Too Far to Say Far Enough: A Novel (12 page)

“Except you.”

She flapped her hand at me, and I noticed for the first time the purple bruises that blotched her tissue-y skin.

“All right,” I said. “Owen, back off Ms. Willa. She’s perfectly capable of knowing when she needs medical attention.”

Ms. Willa looked at him, literally growling under her breath. I looked at him, too, hoping he was, as Desmond would say, picking up what I was putting down.

Owen nodded slowly. “Clear as glass, Ally. A sheet of cellophane couldn’t be clearer.”

“There you go,” I said to Ms. Willa. “Now am I going to get some tea for my trouble?”

“Yes. And I want you to tell me about this new girl you’ve got over there at the sorority.”

Ms. Willa had her own concept of what the Sisterhood was all about. We’d all stopped correcting her.

“Right now we know her as Foxy,” I said. “She’s—”

“When are you going to bring her around? I want to know who’s reaping the benefits of our enterprise.”

There was so much wrong with that statement I didn’t even know where to begin. I was about to start with the word
enterprise
when I felt a Nudge. An amused Nudge.

Oh, come on, God. Foxy and Ms. Willa? You can’t be serious.

But I said, “I’ll bring her by.”

It was the first reason to chuckle I’d had in days.

CHAPTER SIX

I had one more errand to run, and as I headed for the Wells Fargo Bank building I repeated the mantra I’d made up for myself while staring out the window at four o’clock that morning.

This is strictly business with Kade. It’s not mother-and-son bonding. Don’t expect too much.

For once I was sorry I didn’t hear
Go another mile.
I’d have run a marathon, barefoot, if it meant I could have what I wanted with my son. Something that didn’t include pointless discussions about Troy Irwin.

It helped to be greeted by Tia, who had strictly business down to an art form. I didn’t know if she was aware of my biological relationship with Kade. She just ushered me into his office like I was any other client.

Kade leaped up from his desk chair like a second string player suddenly being called onto the field.

Was he that eager to see me? Or was it just because he was young? Didn’t he always move as if everything was an opportunity to shine?

Stop, Allison. Just. Stop.

“You’ve never seen my new office, have you?” he said.

“Oh! No!”

I looked around at the black and metal motif, accented by sepia photos in silver frames—one of Kade in a sailboat cutting through New England waters and looking like one of the Kennedys, another of him shaking hands with Chief the day their partnership became official, still another of a handsome gray-templed Italian. That had to be Anthony Capelli. His “real” father.

“The place is you,” I said. “I mean, as much as I know about you … you know, in the short time we’ve … y’know, known each other. I guess.”

“It’s getting there. Please, sit down. Can I get you anything to drink?”

He was either utterly clueless or incredibly smooth. The former he would have inherited from me, the latter from Troy. I made up my mind he was just diplomatic and sank into a chair.

“I’m good,” I said.

“Good.”

Kade sat to face me and looked blankly at my hands. “Did you bring your files?”

“My files?”

“Your financial records.” He rubbed at his smooth jaw. “Tell me you actually have some.”

“Does a basket full of bills and receipts counts as ‘records?’”

“One basket doesn’t sound that bad.”

“Actually, it’s two. Three. Maybe four. I don’t really know. They’re covered with afghans so I don’t have to look at them.”

“You’re serious.”

“As a triple bypass.”

A long, slow smile spread over his face and into eyes so clear even Owen didn’t have enough metaphors for them.

“So what you’re saying is I better bring my laptop over to your place. You got tonight free?”

“Yes. No.”

“Okay.”

The dimples were fully engaged. He must have been adorable when he was a little boy.

“I have a date with Chief,” I said.

“Then you are definitely not free.” He shrugged. “What’s Desmond up to tonight? I could hang out with him and get started on those baskets.”

I tried not to let my own jaw drop. “He’d love that. Only, we have a new Sister staying with us right now.”

“I’ve heard about Foxy. Is there a rule about her being around guys? I don’t mind if
she
doesn’t.”

I leaned back in the chair. “I don’t know, Kade. She’s a pistol, and Desmond’s got a thing for her.”

“You’re kidding.”

“She’s only eighteen. And cute. Hot, actually. And she’s not an addict.”

