Man Of The Family

“How much money do you make?”

“Not nearly enough.” The boy smiled, but the girl didn’t. “Seriously, as a government employee, I don’t get the big bucks like a defense lawyer, but I make a good living.” She named a figure range typical of lawyers coming out of school to take their first jobs, then a larger span for established attorneys. “My advice would be to aim for Law Review if you want to command a higher starting salary.”

“What’s Law Review?”

Sunny explained the importance of third year and the prestige attached to the journal, especially at the top law schools. “I was editor at Harvard. Anyone else?”

The girl’s hand shot up.

“Aren’t all lawyers crooks—and liars?”

“A common misconception,” Sunny answered to mild laughter from the other students. The classic joke ran through her mind. What do you call a group of lawyers at the bottom of the ocean? A good start. “I won’t deny there are some bad apples out there, but for the most part, lawyers are decent people who happen to love debating fine points of the law.” She smiled. “And winning.” Although that sometimes meant going over the top when you lost.

The lunch bell rang, ending Career Day’s morning session. Sunny thanked the kids for their interest, and a smattering of applause followed. Not bad for a woman who’d slept twelve hours a day for a week and refused to take any phone calls—including Nate’s—except, finally, at her mother’s insistence, Bronwyn’s.

“You need to get back in the saddle,” Bron had claimed. “Talk to my class. They’re bound to be easier than that jury in New York. You can’t sit in your parents’ house waiting for the cuts to heal.”

That had been enough to make her say yes. She couldn’t continue to fret over Nate either, about what they’d once had, what might have been. She had to pull herself together sometime, and the classroom forum had made a simple start. Satisfied, she gathered her note cards, which she hadn’t consulted as much as she’d expected to.

As the room emptied and the students filed past, a few kids even stopped to thank her until Bron ushered the last child from the room toward the cafeteria. The cop and the ball player had already left.

In the hallway Bronwyn linked her arm with Sunny’s. “Fabulous. Thanks for coming.”

“I enjoyed it myself.” To her surprise, she had. Sunny stifled a yawn. “Guess I’ve had enough excitement for one day. Time for my afternoon nap.”

Bron’s amber-brown eyes softened. They didn’t know each other well—they’d met after Bron and Chris became engaged when Sunny had been living in New York—and Sunny looked forward to becoming better acquainted. So, apparently, did Bronwyn. “I’m happy you’re home,” she said. “Let’s get together soon.” Her smile turned sly. “I’m dying to know what kind of settlement you got from the evil Nate.”

Without answering, Sunny said goodbye and continued down the hall to the front entrance before she remembered her watch. It was still on the desk in the classroom. Threading her way through the noisy students eager for lunch, she noticed the same girl from Bron’s class. Her long hair swinging, she walked several feet behind the other students, then turned away to say something to a friend.

When they passed, she and Sunny bumped shoulders. Sunny glanced down and found herself staring at the girl’s fine-boned wrist. She wore an outsized watch with a band of blue, cream and green glass beads. Sunny’s watch.

For an instant they exchanged looks. Sunny could have sworn the girl smiled in triumph. Why would she take the watch? With a look at her own bare arm, Sunny stepped toward her, but the girl turned her back to hustle her friend around a corner and into the lunchroom.

Sunny had no qualms about confronting the girl; she did that every day in her job. When she faced a jury, no one ever saw her blink—not even Wallace Day. And if she didn’t approach the girl, she might never see her watch again. On the other hand... Oh, no.

Sunny stopped in her tracks. No wonder the girl had looked so familiar. She was Bronwyn and Chris’s niece. She’d been a junior bridesmaid at their wedding, her father the best man. She was Griffin Lattimer’s daughter.

Did he or Bronwyn know she was a thief?

* * *

LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Sunny parked her father’s Bronco in a visitor’s space at the Palm Breeze Court Apartments. Bronwyn, incredulous about her niece, had warned her this wouldn’t be easy.

“Let me handle it,” she’d said. “Griffin can be prickly about his kids. There’s no telling how he’ll take your accusation.”

“It’s not an accusation. It’s a fact, Bron,” she’d replied.

