Trial Courtship. Laura Abbot

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      She grinned. “Full of protein.”

      “Then maybe I’D ask her.” He rode along silently for several blocks. Then he spoke again.

      “Do I hafta play baseball?”

      “Why do you ask?”

      “Grandpa wants me to.” He was kicking the floorboard. “I don’t like baseball.”

      Oh, boy. “Why not?”

      Kick, kick. “I...I’m no good at it.”

      “But you’ve never played.”

      She barely made out his mumbled answer over the hum of the heater. “I wouldn’t be any good.”

      “Nicky, you don’t know that.”

      He raised his chin, and his voice was defiant. “Yes, I do. Everybody knows I can’t do sports. And don’t try to tell me I can.”

      Oh, Lord. A reaction to Ben and the “weenie” comment? “Let’s wait and see. Maybe Grandpa and I can practice with you.”

      In response, all she heard was the thud of more kicking.

      

      A RAGGED VOICE SCREAMED into the gusting wind. “Dad! Dad!”

      Bert windmilled his arms, struggling through the roiling waves, losing his footing in the sifting sands of the lake floor. “Hang on, I’m coming!” He half jogged, half swam toward the sound. Cold breakers, huge and powerful, beat him back, but he thrashed on.

      “Bert!” Something hard—a piece of driftwood?—knocked against his shoulder. Again the cry. “Bert! Wake up!”

      He fought onward toward...the red eye of the luminous dial on the bedside clock-radio, which read two-seventeen.

      “Bert, are you all right?”

      He pushed onto his elbows, struggling to free his legs from the tangled sheet. A cold sweat drenched his body. Shivering, he reached for the blankets at the foot of the bed. Finally, his respiration slowed. “Okay. I’m okay, now.”

      Claudia turned on the bedside lamp. “Was it the dream again?”

      Would he ever be free of it? “Yes.” He forced back the phlegm crowding his throat.

      “Bert, it’s been eighteen months.”

      “Don’t you think I know that?”

      “Are you sure you don’t need to see a profess—”

      “No! I don’t want to hear any more about it. At least in the dream, I can see him, hear him....”

      “It’s not good for you—”

      “But I can’t reach him. God, I get so close.” His voice broke.

      Claudia slipped out of bed and put on her robe. “I’ll bring you some warm milk. It’ll help you get back to sleep.” She glided from the room.

      Sleep! He resisted it, feared it. Because no matter how hard he tried, how he willed it with every sinew in his body, he couldn’t bring Rich back. He threw an arm over his eyes and bit back a sob. His son. His only child. Gone.

      After a few minutes, he sat up, leaned against the pillows and fixed his eyes on the familiar bedroom furnishings—the massive walnut armoire, Claudia’s dressing table, the built-in bookshelves. He concentrated on the normalcy of his surroundings. Yet the imprint of his son’s anguished face stared back at him everywhere he looked. God, if it weren’t for Nicholas, he didn’t know what he’d do. But he couldn’t spend time with Nicholas every day the way he’d be able to if his grandson lived here. He couldn’t oversee his upbringing. Couldn’t fill that empty space Rich used to occupy. It wasn’t Andrea’s fault, of course. She did her best, but, damn, it wasn’t the same as having Nicholas under the same roof.

      Claudia eased open the door with her hip and backed into the room, carrying a tray. “Here we go.” She turned around and walked toward him, setting the tray on the bedside table. “Hot milk and graham crackers.”

      “I’m not hungry.” Besides, he didn’t appreciate being treated like some small boy in a nursery, damn it.

      “Now, Bert—” Claudia’s voice affected the patronizing tone of a nanny “—it’ll make you feel better.”

      He waved the proffered mug aside. “Why can’t you understand, Claudia? Nothing is going to make me feel better.”

      Eyeing him closely, his wife set down the mug and seemed about to say something critical when she apparently changed her mind and merely said, “Well, suit yourself, then. I’m going back to bed. Turn the light out when you’re ready.”

      He couldn’t believe it. Within mere seconds, she was sound asleep. They simply didn’t understand each other any more. It baffled him that she had been able to go on so smoothly with her life, as if her son’s death were just another bump along life’s road instead of a cataclysmic upheaval. Most mothers would have disintegrated into grief, their lives forever altered. He couldn’t understand Claudia. Maybe denial was her way of coping, but it sure as hell wasn’t his.

      He leaned over and turned off the lamp. In the darkness, he thought about Nicholas. At least he hadn’t forgotten Rich. But the lad seemed so sad, so unreachable.

      If only he and Claudia had custody...

      CHAPTER THREE

      AFTER DROPPING NICKY at school the next morning and barely catching the inbound Rapid, Andrea dashed into the jury room. The bailiff directed her to the coatrack, then lined up the jurors.

      “Girl, you look frazzled.” Shayla patted Andrea’s shoulder as they entered the courtroom. “Take a deep breath and calm down.”

      “I was afraid I’d be late. I had to get my nephew off to school.”

      “Mornings are hectic at my house, too. Rousting my teenagers outta bed takes an act of Congress.”

      As the panel settled into their seats, Andrea stole a look at Tony Urbanski, who sat back in his chair, knees apart, studying the ceiling while Arnelle Kerry whispered into his ear. He looked distractingly handsome in a pale green button-down shirt, paisley tie and camel blazer. But who was noticing? When they rose for the judge’s entrance, she had the feeling his eyes were fixed on her.

      The ballistics expert took the stand then, and Andrea forced herself to pay attention. The man clearly knew his stuff but, even with charts and photographs, he had a difficult time making the arcane comprehensible. Details about angle of bullet entry and weapon caliber were hard to follow, but she did grasp that the police had found and identified the weapon that evidence showed had, indeed, killed Mr. Bartelli. When photos of the entry wound were flashed on the video screen, among the spectators, a tiny gray-haired woman with an olive complexion gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. The widow? Beside her, a younger woman, perhaps her daughter, consoled her.

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