Fireside (14 page)

The lines of worry reappeared in his brow. He regarded the computer screen, his expression drawn and miserable. “I just need to see my mom. I can’t wait any longer.”

Bo wanted to hug him or something, he felt so sorry for the kid. He didn’t want to cross a boundary with AJ, though. Damn, he hated this. Remembering the way Sophie had touched AJ earlier, Bo reached out and patted the boy on the shoulder. “It’s not going to be forever, but all this legal stuff is going to take some time.”

AJ pulled away. “How much time?”

Bo traded a look with Sophie. “No one can say for sure,” he said.

AJ glared at him with suspicion. “Why can’t I just go to wherever they sent my mom? To the detention center and then to Mexico or whatever?”

“You’re an American citizen, and sending you there is just as complicated as bringing her back,” Bo said, receiving a nod of encouragement from Sophie. “Besides, that’s not what your mom wants for you.” Yolanda had been adamant during her urgent phone call. There was nothing but danger and uncertainty for him there, she’d said.

“I’m a kid,” AJ reminded him needlessly. “Doesn’t that matter? That I’m a kid, and I’m supposed to be with my mother?”

“Actually, that was the law until recently,” Sophie said. “The Immigration Reform Act wiped out that option. Used to be, if undocumented parents could prove their deportation would put a U.S. citizen—in this case, you, AJ—at risk, the judge could let them stay. But the act made deportation automatic.” She showed them a document she’d printed out. “In the mid-’90s, there were around forty thousand deportations a year. Nowadays, there are around three hundred thousand a year. The INS and ICE will tell you they’re getting rid of a criminal element, but that’s not always the case. Plenty of working people—even war veterans—get swept up in raids.”

“Not helping,” Bo said, watching AJ.

“No, I want to know how things stand,” the boy said. “Even if it’s bad news.”

“It’s not necessarily bad,” she said. “It simply means we have to find another strategy. In the meantime, your home will be here in Avalon, with Bo.”

Bo tried not to feel insulted by the expression on the boy’s face. “All right, so I’m not father of the year,” he conceded. “But I’m ready to step up to the plate.” When he was pitching, he could read the batter. He could guess what a guy at the plate was thinking—expecting—based on his stance and posture, where his eyes went and what he did with his jaw. Bo wondered if the technique would work on this boy. If so, the kid’s demeanor was telegraphing fear and rage, not a good combination. A batter who faced a pitcher in this state was fully expecting to be capped by a wild fastball.

Bo reached for AJ’s shoulder again, trying for another reassuring squeeze, but this time, the boy was prepared, and he jerked out of range. “I’m going to go see if there are any of those pastries left,” he said, and headed for the kitchen.

Bo turned to Sophie. “What can I say? The kid loves me.”

She smiled, but the suspicious sheen in her eyes told the story. “He’s terrified, and who can blame him? You’ll both get through this, I know you will.”

“So be realistic, Soph. What are Yolanda’s chances?”

“It’s like I told AJ. Anything can happen. The most important thing now is to research every aspect of the case. We need to learn everything we can about Yolanda, even things she might not want us to know.”

“What’re you asking?” He felt a twinge of discomfiture.

“I’m not certain. I suspect this is going to take longer than you or AJ want it to.” She searched his face. “I’m just trying to be realistic, Bo. Sometimes things don’t happen at the most convenient time.”

“I can’t do this, Soph. I’m completely unprepared. I live over a
bar,
for chrissake.”

“Is he safe there?”

“Sure, but the place is tiny. Noisy, too, and probably not the ideal place for a kid to be living. If this is going to go on for any length of time, I’ll have to find a new place.”

“Then I suggest you do that.”

He nodded and dug out his mobile phone. “I need to make a phone call.”

“I need a kolache before they’re all gone,” Sophie said, heading for the kitchen.

Dino Carminucci answered on the first ring. “Yeah, what’s up?”

Bo had made Dino aware of the situation the day before. Dino had been incredulous, but then he’d offered the usual innocuous, “If there’s anything I can do…”

There might be. Bo brought him up to date on the situation. “Sophie—she’s a lawyer—says this is going to take a while,” Bo said.

“He all right?”

