Eight months? And then you sounded awful.”
He remembered that call. He'd been in Sedona. The whole town had seemed to be draped in crystals and waiting for otherworld contact. He'd thought Diana had called him there, but of course she hadn't. It had just been another town to pass through. He'd called his sister on her birthday. Back then, he'd thought he'd be home any day. “I know. I'm sorry.”
She sighed again, and he could picture her perfectly: standing at her kitchen counter, probably making a list of things to do—shopping, carpool, swimming lessons. He doubted she'd changed much in the last three years, but he wished he knew for sure. Missing her blossomed into an ache; it was the reason he never called. It hurt too much. “How's my beautiful niece?”
“She's great.”
He heard something in her voice. “What's the matter?”
“Nothing,” she said, then more softly. “I could use my big brother right about now, that's all. Has it been long enough?”
There it was, the question upon which everything rested. “I don't know. I'm tired, I know that. Have people forgotten?”
“I don't get asked so much anymore.”
So some had forgotten, but not everyone. If he returned, the memory would tag along. He didn't know if he was strong enough to stand up to his past. He hadn't been when it was his present.
“Come home, Joey. It has to be time. You can't hide forever. And . . . I need you.”
He heard the sound of her crying; it was soft and broken and it pulled something out of him. “Don't cry. Please.”
“I'm not. I'm chopping onions for dinner.” She sniffed. “Your niece is going through a spaghetti phase. She won't eat anything else.” She tried to laugh.
Joe appreciated the attempt at normalcy, however forced.
“Make her some of Mom's spaghetti. That should end it.”
She laughed. “Gosh, I'd forgotten. Hers was awful.”
“Better than her meat loaf.”
After that, a silence slipped through the lines. Softly, she said, “You've got to forgive yourself, Joey.”
“Some things are unforgivable.”
“Then at least come home. People care about you here.”
“I want to. I can't . . . live like this anymore.”
“I hope that's what this phone call means.”
“I hope so, too.”
It was that rarest of days in downtown Seattle. Hot and humid. A smoggy haze hung over the city, reminding everyone that too many cars zipped down too many highways in this once-pristine corner of the country. There was no breeze. Puget Sound was as flat as a summer lake. Even the mountains appeared smaller, as if they, too, had been beaten down by the unexpected heat.
If it was hot outside, it was sweltering in the courthouse. An old air-conditioning unit sat awkwardly in an open window, making soft, strangled noises. A white flap of ribbon, tied to the frontpiece, fluttered every now and then, defeated.
Meghann stared down at the yellow legal pad in front of her. A neat stack of black pens were lined up along one side. The desktop, scarred by decades of clients and attorneys, wobbled on uneven legs.
She hadn't written a word.
That surprised her. Usually her pen was the only thing that worked as fast as her brain.
“Ms. Dontess. Ahem.
Ms. Dontess.
”
The judge was speaking to her.
She blinked slowly. “I'm sorry.” She got to her feet and automatically smoothed the hair back from her face. But she'd worn it back this morning, in a French twist.
The judge, a thin, heronlike woman with no collar peeking out from the black vee of her robes, was frowning. “What are your thoughts on this?”
Meghann felt a flare of worry, almost panic. She looked again at her blank legal pad. Her right hand started to shake. The expensive pen fell from her fingers and clattered on the table.
“Approach the bench,” said the judge.
Meghann didn't glance to her left. She didn't want to make eye contact with her opposing counsel. She was weak right now—shaking, for God's sake—and everyone knew it.
She
He remembered that call. He'd been in Sedona. The whole town had seemed to be draped in crystals and waiting for otherworld contact. He'd thought Diana had called him there, but of course she hadn't. It had just been another town to pass through. He'd called his sister on her birthday. Back then, he'd thought he'd be home any day. “I know. I'm sorry.”
She sighed again, and he could picture her perfectly: standing at her kitchen counter, probably making a list of things to do—shopping, carpool, swimming lessons. He doubted she'd changed much in the last three years, but he wished he knew for sure. Missing her blossomed into an ache; it was the reason he never called. It hurt too much. “How's my beautiful niece?”
“She's great.”
He heard something in her voice. “What's the matter?”
“Nothing,” she said, then more softly. “I could use my big brother right about now, that's all. Has it been long enough?”
There it was, the question upon which everything rested. “I don't know. I'm tired, I know that. Have people forgotten?”
“I don't get asked so much anymore.”
So some had forgotten, but not everyone. If he returned, the memory would tag along. He didn't know if he was strong enough to stand up to his past. He hadn't been when it was his present.
“Come home, Joey. It has to be time. You can't hide forever. And . . . I need you.”
He heard the sound of her crying; it was soft and broken and it pulled something out of him. “Don't cry. Please.”
“I'm not. I'm chopping onions for dinner.” She sniffed. “Your niece is going through a spaghetti phase. She won't eat anything else.” She tried to laugh.
Joe appreciated the attempt at normalcy, however forced.
“Make her some of Mom's spaghetti. That should end it.”
She laughed. “Gosh, I'd forgotten. Hers was awful.”
“Better than her meat loaf.”
After that, a silence slipped through the lines. Softly, she said, “You've got to forgive yourself, Joey.”
“Some things are unforgivable.”
“Then at least come home. People care about you here.”
“I want to. I can't . . . live like this anymore.”
“I hope that's what this phone call means.”
“I hope so, too.”
It was that rarest of days in downtown Seattle. Hot and humid. A smoggy haze hung over the city, reminding everyone that too many cars zipped down too many highways in this once-pristine corner of the country. There was no breeze. Puget Sound was as flat as a summer lake. Even the mountains appeared smaller, as if they, too, had been beaten down by the unexpected heat.
If it was hot outside, it was sweltering in the courthouse. An old air-conditioning unit sat awkwardly in an open window, making soft, strangled noises. A white flap of ribbon, tied to the frontpiece, fluttered every now and then, defeated.
Meghann stared down at the yellow legal pad in front of her. A neat stack of black pens were lined up along one side. The desktop, scarred by decades of clients and attorneys, wobbled on uneven legs.
She hadn't written a word.
That surprised her. Usually her pen was the only thing that worked as fast as her brain.
“Ms. Dontess. Ahem.
Ms. Dontess.
”
The judge was speaking to her.
She blinked slowly. “I'm sorry.” She got to her feet and automatically smoothed the hair back from her face. But she'd worn it back this morning, in a French twist.
The judge, a thin, heronlike woman with no collar peeking out from the black vee of her robes, was frowning. “What are your thoughts on this?”
Meghann felt a flare of worry, almost panic. She looked again at her blank legal pad. Her right hand started to shake. The expensive pen fell from her fingers and clattered on the table.
“Approach the bench,” said the judge.
Meghann didn't glance to her left. She didn't want to make eye contact with her opposing counsel. She was weak right now—shaking, for God's sake—and everyone knew it.
She
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