Ties That Bind (30 page)

“Nothing,” I said and linked my arm with his, joined at last, as we left the narrow alley and walked into the wide and sunny cobblestone courtyard, past the brick planter stuffed with daffodils in bloom, and the bowfront display window stacked with pink, green, and yellow bolts of cotton, our salute to spring, stopping in front of the brightly painted red front door, and I kissed him again, lightly this time, on the lips.

“Nothing important. I was just remembering something silly someone said.”

T
he next five days passed with a strange mixture of elation and anxiety. Paul picked me up from work almost every night that week and the three of us—Paul, James, and I—had dinner together. Paul cooked twice and I cooked twice.

It was a good thing that we had James along as unwitting chaperone for those dinners; every time I saw Paul it was all I could do to keep from grabbing him, but I enjoyed James for his own sake too. He's a very sweet kid (though I'm convinced he cheats at Rummikub; nothing else could explain my dismal score). I love seeing how he and Paul interact.

Evenings with Paul and James, followed by a too-brief moonlight stroll when Paul walked me from his doorstep to mine, too much of a gentleman to come inside though I often wished he would, and kisses good night that only became sweeter as the days passed, these were the hours of elation, the things that bore me up through the anxious hours until the hearing.

I spent at least an hour at the hospital every day, longer if my work schedule allowed. On Tuesday I picked up a pizza after work and took it to the hospital to share with Olivia. I wished Paul and James could have joined us, but so close to the hearing I couldn't risk it. If my parents found out and raised a fuss, I knew Geoff Bench wouldn't lift a finger to help me.

I didn't tell Olivia anything about the upcoming hearing, only that she would be getting out of the hospital soon. That seemed to satisfy her. She was more interested in our current project, layering die-cut fabric butterflies of different sizes together and gluing them to the front of blue note cards, invitations for Mari's memorial service, than in asking questions. I hoped I wasn't setting her up for another loss. The memorial was important to Olivia, but if my parents were granted custody, I knew they would put a stop to it.

Dad couldn't seem to grasp that few of Olivia's memories of Mari were sad. If he stopped to think it through, he might have come to the same conclusion. We'd had hard days as a family, maybe more than our share, but we'd had good ones too. Could he have forgotten?

 

On Thursday, after Paul walked me home, I got ready for bed, said my prayers, turned out the light, and … nothing. Sleep would not come.

I kept thinking about the hearing, the judge, my parents, Olivia's trusting eyes and Geoff Bench's deceitful ones. My thoughts were circular, tumbling one over the other like water rushing down a rapid; there wasn't any controlling or stopping them. I tried thinking about Paul, his face, his voice, his kisses, but even that didn't help.

Finally, I gave up and got up. After putting on my robe and making a pot of tea, I sat at the kitchen table while the dark world slept, a mug of steaming chamomile at the ready, holding my worn Bible unopened in my hands. I didn't have to open the pages to read; the verses I had always counted on in times of trouble flooded my mind and soothed my soul. And I prayed like I had never prayed before. The words were nothing, there was no eloquence or loftiness to them, but they poured from me in groans, like the moans of a mother laboring to bring a child into the world.

Thy will be done. Grant me wisdom to recognize it, courage to bear it, whatever it may be. Nothing less than Your will because I need nothing more.

E
velyn told me to take all of Friday off, but I went to the shop and worked until lunch. Better to have someplace to go and something to do than spend the morning pacing back and forth across my living room carpet.

At noon, Evelyn put a sign on the front door reading C
LOSED
FOR THE
D
AY
. Everyone—Evelyn, Virginia, Ivy, and Dana—went to the courthouse with me. Abigail, Tessa, Madelyn, and Philippa were there when we arrived. Sitting in the gallery, my friends made quite a cheering section. Paul wanted to come, but I convinced him not to. Besides it being a workday, considering what he knew about Geoff Bench and that they worked at the same firm, it wouldn't have been a good idea.

Bench was sitting in the first row behind the railing. With his arm draped over the chair next to him and his legs crossed languidly, he tracked my progress as I entered the courtroom and took my seat next to Arnie. He had an appraising, slightly contemptuous look on his face, as though he were sitting at a café table in some beachfront town, watching the girls go by. My parents were already seated at the table opposite us.

The routine was familiar by now; Judge Treadlaw came in, we stood up, he sat down and glared at us as if we'd all barged into his house uninvited. After putting on his reading glasses and scratching his nose, the judge opened a file folder and started riffling through papers.

“Mr. Bench, where is your recommendation? I don't see it in the file.”