“No,” Bo said. “How can a kid be all right with his mother getting caught in a dragnet while he’s at recess? I mean, I’ve had bad weekends before, but this—” He stopped, took a deep breath. “We’re going to have to find another place to live for a while. Above the Hilltop’s fine for me, but it’s no place for a kid.”

“Good thing you called me, then,” Dino said. “I got the perfect place. You come see me after the lawyer. We’ll work this out.”

“This is the ‘better arrangement’ you were talking about?” AJ stared at the candy-colored mansion, his eyes narrowed with skepticism.

“Dino swears it’s a great place to stay. But you know what I heard? I heard it belongs to some crazy widow woman.”

AJ’s eyes brightened. “Really?”

“Uh-huh. A bunch of my teammates helped her fix the place up.” Bo looked around the neighborhood, with its swath of tall, straight trees down the center strip. On either side of the street were stately homes a hundred years old, some even older, centered on broad lawns. Built by wealthy families seeking refuge from the summer heat of the city, most of the houses had been lovingly kept and restored by the new elite of Avalon—prosperous young professionals, who’d made their fortunes in the tech sector or in law or finance. Others had been converted into office and studio space for doctors, contractors and local businesses, but the look of the homes had been carefully preserved.

He glanced over at AJ to see the boy’s reaction to the storybook-pretty scenery. The snow gave the whole area a quiet, horse-and-buggy atmosphere, despite the absence of horses or buggies. AJ kept his face turned away, his arms folded protectively in front of him. Already Bo recognized the stance—full emotional body armor.

Fairfield House stuck out like a whore in church, sporting a garish paint job. All its fine architectural details had been painted in varying shades of pink. There was a sign on the wrought iron fence in the front. Fairfield House, Circa 1886. Rooms to Let.

“The landlady has a two-room suite available on the top floor,” Bo told AJ. “She provides a serve-yourself breakfast each morning and dinner each night, which is more than I get, living over the bar.” Even so, the pink-wedding-cake style of this place gave him the willies. Playing it cool, he got out of the car and motioned for AJ to do the same. He opened the gate, cringing at the rusty jangle of the hinges. Their footsteps crunched on the salted walkway that led to the painted steps of the porch. The porch furniture was fussy-looking white wicker, currently clad in zipped-on plastic covers. Several skeletal plants hung sadly from the eaves, forgotten remnants from warmer weather.

Bo squared his shoulders and rang the bell. At the last second, he snatched off his hat, recalling that Dino had described the owner as proper. AJ stood back, hovering in Bo’s shadow. The kid was probably mentally calculating the time it would take to sprint back to the car. Impatient, Bo pushed the button again.

The bell was more like a gong. The wavy leaded glass in the front door was dressed in a froth of lace curtains. Through it, he could see someone approaching. Already Bo felt completely out of his element. Mrs…He dug the card Dino had given him out of his pants pocket to check the landlady’s name. Mrs. Penelope van Dorn.

Van Dorn. Now, there was a classy-sounding name. A very prim and proper name. She was probably some kind of schoolmarm.

The door opened abruptly. “Can I help you?”

For a moment, Bo couldn’t speak. Or move, or think, for that matter.

This was no marm.

She was approximately five feet nine inches of glorious sex. Her long, glossy hair fell in waves to the middle of her back; despite her height, she was curvy enough to create a halo of cartoon birds and bees swirling around his head. Jimi Hendrix’s “Foxy Lady” twanged in his ears. As he gaped at the impossibly gorgeous redhead in the doorway, his mouth went dry, and his tongue turned to acrid dust. And when he forced his brain back into gear, only one thought pounded at him.

He was so screwed.

Nine

O
h, this could not be happening, thought Kim, stepping aside to let her visitors in. Her mother couldn’t have known what a curveball this was. Mom had told her to expect two new guests at Fairfield House. Kim had never dreamed it would be this character. What were the chances? she wondered. Maybe she
had
angered the universe.

One of the most cursed things about being a fair-skinned redhead was the blushing factor. It was impossible to hide a blush, and she tended to blush whenever she was flustered, upset, embarrassed, intrigued or all of the above.

At the moment, she was all of the above, and her face flared a heated shade of pink to prove it. Maybe he wouldn’t remember. Of course he wouldn’t, she reassured herself. Their paths had crossed at the airport, he’d been a jerk to her and that was that. Guys tended not to remember being jerks, so she was probably safe.

