“You had a call from someone named Susan Douglas.” Leah passed a note she’d been holding across the desk. “Said she’s a friend of yours and needs to speak with you today. She was hoping before your morning calendar.”

Susan Douglas. It was turning out to be a day for difficult situations. She reached for the note. “I’ll call now.”

Leah stood. “I’ve never heard you mention her before.”

“I told you my husband died two years ago, in a car accident….”

“Yeah.” Her eyes filled with compassion, Leah sat down again.

“The accident was his fault.”

“I’d heard that.”

“Did you also hear that he was drunk?”

“No!”

Valerie nodded, fighting other mental visions she’d spend a lifetime trying to erase. “I’m friends with a couple of reporters who wanted to protect me and the boys, so the accident didn’t get much press coverage. Also, it happened shortly after 9/11….” She paused. “He hit a little girl….”

She stopped abruptly. The morning she’d had, the life she was having, had briefly gotten the better of her. She would not cry.

Tears didn’t help. She’d already shed so many and they never eased the pain.

They couldn’t change the past. They couldn’t bring that little girl back.

Leah was staring at her, an odd mixture of horror, shock and compassion on her face.

“Was she badly hurt?” she asked hoarsely.

Valerie nodded. Scrambled frantically for the detachment that would see her through. “She lived for almost a week, but there was never really any hope….”

“Oh, God, Val, I heard there was some kind of tragedy involved, but I never guessed… I’m sorry— I had no idea… I’m so sorry.”

And this was one reason Valerie didn’t talk about that part of her life. People had no idea what to do or say. After the accident, even though the tragedy had been kept out of the papers, Valerie had found that the friends she and Thomas had shared slowly stopped calling. And she understood why. No one knew what to say.

Because there was nothing to say.

A year later, she’d received her appointment to the bench. She’d started a new job, a new life and was trying desperately to let go of the most painful parts of the old one.

“Susan is the little girl’s mother.”

“You know her?”

“I got in touch with her after…I’d seen Alicia’s obituary. It listed her mother’s name, said she was survived by a loving family and friends, and that was all. But there’d been this picture….”

She drew some more lines. Evenly spaced, even in length and thickness. Parallel in every way. Perfectly balanced.

“I knew there was nothing I could do, but I had to try to help.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Leah’s smile was sad. And full of love.

“She was so kind,” Valerie told her assistant. “Even in the face of her own grief, she was concerned about me and my widowhood. As we talked, we found we had something else in common—our poor choice in husbands. Apparently, the little girl’s father was out of the same mold as my husband. Except that Susan and her husband had already been divorced when Alicia was killed.”

“Oh my gosh! That poor woman!”

“Yeah. She had it pretty rough for a while there. She’ll never completely recover from her daughter’s death, but…” Valerie paused, feeling again that horrible stab of guilt about all the things she hadn’t done that might have prevented the senseless tragedy. “She remarried shortly after the accident and although I haven’t spoken with her, I heard not too long ago that she’s had a new baby. I sent a little outfit.”

“Maybe that’s why she’s calling, then,” Leah said, standing again. “To thank you.”

Valerie hoped so, thinking of the nearly broken woman she’d known. God, she hoped so.

SUSAN DOUGLAS COULDN’T think straight. Alex had been so good to her. The only good thing in her life at a time when she’d thought she’d never be capable of feeling good again. He’d saved her life. Literally.

And then spent many, many months slowly putting that life back together. Handing her the pieces as she was ready to receive them.

And never once, during all of that, had he made her feel as though she couldn’t do it without him. He’d never diminished her. He’d nurtured her.

She owed him everything.

She’d chewed the nails of both hands by midmorning that last Tuesday in October. She’d left the message for Valerie at eight, hoping the judge would call before her morning session started. And now it was ten-thirty.

The baby had been up, eaten, had his bath, occupying her for several hours. But now he was asleep again, leaving her alone with her thoughts. Far too alone…

The phone rang and she jumped, knocking it off its cradle. With a glance at herself in the mirror, she grabbed the mobile receiver from the floor.

