Someone Like You. Susan Mallery

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      “Couldn’t she just throw a tantrum and be done with it?”

      “Tell me about it.”

      He sat on the corner of the desk. “So how does this work? She ate last night.”

      “Sure. She wore red. I brought spaghetti, a salad made of red-leaf lettuce and we had strawberry shortcake for dessert. What’s she wearing this morning?”

      “Purple. I made pancakes and bacon. So far she’s ignoring it.”

      “Blueberries are good on purple days. Although…when I saw the doctor last week, she pointed out that if we were willing to hold out against her and not give her what she wanted, eventually hunger would force her to eat.”

      Starve his daughter? He couldn’t imagine it. “Did it work?”

      “I was too chicken to try.”

      “Great. So I get to be the bad guy?”

      “It’s only a suggestion. You have to do what you think is right.”

      His gut told him that the doctor was on to something—Emily would eventually get hungry and eat what was served. But was that how he wanted to start their summer together? There was also the matter of the social worker. He could only imagine that interview as Emily complained that her bully of a father hadn’t fed her in two days.

      “How the hell am I supposed to know what’s right?” he asked, more to himself than Carly.

      “You were always a good father, Mac.”

      “Absolutely. Right up until I disappeared from her life. Some kind of hero, huh?”

      Carly was silent for a couple of seconds, then she said, “Emily doesn’t know I’m seeing anyone. Brian and I have been dating about two months, but I haven’t introduced them. I want to be sure it’s going to last.”

      He didn’t care about his ex-wife seeing a guy, but he hated the thought of his daughter having another father in her life.

      “I won’t tell her,” he said.

      “Thanks. I wish I could be more helpful on the food thing.”

      “I’ll deal with it. I suppose in some courts, the judge would say I earned it.”

      “You need to give both of you some time,” Carly told him. “That’s what this summer is about.”

      “I know. I’ll send you an e-mail in a couple of days and let you know how things are going.”

      “I appreciate that. Take care, Mac.”

      “You, too.”

      He hung up the phone and returned to the kitchen.

      Emily sat where he’d left her. The only change was the stuffed rhino in her arms.

      “Elvis have any advice for me?” he asked.

      Wariness filled her wide blue eyes as she shook her head.

      “Just like a rhino. I can’t get him to shut up when I’m driving. He’s always telling me what lane to be in and where to turn. But now, when I need some instructions, he doesn’t say a word.”

      Emily bit down on her lower lip. Mac hoped it was to keep from smiling.

      He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Purple, huh?”

      She nodded.

      “Okay, kiddo. Let’s hit the grocery store and get you some breakfast.”

      “Can I have Pop-Tarts?” she asked as she slid off the chair. “They’re purple.”

      “Unless I can find some purple bacon, we may end up there.” He made a mental note to get some kid vitamins. The multicolored kind. And wondered what on earth he was going to cook on the days she wore blue.

      Chapter Three

      JILL CAREFULLY LOCKED the BMW before leaving it parked by the foul line of the practice fields. A quick glance at the sign-up board told her that there would be several teams practicing over the next few days. With a little luck, they could all have a close encounter with the 545.

      Maybe she should look into a rental car while she was in town, she thought, as she shifted her briefcase to her left hand and began the three-block walk to her new office. If she left Lyle’s car all over the place, how would she get around? Not that there were all that many places to go in Los Lobos.

      The morning had dawned cool and clear, which was good. Fog was death on her hair. She’d blown it dry, used the flatiron and her forty-seven products to produce a sleek, smooth cascade of stick-straight hair before coiling the whole length into a neat knot at the base of her neck. In deference to working in the more casual setting of a small town, she’d put on a pantsuit instead of a skirted suit, but the label still read Armani even though she knew the elegance would be lost on her clients. No matter, it was really all for her. When she dressed better, she felt better about herself. And today she would need all the help she could get.

      The law offices of Dixon and Son were on Maple Street—a road with plenty of trees but no maples. Trendy antique stores leaned up against old bookstores. There were coffeehouses, cafés and the chamber of commerce on the corner. It was quiet, picturesque and pretty much as it had always been for the past fifty years.

      Jill tried to convince herself that it wouldn’t be so bad—but she knew she was lying. She’d only been in Mr. Dixon’s office a couple of times, but the details of his building were firmly etched in her brain. She didn’t mind that the place was old, musty and in serious need of paint. What she most objected to was the fish.

      Mr. Dixon had been an avid fisherman. He’d gone all over the world, fishing his heart out and bringing back trophies for his office. The fish he’d caught were often stuffed, or whatever it was one did with dead fish one did not eat, and mounted onto plaques. These plaques hung in his office. Everywhere.

      They stared down at clients, frightened small children and collected dust. They also smelled.

      “Please God, let them be gone,” Jill whispered to herself as she opened the glass door that led into the foyer and reception area and stepped inside.

      God was either busy or chose not to oblige. Jill stopped on the scratched hardwood floor and felt dozens of eyes focus on her. Small, dark, beady fish eyes.

      A huge swordfish hung up by the beamed ceiling. Midsize fish about ten or twelve inches long mounted on dark wood plaques circled the room just above the bookcases. There were fish by the light switches, fish along the wall leading upstairs, even a fish mounted on the front of the reception desk.

      The smell was exactly as Jill remembered it—an unpleasant combination of dust, pine cleaner and old fish. The lone piece of toast she’d had for breakfast flipped over in her stomach.

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