Sweet Justice (15 page)

Mallory's eyes crinkled at the corners, and real humor lightened her expression. “Sure, since I don't have a collie for you to brush. Did you really—”

“It was worse than they said. That poor mutt looked as though he'd been caught in a shredder by the time I got finished with him. Even as a kid, I knew I was in hot water.”

“But you couldn't admit it?”

“Hey,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “I'm a guy—and a Monroe at that. It takes us a while to admit mistakes. It's in our DNA.”

Pain and resignation flickered in those shiny green eyes at his confession. He realized that he could try to set things right, figured he might even head off that lawsuit, if he just had permission to apologize about his decision to leave Katelyn.

But he had followed the rules in that confusing, smoke-filled house, and the rules—as Dad had always hammered into his head—were there for a reason. They'd kept him safe. They'd kept Eric alive.

Maybe it had been a bad outcome, but what Mallory couldn't understand—didn't seem to want to understand—was that it could have been so much worse.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

M
ALLORY
PUSHED
ASIDE
a paisley muumuu that Katelyn wouldn't be caught dead in, a striped seersucker jacket...ditto. Hangers scraped along the metal bar, rattling against each other as she flipped through her choices. Hmm... This thrift-store shopping trip wasn't going well.

The next item had some hope. It was an aqua colored dress big enough that it could have swallowed Joker, if the horse had stood still for it. The fabric was good, though, soft cotton that hadn't faded, and the print had a retro vibe with its white bubble circles and a contrasting banded hem. It still felt contemporary enough, and instinctively, Mallory knew that Katelyn would love it. She held it up to her for sizing. Yes...it would do.

“Mallory! What the heck—”

She looked up to see Andrew gaping in astonishment at her and gripping a stack of handouts. Mortification at being caught in a thrift store suffused her.

That'll teach me to start shopping near the door
, she thought grimly.

“What are you looking for? Some sort of costume? Because that would fit three or four of you,” he said.

Mallory drew in a deep breath. So what if he had found out her secret? Shopping here was nothing to be ashamed of. Besides...he had a point. She frowned, looked down at the dress and realized that it would indeed have enough fabric to make an outfit for both Katelyn and her.

“I'm using it for the fabric,” she explained. “Katelyn needs some cooler clothes now that the weather is beginning to warm up. Her skin grafts don't allow for proper temperature regulation...and, well...I can cannibalize this dress and make her a long skirt that will be cooler than pants, or I can whip up some palazzo pants.”

“That—that thing doesn't look the least bit like Katelyn,” he protested.

Now she laughed. “It's there. Trust me.”

He wrinkled his forehead. “Sorry...for the life of me, I can't see how you could make anything remotely wearable out of that thing. It looks like a bedsheet.”

An urge to show him, to convince him, came over her. She folded up the dress into a skirt-like dimension, with the broad striped hem forming a decorative band along the bottom. She held it up against her. “See it now?”

“I do. You're good! I wouldn't have used that thing for washing my truck.” He shifted the flyers he held to his other hand and reached over to stroke the fabric. “That's pretty cool.”

“New fabric costs a bunch—and so do the zippers and the buttons,” Mallory told him. “I look here to see if I can find raw materials.”

“You
make
your clothes?” Now Andrew did look gob-smacked. She realized in an instant that he'd assumed she bought her wardrobe new. His admiration overcame her mortification at being caught.

“Sure. I can buy a pair of men's slacks here for five bucks—nice suiting out of summer-weight wool—and turn them into a skirt for work, easy peasy. And those shoes you're always teasing me about?”

“Don't tell me you're a closet cobbler who has elves lined up to make shoes,” he joked.

She shook her head, leaned down and pulled off one of her heels. Perching on one leg, she handed the shoe to him. “See? I buy cheap shoes and recover them to match my outfits. All it takes is a lot of fabric glue, some scraps of coordinating fabric and patience.”

Andrew tucked the handouts under his arm and took the shoe she'd offered. He turned it over, inspecting her workmanship.

“That's pretty neat,” he allowed. “I'll have to tell Cara and DeeDee about that.”

Panic swamped her at the thought of her secret going beyond Andrew. “Er—can you keep it under your hat? I don't advertise the fact that I make my own clothes from thrift-store items,” she said.

