Family Tree by Susan Wiggs Page A

lawyer who had built a vibrant local practice over the past few years. In the days when he’d been with a rival firm, Fletcher had gone against him plenty of times. And Gordy had handled Fletcher’s divorce.
    â€œIt’s late, I know,” said Gordy. “Sorry, Your Honor.”
    Fletcher glanced at the clock over the courtroom door. Shoot. He didn’t want to keep his staff late on a Friday.
    â€œWhat’s up, Counselor?” he asked Gordy.
    â€œI’ve got a petition here to revoke a power of attorney,” said Gordy. He submitted the documents, which had been stamped by the clerk. The ink scarcely looked dry.
    Fletcher didn’t relish reading through the long sheaf of documents, but he couldn’t very well make a ruling without doing that.
    â€œIs it an emergency?”
    â€œUm, no. Not really. But it’s urgent.”
    â€œHave Mildred schedule it for Monday.”
    â€œYour Honor.” Gordy shuffled from foot to foot as though he had to take a whiz. “If you could just give it a look . . .”
    Gordy wasn’t usually this insistent. Fletcher set his jaw. He glanced down at the motion, then blinked, not sure he could trust his own eyes.
    The action was being taken on behalf of Annie Rush, FKA Annie Rush Harlow.
    Annie Rush.
    Despite the passage of time, the memories and feelings had never completely faded. Now, seeing the name on the pages of a court document, Fletcher felt weirdly self-conscious in the presence of the people lingering in the courtroom. Just the thought of her brought a flood of remembrance—dark-lashed, laughing eyes. A face that could light the world. A heart full of dreams. Joy and anger and hopelessness. And finally, surrender.
    Although his heart was beating fast, Fletcher maintained his usual demeanor of professional detachment. “What happened, Counselor?”
    â€œHer family—specifically her mother—needs the power of attorney revoked. It was assigned to her husband, a guy named . . .” He consulted one of the forms.
    â€œMartin Harlow,” Fletcher muttered.
    â€œYes. Her situation has changed radically.” Gordy glanced over his shoulder at the nearly empty courtroom. The afternoon light outside the window was fading. Gordy looked back at Fletcher. Then he leaned in, lowering his voice. “Fletcher. Annie needs you.”
    â€œThank you for expediting this,” Caroline Rush said to Fletcher. “Annie doesn’t need a power of attorney anymore. Especially not—” Shestopped herself from saying Martin’s name. “And for stopping by the house. You didn’t have to do that.”
    â€œI wanted to. I’m sorry about what happened to Annie.”
    Caroline’s hand shook as she carefully placed the legal document in its folder. She felt an overwhelming sense of relief along with sadness and apprehension. Once upon a time, she had joyfully given her daughter to Martin Harlow, believing Annie’s future was secure with a husband who would love her forever. Now Caroline was taking her daughter back, and she had no idea what to believe anymore.
    â€œSit down,” she said, gesturing at the kitchen table. “I just made a pot of coffee.”
    â€œThanks.”
    She set down the French press along with a plate of salted maple shortbread cookies. “I don’t have the baking skills of my mother or my daughter,” she said, “but I find that if you use enough butter and maple syrup in a recipe, you don’t need much skill.”
    He tasted one, and the expression on his face was gratifying. “Good to know.”
    Fletcher Wyndham hadn’t been Caroline’s favorite, back when he’d been Annie’s boyfriend. Caroline hadn’t seen the potential there. All she’d seen was an obstacle to her daughter’s future. In the eyes of a mother wanting a glorious future for her child, he was merely the son of a drifter, a kid who would