She looked fine. Her shoulder-length dark hair was perfectly styled, her makeup exquisite, her slacks and sweater the epitome of fashion on a body that was model-slim just a month after her baby’s birth. If one overlooked the bleeding cuticle on her right index finger, she could easily pass for the rich socialite she’d always wanted to be.

“Hello?” She caught it on the fifth ring.

“Susan?”

“Valerie, hi!” Susan lifted her middle finger to her teeth. “Thanks for calling back so soon.”

“Of course! I’m always here for you, you know that.”

Tears filled Susan’s eyes. It happened a lot.

“I need your opinion.” If she hoped to get through this, she’d have to make it quick. She could read the warning signs.

“Sure, what about?”

How did Valerie always manage to sound cheerful? She’d suffered a hell of a lot, too. In some ways more than Susan had. Yet, try as she might, Susan couldn’t find the pure goodwill that infused Valerie Simms’s voice.

“It’s complicated.”

“Okay, shoot.”

“I just had a baby.”

“I know! Congratulations! Did you get the outfit I sent?”

“Yes.” Susan paced the kitchen floor, stepping only on the diamond-shaped markings in the pattern. “I’m late with thank-you notes and I’m really sorry. Alex mailed the last of them this morning.”

“Then you’re way ahead of where I was!” Valerie laughed. “The twins were six months old before I got around to even thinking about thank-you notes.”

Susan didn’t feel “ahead.” As a matter of fact, she was sliding back so fast she was terrified. Everything confused her.

Except that she had to protect Alex. And baby Colton.

“My ex-husband is trying to challenge Colton’s paternity.”

“What!”

“He says the baby is his and not Alex’s.”

“Is the man insane?” Valerie asked, and then continued, “No, wait, we know he’s insane. But he can’t be that insane! You’ve been divorced for three years!”

“I know.” She was blowing it. Wasn’t putting enough indignation into her voice. Valerie was her only hope of winning this.

“Is there some reason for him to think the child is his?”

“Colton is Alex’s son.”

“But is there some reason your ex might think otherwise?”

“No, of course not,” Susan said, trying to collect herself. “We slept together once, after the divorce, and he’s claiming that as the reason he’s doing this, but the timing’s all wrong.” God, she wished that was so. Still… “He doesn’t want Colton, Valerie. Think about it. Think about him. He’s just doing this to get back at me. It’s a control thing, you know that.”

She sank down to the kitchen floor, and pulled hard at the cuticle of her middle finger with her teeth. Valerie just had to believe her. She had to.

Alex didn’t know about that night she’d found the bastard crying at the cemetery. And she’d die rather than hurt Alex. Besides, Colton was Alex’s son.

At least, it was possible that Colton was his son. If she’d been late before she got pregnant.

Alex was in the delivery room when Colton was born. He’d been the one to bring her home, care for them both, support them both. He was home every night, helping with baths, watching Susan feed their baby, planning for his future.

Alex was Colton’s father. His name was on the birth certificate.

Valerie asked a couple of pointed questions. And then rang off, telling Susan not to worry. The jerk didn’t have a leg to stand on and Valerie was going to knock it out from under him, anyway.

Arms wrapped around herself, Susan left the phone on the floor and let all the tears fall.

She’d hoped the pain was behind her.

And was beginning to believe it would never be.

HER AFTERNOON CALENDAR behind her, Valerie picked up the phone to make a couple of calls on behalf of Susan Douglas, but it rang before she could punch in a number.

“Hello?”

“Mom, it’s Blake.”

“Hi, Blake!” Valerie’s heart jumped. “Tryouts over so soon?”

Sitting there at her desk in her navy silk suit with the matching two-inch-heeled pumps, her judicial robe on a hanger not three feet away, she crossed her fingers like a little kid.

“Yeah, we just got home.”

Blake didn’t sound heartbroken, but…

“So?”

“I made the team.”