He drew his brows together. “Why not?”

Other shoppers were beginning to stare at her. And why shouldn't they gawk at a woman impersonating a pelican? “Can I have my shoe back? We're attracting attention.”

If she'd expected Andrew to simply hand her shoe back to her, he didn't. Instead, he knelt down, much as Prince Charming would have before Cinderella, and offered it to her.

His work-roughened fingers skimmed the sensitive skin along the top of her foot as he guided the shoe on. Did they linger a half second longer than they should have? He gazed up at her, his eyes alight with merriment, his mouth in a quirky I-know-your-secret smile. She couldn't help smiling back as she lowered her foot to the floor.

Would that one day she could find her real Prince Charming. But could it ever be Andrew?

Would she
want
it to be Andrew?

He rose to his feet and repeated his question. “Why don't you like to tell people how you remake clothes?”

People were still staring at them. Mallory felt her insides quiver as though she were under a magnifying glass.

“I work in retail, for one thing,” she explained. “If the women who came into BASH knew I didn't actually buy my clothes new, maybe they wouldn't buy them new, either. You're kind of expected to support the shop you work for. As much as I love Eleanor and her taste in clothes...she can't afford to pay me enough to be able to buy her merchandise.”

“I can see that. But DeeDee and Cara don't shop at BASH anyway. It's too expensive. You wouldn't be scaring off customers if you told my sisters.”

Mallory hated the way embarrassment made her squirm. “They're always complimenting me on my clothes,” she muttered, avoiding Andrew's way-too-intense gaze. “They might feel like I'd lied if they found out they were homemade.”

Andrew's guffaw drew her attention back to him. “Are you kidding me? They'd be even more impressed than I am. Neither one of my sisters can so much as sew on a button, or so Ma says, despite her trying to teach them. They'd probably hire you to sew stuff for them. And homemade? Not a chance. You always look like a million bucks.”

His praise boosted her spirits and gave her a burst of pleasure. “Yeah? You think so?”

Andrew reached out to touch her, seemed to realize where they were and pulled back. He exhaled sharply, staring at her as though she were missing an important point.

“What?” she asked. “Say it, whatever it is.”

“You
know
you look good, Mallory. Don't you? I mean, you spend hours on making sure you look good. You don't need me to tell you that. Plenty of guys would.”

I don't want plenty of guys to tell me that
, she thought.
I want
you
to tell me.

Somehow being honest with him, especially after he'd tumbled onto how she afforded clothes to begin with, felt too risky. She dropped her focus to the aqua-colored tent in her hands and smoothed out a wrinkle. “It's nice to be told” was all she said.

“Consider yourself informed, then. And, uh, I won't tell DeeDee or Cara, but believe me, if you think they'd look down their noses at it, you're wrong.”

He pushed past the racks of clothes and headed for the counter. She watched him as he talked with the salesclerk, and then the thrift-store manager. He had them eating out of his hand—the manager was sending out all the signals, the touch to the throat, the flutter of hands on her hair, the sideways glance.

No wonder Andrew always seemed to know what to say to make her feel better about herself. He'd had quite a bit of practice.

She started to shove the dress she'd chosen back on the rack, then changed her mind. No. It didn't matter that she'd think of Andrew no matter whatever creation she fashioned out of it; she was going ahead with it.

Maybe if you're honest with yourself, you're buying it
because
you'll think of Andrew every time you wear it.

With that, she melted into the racks, determined to forget all about impressing Andrew Monroe and focus instead on making her dollars stretch.

He hadn't realized she and Katelyn were so broke that this was the only way they could afford to put clothes on their backs.

A sour note spoiled the pleasure she'd felt earlier as she realized that Andrew was one of the reasons they were struggling financially.

BTA—before the accident—Mallory had been in the best financial shape she'd experienced since her parents' death. She'd had a job she'd enjoyed, a decent apartment, no worries about buying groceries or paying the rent and Katelyn was going to college early on the state's dime except for books and supplies.

Back then, Mallory could afford to splurge now and again on small treats for herself: a mani-pedi maybe, or a dinner out with friends, or a dress she'd found on the clearance rack. She'd even considered enrolling in some business classes in a community college to work on her abandoned degree. She'd trolled thrift stores mainly to satisfy her need for creativity.

