More Than Friends (38 page)

Of course, there were still appeals Sam could file, but in his heart he knew they wouldn't go far. His client had received a fair trial. He wished he could receive the same at Maxwell, Roper and Dine, but no matter how many complaints he lodged at partners meetings, he continued to get the short end of the stick. J.S. had involved Vicki Cornell deeply enough in his dealings so that while she might be back working with Sam, at any given time she was subject to a summons from the senior partner. Tom Mackie was catching on to what Sam wanted done--but slowly, which put greater pressure on Sam to do the work himself. He did. And was tired and annoyed and increasingly concerned for the future.

He had barely tossed his briefcase onto the desk when Joy buzzed him.

"Adam Holt is on the line," she said. "Would you like me to take a message?"

Adam Holt was one of Boston's leading legal headhunters. He had called Sam occasionally over the years, but his calls had increased of late. Sam never initiated the contact. He never said he wanted to leave Maxwell, Roper and Dine. But he found himself listening to what Adam had to say.

They had talked the week before. Sam might have let Joy put him off, had he not been feeling so discouraged.

"I'll take it," he said, and pressed into the call. "How are you, Adam?"

"Fine, Sam. Actually, not so fine. I'm getting more calls."

"From?"

"Malek, Hill and French. They want you, Sam. They're desperately in need of a litigator. They'll pay top dollar."

Sam closed his eyes and rubbed the tired muscles at the back of his neck. "It's not the money, Adam." He sighed. "I thought I explained that before. Malek, Hill is too big. I'd die in a firm that size."

"You'd have your own department, your own little corner of the firm." But Sam knew how big firms worked. If one insulated oneself, one became isolated and eventually ostracized. He would be jumping from the frying pan into the fire. Besides, he knew many of the partners at Malek, Hill and French. They were driven in different ways from J.S." but driven nonetheless. He wasn't sure he would trust them far. "It's not for me, Adam. Really."

"Then Waterston and Bailey. Have you given that one more thought?"

"I haven't given any one more thought. I'm not necessarily going anywhere."

"But your practice is limited at Maxwell, Roper and Dine. Since Dunn v. Hanover especially, you've been sending clients to other firms because you don't have a big enough litigation department there. That's a shame, Sam."

But Sam didn't miss a "big enough litigation department." He liked his practice just as it was. What he didn't like was the ill will that seemed to be lining the halls of the firm and closing in to choke the partnership.

His eye caught on a large manila envelope that lay on his desk amid the morning's mail. It was from Joe Amarino, an old law school friend currently serving as the governor's counsel. They had talked on the phone the morning before.

After finishing up with Adam, he opened the

envelope and skimmed the cover letter. It was brief. "This is the application I mentioned," Joe wrote. "I do wish you'd consider filling it out, Sam. Not only do I think you'd make a great judge, but I believe you have a solid shot at getting the appointment. I haven't discussed it with the governor yet, but my gut instinct is that he'd be thrilled to be able to name someone young and idealistic to the bench. Don't wait too long. He wants to fill the opening as soon as possible."

Sam glanced at the application, tossed it onto the desk, glanced at it there, then looked away. He didn't know what to do. On the one hand, he wanted to stay where he was, at least until things in Constance straightened out some. On the other hand, he was starting to feel like an outcast at Maxwell, Roper and Dine.

Talk to Annie, he told himself, but he hesitated. He didn't want to hit her with this, particularly now that their relationship had taken a turn for the better. In her eyes he wanted to look wonderful and strong and totally in control of his life.

Grady could see the change in Teke now that Michael was home. While the boy spent time each morning and afternoon with the physical therapist and the tutor, she had the leisure to go to the drugstore, the supermarket, the library. She no longer needed lunch from McDonald's or coffee in Styrofoam cups. She cooked and cleaned and kept fresh flowers in small vases all over the house. Grady was challenged to find ways to help her.

For that reason he was actually pleased to arrive at her house for a midday visit with Michael and find her in a dither. "You're a lifesauer, Grady. The high school just called about Leigh. She's flunking

two courses. I have to go talk with the guidance counselor. Would you stay with Michael while I run over, just for a few minutes?"

