It was not a short list.
I thought of spending months waiting for the forms and background checks. Months of nightmares, bureaucratic and otherwise. And what if, after all that, Todd Larsen refused to see me?
Pamela was an hour away, and she did want to see me. There had to be a way.
I glanced down the hall at the wastepaper basket, walked over, and took out Gabriel Walsh’s card.
• • •
A suitably sultry voice answered his office phone. I gave my name, and she checked to see if Mr. Walsh was in. Given that Grace said he was the only lawyer at his firm, one wouldn’t think she’d need to check, but she came back to tell me he was out. She would relay the message.
Twenty minutes later he returned my call. His timing was perfect—long enough so he didn’t seem too eager, not so long that I might change my mind about speaking to him.
“I’d like to reconsider your offer,” I said. “I’m still not convinced it’s something I’m prepared to do but . . . I’ll hear you out.”
“How about dinner?”
“Actually, before we talk, there’s something I’d like you to do for me.”
He didn’t hesitate, as if reciprocity was to be expected. “What might that be?”
“I want to see my mother.”
• • •
It couldn’t have been easy to get permission, because two hours passed before I heard from him again. I suppose I should have felt guilty—making him do all this when I had no intention of reconsidering his offer. But as Grace said, men like Gabriel could be useful. And I was sure he wouldn’t hesitate to use me, too.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
G abriel had offered to pick me up, but while I could ill afford a taxi, I wasn’t spending an hour alone in a car with him. My cab was coming at three. I quickly showered and changed.
Before I stepped into the hall, I checked for powder at my door. I don’t know why I bothered. It wasn’t as if the stuff was going to mess up my dark pumps. But something compelled me to check, so I did.
Nothing. Still, I stepped over the spot. As I did, I heard a girl’s voice, raised in a singsong rhyme.
I looked down the hall. No kids. I hadn’t seen any in the building. In fact, I hadn’t seen much of anyone. Just a glimpse of a neighbor or two, ducking in or out, usually too quick for more than a “good day.”
Children, though, were rarely so quiet, meaning I was pretty sure there weren’t any living here. Something told me Grace wouldn’t allow it. The girl must be outside then. As I started down the stairwell, though, I could hear a child skipping along a hallway below, the irregular tap-tap of little shoes as she sang.
Monday’s child is fair of face,
Tuesday’s child is full of grace,
• • •
“Wednesday’s child is full of woe,” I whispered, then stopped myself.
Well, at least it wasn’t superstitious doggerel. Not really. As her voice faded, I struggled to remember the rest of the poem. Which one was Friday? That was my day. Loving and giving, wasn’t it? Proof that it really was just a poem, considering what I’d done to Margie that morning.
When I reached the second floor, I could hear the tapping of the girl’s shoes clearly as she skipped back my way.
I opened the hall door to pop my head in and say hello. The tap-tap came closer, her voice high and clear.
Saturday’s child works hard—
• • •
The hall was empty.
I blinked and looked both ways. No girl. No singing. No skipping.
I backed into the stairwell again. Everything stayed quiet. I let the door close.
And the child that is born on the Sabbath day
Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.
• • •
I yanked open the door just as the last word faded. I stepped into the hall and looked around. It was just like my corridor—a short one with two doors on each side, all four shut tight. I strained to pick up the sound of singing from any of the rooms, or coming through a window, but that churchlike hush blanketed everything.
I turned to go.
“What’s Thursday’s child, Mommy?”
I spun, the words still seeming to hang in the air. An empty hall stretched out in both directions.
“Thursday’s child has far to go,” a woman’s voice answered.
“That’s me!” the girl giggled. “I have far to go.”
The woman laughed. “You do indeed, my Eden. You do indeed.”
I hurried into the stairwell.
• • •
I made it to the front door, grabbed the handle and was about to push it open when I was yanked by . . .
Gabriel Walsh. He was opening the door, one hand on the knob, the other on his sunglasses. Seeing me, he left his glasses on and stepped back to wave me out.
I took a moment to regain my composure before looking up at him. “I told you I didn’t need a ride.”
“No, you said you didn’t want one. Considering the cost of a fare and the fact that you’re apparently working as a waitress”—did I imagine it or did his lips twitch?—“I decided you do need it.”
“I have a cab coming.” The only vehicle in sight was his Jag, purring in front of the building.
“I told him you wouldn’t be needing his services.” He closed the door behind me. “Our appointment is at four. That’s the latest I could make it.”
In other words, ride with him or don’t go at all. Damn him.
I looked up. He hadn’t gotten any smaller. I’m not usually intimidated by men of any size, but those sunglasses made me anxious. Silly, I know, but unsettling all the same. As was the hint of a smile on the visible part of his face. Amused? Mocking? Insolent? I couldn’t tell without having his eyes to complete the picture.
He reached into his suit pocket, took out his cell phone, and handed it to me.
“You can put 911 on speed dial.”
Okay, definitely mocking.
He steered me toward the car. “If it makes you feel better, you can call the CPD and ask about me. You won’t hear anything flattering, but they’ll admit I’ve never been accused of assaulting anyone.” A pause as he opened the passenger door for me. “Well, not any clients.”
I slid into the cool interior. The sharp smell of new leather and strains of Bach swirled around me. As Gabriel got in, I braced myself for the sales pitch, but he only turned up the stereo and roared from the curb.