ATA—after the accident—the thrift shop was a matter of self-defense. She had all these bills, including the sizable co-pays that went to Maegan for Katelyn's therapy. But she still had to feed and clothe her and Katelyn, and thrift stores, plus some time and patience and an eye for design and color, made that possible.

It was a slow and painful way to live, but ATA, there was no other choice.

ATA... Now she could think of it another way.

After there was Andrew.

CHAPTER TWENTY

A
NDREW
STOOD
ANKLE
-
DEEP
in water and fished the mewing cat off the top of the water heater. He tried to be gentle with the critter—it was a cutie-pie gray-and-white tuxedo cat that brought to mind, of all things, the old Batman comics.

The cat, however, didn't want to be gentle with him. Instantly all claws came out, its mouth yawned wide in a ferocious hiss, and the thing tried to bite him.

“I don't think that animal likes you,” Eric told him.

“Feel free to jump in anytime, buddy,” Andrew shot back. “If he bites me, you'd better be prepared to catch if I accidentally toss him.”

Fortunately, this was not Andrew's first time herding cats. He scooped the feline up against his turnout gear and splashed out of the utility room, Eric trailing behind. Outside, the homeowner, a little old lady stretched out her arms. Andrew gratefully surrendered the hissing, spitting creature.

“Mr. Kitty!” she crooned. “Oh, did that big, bad firefighter scare my Mr. Kitty?” And darned if she didn't kiss the cat square on its gunmetal-gray head.

“Ma'am, your water heater has sprung a huge leak,” Andrew informed her. “We've turned off the supply line, and my partner here has switched off the breaker that provides power to the unit, but you'll need to call a plumber.”

She looked up from comforting Mr. Kitty. “You can't fix it? You're a firefighter. I thought all you firemen knew how to handle pipes and water and such.”

I will not groan. I will not roll my eyes. I will not look at Eric, or I will burst out laughing.
Instead of giving into temptations best avoided, Andrew shook his head. “No, ma'am. City ordinances state that you need a licensed plumber to repair a water heater.”

She twisted her lips, carelessly covered in hot pink lipstick, into a pout. She even batted her eyes. Laying a hand on his sleeve, she wheedled, “But you're here, and I won't tell. Besides. You've seen how I have water in my kitchen. That's where my phone is. A woman my age shouldn't be tramping around in water, or she's liable to fall and break a hip, and then you'll be right back out here, helping me again.”

I will not groan
, he ordered himself again. It didn't help that Eric was barely containing a snicker.

“Ma'am, I agree with you that you shouldn't venture into your home until the water has been cleared out,” Andrew said stiffly. Diving a gloved hand into one of his pockets, he came out with a list he'd printed. He saw a neighbor gawking across the hedge and waved her over.

As the woman approached, he said to the cat lady, “I'm sure your neighbor here will allow you to use her phone. This is a list of all licensed plumbers and cleanup businesses in the city limits, as well as their contact info. If you tell any of them what happened and that we came out, along with this code,” he pointed a gloved finger toward the number at the bottom, “they've agreed to give you a ten percent discount.”

The cat lady's glower turned into a sunshiny smile. “Well, thank you, sonny! You're a most helpful young man!”

With that, Andrew doffed his hat and walked briskly for the rig and the guys already loaded up on it. Eric caught up with him and asked, “Where'd you get that list?”

“What? You mean you didn't learn from the last time you got hornswaggled into doing some on-the-scene plumbing for a homeowner? Never get out of the rig without a tool in your hand, and never forget to put something useful in your pocket.”

Eric ignored him and said, “I want one of those to make copies of.”

“Nuts. You could have come up with your own. Besides, you didn't offer to help me out with Mr. Kitty.”

“Nuts yourself. You afraid of a wittle bitty kitty cat?” Eric jostled him by the arm and stole his hat. Andrew nabbed it back, the two roughhousing all the way to the rig.

“You two ever gonna grow up past ten?” Captain groused as he leaned out the open window. “C'mon. We've got reports to write, not to mention training to get through, and you guys are goofing off.”

“Aw, Cap, it was him who was fooling around with the cat,” Eric told him.

“Like I said,” the captain reminded while the rig was pulling out into the street, “I'm waiting for the two of you to get past ten.”

