Little Gale Gumbo (41 page)

So it was Dahlia he looked at when he ordered, “Say that again.”

Dahlia lifted her eyes to his. “I was pregnant, Matty. When you left for Florida.”

Reflexively Matthew counted the years, the sum of such a lengthy betrayal making the news even more unbearable. He charged at Dahlia, his rage blinding. “So, what, you decided not to have it? Without even telling me?”

“No!” Josie rushed to Dahlia's side. “We
lost
the baby, Matty.”

“We?” Matthew blinked at them, his features twisting with disgust.
“We?”

“I was going to raise it,” Josie said. “Wayne and I.”

Dahlia stepped toward him, even as he backed away. “Matty, you were starting a whole new life. It wasn't the right thing for us to have a baby, and Josie and Wayne wanted to—”

“Jesus Christ!” He looked between them. “Listen to you two. My best fucking friends, planning to raise my own child without telling me. Standing there and acting like you were doing me some great fucking favor. You're sick, you know that? You're both out of your fucking minds!”

Josie reached for him, tears spilling down her cheeks. “We never meant to hurt you, Matty.”

“Don't touch me,” he said, stumbling backward. He pointed at each of them, his hand shaking. “Don't you come near me.” Then he punched open the kitchen door and marched through the café, bursting out the front with such force that the jukebox record skipped.

Josie fell against the sink, weeping.

“Feel better now?” Dahlia said.

Josie looked up, her eyes swimming. “That's a hateful thing to say.”

Dahlia turned away, knowing it had been the worst thing to say, but it was the shame of what hadn't been said that tore at her in the silence Matthew had left in his wake. Even after his suggestion that she'd terminated the pregnancy, Josie had never considered the possibility that Dahlia had lied about losing the baby. The relief was almost as overwhelming as the shame.

They remained in their corners for a long time, staring at each other's feet, blanketed in their anger and frustration. They might not have moved or spoken for even longer if the phone hadn't rung.

It was Josie who moved to answer it, her face expressionless at first, but soon her puffy eyes widened, alert again.

She hung up.

“That was Jack.” She took a quick breath. “The hospital called the station. Blessed be—they're bringing Ben out of the coma.”

Thirty

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Matthew came into the headmaster's office to find Adam Dennis seated at his desk wearing a heavy expression.

“They're threatening to sue,” Adam announced, handing Matthew a letter from Chace Burrough's parents.

“What?” Matthew took the letter and dropped into the empty seat across from Adam's desk. He scanned it quickly. “Can they do that?”

“What do you think?”

Matthew blew out a long breath. He had always had a good relationship with the headmaster, from the first day he had come in as the guidance counselor at the Windsor School four years earlier.

“You gave the kid condoms, Matt. He's fourteen, for Christ's sake.”

“He's fourteen and having unprotected sex in the dugout, Adam.”

“I know, I know. But this isn't Planned Parenthood. He can buy a box at the drugstore like everyone else.” Adam leaned back in his chair and smoothed his thinning brown hair. “You crossed a line on this one, Matt. I don't know how else to say it.”

The headmaster tugged open his pencil drawer and rummaged around, finally pulling out a business card and handing it across the desk to Matthew.

“Her name's Holly Newcomb. She's an attorney. Claudia and I used her for that bike accident mess last year. She's sharp,” Adam said, then grinned as he added, “And single, last I heard.”

Matthew studied the card, flicking the edge with his thumb.

“Call her,” Adam said. “Call her before the board gets wind of this. Make sure you have a leg to stand on.”

 

Holly Newcomb sailed into the wine bar at four-thirty in a crisp white suit, with long blond hair pinned back in a neat bun, her hand already outstretched even before she'd reached the table Matthew had saved for them. Her speed and beauty flustered him. When he rose and took her hand, the smell of her perfume distracted him. He managed a clumsy shake and sat down, glad there were no glasses or plates in front of him to knock over. Even at thirty-two, confident women still made him nervous.

“Can I get you something?” Matthew asked, handing Holly a wine list. “They have some really nice reds. I usually order a glass of the Pennington merlot—”

“Scotch,” Holly said firmly, snapping open her leather bag and pulling out a pen and notepad. “Chivas. No ice.”

Matthew raised his hand to alert the waitress. The young woman dressed all in black sauntered over, rolling her bright red lips together as she took their order. When she'd gone, Matthew pulled at his polo collar, wishing he'd worn a nicer shirt, maybe even a tie.

“Not used to it yet, are you?”

He looked at Holly. “Excuse me?”

She smiled. “The humidity.”

Jesus, he thought. Was he sweating that badly?

“I should be,” he said. “I've been here four years now.”

“I've been here my whole life,” she said. “Trust me. Give yourself at least ten.” Holly snapped the top off her pen, set it to the blank page in front of her. “Now, you said the parents sent a letter informing you of their intent to sue, but so far there hasn't been any action taken toward you?”

“That's right,” Matthew said. “It's not like I hand out condoms with homework assignments, you know.”

Holly regarded him a moment, grinning slowly. “You have a sense of humor,” she said, taking notes. “Good. You might need it. I've heard of several cases like this where the parents throw a fit and threaten to see the teacher fired, but it rarely goes any farther than a suspension. A slap on the wrist.”

