Fat Girl (15 page)

I can’t even begin to fathom living this way. And I wonder if Mick would say selling out his dreams for fame and fortune was worth the loss of privacy and freedom.

“Which one is yours?” he asks.

I indicate the silver Acura and dig the remote from my purse. While I click open the locks, Mick pulls Dwayde into a hug. “You know I love you, right?”

The preteen hunches his shoulders, likely embarrassed by Mick’s affectionate display in front of me and the bulky men watching us. “Yeah, sure.”

“But even so.” His tone sounds teasing as they draw apart. “That’s not going to stop me from taking you down.”

“In your dreams, Uncle Mick.”

Mick goes in for a tussle that has Dwayde laughing again…and my heart thawing. Angry with myself for letting Mick get to me, I wrench open the driver’s side door.

“Dee?” he calls out.

The breeze steals a couple of strands from my ponytail and blows them across my face as I reluctantly look back over my shoulder. Although his eyes are shielded, I can feel them touching me here, caressing me there.

“I’ll see you later.”

His dark promise feathers tiny tingles over my skin and radiates heat from the juncture of my thighs. I swallow down the unwanted desire. But through his mirrored lenses my conflicted reflection is tossed back at me. Afraid my voice—like my body—will betray me, without responding, I turn away before Mick sees too much.

Before he realizes just how much he still affects me.

CHARLES FRANKLIN ISN’T WHAT I’M expecting. Despite his wealth and power, he has a casual air and a comfortable, working man’s appearance. His neatly trimmed Afro is graying at the temples. He’s casually attired, wearing jeans and a denim shirt that bears the family business logo: FF embroidered in the center of a horseshoe.

Beside him stands his wife. Joan Franklin is a pale platinum blonde, and she looks a decade older than her fifty-six years. The spider lines etched around her mouth and greenish-blue eyes tell of grief. Beneath the teal silk tunic and black wide-leg pants, she’s skinny, bordering on skeletal.

“Hello, son.” Charles speaks first. His cultured voice carries a touch of Southern drawl. “We’ve waited a long time for this day.”

The greeting brings a dense silence. I watch as Dwayde flicks an unreceptive gaze over his grandfather and then his grandmother.

Joan Franklin stares at Dwayde. “You have those big Franklin eyes,” she says in a ghost of a voice. “That’s how we recognized you after all these years. From your eyes.” She extends her arms to embrace him, but Dwayde jumps back, as if she were a striking snake. Sorrow, deep and agonized, slashes across her angular face.

Charles immediately tries to cover up the awkward moment. “Ms. Chase, it’s good to meet you.” He pumps my hand. “Won’t you please come in?”

When Dwayde doesn’t budge, I usher him into the front parlor and over to a black velvet settee, where we sit opposite two white chairs and a fireplace.

“Joan, darling?”

As if her husband had pushed an invisible button, Mrs. Franklin comes out of her trancelike state and turns on the Southern hospitality. She sweeps her arm to the sideboard, where cold and hot drinks have been set up. “May I get ya’ll anything?”

“Nothing for me, thank you,” I say, not quite over my encounter with Mick.

Joan Franklin indicates a silver urn. “It’s hot chocolate, Dwayde. Your favorite. I even brought marshmallows. You used to wait until they got all soft and gooey before you’d scoop them out with a spoon.”

Dwayde lowers his eyes from her hopeful expression and the lift in her voice collapses. “Well, I suppose you’re too big for that now.” She begins to rearrange the soda pop cans and juice bottles into a straight line.

“Joan, stop fussing,” Charles says, as if scolding a fidgety child.

Her nervous hands drop to her sides, but she seems at a loss for what to do with them.

Charles takes a seat on one of the white chairs. “It’s an emotional day for us, Ms. Chase. I trust you’ll consider that.”

I gather his meaning. Thomas Jackson agreed to my presence only if the visit was on a confidential, without-prejudice basis—meaning no part of what happens here today can be disclosed or used as evidence against his clients. Yet Charles knows first impressions will still be formed.

“It’s emotional for everyone,” I remind him, directing his attention to his grandson sitting beside me, eyes downcast and nonresponsive.

Charles nods. “I’d like to give you something, son. Joan, darling, would you please?”

She disappears into the next room and returns promptly with a rectangular box. When Dwayde makes no effort to take it from her, she just stands there.

“Joan, open it for him.”

“Oh, goodness. Where’s my head?” she says, flustered. Then, removing the lid, she places the bottom half onto Dwayde’s lap. Nestled in blue tissue paper is the same shirt his grandfather’s wearing.

“It’s your legacy, son.” Charles beams proudly. “Franklin Farms has been around since my granddaddy. He was one of the few black horse breeders at the time. They tried to run him off his own land—take away what belonged to him—but Davis Franklin was no quitter. He built that farm in spite of all the odds, and today we have the finest thoroughbreds in Kentucky. Ha. Dasher’s a Derby champion now. He stands sixteen hands, about yea high.” He stretches his arm high above his head. “And runs like the wind. Name suits him, doesn’t it Joan?”