They bounced back toward the fire station through a leafy green residential section of town. The radio crackled to life with a call for Andrew to report to a meeting with the chief.

Eric waggled his eyebrows. “Been pulling your sister's pigtails?”

Only Eric could get away with mentioning that Daniel was Andrew's brother. Andrew had been a probationary firefighter when Daniel was promoted.

Truth was, Daniel was a terrific chief and harder on Andrew and Rob than he ever dreamed of being with any other firefighter. Still, Andrew never liked people to bring up the fact that his big brother was the chief. And he didn't like Daniel calling him on the carpet; that was what his supervising officer was for. Daniel knew well enough that Andrew hated it whenever his big brother got his head-of-the-family and head-of-the-department wires crossed.

Back at the station, he left the crew replenishing the rig, which netted him more than a few you-planned-this-to-get-out-of-work jabs, and ditched his turnout gear. He took off across town to the station house, where Daniel had his office.

“Hey, he went out with the crew that got paged out to that car fire on the interstate,” one of the guys told him. “He said to check in with Dutch.”

Cats and confused calls, that was how this day was shaping up, Andrew thought. He trudged back to his truck. Should he take the time to check in with Dutch? Or head back before his buddies took it upon themselves to short-sheet his bunk in retaliation for leaving them holding the bag?

Aw, shoot. They're going to short-sheet the bunk anyway. Might as well go and see what Dutch has on his mind.

Dutch was in his office, surrounded by the usual piles of papers and file folders, tossing a baseball in the air. He leaned back in his desk chair, a thoughtful expression on his face, lobbing the ball straight up and catching it with the same hand. He snapped forward in his seat, not missing the ball, when Andrew tapped on the doorjamb.

“Daniel said to check with you?” Andrew asked.

“Oh, yeah. It's about the Blair thing.”

Andrew tensed. Would Dutch tell him that the suit had been filed after all?

“Okay. So...” Andrew waited, but Dutch leaned back and began tossing the ball again.

“You're off tomorrow, right?” Dutch asked in an idle tone.

“Yeah. C'mon, Dutch. I left the guys pulling my share of the work at the station, and I'll bet they've already short-sheeted my bunk and traded out the ketchup for hot sauce.”

“I'm just wondering if you come in on your off-time for a meeting, does it count against your regular hours if we don't give you overtime?”

“Oh, man, Dutch! Can you quit with the lawyer crap for even thirty seconds? If I need to come in for the Blair case, I will. For free.”

Dutch frowned, stared at the ceiling, tossed the ball a couple of more times and nodded with evident satisfaction. “You're volunteering, right? And you realize it's off the clock? That should take care of the county's end.”

Andrew ground his teeth. “Spit it out. What do you need?”

“I want to do a run-through, in case the lawsuit gets filed. A reporter buddy of mine called me from Macon, asking some mighty pointed questions. Something is coming down the pike sooner rather than later.”

A metallic sourness filled Andrew's mouth. He tapped his knuckles against the doorjamb again as he thought of what he should say.

“Why can't I ask her, Dutch? Enough of this cloak-and-dagger business, waiting for a trap to be sprung. She seems happy enough with Maegan's therapy—and Katelyn's walking more now. She's able to actually take a few steps on her own with a set of crutches. Maybe Mallory won't sue after all, and if I ask her, we can be done with this.”

Dutch's eyebrows went skyward. “No, no, no. I can think of about five thousand ways that could go south. Answer these questions. Do you have a law degree?”

“No.”

“Are you aware of the various ways your actions could increase the county's or yours or Daniel's liability?”

Andrew blew out a long sigh of exasperation. “If you're asking if I'm as much of a doomsdayer as you are, then no, not in this lifetime.”

Dutch fired off another question. “Have you been hired to represent the county in any sort of legal capacity?”

“You mean besides being a firefighter and talking to preschoolers about not hiding from a guy in turnout gear? Nope.”

“Then, buddy, I'd say leave it to the professional. And the professional needs you here when you get off shift tomorrow morning so that you, me, Rob and Daniel can go through what happened that day step by step.”

“Sure. After I have a wonderful, restful night's sleep during which the guys have short-sheeted my bed, put shaving cream on my hands and tied my shoelaces together. I'll be as energetic as a sloth.”

