to breathe normally.

Delilah closed her eyes and took a sniff. “The gardenia is so fragrant. When Frankie kisses me after we’re pronounced husband and wife, he’ll smell its sweetness.” Her heavily mascaraed eyes popped open. “Does it clash with my perfume?”

Cammie leaned in closer. “No, the flower’s scent is so light, it’s a lovely mix of fragrances.”

Because of the popularity of June weddings, especially those taking place on weekends, the only time available for Delilah and Frankie’s Sunday wedding was at 9:00 a.m. Twenty minutes from now. Delilah didn’t care—“Let’s make it a wedding-and-brunch!”—and Frankie liked a morning wedding, so they could enjoy a leisurely drive to their honeymoon spot, the historic Hotel del Coronado in San Diego.

Delilah met Cammie’s eyes in the mirror. “Can’t believe I’m so nervous!”

“It’s your big day.”

As Delilah held up her hand, several gold bracelets jingled softly. “Look, I’m shaking!”

“No one will notice. Maybe the Elvis minister will sing ‘All Shook Up’ to get your nerves to settle.”

Delilah laughed, her nose doing the bunny-twitching thing. “We asked him to sing ‘I Can’t Help Falling in Love with You,’ for our first dance.”

“There’s a dance?”

“A one-song dance after we’re pronounced husband and wife. It’s part of the Burning Love package. We also get a video of the wedding, that lovely rose bouquet...and other things that I forget.” She clasped her hands together. “I’m so nervous, I just blanked on my great-aunt’s name!”

“Care for a little more comfort in your coffee?”

“You were a dear to bring the Frangelico, but no, thank you. Another dose of comfort and that poor Elvis will have to carry me down the aisle.” Delilah admired her platinum manicured nails. “I don’t mind Elvis escorting me, but I wish...”

Cammie thought of Peter. “Wouldn’t that have been nice.”

“He would have looked gallant in his dress blues.”

“Walking proudly down the aisle with you on his arm.”

“If wishes were horses...” Delilah took a sip of her coffee.

“I have no doubt he’s watching from above.”

“Or over the webcam,” Delilah said lightly, setting down her cup.

“The wedding’s being broadcast live?”

“Part of the Burning package.”

“Burning Love.”

“Right. They give you a web address.... Where is that...” Delilah looked around the dressing table. “Here it is.” She handed a piece of paper to Cammie. “It’s printed there. Plug that URL into a browser at nine o’clock, and voilà, it’s the Delilah and Frankie nuptials.”

“I’ll send it to Val so she can watch—she’s at work today, but she can sneak a peek on her phone.”

Cammie retrieved her smartphone and tapped some keys. While putting the phone back into her purse, it rang.

“That Val’s fast!” Delilah said with a laugh.

“No, it’s not Val,” Cammie murmured. “It’s Marc. He’s trying to connect with me on Skype.”

“What’s that?”

“A phone-video connection.”

“Answer it, darling. He’s been calling you nonstop since you left Denver a few days ago, and you never answer.”

“But the wedding starts in fifteen minutes.”

“Then tell him you have to make it brief and you can talk more later. Put the poor man out of his misery—he’s trying so hard to resolve things with you.” Delilah opened a compact and dabbed some sparkling powder on her cleavage.

Cammie walked to a corner of the room and pressed a button on her phone. Marc’s face appeared on the screen. Same clean-cut look he’d had in court a few days ago, although she caught shadows under his eyes.

For a moment, he stared at her as though paralyzed. “Cammie,” he murmured.

Seeing him, hearing his voice—she swore she could feel her pulse thrum in her temples, her wrists, the back of her knees.

“Hi,” she whispered.

“I’m glad you answered because I didn’t want to surprise you.”

“Surprise me?”

There was some jostling of the image, then Uncle Frankie’s face appeared.

“Can you see me, Camilla? I can see you.”

“What...?”