Taking a deep breath, Sunny studied the complex. The low, stucco-sided buildings were arranged in horseshoe-shaped courts around broad streets lined with palm trees. The style, common to the area, didn’t appeal to her. From the high-rise apartment she’d shared with Nate, she could see the East River but not her neighbors. Here, the wide windows of each unit virtually invited passersby to look inside.

The front entrance to number 17A was painted colonial blue with gleaming nickel hardware and a matching knocker below the security peephole. The flowerpots on the porch held drooping annuals, and another planter held wilted white geraniums.

Sunny knocked. Twice.

From within she heard the music of a string quartet. She didn’t recognize the composer, but her taste ran more to classic rock. Sunny liked her music to make some noise.

“The kids are at the clubhouse,” a male voice called out.

The voice, which Sunny remembered from the wedding, belonged to Griffin Lattimer. She felt a twinge of regret for bringing him bad news and knocked again.

Finally, he swung the door open, blinking at the rush of sunlight.

Sunny blinked, too. She’d remembered that Griffin was an attractive man. He’d looked great in a tuxedo two years ago. Now he wore jeans with a black T-shirt, and his dark hair was longer. The style wasn’t intentional, Sunny guessed; it seemed as if Griffin needed a cut but didn’t have time to bother. He didn’t appear to have time for her, either.

Upon finding that his visitor was an adult, he tensed. His gaze slid over her before the flare of interest—if that’s what it was—quickly disappeared.

She held out a tentative hand. “Griffin, hi. Sunny Donovan.”

His eyes—with their clear hazel irises rimmed by a deep brown—looked exactly as she remembered, but they seemed even more remote. He didn’t shake her hand, and she wondered if she could manage this confrontation after all.

She forced a smile. “We met at Bronwyn’s wedding to my brother, Chris.”

“Hi,” he said at last but didn’t move from the doorway.

He’d seemed preoccupied at the wedding. He hadn’t said five unnecessary words to her, and he wasn’t any more sociable now.

Like Nate toward the end of their marriage. She was surprised he kept calling her, though she still wasn’t tempted to answer.

“May I come in?” She glanced behind her at the street. “I have something to tell you, but I’d rather say it in private. It’s about your daughter.”

Griffin looked toward the center of the complex, and Sunny could have bitten her tongue. She saw fear in his eyes and hastened to reassure him.

“Amanda is perfectly fine. But something happened today at school. I thought you should know.” She didn’t see how else to say it. “Amanda stole my watch.”

Griffin stared at her for a long moment before he stepped back, motioning her inside. Feeling more uncomfortable with every second, she eased past him. In the small foyer, Sunny explained that morning’s incident. “The watch was unusual, not expensive but different. Handmade.” She described the beaded band. “When I finished my talk it was gone.”

“Why would Mandi want a cheap watch?” His gaze skimmed her again in obvious disapproval. “I’d expect you to wear a gold Rolex.”

Sunny flushed but refused to be derailed.

“During my talk Amanda glared at me the entire time. She later asked a question clearly meant to embarrass me.” Sunny paused. “I didn’t expect her to remember me from the wedding, and I didn’t recognize her at first.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. At least she was getting some reaction now.

“You’ve got the wrong girl.”

“No,” she said, “I don’t. Your daughter was seen wearing the watch.”

“By whom?”

“Me.”

He half smiled. “That’s pretty circumstantial, isn’t it, Counselor?”

Sunny stiffened. The one word seemed to draw a line between them. All she’d been trying to do was help. But if he wanted to see her as an opponent—a prosecutor interrogating him on the witness stand—rather than as a woman who simply wanted to keep his family from more heartbreak...then, okay. Fine. The gloves came off.

“No,” she said. “It’s eyewitness.”

“Your word against hers.”

His attitude made her see red. “Griffin, I could have taken this to the principal—for starters. But because you and I have met before and Amanda is my brother’s niece, I decided to keep this in the family. I suggest we ask Amanda to explain.”

“And I suggest you leave.”

Sunny looked toward the clubhouse area. All right. Change of tactics.

“Not before I speak to Amanda.”

He moved, faster than she’d thought possible, and tried to catch her arm, but Sunny evaded the contact.

Griffin’s voice was cool but harsh. “Why don’t you go back to ambulance chasing or whatever it is you people do, and leave us alone?”

Another wave of adrenaline surged through her. First, the Rolex comment and now, you people. She tilted her chin up to hold his gaze.