“Oh, Blake, I’m so proud of you guys! I knew you’d get it.” With a grin so big her cheeks hurt, Valerie breathed her first easy breath of the day. “When do practices start?”

“Right away. Coach thinks we can win a lot but he says we have to practice hard.”

Sounded good to her. Brian was going to have to eat if he wanted to play.

She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.

She had some leverage. Something to give Brian motivation. Something to begin building the self-esteem his father had done so much to destroy, although neither boy had been fully aware of the damage.

And Blake! He’d finally put forth the effort to get something he wanted. And been rewarded.

She could just kiss the crossing-guard coach.

“What’s your coach’s name?”

“Kirk.”

“Kirk what?”

“I don’t know. He told us to call him Kirk.”

Kirk it was. She could hardly wait to drop the boys off in the morning and give the man her utmost thanks.

Maybe there was something she could do for him? Give him a step up to a job that would pay more than the minimum wage a crossing guard made. She knew a lot of people and—

“Mom.”

“What?”

“Brian didn’t make the team.”

KIRK CHANDLER WAS the crossing guard’s name. She’d read it on the paper Blake had brought for her to sign the night before.

He was a nice guy. It was obvious he had a real affection for kids. She’d go see Mr. Chandler, explain the situation and he’d let Brian on the team. Valerie was so certain of that she sent Blake to school with the signed form in his book bag. And told both boys to show up for practice that afternoon. Everything would be fine.

She’d promised them.

The school’s lunchroom was cavernous without the cacophony of sound and movement created by hundreds of young people with half an hour of freedom in the middle of the day. She’d only been there once before, when Blake had forgotten a science report that counted for fifty per cent of his grade, and she’d had to run home between calendars, get the report and meet him during his lunch break to give it to him.

Though there were still several people milling about—a few lingering kids, a janitorial crew pulling large trash cans on wheels from table to table, some cafeteria workers—she spotted Kirk Chandler right away. Dressed in blue jeans and a plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he was over in a far corner of the room, engaged in what appeared to be a serious conversation.

With Abraham Billings.

Not wanting the boy to see her, she backed up and waited until he’d left the room before approaching her sons’ basketball coach.

“Mr. Chandler?”

He turned immediately.

“Mrs. Simms.”

Completely out of character, Valerie hesitated for the briefest moment to take the hand he held out, but that moment was long enough to make her feel self-consciously foolish. His skin was warm, the size of his palm making her feel small, fragile. His grip was firm.

“Ms. Simms,” she said. “I’m Ms., not Mrs.”

Great, Val, any other imbecile remarks you’d like to throw out there?

“Blake and Brian went back to class half an hour ago. Were you looking for someone?” he asked, his eyes alight with appreciation. Probably because of the figure-enhancing black pantsuit she was wearing.

“Yes. You.” She walked beside him to the door of the cafeteria. “I wanted to speak with you before basketball practice this afternoon.”

“I’m on playground duty next door at the elementary school in a couple of minutes,” he said, starting slowly down the hall. “We can talk there.”

His voice was…calming. Masculine, but not too deep. Smooth without being smarmy.

“What does playground duty entail?” She could easily see him out there shooting baskets with the boys. Or refereeing a game of Red Rover.

The clacking of her heels seemed inordinately loud against the tile floor.

“A lot of standing, mostly,” he said, sending her a sideways grin as they walked.

The halls were deserted, quiet, as they passed one classroom door after another, all of them closed. Still, with the low ceilings and colorful banners placed every few feet on the walls, the air felt a bit close.

“You don’t organize activities?”

“Not for recess. The kids aren’t out long enough. We’re just there to make sure no one leaves. And that they don’t kill each other.”

Sounded like a boring job for someone with so much intelligence shining from his eyes.

And yet she was drawn to the way this man who had apparently dedicated his life to serving children.

She wanted to ask why he’d done that. And, of course, couldn’t. Kirk Chandler’s life choices were absolutely none of her business.