"Take your time," Grady said. "I don't punch a time clock." She threw on a coat, grabbed her keys, and started for the door, only to return to him and wrap an arm around his neck. "Thank you," she whispered, then was gone.

Holding in his nostrils the faintly flowery scent that was the present-day Teke, Grady went off in search of Michael. He found him in the den that had been turned into a bedroom. He was watching television.

"Hey, Grady."

"Hey, Mike." He held up a hand; Michael slapped him five. "You're watching soaps?"

"Sure. They're just like life around here, one crisis after another. Now it's Leigh. She'd rather study Jon than French or English or math. If Mom butts in, it'll get worse. Leigh hasn't been hot on her since she had her affair with Sam."

"She didn't have an affair with Sam," Grady said, but Michael had clicked to another channel and was pointing to the screen.

"See that guy? He was in a car that went over a cliff. He was in a coma for two months. When he woke up he couldn't remember a thing, but at least he could walk. That should've been me."

"You can walk."

"I look like a jerk."

"You won't once you're done with physical therapy." Michael didn't answer. He stared at the screen. After several minutes he clicked to another channel and went on staring.

"Tough morning?" Grady asked.

"I hate therapy. It's the pits. She wouldn't like it if she had to do it. She hates exercising. Give her five years, and she'll look it."

"I think she looks pretty good."

"Just wait. She'll have flabby legs and flabby arms and a flabby chin, and she'll sag," he tacked on as though that were the worst fate of all.

"Ahhhh," Grady said. "It's Dump on Mom Day." Michael glowered at the television. "She bugs me."

"She loves you."

"Oh, yeah? So why am I here?"

"You're here," Grady said, feeling snatches of impatience, "because you ran into the street without looking."

Michael looked at him then. "I wouldn't have done that if she hadn't been doing what she was. She's the grown-up. She's supposed to know better."

"Well, she didn't. So she apologized. She's been suffering through all this right along with you. She was the one who agonized while you spent nine days in never-never-land."

"She's not the one who can't play basketball."

"But she's the one who has to stand by while you can't play, and if you think that isn't just as bad, then you're not as smart as I took you to be. She hurts when you hurt."

Michael returned to the television, mumbling, "Serves her right."

"No. No, it doesn't," Grady said because he felt it was time someone did. "She didn't hurt you intentionally. She doesn't hurt anyone intentionally. Fact is, it's a miracle she doesn't, what with all she learned from her dad. Did she ever tell you about that? Did she ever tell you about the times he threw her across the shack? She was younger than you, but she was cooking for him and picking up after him, and what did she get? She got smacked across the face when he didn't like the food. She got dumped on the floor if she slept too late. And when he was drunk, he didn't need any excuse to knock her around. Did she ever hit you like that?"

Michael was staring at him.

"Did she?" Grady repeated.

"No."

"I didn't think so. She's spent the last twenty years of her life trying to make something better for her children than she had for herself. So you watch what you say about her. If you're lucky, real lucky, you might grow up to be as good a person as she is." He turned his scowl to the window. "Problem with you is you're stuck in here. You're going stale." He turned back. "Did you have lunch?"

"She made me grilled cheese."

"Did you eat it?"

"Some."

"Well, I didn't have anything, and I don't want leftover grilled cheese. I feel like something spicy. Want to go for Mexican?" Michael's face brightened. "Out?"

"I've driven you home from the pool. You sit in a car just fine."

"I haven't eaten out since the accident."

"I don't see any problem with going to a restaurant. You can eat a sandwich just like you can sit in a car, just fine. Unless you're afraid someone's going to call you a jerk because you have leg braces and crutches." Grady considered that. "Maybe you should be afraid. Anyone who does that will have to answer to me. Fact is, I've murdered a man. Now, maybe you don't want to be seen in the company of a murderer--"

But Michael was already reaching for his braces. Grady helped strap them on. He helped cover them

with a pair of sweatpants, then waited patiently while Michael worked his way into a sweatshirt and pulled on Grady's old hat back side to. A short time later, having left a large, impossible-to-miss note for Teke on the kitchen table, they were in the pickup and heading for town. Grady could feel the little looks Michael shot at him every so often, but it wasn't until they were sitting at Taco Joe's with enough food for four on their trays that the boy said, "You're different, y'know."