“Listen, Mr. Lattimer—if that’s the way you want it. I’m well aware you’ve lost your wife and you have more than a full-time job raising two children on your own. That does not give Amanda an excuse to steal anyone’s property.”

“My daughter is not a thief.”

“I’ve worked with lots of teenagers and young adults in court, and I know all the signs of trouble to watch for. Swift mood changes, uncharacteristic behavior, furtiveness, unwholesome friendships, depression...any of that sound familiar?”

His darkened gaze faltered. “Mandi is not unhappy.”

“Maybe you aren’t looking closely enough.”

“Maybe you’re butting in where you don’t belong. I asked you to leave.” He took another step toward her. “Now I’m not asking.” Before Sunny could react, he had grasped her upper arm. A light touch but still...

She tried not to panic. His fingers felt hot through the layers of her suit jacket and blouse sleeve, as if he were touching bare skin. She jerked free.

Still bent upon getting her out of the apartment, he opened the door. “I’ll talk to Mandi about the watch, but I can tell you right now, she had nothing to do with it.”

“It was on her wrist!”

“Yeah, well. Maybe one of her friends let her wear it.” He added, “Chris said you weren’t yourself right now. Let’s leave it at that.”

“Let’s not,” Sunny began but didn’t finish.

She had stepped outside, and the door shut behind her. Her arm pulsed from the lingering heat of his fingers.

Bronwyn had warned her. Where his children were concerned, Griffin Lattimer had a definite blind spot.

Whether or not she got her watch back, Sunny didn’t intend to see him again.

CHAPTER THREE

GRIFFIN WAS STILL seething when he locked up that night. Where did Sunshine Donovan get off, telling him how to deal with his children? He cast a glance at Amanda’s room.

It was after eleven o’clock, and her light still glowed through the gap in the half-closed door. Then he heard her voice.

For a second Griffin hesitated. He picked his battles these days, but with an inner sigh he rapped a knuckle against her door. “Amanda?” When she didn’t answer, he knocked again.

“Go away,” she said.

That sulky tone of voice drove him nuts. It was almost as if she hated him.

“I need to talk to you,” he said.

“I don’t want to talk.”

Griffin pushed the door open. “Too bad,” he said, his mind made up.

Amanda was sitting on her bed, outside the covers. She wore blue pajamas, a bunch of pink-and-lime and green-and-purple pillows piled around her. Her favorite stuffed giraffe lay cuddled under her arm, and her cell phone was in her other hand.

“Hang up,” Griffin said.

Amanda’s expression was one of utter disgust, but with a put-upon sigh she obeyed. “See you tomorrow. He’s here,” she told someone at the other end of the line.

He waited for a long moment, trying to choose his words with care.

“I thought we had agreed. No phone calls after nine o’clock.”

“I couldn’t sleep. Neither could Dixie.”

Griffin almost groaned aloud. Ever since he and his kids had moved to Jacksonville, Amanda had acquired a strange new set of friends. Or, rather, one friend specifically. And she set his teeth on edge.

“Did you finish your homework?”

He didn’t have to ask. Her notebook lay on the desk across the room, unopened. On top, a stack of assignment forms appeared to be blank.

“I’ll do it later.”

“It’s almost midnight, Mandi. You need sleep.”

She huffed out another aggrieved sigh. “So, what am I supposed to hand in tomorrow? I thought my grades were important to you.”

Her tone reminded him about her low average last spring but again Griffin took time to respond, his worst instincts going off like fireworks inside. For the first time he wondered if Sunny Donovan had been telling the truth. Frankly, as soon as she’d accused his daughter, he’d been too angry to think.

Not a welcome reaction on his part, but he’d thought about Sunny all evening while the Patriots kicked Miami around the football field. That was just what he needed. A woman who thought his daughter was a thief. A woman whose coloring reminded him of Rachel, someone driven—like himself in his TV anchor days.

“Your grades should be important to you,” he told Mandi. “You’ll be in high school next year. Four years after that there’ll be college.” How was that even possible? Where had the time gone? “Yes, grades matter. And in this house—”

“It’s not a house. It’s an apartment. We don’t have a home anymore.” She had that disdainful look on her face that made Griffin want to throw something. Not that he would.