“I came to talk to you about the basketball tryouts yesterday.” They’d reached an outside door. Chandler held it open for her.

“Was Blake excited to make the team?”

“Yes.”

“He’s a good little player. And he’ll get better as the year progresses.”

Proud of Blake, pleased that her son was succeeding, Valerie accompanied Kirk Chandler toward the playground several yards away.

Blake’s success was a wonderful balm to her heart.

“He’s going to be a starter,” Chandler was saying, telling her about Blake’s aggressive footwork on the court.

Valerie frowned, confused. The man didn’t seem to realize that they had a problem here. He hadn’t asked about Brian at all, or even expressed any kind of regret for having to leave Blake’s twin off the team.

“I’m curious,” she said slowly, flicking a lock of hair over her shoulder. “Why didn’t Blake’s brother make the team?”

“He can’t keep up.”

“What does that mean?” Detachment, Val. “I shoot ball with my boys, Mr. Chandler,” she said, softening her tone. “Brian’s a much better shot than Blake.”

“Possibly.” Kirk Chandler stopped outside the gate leading to the playground, leaned his forearms on the top bars and looked over, silently assessing her. And then he spoke.

“Basketball takes energy, Ms. Simms. Lots of it. Brian has none.”

She pressed her lips together, as though blending her lipstick, although she’d chewed it off on the way from her car to the cafeteria.

“I can’t put him on the team because I can’t play him in a game.”

“He needs to be on that team, Mr. Chandler,” she said, trying to tone down her emotion. “I’ll make certain that his energy level is up to par.”

Being on the team would take care of that. It would make Brian eat.

Chandler glanced out at the still-empty playground. And shook his head.

“I told Brian he could practice with the team. And as soon as I see his strength and speed improve, I’ll consider letting him on. I still have an open spot.”

With a calm she didn’t feel, Valerie folded her arms across her chest. “I appreciate the offer, but being there with the boys, being constantly reminded that he isn’t good enough, won’t help Brian.”

She shook at the thought. Low self-esteem was at the root of Brian’s problems. There was no way she could expose him to something that would make that worse.

“You’d be surprised,” Chandler said, his conciliatory tone rankling her. “A lot of times it’s something like this that becomes a significant turning point in a boy’s life. If Brian wants to be on the team badly enough, he’ll get himself there.”

“No, he won’t, because I can’t let him do this.” Her words were sharper than she wanted. “Brian’s borderline anorexic, Mr. Chandler. Putting him out there every day, in front of his peers—as someone who can’t make the grade—could kill him.”

“The choice is yours,” he said, his gaze steady as it held hers. “But I think you’d be making a mistake. Brian wants to play basketball. If I thought there was any chance he could keep up, I’d have put him on the team for his heart alone. Instead of ‘killing him,’ as you say, this challenge could very well be what saves him.”

“Do you have children, Mr. Chandler?”

It was something she’d wondered more than once.

“No.” His gaze had returned to the swings and slide and open field ahead of them.

“I didn’t think so.”

“I was a boy once, though.” With the soft words, an odd tone had entered his voice.

“I’m guessing, however, that you didn’t have problems with low self-esteem.”

“Every kid experiences some of that.”

“The normal bouts, yes. Brian’s bout isn’t normal.”

“The only way he’ll ever play on my team is if he comes out to practice and shows me he can keep up. Yesterday he couldn’t.”

“If Brian doesn’t play, Blake won’t, either.”

“What?” He turned, frowning, his eyes filled with such intensity she was shocked. There was a lot more going on inside this man than the world saw. “You’d actually hold Blake back, punish him, because his brother has problems?”

“Of course not…”

His eyes cleared. And that mattered to her.

“Blake made that decision.”

“And you’re going to let him?”

“You obviously don’t understand twins, Mr. Chandler,” she said, suddenly weary. So often it felt like life was Valerie and her boys against the world. Trying to find their own place…

“What’s to understand? They’re two kids with the same birthday.”