Suspension was more than a slap on the wrist. Matthew had worked too hard to suffer that stain on his record. He leaned forward, his voice low. “I'm good at my job, Ms. Newcomb.”

Holly looked up from her notes. “I'm sure you are,
Mr.
Haskell.” Her blue eyes were bright and warm. “So formal. You sure you're not from the South?”

“Far from it,” he said. “Maine.”

“Maine? I've always wanted to get to Maine. It's supposed to be beautiful.”

“It is.”

“You must miss it.”

He shrugged. “Some days.”

The waitress arrived with their drinks, setting the glasses down on black napkins.

Holly took a sip of her Scotch. Matthew sipped his wine, wishing he'd ordered a beer instead. Her pen lay on the notebook, signaling a break in their business.

“So you're from here, then?” he asked.

“Fort Lauderdale.”

“What brought you to Miami?”

She took another sip. “
Who
, actually.”

“Ahh,” Matthew said, nodding.

She smiled. “You too?”

“Sort of. In my case I came here to escape the who, not follow her.”

Holly studied him, her eyes flashing with interest. “Did it work?”

“I think so.” Matthew felt his hands grow warm. “What about you?”

“It worked out great,” she said. “He dumped me three months after I got here to move in with a cocktail waitress. I got an apartment on the beach all to myself and started law school a month later.”

“And your ex?”

“The waitress kicked him out a few weeks after he left me. He moved back to Lauderdale and got a job at his father's appliance store.” Holly grinned. “Karma's a bitch, isn't she?”

Matthew chuckled. “You sound like a friend of mine.”

“An old friend?”

“You could say that.”

They looked at each other a moment.

Holly took up her glass, chuckling. “I can't believe I just told you all that. We're supposed to be talking about your case. You must think I'm a real quack.”

“I think you're human.”

“God, that's even worse.” She rolled her watch around, wincing at the time. “I'm sorry to run out on you, but I have to make a five-thirty in Coral Gables.” She slipped her notebook back into her bag, and closed it. She rose, holding out her hand. Matthew took it, rising too. “You have my card,” she said. “Call me if there are any developments, okay?”

“What about for this?” Matthew said, gesturing to their table. “How much do I owe you for this?”

Holly waved her hand, slipping on sunglasses. “There's no charge for a consultation. But thank you for the Scotch. And the conversation.”

“It was my pleasure.”

Matthew stayed on his feet, watching Holly push through the door and disappear into the daylight.

 

That night he called Ben.

“You did the right thing,” Ben said. Camille was cutting his father's hair; Matthew could hear the snip of the shears in the background. “Camille thinks they should be giving you a promotion.”

“I sure do, baby!”

Matthew chuckled. “Tell her thanks.” He reached into the fridge for a beer and confessed, “I met someone, Pop.”

“That's great. Who is she?”

“Well . . . I sort of met someone. It's this lawyer I got put in touch with. In case the parents sue me. We had a meeting today. I won't see her again unless they press charges.”

Ben laughed. “Well, then you'd better hope they sue, hadn't you?”

 

Just as Holly had predicted, Chace Burrough's parents never made good on their threat to sue, and Matthew was elated to hear the news when Adam Dennis came to report it in Matthew's office two weeks later.

“But just in case,” said Adam, turning to go, “I wouldn't keep a condom collection in your drawer for future offerings.”

Matthew made a mock salute. “Thanks, Adam. Really.”

Halfway out the door, the headmaster stopped, turned back. “You ever meet with that lawyer?”

Matthew nodded, and his relief gave way briefly to disappointment. Now he didn't have an excuse to see Holly Newcomb again.

Unless, of course, he wanted to share his good news. Matthew told himself it would be the courteous thing to do. Maybe along with some flowers. He knew just the shop to deliver.

 

When Holly called several days later, Matthew had just come in from a run on the beach.

“They're lovely,” she said. “Irises are my favorite, actually.”

“You don't have to say that.” Matthew peeled off his T-shirt and tossed it on the couch

“I'm not just saying it. I'm a lawyer. I can't lie. I'd be disbarred.”

Matthew laughed. “I'll have to remember that.”

The line went quiet for a moment.

“Would you like to come over for dinner sometime?” she asked.

Matthew felt a fresh stream of perspiration travel down his spine.

“Sure,” he said. “When?”

“How about tonight?”

 

They never got around to dinner. Instead they spent an hour on Holly's deck with a bottle of red wine and a round of smoked Gouda. When the bottle was finished, they found a box of Girl Scout cookies. When the cookies were gone, they put their shoes back on and walked the thirty blocks to Matthew's apartment, where they raided his kitchen, managing to find a pair of frozen pork chops and a bag of yellow rice. They ate on paper plates on his fire escape, catching the upbeat strains of a reggae record out of Matthew's next-door neighbor's open window.

It was Matthew's idea to suggest Holly stay the night, his idea that she take his bed and he take the couch. But it was Holly's idea to make love, which they did, nervously and with several fits of bloated laughter, until they fell asleep, half-dressed, on top of his sheets.

When the phone rang at one, Matthew thought he was dreaming. Until Dahlia's voice drifted out of the machine in the hallway, so strangely somber it took him a moment to place it.

Momma and Ben didn't want to worry him, but Dahlia thought he should know.

Camille had been to the doctor and they'd found something.

Thirty-one