Kade nodded, eyes squinted. “So what you really need is a chaperone for the evening.”

“Yeah. But I’m not asking you to do that.”

“I’m volunteering. I dig Desmond. And how much of a—what did you call her?”

“Pistol,” I said. “Twenty-two caliber.”

His grin faded. “You know you can trust me, right?”

“Of course. She’s the one I don’t trust. I’m not sure she’s all that ready to give up the life. I just don’t want to put you in an uncomfortable position.”

Kade leaned forward, hands on his knees. “I’m not going to encourage her. And if she comes on to me, I know what to do.”

“I never thought—”

“So what time?”

I opened my mouth to answer, and my cell phone rang.

“You need to get that?” Kade said.

“I wouldn’t, but you know how things are—”

“Go for it. I’ll get us a soda.”

He stepped discreetly out of the room and I looked at my phone. Nicholas Kent’s name looked back at me. I answered with my heart already pounding.

“Nick. What’s up?”

“We have a little issue down here on Palm Row, Miss Allison.”

“What kind of issue?”

“Her name is Foxy.”

“I’ll be right there.”

“Yeah,” Nick said. “That would be good.”

It only took eight minutes to get from Kade’s office to my house, but I was able to come up with at least fifteen scenarios for what I was going to find when I got there, everything from Foxy soliciting from the side porch and being outed by Miz Vernell, to the pimp she said she didn’t have showing up and dragging her by that red hair down Palm Row.

None of them even came close. It wasn’t Foxy I saw straddling the railing on the porch. It was Desmond, with Nicholas Kent standing between him and the back door, hands on his hips. The only thing that kept me from dumping the bike in front of the garage was the fact that Nick didn’t have his Glock drawn.

“She’s okay, Big Al,” Desmond said when he saw me running across the lawn. “I took care of it.”

“Took care of what?”

I was looking at Officer Kent, who didn’t seem to think anything was okay at the moment. Even his freckles looked grim as he nodded toward the door. “She’s inside.”

I pointed at Desmond. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“Not a problem,” Nick said.

“You want somethin’ to drink while we waitin’?” Desmond said to him.

I heard Nick answer, “Dude, are you serious?” before I stepped into the kitchen.

Foxy was curled up on the floor in the corner next to the refrigerator, face pressed into her knees. She did not look “taken care of.”

“Hey,” I said.

She didn’t look up. If anything, she sank her head further into her thighs. I sat beside her and pulled my own knees up with about half the flexibility.

“Are you hurt?” I said. “Physically, I mean.”

She shook her head.

“Has someone threatened you?”

“No.”

“So you’re not in any immediate physical danger.”

“No.”

That was the last of the screening questions we always asked a Sister when she was melting down. I had a feeling the melting had already happened and Foxy was sitting in a pool of her own stuff.

“How about if we try some eye contact?” I said. “That usually helps.”

“I don’t want you to see me.”

“Trust me, whatever you look like right now, I’ve seen worse.”

“Worse than this?”

Foxy lifted her face. One eye was fiery and swelling even as I looked at it. Blood had left a dried track from her nostril to her split upper lip. But that wasn’t why I caught my breath in the back of my throat. I wasn’t lying to her; I had seen worse. What I hadn’t seen in one of our Sisters was a face that could not have been older than fifteen.

There was no makeup today, nothing to hide the flawless baby skin, the rounded little girl cheeks, the one eye as innocent as the child she had once been.

“Okay,” I forced myself to say, “let’s put some ice on that.”

Foxy reached into the corner and pulled out a dripping sandwich bag. “Desi fixed me up.”

Everything in me wanted to ask how
Desi
came to be involved in this, but I put that in the growing pile of things he and I were going to deal with later.

“Why don’t you put it back on your eye for now?”

To my surprise she did, without argument.

“Have you told Officer Kent what happened?” I said.

“That cop out there?” Foxy shook her head, and then winced. “He shined a flashlight in my eyes to make sure I didn’t have a concussion. Then I told him to leave me alone.” She appeared to be trying to roll her good eye. “He didn’t have to call you. Desi and I had it handled.”

“Desmond is thirteen years old. He doesn’t handle assault cases.”

“I don’t trust the police.”