“You look lovely, my
figlia.
Don’t point this thing at my bride-to-be because I don’t want to see her before we say our vows.”

Cammie looked at the closed door to the bridal dressing chamber, back to Frankie’s face. “Where are you?”

“In the other changing room—I think they call it the Elvis Grooming Room or somethin’. This place, what a kick! Del and I wanted a good time filled with laughter and that’s exactly what we’re getting.”

“Marc is
here?
” she rasped.

“Yes, but let me explain...”

Cammie looked at Delilah, who was fussing with her hair, then turned her attention to Frankie, who was explaining that Marc had called yesterday, that the guy had been frustrated because Cammie wouldn’t answer his calls, and that in the course of their conversation Frankie “just happened to mention” that he and Del were getting married this morning and if Marc “just happened to be” in Vegas, he could join the festivities.

Cammie lowered the phone. “Did you hear any of that?” she said to Delilah.

Delilah was spritzing hair spray on her frothy hair. “What, dear?”

“Did you know Marc’s
here?
”

Delilah set down the hair spray can. “Here—as in this chapel?”

“Yes.”

“Oh!” Delilah clapped her hands. “He’s chasing you, my darling!”

“So you didn’t know?”

“No! But I do know this—if you keep running, at some point that man’s going to give up.”

“But...I haven’t made any decisions yet!”

“And you think this is about using your brain?” Delilah stood, a vision of chiffon, cleavage and champagne hair. She crossed to Cammie and ushered her to the door. “You need to listen to your heart. Now, go talk to that man, and while you’re at it, ask if he’ll walk me down the aisle.”

Reluctantly, Cammie exited the room and looked across the foyer at the door marked Elvis’s Grooms and Best Men under a picture of Elvis in a black leather jacket.

The door opened and Marc stepped out.

The breath rushed out of her lungs. From the ever-present speakers, Elvis started singing the song “I Want You, I Need You, I Love You.” The schmaltzy, agonizing delivery almost made her laugh, but the lyrics—a lover questioning, then expressing eternal devotion—went straight to her heart.

Their stares locked and held. The distance between them blurred and for a surreal moment, she was again locked in his arms, heard his heated murmurings in her ear, tasted the salty sweat on his skin.

I want you, I need you, I love you.

As though awakening from a dream, the world sharpened, came back into focus. He wore the same navy blue double-breasted jacket as the other day, which set off those startlingly blue eyes. A curl of his chestnut hair hung like a question mark over his brow.

He stared at her with such intensity, for a moment she wasn’t sure if he was glad or mad to see her.

“Cammie,” he finally said, closing the space between them.

He stopped short, close enough that she could smell that apple cologne and see the shadows under his eyes. He looked troubled, off-center, just like the first time he’d arrived unannounced in Vegas.

“Is everything okay?” she asked.

“Sure,” he murmured, his eyes searching hers.

“Harlan?”

“Dad’s great, considering. He’s seeing a doctor next week.”

“Emily?”

“She’s staying with us this summer, and maybe next school year, too. Her mother isn’t happy with the idea, but you know Emily once she’s made up her mind.”

Cammie smiled. “Watch out world.”

He scratched the stubble on his chin. “Didn’t get a chance to shave. Caught a red-eye flight, which got grounded in Arizona due to a storm, then finagled a connecting flight that landed less than an hour ago. I tipped a cabbie to break the speed limit to get me here on time.”

“You? Breaking rules?”

He smiled, the look in his eyes softening. “Weren’t you listening in court when I talked about the value of that gray middle ground?” He turned somber. “Cammie, I’ve been thinking about you. Us. I think we should—”

An Elvis lookalike strolled up to them, swiveled his hip and struck a classic Elvis pose—half-lunge with one hand pointing into the air. Despite the midnight-black dye job and costume-rental gold jacket, for a crazy instant, he actually looked like the real deal.

He straightened and flashed a half-cocked Elvis grin. “Hey, you two lovebirds, it’s almost time.”

