Gail Bowen - The Nesting Dolls

“I’ve appeared before you many times,” Zack said. “Obviously, I didn’t make much of an impression. I’m Zack Shreve.”

“And you’re a lawyer,” Theo Brokaw said, and his tone was self-congratulatory.

“I am,” Zack agreed.

“Well, so am I,” Theo Brokaw said. “At least I used to be.”

For once, my husband was flummoxed. Myra smoothed over the awkward moment. She touched Theo’s elbow, and he moved smartly towards the Wainbergs. Delia opened her arms in greeting, but her eyes were anxious as she scanned Theo’s face. “Welcome. I’m so glad you could come.”

Theo Brokaw stared at her, his forehead creased in bafflement. “You’ve gotten old,” he said. Before Delia could react, he bent towards her, buried his face in her neck, and breathed deeply. “Ah, but your fragrance is the same,” he said.

Until she disentangled herself, Theo clung to Delia in a way that was both passionate and strangely youthful. The situation was awkward, but Delia handled it with grace. “I’ll have to send Chanel No. 5 a thank-you note,” she said. She turned to her husband. “Noah, why don’t you pour the Brokaws a drink, so we can all celebrate their arrival in Regina.”

Zack shot his partner an approving look. “I wish we could join you, but Joanne and I will have to take a rain check. We need to get the girls to their Christmas concert.”

Myra’s eyes widened in recognition. “You’re Joanne Kilbourn,” she said.

“I am,” I said. “And I was looking forward to talking to you and Justice Brokaw, but we’re already late.”

“I understand,” Myra said. She stepped closer to me and lowered her voice. “We’ve made an unfortunate first impression, but I would like to talk to you about our project. It has merit and I believe it’s still feasible. May I call you?”

My heart sank. Theo was clearly no longer ready for prime time. “Of course,” I said. “You have my number.”

Theo Brokaw had been watching his wife and me with interest. “We live over a store,” he said brightly.

Myra’s voice was gentle. “It’s one of the new condos in Scarth Street Mall. We wrote Ms. Kilbourn about it, Theo.”

“Well, whatever you call it, it’s still rooms over a store,” Theo said. “And it’s handy for me because it’s close to the courthouse.” He gave Zack a conspiratorial wink. “You know how important that is.”

“I do,” Zack said. “Have a pleasant evening.” He opened the door and wheeled out into the wild weather.

With Noah’s help we made it to our car, but the weather was growing increasingly ugly. It is a truth universally acknowledged that the first snowfall means that everybody in town forgets how to drive. When the first snowfall is a blizzard, the potential for skids, fishtails, and rear-end collisions rises exponentially. Our trip to the school was a white-knuckler. Zack was driving. Steering the car through the drifts on Leopold Crescent demanded strength and attention, and we didn’t exchange a word until we hit Albert Street. City crews were on the job there; Zack’s shoulders relaxed and he shot me a quick glance. “Wouldn’t want to do that every day,” he said.

I reached over and rubbed the back of his neck. “Better?”

“Thanks. What do you think is going on with Theo Brokaw?”

“Whatever it is,” I said, “it explains his sudden retirement from the bench.”

“He’s not exactly compos mentis,” Zack agreed.

“Yet the e-mail exchanges we had were perfectly lucid,” I said. “Myra must take care of their correspondence.”

“Promise me something,” Zack said.

“What?”

“If I ever get like Theo, tip me into the nearest snowbank.”

By the time we pulled up in front of the school, we were late. Gracie and Taylor were sanguine but Isobel, whose standards for herself were high, bolted from our vehicle before Zack had come to a full stop.

The parking lots at Luther were chaos. Everybody was in a hurry, but nobody was getting anywhere. Seemingly every parking space but the one with the handicapped sign was taken. We had a disabled persons’ ID parking card, but unless a client’s needs were urgent, Zack never used it. My husband and I glanced at the seductive space and then at one another. Handbells were waiting to be rung. I rummaged through the glove compartment, found the card, and propped it on the dashboard. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

Gracie and Taylor dashed through the snow towards the gym, and Zack and I followed behind. It was tough sledding, but we made it. As we stood inside, brushing off the snow and checking out seating possibilities, a good-looking boy with blond dreadlocks and a tentative smile approached us. His manner was breezily confident, but his voice was uncertain. “Hey Zack. How’s it going?”

“No complaints,” Zack said. He gestured towards me. “This is my wife, Joanne. Jo, this is Declan Hunter.”

The boy extended his hand. “I recognized you from the picture in Zack’s office. Nice to meet you, Ms. Shreve.” His eyes darted past us towards the door. “You didn’t happen to see my mother in the parking lot, did you? She might need some help getting in.”

Zack’s voice was gentle. “She decided to come tomorrow, Declan. I guess she didn’t have a chance to let you know.”

Declan’s face tightened. “The big news would have been if she showed up.”

Zack wheeled his chair closer. “Your mother really did want to come today.”

“Right.” Declan gave us a small wave and turned away. “See you,” he said and started towards the crowd.

“Wait.” Zack didn’t have to raise his voice to get a response. Declan pivoted and took a step towards my husband. “If you’ve got some free time during the holidays, how about an evening at the Broken Rack,” Zack said. “When we went there on your birthday, I thought you showed definite promise.”

This time, Declan’s smile was open. “I beat you,” he said.

“I had an off night,” Zack said. “So are you in?”

“I’m in,” Declan said.

“Good, I’ll call you and we’ll set up a time.”

“Cool.”

I watched Declan sprint down the hall towards the gym. “You will call him, won’t you?” I said.

“You know me – can’t stand to lose, and this time the evening will be on our dime.”

“The last time wasn’t?”

“Nope. The last time was strictly business. It was Declan’s sixteenth birthday and his father, whom you have no doubt deduced is Leland Hunter, decided his son needed a man-to-man talk.”

“Doesn’t a father usually do that himself?”

“It wasn’t that kind of talk. Leland thought Declan needed a clearer understanding of the Youth Criminal Justice Act. So we shot some pool. I told Declan that while Section 3 says the Act is to be liberally construed, it doesn’t mean sixteen-year-olds get a free pass, and I sent his father the bill. Hell of a note for a kid’s birthday, eh?”

“It is a hell of a note,” I agreed. “So did Declan need reminding?”

“He did,” Zack said. “Jo, you know the drill about confidentiality. That’s all I can say about that.”

Every effort had been made to transform the gym for the carol service. The shining wooden floor on which so many heart-stopping basketball championships had been played was safe under protective floor covers; giant sparkly snow-flakes were suspended from the rafters by lengths of fishing line that would, in theory, cease to be discernible when the lights were extinguished; artificial trees twinkled in every available space, and silvery garlands were looped and duct-taped along the sides of the bleachers.

My husband took in the decor. “You can’t say they didn’t try,” he said, and began wheeling towards what quickly became the last spot in the room to be occupied.