Pamela Hearon - Out of the Depths

“Amen, brother.” Chance raised his soda in a toast. “I’ve seen enough frivolous lawsuits to know ignorance is a certainty.”

“You got that right. See you tomorrow?”

“I’ll be there. Night, Sheriff.”

“Good evenin’, Chance.”

Chance hung up and looked at all the piles of paper covering his desk. The call had broken his concentration. Getting back into the wearisome Davenport case seemed unlikely now, even if his dad did expect the finished briefs by Sunday. He’d have to wait until he could see it with fresh eyes. Tomorrow.

He glanced at his watch, noting it was after nine. Friday night and still in the office. “Brennan, you need a life.” He wadded up the sandwich wrapper and pitched it into the trash.

His mom had tried to warn him what it would be like, tried to make him see joining his dad’s practice wasn’t a good idea. Bill Brennan had never accepted anything but perfection from his sons. Perfection had come easily for Hank but seemed always just out of Chance’s reach.

“‘Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?’” Chance read the plaque on his office wall, a gift from his dad.

Those kids at the cave needed such a parent. One who cared enough to kick their asses if they acted stupid.

Then again, those kids at the cave would probably kick back. Kids were different now. He smiled at the memory of Old Man Turner showing up with a gun and running Kyndal and him off of his property. One look down the barrel of that shotgun made sure they wouldn’t be back.

If Old Man Turner were still alive, Chance would hire him as a guard for a month or two. But he doubted that tactic would work on these kids. They weren’t nearly as naive as he and Kyndal had been.

Kyndal Rawlings. At one time, he’d thought the two of them would be together forever. Now that was naive. Their separate ways had turned out to be in entirely different directions. She hadn’t gone to law school the way she’d always planned…had become a photographer, of all things—working for some damn liberal environmentalist website. Of course, she did stage that sit-in against hot dogs in the high school cafeteria claiming they were made from throwaway parts, so maybe the clues were there all along, and he was just too smitten to see them.

He hadn’t thought about Kyndal in a while. In fact, he’d pretty much refused to let himself think about her since they’d split. When he did, guilt still gnawed at him. Breaking up with her had been almost as hard as losing Hank, but it was the right thing to do, damn it. That was obvious now. He would never have made it through college and law school if they’d stayed joined at the hip. Every class together was unhealthy, but Kyn couldn’t loosen her hold. She demanded his total attention.

Just as his career did now.

If he wanted a judgeship by the time he turned forty, there was little room for dating.

But someday, the right woman would come along. Someone goal-oriented. Career focused. Someone with an impeccable reputation and a drive to match his own. A few connections to sweeten the deal wouldn’t be a bad thing, either.

He’d straightened the scattered papers and had switched off the desk lamp when the intercom buzzed again, startling him, ratcheting up his wish to sledgehammer the damn thing.

“Chance?” His dad’s voice boomed over the line.

“Yeah, Dad?”

“Good. I was afraid you’d left already. Your mom just called. The travel agent got us on an earlier flight Sunday morning. Can you get those briefs to me tomorrow?”

“Okay. I’ll finish them up tonight.” As if he had a choice. His parents’ first trip away together in years. Only three days, but it was a start. He switched the lamp back on.

“And I want you to take this new Farley case. Look over it. We’ll discuss it first thing Wednesday morning.”

“I’ll be ready.”

“Seeing Denise this weekend?”

“No.”

“You’re a fool. Someone’s going to snatch her up.”

“If I’m lucky.” Denise Macomb was the flavor-of-the-month his dad was trying to cram down his throat. She met all the criteria, but her voice sounded like a violin badly played.

“Get those briefs done,” his dad said by way of parting.

Chance watched the intercom light switch off. “You have a life, Brennan.” He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “And this is it.”

* * *

SNAP…SNAP…SNAP. Three good shots before the tiny bottom lip started to pucker again.

Thank you, Lord, for digital cameras and comfortable shoes. Kyndal’s third straight day of twelve-hour shifts was almost over.

“I think we got her.” She smiled at the young couple hovering nearby, only now truly noticing them.

The young man’s shirt had Ted’s Car Wash stamped on the pocket. His zit-covered face suggested he couldn’t be much more than seventeen. A chunky high school ring hung from a chain around the girl’s neck.

Kyndal sized them up, knew immediately they were here for the free 8x10 and wouldn’t be able to afford any of the great package deals Shop-a-Lot offered at a bargain price of $29.95.

She watched the way they handled the infant so carefully, saw the pride shining in the boy’s eyes as he kissed his baby girl and his baby girlfriend on their foreheads. How long before he’d be out of this picture?

“Come over here and you can see the shots.” Kyndal swiveled the freestanding monitor to face the couple.

The best part of this job was getting to see the parents’ eyes when the portraits clicked on. Without exception, they all softened instantly. If only she could capture that moment on film, those images would be priceless.

The shots were better than good, and Kyndal watched the parental expressions turn fretful when they realized they had to choose.

“They’re all so precious. Can we get all three, Danny?” The young mother’s voice held little hope, but the blue of her eyes shone intensely like the stone in the ring around her neck.

The young man’s head dropped, and he lowered his voice. “We can’t afford ’em, Lisa. We can only get the free one.”

Kyndal remembered the glow on her own mom’s face when friends admired the free 8x10 of Kyndal at twenty-eight months. She would go on and on about Kyndal’s smile looking “just like her daddy’s.”

Mason Rawlings had walked out of their lives a month after that portrait was taken, but her mom still talked about his smile to this day.

I might have his smile, but that’s the only thing I ever got from him. She couldn’t help wondering if he had any regrets.

Life wasn’t easy for teen parents—nor was growing up as the child of one as Kyndal knew firsthand.

She sighed in resignation, aware she was about to give these kids a break and forfeit her last three hours’ commission in the process. “Which one would you like? I’ll print it for you.” She allowed her mouth to droop into a pout of feigned preoccupation, tried to sound bored, glanced at her watch to let them know it was closing time.

The girl chewed her bottom lip until the young man prodded her with his elbow. “Number three.”

Kyndal pressed a key and pretended to be busy as she fumbled with some order forms. She turned back as the paper slipped from the printer. “Oh, shoot! I’ve printed billfolds of the wrong one. Here, you can have these.” She held the prints out to the young man, but he hesitated. “No charge,” she assured him. “I’ll just have to throw them away.”

“Now.” She hit another key, queuing up number two to print as two 4x6’s. “You said number two, right?”

“No, we said number three.” The young man gave her a look that could have indicated she’d sprouted an extra nose.