"Is that good or bad?"

"Good. Kind of like Sam. He'd always be the one to come up with some crazy idea if we were bored." His face darkened. "Just as well I can't play ball. I wouldn't want him to coach me anymore."

"Why not? I hear he plays a mean game."

"Yeah. With my mom."

"From what I hear," Grady said, "neither of them enjoyed that game a whole lot. My guess, he'd be relieved to play with you again."

"Well, he won't."

"Are you going to hold what he did against him forever? Even I got time off for good behavior."

"You did not. You said you used to fight to protect yourself."

"For which I am not proud. I don't think Sam's proud of what he did with your mom. They call it feeling remorse, and it goes a long way toward making yourself a better person. It'd be real nice if you gave Sam a chance. I'm always grateful when people do it for me."

"I have an idea. You can coach me. I'll bet you played--"

"Never."

"Never?"

"When would I have played ball?"

"Sam played in college."

"I never went to college. Never went to school more than a handful of days a year, growing up. I didn't have time to play ball. I was too busy helping my dad with the boats at the dock."

"You're not so busy now. What do you do when you're not working on Mrs. Hart's carriage house?" As though a light suddenly went on in his mind, his eyes brightened. "You build canoes. You said that. It just now came back. Do you really?"

Grady nodded.

"How?"

Grady chuckled. The boy could be a cynical forty year-old, a whining three-year-old, or a smart mouthed eighteen-year-old. Grady liked him best as the innocent-eyed and curious thirteen-year-old he was now.

"You shape a little wood to a mold, hammer a little, sand a little, take the thing off the mold, and cover it with canvas. Then you sand more and paint some. Then you put the thing in the water and paddle off to the deep nowhere."

"The deep nowhere?"

"The great outdoors. God's land. Miles of woods and water, where nature reigns and man is a guest."

"Is it scary?" Michael asked in a breath.

"Not when you know what the sounds you hear mean. There's a life in the deep nowhere that most people never see because they scare the natives away with their own noise, but if you don't go there to see the natives, what are you going there to see?"

Michael blinked. "Indians?"

"Birds. Muskrat. Beaver. Moose."

The boy's eyes widened. "Moose?"

"Moose."

"Awesome."

That had to be the ultimate compliment. Grady wondered if Shelley used the word and, if so, whether she spoke it with the same wonder Michael did.

"Will you take me there?" Michael asked.

"Soon as you can walk."

"But if all I have to do is sit in a canoe and paddle --"

"All? Are you kidding? You want to spend time in the deep nowhere, you have to be able to paddle, sure, but you also have to be able to carry the canoe over dry spots, and gather wood, and cook food. You have to be able to sleep on the ground, and squat in the woods, and clean up after yourself so you leave nothing but footprints. It's no picnic."

"Then why do you do it?"

Grady thought of his favorite river, way north in Maine, and felt a sense of release. "Because it's peaceful and free, and because up there I'm just as good as anybody else."

They both went back to eating. After a time Michael said, "It's like that at Sutters Island. None of my friends are there. I don't have to be the best."

"Who says you have to be the best anyway?"

"My dad." Michael gave him a curious look. "Is it because you've done time that you think you're not as good as anybody else?"

"Oh, I think I'm as good. Other people are the problem."

"Because you're an ex-con?"

"And a carpenter. Not as much status in that as in what your dad does."

"But if you do it well, that's all that counts. That's what Mom always says. She says I can be whatever I want in life, as long as I do it with passion. Do you do your work with passion?"

Grady had to smile. He could see Teke saying all that. "Depends on how you define passion."

"Do you do it well?"

"I think so, but who am I to judge. Maybe you can. Want to see what I do?"

Michael's face came alive again. "Now?"