“Ma’am,” he said. “I remember you from the airport. Reckon it’s time we were properly introduced.”

An awkward beat of silence stumbled past. So he did remember after all. Which meant either he didn’t think he’d been a jerk, or he didn’t
care
that he’d been one. She narrowed her eyes at him, not about to be taken in by that faux aw-shucks charm. “I remember you, too, Mr.…” She checked the appointment card her mother had handed her, asking her to greet the new arrivals. “Crutcher,” she read. “And son.”

The boy looked from the tall guy to Kimberly. He carried a backpack slung on his shoulder. He had beautiful thickly lashed eyes and an unsmiling mouth that gave him a very solemn, very unkidlike air.

She wondered exactly how old he was, who his mother was.
Where
his mother was.

“I’m AJ,” he said in a gravelly, curiously endearing voice. “AJ Martinez.”

“Hello, AJ,” she said, smiling. It wasn’t the boy’s fault his father was a tool. “I’m Kimberly van Dorn. Call me Kim.”

He looked around, wide-eyed. He was small and uncertain, quite unlike his father.

“Feel free to check things out,” Kim said, taking his jacket. “The kitchen’s in there, and there’s a library and TV room. The big round room with all the windows is called the rotunda.”

He followed Bo’s lead, parking his boots in the boot tray by the door. Then, with his hands in his pockets, AJ wandered through the downstairs, as silent and careful as a museum visitor. That, at least, was a good sign. Her mother had been concerned that a child in the house might be too noisy and rambunctious for the other guests. “So, Mr. Crutcher,” Kim said, “is he always this quiet?”

“Yeah, so far, he’s been real quiet.”

So far, she thought. So far as what?

“My name’s Bo,” the guy said.

She took a moment to study him. He was handsome in such an unconventional way—lanky and long-haired, with soulful eyes and a gentle smile. At the same time, there was something hurting and mysterious about this guy.

“Bo,” she said, trying out the name. “Like Beau Bridges? Or Beau as in Beauford, or Beauregard?”

“Ma’am, I can barely pronounce Beauregard.”

“Then how about Bo, as in…Peep?”

His grin widened. Yet at the same time, it was guarded, revealing little. “That’s a good one. My mama wadn’t a real good speller.”

“And what about you? Are you a good speller?”

“I’m good at a lot of things.”

“Like being polite in the airport?”

“That’s not one of the things. Now, making friends with a pretty woman—I’m usually good at that.”

“Wonderful. My own personal airport Lothario is moving in.”

“Who?”

“Lothario. A literary reference.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment.” He grinned.

She liked his smile, and she hated that she liked his smile. “You seem easily amused.”

“Just trying to figure out how to explain to a girl like you—”

“A girl like me. And what kind of girl would that be?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. The kind who doesn’t know many guys named after country songs.”

“You’re named after a country song?”

“‘Mr. Bojangles.’ My full name’s Bojangles T. Crutcher.” He looked apologetic. “Used to embarrass the heck out of me when I was a kid. It’s an okay song, but carrying that name around has been a burden all my life. Mama had a thing for Jerry Jeff Walker. She loved his songs so much that she had his initials, JJW, tattooed in the small of her back.”

Kim kept her face composed. “She must be quite a fan.”

“She changed her own name, Gertrude, to ‘Trudy,’ which is also a song of his. I got a brother named Stoney, too.”

“Another Jerry Jeff Walker number,” she guessed.

“That’s right. It’s from a song about a wine-drinking mystic. I’ll play it for you sometime.”

“So are you a musician?”

“I play bass, and sometimes pedal slide guitar. Strictly an amateur, though,” he said. “And don’t worry, I’ll practice with the headphones on, I swear.”

“And where do you work?” she asked. A fair question. She was new at this boardinghouse business, but surely she should ask it.

“I’ve been pitching for the Hornets here in Avalon. Tending bar at the Hilltop Tavern in the off-season when I can’t afford to go south for the winter. Come spring, I’ll be training with the Yankees, trying to get a spot on their top-forty roster.”

“The Yankees,” she repeated, feeling a sinking sensation in her stomach. “As in the New York Yankees?”

“Yes, ma’am. It’s been a long time coming. I was at November tryouts down in Florida, same as I am every year. And I figure every year, I’m going to get the same song and dance—no room on the roster. This year, there was an opening on their pitching staff.”