But getting into a fight about semantics didn’t seem wise.

“Look,” he said, “let me remind you. I’m the adult here. You’re the kid.” He started toward the nearest switch plate. “Lights out. Now.”

Halfway across the room Griffin stopped cold. Mandi’s whitewashed dresser—something she called shabby chic—was next to the switch. And on the dresser lay a watch.

His stomach sank in a dizzying rush.

The watch matched the description Sunny Donovan had given. Perfectly. There could be no mistake. He picked it up, ran his fingers over the colorful glass beads.

“Where did you get this?”

She sounded bored. “What?”

“This watch. It’s not yours.”

“It is now.”

“Meaning?”

“Um, Dixie gave it to me.” She was clearly buying time, making up some story as she went along. “She didn’t want it anymore.”

Maybe a friend let her wear it. He’d said so himself. With everything in him, Griffin wanted to believe her. Only he didn’t.

How many times had he heard that same tone of voice whenever Amanda was shading the truth? Right now she was plucking at some imaginary lint on her flower-patterned sheet, and her cheeks had turned an intimidating red. Her fingers trembled. She glanced at the photo album she kept on her nightstand. Next to it stood a framed picture of Rachel.

“Don’t lie to me, Amanda.”

She didn’t respond, and Griffin had no choice but to tell her about Sunny’s earlier visit. His daughter listened in stony silence.

“Why do you always think I’m guilty?” she asked when he’d finished. “It’s like you want to find something wrong.” Tears quivered in her voice. “You still like Josh, but you don’t like me.”

Mandi is not unhappy, he’d told Sunny.

Holding the watch, Griffin walked back to the bed. Her bent head spoke of guilt. Yet she wouldn’t admit it. She’d tried to sidetrack him with a completely different subject.

Right after Rachel had left, the counselor had said Griffin’s first task would be reassuring his children that he was still here for them. But despite his best efforts, Amanda didn’t feel secure.

He had to tread lightly. True, he was deeply disappointed that Amanda had taken the watch, but he wouldn’t show her how he felt. He never did. In an effort to avoid more damage to his family, Griffin struggled to maintain a deceptively calm—some would say closed-off—facade.

Yes, he was the grown-up here, the guy who had to keep things together. Make Daddy proud. To avoid upsetting his motherless daughter’s fragile equilibrium, he had to say the right thing.

And he could be wrong about the watch. He knew he was grasping at straws, but he hoped he was wrong. What if she wasn’t guilty? And Dixie really was to blame?

Griffin sat on the edge of the bed beside her but avoided glancing at Rachel’s picture. He touched Amanda’s chin and turned her face toward him. Her eyes, brimming with tears, met his.

“You and Josh are both my first priority. We’re in this together, Mandi. We’re a family.”

“Doesn’t feel like it,” she whispered.

Griffin’s breath caught. He had no idea how to answer that. “I’m sorry if I accused you unfairly.” He kissed the top of her head then stood. His hand ached from the tight grip he had on the watch. “Let’s sleep on that. We can talk again tomorrow.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” she said.

* * *

HOURS LATER AMANDA was still awake. She’d tried staring at the dark ceiling for a while after her dad left, but she could hear his words—his accusations—as if they had just been said.

It had been a long time since her mother sat on her bed, talking about the day’s happenings, laughing with her over nothing at all, kissing her good-night, soothing all the hurts. Two years, sixteen days.

Why mark the stupid time, as if they still lived in Boston and Mom was just visiting her grandmother in Philly, where they used to live?

She slipped between the sheets and flopped down, squashing her stuffed giraffe and her oldest cloth doll against the pillows. She kicked off her slippers under the covers. They were too small, but only yesterday her father had said, “No money for nonessentials this month, kiddo. Maybe after payday.” Amanda knew there would always be bills, lots of them from when Mom had left and run up the credit cards. Just as she knew her big feet would never stop growing.

Amanda hated them.

She hated her growing breasts, too, even though Dixie told her she’d be happy with them one day.

Amanda even hated her name. It wasn’t cool like Dixie’s or her other friends’ in Boston or Philly. Mom had always told her it was lovely, graceful, and she’d grow into it, but Amanda hadn’t heard those words in a long time. Her dad wasn’t much of a talker. And when he did...