“Surely does. You named him, Dwayde,” Joan says wistfully, perching on the edge of the chair adjacent to her husband. “Whenever your grandfather would take you down to the stables, you’d get so excited your eyes would light up like a Christmas tree.” She smiles then and I can see back through the years to how lovely she had once been. “Do you remember that?”

Dwayde doesn’t answer. But glancing over at him, I notice something spark behind his guarded eyes.

“You were just learning how to ride when Joyce took you...” The words trail off and Mrs. Franklin sniffs back the tears. “I’m sorry.”

Charles pats her hand in an indulgent manner. “It’s all right, Joan.”

I recognize their effort to connect with Dwayde. Unfortunately, they’re saying and doing all the wrong things. In an attempt to divert the couple away from any more trips down memory lane, I steer them toward one of their grandson’s interests. “Dwayde and his team are gearing up for a big basketball game in a couple of weeks.”

Charles crosses one booted foot over his knee and eagerly leans forward. “That’s right. We heard you had practice this morning. What position do you play, son?”

I nudge Dwayde’s arm. “Shooting guard,” he mumbles to the Persian rug.

“You’re the score maker, then?” Charles says encouragingly.

Dwayde shrugs, which seems to be his standard response whenever he’s disinclined to talk.

“I used to play a little in my youth. Not sure how I’d fare these days.” Charles chuckles and rubs his slight paunch. “But I’d be willing to give it a whirl.” His lone smile fades. “I reckon this is difficult for you, son.”

“Then why are you doing it?” Dwayde demands.

“We searched everywhere for you. One day I’ll show you the files from the private investigators,” Charles offers. “You were always in our thoughts and prayers. We never stopped believing we would find you and bring you back home.”

“I already have a home.”

“We’re your family, son. You belong with us.”

“You’re nothing to me!” Dwayde leaps up, dumping the shirt off his lap. “I don’t care about your stupid horses, and I don’t care about being a Franklin. In here,” he says and thumps his chest, “I’m a Torres and they’re my only family!”

“Please, Dwayde—” His grandmother pleads, reaching out to him, but he dodges her arms and runs from the suite.

“Dwayde, wait for me,” I call out just before he’s through the door.

“I’ll go after him,” Charles says, rising to his feet.

“It’s better if I do that. You stay with your wife,” I say, referring to the woman weeping into her hands. As I head for the door, Charles Franklin halts my momentum.

“Ms. Chase?”

I pause with my hand on the knob. “Yes?”

“Perhaps we overreached today with too much, too soon. But we love Dwayde and we will win him back.”

I bristle at his choice of words. “Dwayde is not a Derby prize to be won, Mr. Franklin. He is a twelve-year-old boy who’s been through a lot of turmoil in his young life, and who has finally found stability with the Torreses. You heard him—they’re his family now. So even if you manage to win this case, you will lose. He will resent you for taking him away from them.”

“Perhaps at first,” he concedes. All evidence of his Southern charm is erased and in its place, he exudes the dominant self-assurance that it must take to rise above the obstacles of being a black man in a predominantly white industry and run a multimillion-dollar business. “But make no mistake, Ms. Chase, when Dwayde is reminded of all we can give him, he will settle in where he rightfully belongs.”

“You’re fooling yourself, Mr. Franklin.” I want to say that the life they provided didn’t stop their daughter from turning to drugs or rejecting them, but I don’t. Not until I find out more. “If you truly love Dwayde and want what’s best for him, then I urge you to drop the custody case and be a part of his new life. Love him enough to let that be enough for you.”

I leave Charles Franklin to digest what I’ve said, holding little faith that it will change his mind, and go in search of my client.

Dwayde’s not out in the hall. I try the stairwell. “Dwayde?” I shout, but only my echo returns to me. I rush down six flights, calling his name. Worried that I’m wasting precious time, I yank open the heavy metal door and take the elevator down the remaining floors, my stomach dropping with the descent.

I check my phone on the off chance that he left a message. But there’s nothing. I try his cell number and when it goes straight to voice mail, I text him:
Where r u?

When the elevator doors slide open, I step out into the posh marble lobby. I look past the sculpted lion heads mounted on pillars to the scant number of customers milling around. Dwayde’s not among them. I hope against hope as I make my way outside the entrance that he’s waiting there. But he’s not. And another glance at my phone confirms he still hasn’t responded to my text.

I ask the concierge if he’s seen anyone matching Dwayde’s description leave. He confirms my client left about five minutes ago, but didn’t notice which way Dwayde was headed. I hurry out onto East Walton. Gold Coast is located close to the Magnificent Mile, where prime shopping is a block away, so the street is busy. I crane my neck, looking up one side and then the other. Exhaust fumes from the passing vehicles fill my lungs and a tight sensation squeezes my throat.

I don’t see him anywhere.