I thought of spending months waiting for the forms and background checks. Months of nightmares, bureaucratic and otherwise. And what if, after all that, Todd Larsen refused to see me?
Pamela was an hour away, and she did want to see me. There had to be a way.
I glanced down the hall at the wastepaper basket, walked over, and took out Gabriel Walsh’s card.
• • •
A suitably sultry voice answered his office phone. I gave my name, and she checked to see if Mr. Walsh was in. Given that Grace said he was the only lawyer at his firm, one wouldn’t think she’d need to check, but she came back to tell me he was out. She would relay the message.
Twenty minutes later he returned my call. His timing was perfect—long enough so he didn’t seem too eager, not so long that I might change my mind about speaking to him.
“I’d like to reconsider your offer,” I said. “I’m still not convinced it’s something I’m prepared to do but . . . I’ll hear you out.”
“How about dinner?”
“Actually, before we talk, there’s something I’d like you to do for me.”
He didn’t hesitate, as if reciprocity was to be expected. “What might that be?”
“I want to see my mother.”
• • •
It couldn’t have been easy to get permission, because two hours passed before I heard from him again. I suppose I should have felt guilty—making him do all this when I had no intention of reconsidering his offer. But as Grace said, men like Gabriel could be useful. And I was sure he wouldn’t hesitate to use me, too.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
G abriel had offered to pick me up, but while I could ill afford a taxi, I wasn’t spending an hour alone in a car with him. My cab was coming at three. I quickly showered and changed.
Before I stepped into the hall, I checked for powder at my door. I don’t know why I bothered. It wasn’t as if the stuff was going to mess up my dark pumps. But something compelled me to check, so I did.
Nothing. Still, I stepped over the spot. As I did, I heard a girl’s voice, raised in a singsong rhyme.
I looked down the hall. No kids. I hadn’t seen any in the building. In fact, I hadn’t seen much of anyone. Just a glimpse of a neighbor or two, ducking in or out, usually too quick for more than a “good day.”
Children, though, were rarely so quiet, meaning I was pretty sure there weren’t any living here. Something told me Grace wouldn’t allow it. The girl must be outside then. As I started down the stairwell, though, I could hear a child skipping along a hallway below, the irregular tap-tap of little shoes as she sang.
Monday’s child is fair of face,
Tuesday’s child is full of grace,
• • •
“Wednesday’s child is full of woe,” I whispered, then stopped myself.
Well, at least it wasn’t superstitious doggerel. Not really. As her voice faded, I struggled to remember the rest of the poem. Which one was Friday? That was my day. Loving and giving, wasn’t it? Proof that it really was just a poem, considering what I’d done to Margie that morning.
When I reached the second floor, I could hear the tapping of the girl’s shoes clearly as she skipped back my way.
I opened the hall door to pop my head in and say hello. The tap-tap came closer, her voice high and clear.
Saturday’s child works hard—
• • •
The hall was empty.
I blinked and looked both ways. No girl. No singing. No skipping.
I backed into the stairwell again. Everything stayed quiet. I let the door close.
And the child that is born on the Sabbath day
Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.
• • •
I yanked open the door just as the last word faded. I stepped into the hall and looked around. It was just like my corridor—a short one with two doors on each side, all four shut tight. I strained to pick up the sound of singing from any of the rooms, or coming through a window, but that churchlike hush blanketed everything.
I turned to go.
“What’s Thursday’s child, Mommy?”
I spun, the words still seeming to hang in the air. An empty hall stretched out in both directions.
“Thursday’s child has far to go,” a woman’s voice answered.
“That’s me!” the girl giggled. “I have far to go.”
The woman laughed. “You do indeed, my Eden. You do indeed.”
I hurried into the stairwell.
• • •
I made it to the front door, grabbed the handle and was about to push it open when I was yanked by . . .
Gabriel Walsh. He was opening the door, one hand on the knob, the other on his sunglasses. Seeing me, he left his glasses on and stepped back to wave me out.
I took a moment to regain my composure before looking up at him. “I told you I didn’t need a ride.”
“No, you said you didn’t want one. Considering the cost of a fare and the fact that you’re apparently working as a waitress”—did I imagine it or did his lips twitch?—“I decided you do need it.”
“I have a cab coming.” The only vehicle in sight was his Jag, purring in front of the building.
“I told him you wouldn’t be needing his services.” He closed the door behind me. “Our appointment is at four. That’s the latest I could make it.”
In other words, ride with him or don’t go at all. Damn him.
I looked up. He hadn’t gotten any smaller. I’m not usually intimidated by men of any size, but those sunglasses made me anxious. Silly, I know, but unsettling all the same. As was the hint of a smile on the visible part of his face. Amused? Mocking? Insolent? I couldn’t tell without having his eyes to complete the picture.
He reached into his suit pocket, took out his cell phone, and handed it to me.
“You can put 911 on speed dial.”
Okay, definitely mocking.
He steered me toward the car. “If it makes you feel better, you can call the CPD and ask about me. You won’t hear anything flattering, but they’ll admit I’ve never been accused of assaulting anyone.” A pause as he opened the passenger door for me. “Well, not any clients.”
I slid into the cool interior. The sharp smell of new leather and strains of Bach swirled around me. As Gabriel got in, I braced myself for the sales pitch, but he only turned up the stereo and roared from the curb.