I twisted in my chair so I could see him better. Bench got to his feet and smoothed the lapels of his jacket. “Yes, Your Honor. I'm aware of that.”

His eyes shifted briefly in my direction and I felt the bottom drop out of my stomach. He was about to pull something under-handed; I just knew it.

“Your Honor, I could not submit a recommendation for custody because, ethically, I am forced to withdraw from the case. I'm afraid that I… that a … a personal relationship has developed between Miss Matthews and myself, the nature of which …” He cleared his throat, feigning embarrassment, implying the worst without saying anything specific, “makes it impossible for me to continue as guardian ad litem for the minor child.”

My mother gasped. My father shook his head. So did Judge Treadlaw.

“This is a very disturbing admission, Mr. Bench, especially at this stage of the proceedings. You and I will have a talk in my chambers later, sir.”

Geoff's shoulders drooped with pretended shame, but as he resumed his seat I could see the flicker of triumph in his eyes. He knew Judge Treadwell, and he was confident nothing more would come of this besides a stern lecture given in private—the “slap on the wrist” he had mentioned.

“Miss Matthews,” the judge continued, peering at me over the top of his glasses. “I cannot pretend that this reflects well on your petition for custody.”

Arnie was instantly on his feet. “Your Honor, my client resents and denies Mr. Bench's implication. He has no proof to support this. And to allow yourself to be unfairly prejudiced against my client simply on the basis of—”

The judge held up his hand and glowered at Arnie. “Counselor, I would never allow myself to be unfairly prejudiced against anyone who appears in my courtroom.” He pointed his gavel straight at Arnie as if it were a scolding finger. “Do not presume to instruct me in my duties, Mr. Kinsella. Do not presume.”

Arnie adjusted his tie and sank into his chair.

“Mr. Bench's assertions, while disturbing, are, at the moment, immaterial. However, without a recommendation for custody, I have no choice but to assign another guardian ad litem, one
not
personally involved with anyone in the case, and begin the process again. In the meantime, because the child's medical condition has improved, it's clear she can no longer stay in the hospital. Therefore, I am granting temporary custody of the minor child to the state. She will be placed in foster care until the new guardian can submit a recommendation.”

I clutched at Arnie's arm. “No! She can't go to a foster home!” I hissed. “He can't—”

Arnie shook his head quickly, warning me to keep silent.

“I don't wish to delay, but given the circumstances,” the judge said as he slid his glasses down his nose again, giving me another admonishing look, a look that said he had already made up his mind about me, “I want to give the new guardian ad litem time for a thorough investigation. And since I'm scheduled to be in Florida for three weeks in May, we'll reschedule the hearing for permanent custody to a date approximately four months hence.”

“Four months!” I turned to grab Arnie's arm and caught a glimpse of Geoff Bench's smirking face.

He planned this whole thing, keeping to the letter of our agreement, not making a negative recommendation about me but knowing full well that withdrawing from the case because of a supposed “personal relationship” with me would have the same effect. He knew that seeing Olivia placed in foster care was one of my worst fears and that his unverifiable accusation would make Judge Treadlaw question my moral fitness to serve as Olivia's permanent guardian. What kind of man would do such a thing? And all to soothe his wounded pride? He was a horrible, evil person. I should have followed my instincts about him, but it was too late for that.

“Arnie! Olivia can't go to foster care, not after all she's been through. Do something!”

But before the words were even out of my mouth, I knew his hands were tied. The judge had ruled. There was nothing he could do to help Olivia. That was up to me.

I pushed my chair away from the table and rose to my feet. “Excuse me, Your Honor. I have something to say.”

T
hat night looked like any other meeting of our quilt circle. All my friends were in the workroom. And everyone except Ivy, who was perched on one of the windowsills, and Abigail, who was fingering a strand of pearls as she paced from one end of the room to the other, was sitting in her usual spot. The sewing machines were set up, the irons were plugged in, and there were piles of fabric, batting, and quilts in various stages of completion lying about. A big platter of Madelyn's Bourbon Street brownies sat on the table.

However, there was one telling difference between this Friday night and the scores of others I had spent in the room with these women—no one was quilting. I couldn't ever remember that happening before, no matter how bad things were. But then again, it was possible things had never been quite this bad before.

Everyone was shocked when I stood up in the courtroom and announced I was relinquishing my claim for custody, even the judge.

“Are you sure of this, Miss Matthews?”

It was the hardest question I've ever had to answer.

“Yes, Your Honor. I'm sure. I don't want Olivia to go into foster care.” I turned toward my parents. My mother's eyes were filled with tears, and for the first time in weeks, my father's eyes met mine. “I would like to request visitation rights, if that would be all right.”

