Trial Courtship. Laura Abbot

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      His father hawked into the phone. “Little streak of bad luck.”

      “How bad?”

      “A grand.”

      “I’ll send you five hundred.” Tony had learned the hard way about his father’s padded figures. “How soon do you need it?”

      “Tomorrow.”

      “I’ll see what I can do.” He’d get to the bank during lunch.

      After hanging up, Tony stood, drawing deep, punishing breaths. So help me God, he promised himself, if I ever have kids of my own, I’ll bust my ass taking care of them, loving them, so they never feel about me the way I do about my father. The father who, no matter what, had stubbornly refused his son’s many attempts to get him into treatment.

      Easing back into his chair, Tony buried his head in his hands and studied the thick Cyberace file on his desk. His secretary’s research was thorough. Each bio was three or four pages. On top was Rodney Steelman’s. Class of 1950, Penn State. Marine lieutenant with a tour in Korea. MBA, Harvard, 1958. Ten years with IBM. Now he was getting to the good stuff—how an IBM company man bolted, started with little capital but a lot of contacts and built Cyberace into one hell of a software company.

      “Ready for me?”

      Tony glanced up. Lounging in the doorway and wearing an eager smile was Barry Fuller, Princeton ‘92; MBA, Stanford. “Sure, c’mon in.” Barry was a good man, bright, thorough, ambitious, willing to learn. But—Tony succumbed to a moment of doubt—untried and overconfident. No matter what his flaws were, Tony needed him. And this negotiation was a great opportunity for the kid. Fuller uncoiled himself, entered the office and, carefully pulling at his trouser creases, sat down. “Man, this jury thing is really bad timing for you. How can I help?”

      Tony outlined the tasks to be done, suggested some reallocation of personnel and then asked Barry if he felt comfortable spearheading the preparation while Tony was in court.

      “Yes, sir, I do. I know things will come up that I can’t handle, but I’m not afraid to ask questions. Besides, I’ll be in touch with you every day, and I’m planning on being available nights and weekends as long as you need me.”

      “I’m counting on it.” Tony picked up the bio file. “So let’s get started.”

      Fuller scooted his chair forward, placed his legal pad on the edge of the desk and, as Tony outlined their strategy, began taking notes.

      

      ANDREA SPRINTED TO CATCH the outbound Rapid Transit. She struggled down the aisle, juggling her purse and books as the commuter train slid away from the terminal. With relief, she sank into one of the few vacant seats. Though exciting, in many ways the day had been exhausting. Meeting people was nothing new; being in the retail business, she was used to it, but the careful listening was hard work. Especially with so much at stake! Still, she was reassured by the judge’s thorough explanations and by the fact most of her fellow jurors seemed to take their responsibilities seriously, except maybe for Chet and Arnelle and...she couldn’t tell about Tony Urbanski. At times he’d seemed preoccupied, detached.

      But he had a winner of a smile.

      And, in unguarded moments, an almost wistful expression. Listen to yourself. Manufacturing high drama about a virtual stranger. She allowed herself a slight chuckle. He was a very attractive virtual stranger.

      She laid her head back on the seat. She hadn’t had much opportunity since the deaths of Tami and Rich to think about men. The suddenness of their loss had devastated the family, particularly Nicky. With the upheaval of moving into her sister and brother-in-law’s home and the radical adjustment both she and Nicky had had to make—were still making—her personal life had been subsumed. In the past few months, except for the rare date, she had been most decidedly out of the singles’ loop. She shook her head. Darn Tony Urbanski’s memorable eyes and engaging grin!

      She struggled against a sudden, unbidden memory. John and the shock of his departure. She didn’t want to recall the pain and betrayal of discovering that the one man she’d thought she loved—her fiancé, for heaven’s sake—couldn’t handle her changed circumstances after Tami’s and Rich’s deaths. What kind of relationship couldn’t survive the addition of one small, heartbroken boy? Looking back, she wondered how she could ever have thought she knew John, much less loved him!

      On the bright side, she was proud of the success she’d made of her store and the concept of combining the sale of children’s books with that of toys, clothes and other products related to familiar stories and poems. Yet there was lingering guilt that she’d had to use some of Tami’s and Rich’s assets as collateral for a bank loan.

      The train rattled and bumped along the tracks. Outside, the smoke-begrimed brick of old warehouses and factories passed in a blur, slowly giving way to the fine old buildings and stately trees of the Heights area. When she’d called the shop during the afternoon recess, Phil had assured her the day had gone smoothly. She was lucky to have him, she thought, both as an employee and as a friend.

      By the time she reached the Shaker Square station and climbed into her parked car, it was nearly dark. She’d made arrangements for Nicky’s grandparents, Claudia and Bert Porter, to pick Nicky up at school and keep him until she could swing by. As usual, they were delighted to spend time with him.

      Why, even after all these months, couldn’t she shake the fear that one day they’d take Nicky from her? The Porters had not been happy to learn Tami and Rich had named her Nicholas’s guardian in their will. They’d stopped short of fighting her in court, but they took no pains to conceal their disappointment about not having custody of their grandson. She walked on eggshells around the two, and their disapproval settled heavily on her. It was as if they were just waiting for her to make a misstep.

      It took ten minutes through heavy traffic to reach their imposing home on the southeast edge of Shaker Heights. The gardener was just loading his rakes into a dilapidated pickup when she pulled into the driveway. With the sunset, the air had turned chilly, and she hurried to the back door. Claudia, a denim apron covering her color-coordinated burgundy wool skirt and cashmere sweater, greeted her. “Hello, Andrea.” As usual she sniffed out the name. “You’re just in time. Dinner will be ready shortly.”

      Dinner? All Andrea wanted to do was go home, nuke some leftover meat loaf and curl up on the sofa in her sweats, not sit stiffly in the Porters’ formal dining room engaging in stilted conversation and listening to Claudia remind Nicky about table manners as if he’d never had any instruction in the social graces. Her jaw ached. “Where’s Nicky?”

      Claudia turned to the six-burner stove and began stirring the gravy. “Up in Richard’s bedroom with his grandfather.”

      She should have guessed. Bert and Claudia had made a shrine of their only child’s room. She shrugged out of her coat and laid it carefully over the back of a kitchen stool. “I think I’ll go say hello unless there’s something I can help you with.”

      Claudia’s spine straightened. “No, thank you. On your way upstairs, dear, would you please hang your wrap in the guest coat closet?”

      Heaven forbid I clutter the spotless kitchen. Andrea escaped down the hall, the ritual offer of help having been refused, as always. What could an unmarried businesswoman who grabbed takeout on the way home from work possibly know about gourmet cooking?

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