“How about me? You trust me?”

Her face startled, which was understandable. I saved that particular tone for the hard-core situations. And yet still she said, “I don’t even trust my own mother.”

“I’m not
your
mother,” I said. “But I am a mom, and I think you can surmise from the fact that Desmond is vertical at this moment and still has all his teeth that I’m the kind who can be trusted.”

“You’re the kind who has cops for friends and obeys the rules.”

“Actually, the rules I follow at times like this are God’s. The rest I kind of make up as I go along.”

She tried to curl the lip. Both of us cringed.

“I didn’t turn the other cheek,” she said. “Isn’t that one of God’s rules?”

“So I should worry about what the other guy looks like about now?”

“Girl.”

“Excuse me?”

“It was a girl. And she hit me first.”

“Because …”

“Because she thought I was trying to cut in on her territory.”

If I’d been a swearing woman, I would have spewed an expletive. I tried not to make it sound like one as I said, carefully, “You went back to West King.”

“You mean where Jasmine and that other woman busted me?”

“Where Jasmine and Sherry saved your hide, yes.”

“No. That place is a complete hole.”

I held back a relieved sigh. “Then what territory are we talking about?

I didn’t bring up the fact that it was the middle of the day, or that the only place I knew about for turning tricks in St. Augustine was the hole she was referring to.

Foxy struggled to lift her chin. I couldn’t imagine there was a spot on her head that wasn’t throbbing.

“I wasn’t there to take away her business. I went there to help.”

“How were you planning to go about that?”

“I told her she needed to run, but she didn’t exactly want my advice.”

I pulled in air through my nose and hoped some wisdom would come in with it. All I came up with to say was, “Should I be concerned about her physical condition right now?”

Foxy shrugged.

“Seriously. Do I need to worry about you being arrested for assault and battery?”

“She’s not going to press charges. She hates cops worse than I do.”

I leaned in. “Just so you know: that cop out there
is
a friend of ours. If it does turn out she tries to take legal action, he needs to know what went down.”

“Like file a report? No freakin’ way.”

Foxy tried to get up but I put my hand on her arm and my face close to hers.

“None of us can help you if you don’t tell us the truth. Every woman who comes to Sacrament House learns that.”

I was sure it was a blend of sheer stubbornness and full-out fear that kept her one-eyed gaze riveted to mine for the next ten seconds. For the second ten, she searched my face. Whatever she saw looking back at her made her press herself against the refrigerator and nod for another ten. That meant thirty seconds of the Pathetic Pleading Prayer from me:
pleaseGodpleaseGodpleaseGod.

I could handle women flipping out on speedballs and crawling across the floor because withdrawal wouldn’t let them walk and spitting at me across a jailhouse table. But I had no idea what to do with a teenage girl who was perfectly sober. And perfectly lost.
PleaseGodpleaseGodpleaseGod
was all I could think of. The answer was a deep patience I could never have manufactured on my own.

“What do you want to know?” she said.

“Let’s start with your real name.”

“How do you know Foxy’s not—”

“Because I’m not an idiot.”

She licked at the torn place in her lip. “Flannery.”

I waited.

“Donohue. And I’m not making that up.”

“If you did, nicely done. It’s a beautiful name.”

“It’s Irish.”

“How old are you, Flannery?”

She shrugged again and stared at her knees. “I lied before. I’m younger than eighteen.”

“How much younger?”

“I’m sixteen.”

“I thought we were going for honesty here.”

“What difference does it make? Underage is underage.”

“And the truth is the truth.”

She tilted her head back to give the ceiling a cyclopic search. “Fifteen?”

“You tell
me
.”

I heard myself sounding calm, but my mind screamed,
She’s younger than
fifteen?

“I’m fourteen,” she said. “And that
is
the truth.”

I started another pile: Things To Weep Over Later.

A thousand questions raised their frantic hands in my head, but I ignored them all for now. The one
answer
I had was that this child was a runaway, and the wrong query could set her right back out on the path she ran in on.

“Thanks for that,” I said. “Now, let’s go back to the beginning and walk through what happened today.”

Flannery squared her shoulders. I could see her pulling up the you-can’t-get-to-me attitude, despite the tremor around her lips. I had to work fast.