The judge glanced at my dad, who gave a single nod.

“I'm sure something can be worked out.”

 

Abigail, utterly unaccustomed to losing, stopped pacing and threw up her hands. “I can't believe you're going to lie down for this. Geoff Bench is a lying, double-crossing, lecherous leech. He's besmirched your reputation! You mustn't allow him to get away with it, Margot. It's not right! It's not fair!”

Madelyn let out a contemptuous little laugh. “Well, whoever said life was fair?”

Having spent a lot of her life among the highest of New York's high financial circles—swimming with the sharks, as she would say—Madelyn is more than a little cynical. But she has a point. I believe in fairness and justice, I just don't believe we always find them here on earth. Geoff Bench will get what's coming to him—eventually. In the meantime, I've got something more important to worry about than my “besmirched reputation.”

“Abigail, it'd be a case of Bench's word against mine. Who do you think the judge is going to believe? You saw the way he looked at me.”

Abigail started pacing again. She was pulling on her necklace so hard that I expected it to snap at any moment, sending a shower of pearls rolling across the floor.

“What's happened to you, Margot? You used to be a regular Pollyanna. Sometimes I've found it quite annoying, but not nearly as annoying as discovering that you've lost your optimism just when it might do you some actual good.”

“Abigail, I'm not going to let them put Olivia in foster care.”

“Yes, yes. So you've said. But … four months! What's four months? It's barely more than a season.”

I was so tired of arguing with Abigail. It wasn't as if I hadn't already gone through all of this in my mind. I knew what was right in this situation, and I knew what I had to do.

“If you're six years old and dealing with grief, loss, and abandonment, four months is an eternity. If Olivia was placed with the wrong sort of family, it might turn out to be the four months that scar her beyond the possibility of healing. I can't do that to her, Abbie. I love her too much.”

“Of course you do,” Abigail protested. “But don't you see? That's exactly why Olivia
should
be with you.”

“I'm not the only person who loves her, Abbie. Do I think that Olivia would be better off being raised by me than my parents? Yes. But they aren't monsters. After all, they raised me, and I turned out all right.”

Abigail crossed her arms over her chest and set her jaw. “And your sister? How did they do raising her?”

She was treading on sensitive ground now. If someone I liked less than Abigail had asked me such a personal question, I'd have told them to mind their own business. But I know Abigail; once she asks a question, she won't give up until she gets an answer.

“Maybe not as well as they could have, but they loved Mari and they love Olivia too. That's the most important thing. That's what Olivia needs more than anything right now, love and stability. By giving up my claim for custody, I can give her that.”

“But what about your feelings—”

“No!” I snapped. “This isn't about me. Please, don't make this any harder for me than it already is.”

Abigail, looking slightly abashed, said, “Of course. I'm not trying to be difficult, I'm just worried about you, that's all.”

“I know.”

“What does Paul say about all this?” Evelyn asked.

By now, everyone knew about Paul and me. Funny how quickly the people who loved and knew me best assumed that Paul would naturally have a voice in any of my major decisions. They'd never thought about Arnie that way, but neither had I. And their assumptions were right on target. Paul was the first person I'd called after leaving the courtroom. He said he'd come right over, but I told him not to. He had to go to youth group. Philippa wouldn't be able to handle it on her own, and tonight of all nights, I needed to be with my quilting sisters.

“He understands I'm trying to do what's best for Olivia. But there was a lot of talk about inflicting bodily harm on Geoff Bench—pistols at fifty paces or something.”

Abigail exclaimed, “Hear! Hear!” and the others clapped their hands. Ivy whistled through her teeth and said, “Forget fifty paces. Let's try rotary cutters at close range.”

There was an idea. But as much as I appreciated the support of my girlfriends, it was nice to have a champion of my own at last.

“Paul seems like a very good man,” Virginia said.

He is. None better.

 

When I came home after quilt circle, Paul was sitting on the stoop.

“How long have you been here?”

He put his arm around me as he walked me toward the front door. “Half hour or so.” Anticipating my next question, he said, “James is fine. Philippa came over and brought Clementine. He's beating them at Rummikub.”

“Hope she's not playing him for money.”

He put his hands on my shoulders and turned my body toward his. “Are you all right?”

Isn't it funny how that question, asked by someone you love, someone who truly wants to know, can summon the tears you've managed to keep back all day?

“I'm sorry,” I said, lifting my head from his chest.

“For what?”

“I got your shirt all wet.”

He pushed open the front door and we went inside. “I've got other shirts.”