If she had more time, she’d tell him how wrong that was. She’d tell him how, when the boys were little, one would always know when the other didn’t feel well. When Blake had the flu, Brian—at three years old—refused to leave the room and sat quietly beside his brother, eating only the soup that Blake ate, until his brother was better. She’d explain how the boys knew what the other was thinking, completing sentences and thoughts for each other as naturally as if they were their own.

She’d tell him, but she had a feeling he still wouldn’t get it. Kirk Chandler was turning out to be an irritating man.

“My boys do everything together,” she said now. “They’ve been in the same classes every year, they play the same sports, they have the same friends. I’ve got nothing to do with this. It’s a natural outgrowth of the bond they share. And,” she said with emphasis when he took a breath as though he was planning to interrupt with more of his unfounded opinions, “it’s been a gift, giving them the strength and security to weather whatever challenges come along. Including the death of their father.”

“And that’s why Brian is borderline anorexic, because of all this strength and security.”

It wasn’t a question.

And Valerie didn’t have any more time. She had to get back to Mesa for her afternoon calendar.

“The boys are coming to practice today,” she told him, “but don’t expect to see them tomorrow.”

“The choice is yours,” he told her again. “But, for both their sakes, I wish you’d reconsider.”

“And I wish you would,” she told him, then turned and walked away, leaving him standing there staring out over an empty playground.

An unusual man, a poorly paid servant with a mind of his own and a will of iron.

A man who apparently had the power to ruin her son’s life.

And an open spot on his basketball team.

Open spot being the operative words, Valerie reminded herself as she climbed in her Mercedes, put it in gear and accelerated, turning out of the lot.

She’d take care of this somehow. She always did.

CHAPTER FOUR

AT HIS CORNER early as usual the next morning, the day before Halloween, Kirk sipped from a paper cup of coffee and enjoyed the quiet. He had another fifteen minutes before he needed to don the orange vest and take up his sign.

The air was a little chilly, not that he minded. By midmorning, he’d be rolling up the sleeves of his flannel shirt. A lone car pulled up. Stopped. Moved on. Kirk enjoyed these stolen everyday moments. Somehow they never failed to instill a sense of peace in him, along with the assurance that he was on the right course.

Another car approached. This one stopped at the curb a few feet behind Kirk and someone got out. Odd. It was too early for the kids. But he recognized the car. Pulling on his vest, Kirk watched from the corner of his eye.

Abraham Billings didn’t wait for his mother’s kiss on the cheek. And she drove off before he’d even shrugged his backpack onto his shoulders. Kirk frowned. The woman always waited to watch her son walk into the school.

She always brought him right before the first bell, too. This morning there wasn’t another kid in sight.

Head down, the boy, in his customary freshly laundered jeans and T-shirt, ambled to the corner. Kirk held up his sign, although there was no traffic. Abraham didn’t seem to notice.

“You got something to do before school?” Kirk asked as Abraham stood there.

“No.”

Abraham was looking down the street in the direction his mother had gone, his features drawn into a sullen mask. Still, he made no move to cross the street.

“What’s up?”

“Nothin’.”

Eyes narrowed, Kirk nodded. There was a job for him to do here; he knew it. He just had to figure out what it was.

And he would.

“Practice is at three today.”

Abraham’s head swung toward Kirk. “So?” The word was almost thrown at him.

Was that liquor he smelled on the boy’s breath? Or something else? Abraham could have gotten into his father’s cologne. This was the age for potentially embarrassing experiments.

“I want you there.”

The boy’s chin tightened. “I didn’t try out. I’m not on the team. I can’t play.”

Three sentences, Kirk mused. He was getting somewhere.

“Come, anyway.”

“What for?”

“I left a spot open. Today’s practice can be considered your tryout.”

Abraham didn’t respond. Just stared down the street where he’d last seen his mother.

“You think your mom would mind if you came?”

“No.”

“We could go to the office and call her at lunch, just to be sure.”

“She won’t be there.”

“She at work?”