He even sounded like Elvis.

“We’re not Delilah and Frankie,” Cammie explained. “I’m the maid of honor and he’ll be walking the bride down the aisle.”

“Thought she wanted me,” faux Elvis said, flipping the lapels of his jacket.

Wow, this is really going to be a
Viva Las Vegas
experience,
Cammie thought. But the silliness was exactly what she needed. Lately everything had felt too heavy, and it was a welcome change to be lighthearted and playful, which was obviously what Delilah and Frankie had in mind when they’d picked this place.

“I’d be honored to walk her down the aisle,” Marc said.

“After the ceremony, the newlyweds will have their first dance,” Elvis said. “I’ll sing. After a few moments, you’re welcome to join in. The dance, not the singing.” He winked. “Okay, let’s get this show on the road because the wedding is starting in—” he lunged into another Elvis pose and pointed at a wall clock “—five minutes.”

As he swaggered away, Marc smiled. “Wish Harlan could see this. He’s a big Elvis fan.”

“Yeah, but was Elvis this schmaltzy?”

“Sure he was. Haven’t you ever seen videos of him entertaining? He was like Dean Martin, always cracking up and schmoozing with the audience.”

Cammie handed him the piece of paper. “There’s the web address—send it to Harlan and Emily and tell them they can watch the wedding. I should go check in with Delilah, tell her it’s almost time.”

“I’ll be here, waiting to walk her down the aisle.”

Moments later, Cammie stood in front of Delilah, adjusting the gardenia.

“You’re a beautiful bride.”

Delilah smiled. “Thank you. How’d your talk with Marc go?”

“He’s going to walk you down the aisle.”

“The man flies all the way out to Vegas to see you, and the two of you talk about me? Darling, I need to give you some man lessons.”

There was a knocking at the door, followed by the Elvis minister singing the refrain from one of the real Elvis’s hits, “Until It’s Time for You to Go.”

Delilah’s eyes sparkled. “I love this chapel!”

“Yes, it’s almost like being at Graceland,” Cammie muttered. She lifted a white-rose bouquet off a table and handed it to the bride. “Here we go.”

The older woman sniffed as she hooked her arm through Cammie’s. “Today’s the most wonderful day of my life.”

They stepped into the foyer. Marc stood there, handsome in his blue suit. He extended a hand to Delilah.

“And he’s in dress blues,” she murmured, taking his hand.

Elvis started warbling “It’s Now or Never.”

“I believe that’s your cue, dear,” Delilah said to Cammie.

She began walking down the green-carpeted aisle to a small stage with white Ionic columns. An elderly woman and a young girl—Delilah’s relatives—sat on one of the benches in the audience, the two of them sniffling and smiling. Frankie, wearing a tan suit, blue shirt and a champagne-colored tie, stood to one side of the stage, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet, a habit Cammie knew meant he was anxious or happy. Today, probably both.

Elvis, his gold jacket shining under the lights, stood in the center of the stage. It wasn’t until she got closer that she realized he was actually singing. The guy was good—could probably work as a celebrity-dealer at the Cave if times got tough in the chapel business.

Elvis pointed to where Cammie should stand.

Marc escorted Delilah down the aisle, and she took her place opposite Frankie. Marc stood behind him.

After the music faded, Elvis the minister took a dramatic pause.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, looking at the video camera pointed at the stage, “we are live from Las Vegas with Delilah and Frank, who are sharing the greatest day of their lives as they become husband and wife. Please hold hands, Delilah and Frank.”

Delilah handed her bouquet to Cammie, then took Frankie’s hands in hers.

“Today we come together as Delilah and Frank make promises of holy matrimony to each other, to promise to love and respect each other as they travel together for the rest of their days.”

Cammie’s eyes met Marc’s, and she imagined loving and respecting him for the rest of their days. They’d already been together for years as friends, and recently as lovers. It wasn’t such a stretch to envision their spending more years, all the way to the end of their days, together.