He had a vague memory of a skinny, gawky, towheaded him standing on the end of a diving board, toes curled over the edge of it, staring down into the deep end of the pool, and hollering, “Dad, watch me!” as he took the leap.
But he wasn’t certain if that blurred image and others like it were actual memories of him and Conrad or childish yearnings that had gone unfulfilled.
He and Georgia played a game of I Spy while they ate their gooey sundaes. He returned her to the Gilroys supercharged on sugar, damp from being rained on, mud-spattered, and tired. But happy.
“Promise to eat your supper even though you had ice cream.”
“I will.”
“And don’t argue with Grandma when she says it’s bedtime.”
“Okay.”
“You’re a good girl. Give me a kiss.”
She hugged his neck especially tight. “I love you, Daddy.”
Clutching her to him, he whispered into her hair. “I love you, too,” and renewed his determination to get her back. No matter what.
At dusk Crawford wheeled into the courthouse parking lot, found a vacant spot, and turned off his motor. Then for the next two hours, he sat there, staring through his rain-streaked windshield at the employee exit while his restless fingers beat out an impatient tattoo on his steering wheel.
His butt had grown numb by the time Holly Spencer emerged from the building. He quickly got out of his SUV and splashed through puddles to intercept her between rows of parked cars.
She was walking head down against the rain, fiddling with her key fob, so she nearly walked into him before she saw him. She drew up short.
He said, “You’ll have to do better than hang up on me. I don’t give up easy.”
She tried to sidestep him, but he made a counter move and blocked her path.
“Get away from me.”
“I told you that we need to talk.”
“And I told you that we don’t.”
“Look, it’s got nothing to do with…that.”
He didn’t need to spell out what “that” referred to. She winced before saying, “If it’s about your custody case—”
“It isn’t. It’s about the shooting.”
The gravity of his tone stopped her two-stepping attempts to go around him. Unmindful of the rain, she raised her head and looked into his face.
“It’s serious, and I kid you not, judge. We gotta talk.”
She hesitated, then said, “All right. If it’s that important, call me tomorrow. I’ll be in my office by nine. Tell Mrs. Briggs—”
“Not good enough. We need to talk tonight. Now.”
She glanced over her shoulder at the looming red granite structure of the courthouse, as though wondering who might be watching them from any of the dozens of windows. When she came back around, she said, “Out of the question, Mr. Hunt. We shouldn’t even be seen—”
“I get it, judge. It’s unethical. And after last night, it’s also not easy to look each other in the eye.” He took a step closer and spoke in an undertone. “But what we did on your couch pales in comparison to this.”
He stared into her wide gaze, trying to impress on her how imperative it was that she hear what he had to tell her. He started backing away. “I’m in the black SUV two rows over. Follow me. Okay?”
“I—”
“Follow me.”
His insistent tone coaxed from her a small nod of reluctant acquiescence.
Chapter 9
He drove to the same park where he and Georgia had played that afternoon. With nightfall and rain combined, he had counted on no one else being there. The parking lot was empty, but a single, pole-mounted vapor light shed a sickly yellow glow over it, so he parked at the edge of the lane beneath the trees where the darkness was deeper. She pulled in behind him.
He got out of his SUV and walked to her car. She unlocked the passenger door and he slid in, rapidly closing the door to keep out the rain. He raked back his wet hair. As he ran his hands up and down his thighs, drying them on his jeans, he caught her watching him with a wariness that was unflattering and irritating as hell.
“I’m not going to jump you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
The meager light shone through the rain that trickled down the windshield, casting fluid patterns across her face. Her eyes looked like those of a lost child trying to put up a brave front, a blend of apprehension and defiance.
“What’s so important that we needed to talk tonight, Mr. Hunt?”
“Stop calling me Mr. Hunt. We’re not in court. Besides—” He broke off before saying anything more, but both knew why using last names was now ludicrous. The last time they’d seen each other, he’d been tucking himself back into his jeans while she was trying to cover herself with the hem of her t-shirt. Which, he remembered well, proved inadequate.
“I’m waiting,” she said coldly.
“We’ll get to it in a minute.” He gestured toward her forehead. “The swelling’s gone down, but the bruise has spread.”
“It only hurts when I touch it.”
“Any others show up today?”
“A doozy on my shoulder.”
He didn’t apologize a second time for tackling her to the floor. “Otherwise how are you?”
“I’m all right.”