Yanking the covers up to her neck, she lay shaking in the dark.

I’m the adult here. You’re the kid.

Why feel surprised that she had absolutely no power?

Your grades should be important to you.

But why? It wasn’t as if she’d ever need any of the dumb things they tried to teach in school. Dixie said they wouldn’t. Like those boring job talks in Aunt Bron’s class. Amanda didn’t plan to become a ball player or a cop or a...lawyer.

She bit her lip. She didn’t want to think about bad stuff anymore.

Or about her dad.

Yet the stubborn memories kept coming. Josh had been only three when their mother took off. In sixth grade then, Amanda had been just getting used to having him around and was glad he’d finally stopped wearing diapers and sucking on a bottle.

Her father, of course, had been at work that day. He’d had a big-deal job then.

Amanda pinched herself for wanting to cry.

Even Josh didn’t cry much now. She wondered if he remembered Mom, which only left Amanda feeling more alone. She remembered everything about her, even the shadows in her eyes right before she left.

In the dark she turned over, off the old doll, which glared up at her with its one remaining black eye. She groped across her nightstand for the snapshot in a porcelain frame with roses around it. Amanda ran a finger over the raised flowers, the cool glass. She didn’t have to actually see the picture. Josh might forget, but she never would. She’d always remember her mom’s soft blond hair. And her eyes would always be the exact same color as the blue in her favorite dishes, and her smile...

Dad hardly ever smiled anymore.

When he did, he smiled at Josh. He was always trying to reassure him.

Setting the picture down, she rolled on to her side, facing the wall. She couldn’t bear to open the photo album tonight.

Fresh tears welled in her eyes. She huddled under the lavender eyelet comforter her mother had helped her pick out when they moved to Boston—like the white wicker nightstand and her dresser—but she couldn’t get warm. She thought of her dad’s Uncle Theo, who still lived in Philadelphia. He didn’t have anyone now, and she missed him, too.

“Mandi?” Whispering, Josh stood at her door. She always kept it half-open in case he needed her. “What’samatter?”

Wiping her wet cheeks, she said, “Nothing. Go back to your room. You want Dad to wake up? He’ll put you in time-out.”

A brief silence made her feel ashamed. Mean.

“Daddy never puts me in time-out.”

She frowned at his small frame backlit by the hallway light. “Well, he’ll want to anyway.”

“No,” Josh said in the doorway. “He loves me.”

You’re both my first priority. Amanda couldn’t believe that, not after he’d accused her of stealing. Blinking, she waited until Josh went back to his room, his bare feet dancing to avoid touching the floor.

Her throat ached, and no matter how much she swallowed, it kept hurting. The tears slid down her face, dripped into her ears and on to her pillow. No wonder he liked Josh better.

No wonder he didn’t smile at her. He only pays attention to me when I’m bad. And even then, what happens? Nothing.

That scared her most of all, as if she were a runaway train, and he wasn’t trying to stop her. He hadn’t stopped Mom, either.

She dragged the giraffe back into her arms and held on tight, her stupid tears wetting its baby-stupid face.

* * *

GRIFFIN TOOK A deep breath and rang the doorbell again. From inside he could hear raised voices, one male, one female.

He hesitated. Try the bell once more? Give up? Or open the door himself?

The Cabots rarely locked their doors.

Griffin opted for the third choice. He couldn’t wait all day. He needed to pick up Josh at school soon. He’d make his apology, then go.

“Hello?” he called out. “Jack? Kate?”

Voices, louder than before, came from the kitchen, but he couldn’t make out their words.

Griffin had started to edge back toward the door when Jack suddenly appeared, his face as red as Santa Claus’s suit. “Griffin,” he said, obviously surprised to see him standing there.

“Sorry. I did ring the bell. I’ll just...”

“No, come on in.” Jack turned to call over his shoulder, “Honey, Griffin’s here. Any coffee left?”

Whatever their quarrel had been about, it was over now, at least for Jack.

Griffin fingered the beaded watch in his pocket.

“No coffee for me, thanks. I was wondering... Is Sunny around?”

Jack turned and rapped on the door to the den. Then he made small talk as if nothing was wrong, inviting Griffin to a cookout the next weekend. “Bring the kids, too, of course,” Jack finished just as Sunny stepped into the room.