Dutch scoffed at him. “What's the county paying for? A fire department or summer camp?”

“Well, not everyone can grow up to be a big bad lawyer who understands the, what did you say? The various ways his actions could result in liability for county employees? Some of us have got to be trained to put out the fires lawyers like that start with all their hot air.”

Andrew ducked and ran before the baseball that Dutch threw at him could tag him on the shoulder.

* * *

M
ALLORY
SMILED
AS
she finished ringing up the sale for her current customer, grateful that it was big enough to give her a bonus commission. If her week kept going like it had started off, she'd have some extra tucked away.

Eleanor grinned at her from across the shop as she wrestled a dress onto a headless mannequin. “You're on a streak today!”

“It's all because
someone
,” she winked at Eleanor, “has excellent taste when it comes to picking out merchandise. These clothes practically sell themselves.”

“Don't sell yourself short, Mallory. You have a talent for helping these women put things together, see what looks good on them. I was smart to hire you.”

Mallory beamed, her boss's praise warming her. Maybe Andrew hadn't been full of empty charm. Maybe he'd actually meant what he'd said.

Her cell phone buzzed, and she glanced down to see that it was the number to Happy Acres. “Uh, Eleanor, this is Katelyn's therapist. Do you mind if I—”

Eleanor waved her hand. “After that sale? Honey, take a well-deserved break.” She went back to her task of scooching the dress down the mannequin's unforgiving form.

Mallory answered the phone to hear Maegan's voice on the other end of the line. “Don't worry—nobody's hurt,” Maegan assured her. “We do have a bit of a problem.”

Her mouth went dry. What had Katelyn done now? She walked back to the storeroom. “What is it?” Mallory asked.

“Well...you know I have to get preapproval for Katelyn's therapy sessions.”

“Yeees.” Mallory leaned against a unit of storage shelves and crossed her fingers in hopes that the doctor wasn't refusing to authorize more sessions.

“Katelyn's orthopedic surgeon sent me the orders back pronto and was excited about my last progress notes. She's very pleased, Mallory.”

Mallory's breath eased, then she realized that if the doctor wasn't the problem, Maegan hadn't gotten around to the part that was. “That's all you need, right?”

“Eh...no. Your insurance. The company refused to pay for any more visits.”

“What? The insurance company assured me that as long as the doctor ordered it and it was medically necessary, Katelyn could get therapy until she no longer needed it.”

“I know, I know. This stinks,” Maegan said. “Their justification is that it's actually
not
medically necessary. According to the insurance company, Katelyn has reached her goals. They say she isn't going to improve enough to warrant the cost of more therapy.”

“You mean it's a bean counter sort of thing? Can I appeal the decision? Surely there's got to be a way for me to show them that she is improving, but still needs more sessions.” Mallory's fingers gripped the edge of a metal shelf to the point where it dug into her palm. She forced herself to let go and pulled her hand away to see it gray with dust.

“Once they send you an official denial, sure, you can appeal it. Sometimes it works. I did manage to get the doctor back on the phone, and she called the insurance company personally to tell them she'd wanted two more months of therapy. She told me she gave them a good piece of her mind.”

“Did it help?” Mallory asked.

“Kinda, sorta. The lady with the insurance company was kind, and very sorry she had to take such a hard line. She worked her best to get us any little bit of flex. She's given me a compromise deal: three more weeks of visits, but then it has to go before their medical review board.”

“Will the review board see reason? Katelyn's come so
far
,” Mallory said wistfully.

“She has—much further than I thought she would. I think with another three months of uninterrupted therapy, she'd be completely out of the wheelchair and using a quad cane.”

“How much would therapy cost? If I had to pay for an entire visit myself?”

“Oh, sweetie...” In the background, Mallory heard the staccato sound of a calculator's printer. “My usual rate is three hundred and fifty dollars a session, and my usual self-pay discount is twenty-five percent off that or two hundred and eighty dollars for the visit. Katelyn's doing so
well
. If the insurance covers the next three weeks, maybe...half off? That would be one hundred and seventy-five dollars a session. I wish I could go lower, but I have to take care of the horses, and you would not believe how much they eat. Could you see your way to paying one hundred and seventy-five dollars a session?”