The Knight, the Waitress and the Toddler Read online

  “Oh, they’ve tried,” Fancy said. “They hunt him up and take him home, dry him out, get him to see a doctor. He goes along for a few days, and then he just disappears again. It’s like the streets just call to him, poor soul.”

  “He sure is taken with you,” Laurel pointed out wryly.

  “Aw, I just remind him of better times.”

  “I guess.”

  Several seconds passed in blessed silence. A couple got up from the center booth, tossed some bills on the table and moved toward the door.

  “Y’all come back!” Fancy called to them. They raised hands in acknowledgment. Fancy pulled a nickel from her apron pocket and slapped it onto the counter in front of Laurel. “I’ll flip you. Loser cleans the table.”

  “Split the tip?” Laurel asked.

  Fancy dropped a hand negatively. “Honey, if you clean that table, it’s all yours.”

  Laurel would rather have cut off her nose than clean that table, but she needed the money. Old Plug wasn’t the only one whose life had taken an uncertain turn. If anyone had told her even a year ago that she’d be scrubbing tables for loose change, she’d have laughed in that one’s face. A Heffington clearing tables? Preposterous! Only, it wasn’t, of course. With a sigh, she reached down to yank loose the ties of her shoe and slip it back on. While she was bent over, tying them, Fancy groaned and muttered out of the side of her mouth. “Oh, no.”

  “Darn,” Laurel muttered, realizing from Fancy’s exclamation and the soft tinkle of bells that a new customer had come in. She looked up quickly to see which table the customer would take and her heart stopped. “Oh, my word, it’s him!”

  “Who?”

  “Him. Edward White, the attorney.”

  Fancy eyed him boldly. “Mercy me, he’s a big one, ain’t he?”

  Laurel didn’t answer. She couldn’t. What if he’d come to tell her that he wouldn’t take her case? She gulped. Fancy gave her a little shove. “Well, go on. I’ll clean that table. You find out what he’s got to say.”

  Laurel nodded and hurried around the counter, patting her hair down with her hands. She licked her lips as he caught sight of her and turned, looking rather awkward there in the small diner in his baggy, expensive suit Laurel put out her hand as she approached. “Mr. White.” Her voice sounded breathless and small.

  “Ms., uh…I can’t call you Laurel if you go on calling me Mr. White,” he said almost reluctantly.

  She smiled, hoping this was a good sign. Why would he care what she called him in the future if no future relationship existed? “Edward, then? Or Ed?”

  He shrugged. “Either one. Um, can we talk?”

  “A-all right. Why don’t we sit down?” She indicated a booth in the center of the long row opposite the counter. Edward White nodded and stepped to the side, lifting a hand to assist her as she slipped into place. Only after she was seated did he place his briefcase on the table and slide in across from her. Knowing that Fancy was watching, Laurel glanced over her shoulder and saw Fancy lift an eyebrow as if to say that she was impressed. And you don’t know the half of it, Laurel thought. That kiss she had kept entirely to herself.

  “Well?” she asked, both impatient and reluctant to hear his decision.

  He didn’t look at her, just took out a legal pad and a cheap ink pen and wrote the date at the top of the page. “I find it a good practice to make notes during consultation. Is that all right with you?” he asked mildly.

  It wasn’t quite what she’d expected, but that didn’t matter. She nodded. “Certainly.”

  He still didn’t look up at her. Pen poised over the paper, he asked, “Is there any chance you’ll reconcile with your exhusband?”

  The question was so unexpected, so unlikely that she couldn’t quite believe she’d heard him correctly. “What?” It came out almost as a laugh.

  He began repeating himself slowly. “Is there any chance that you will reconcile with your ex—”

  “No! And I can’t believe you’re even asking!”

  He looked up at her then, doubt evident in his eyes. “You’re sure?”

  Laurel sat back and folded her arms. “Let me guess. You talked to Bryce, and he declared his undying love and begged you to convince me to take him back.”

  Edward rolled the pen into the palm of his hand, closing his fist around it so that only the tip and the round blue stopper in the other end showed. “Something like that.”

  Laurel shook her head, disappointed in a way that she hadn’t expected. “I can’t believe you bought into his act. He tells everyone that he’s desperately in love with me. He begs them to tell him where I am or to get me to talk to him. Then in private he threatens me. He tells me how lucky I am that he’d have me to begin with and that if I knew what was good for me, I’d just shut up and accept the fact that I’m a dismal failure.”

  Edward White’s pale blue eyes had gone narrow. “He threatens you?”

  She had to backtrack, blinking rapidly as her own words replayed in her ears. Threats. She sighed. “He likes to remind me how easily he could break my bones if he chose to.”

  “That son of a—” He bit off the rest of it, took a deep breath and said, “He’s threatened to ‘break your bones’?”

  She shrugged, torn between pleasure at his obvious concern for her and discomfort with the subject at hand. “I’m not really sure he’d do it,” she admitted. “Not anymore.”

  His hands folded into fists beneath his elbows. Huge fists. “He’s hurt you before?”

  She dropped her gaze so that he couldn’t see how she coveted the strength in that pair of fists. A man with fists like that could kill a woman—or protect her from every danger. She sensed that for Edward White only the latter would be an option, and she found a certain comfort in that. “He’s only hit me a couple times,” she said, “and when Kennison found out, they argued about it. I couldn’t hear anything they were saying because they locked me out of the room, but they were shouting, and it was obvious that Kennison was enraged because of it. Afterward, Bryce apologized and promised not to do it again, but when Kennison left, he said one day he’d give me everything I had coming and Kennison wouldn’t say a word. I’m pretty sure it’s a bluff, but he uses every opportunity to remind me what he can do.”

  “When was the last time he threatened you?”

  “Immediately after the divorce was granted.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I moved.”

  He muttered something under his breath and lifted a hand to push his hair off his forehead. It fell forward again immediately and he batted it impatiently out of his eyes.

  “You know,” Laurel said lightly, “you wouldn’t have to do that if you got a good haircut.”

  His dark brows drew together. “What’s wrong with my haircut?”

  Her answer was confident, for this was one thing about which she knew a great deal. “Well, for one thing it’s out of style.”

  He made a face. “I don’t have time to worry about what’s in style and what isn’t.”

  “Of course you don’t,” she agreed smoothly. “That’s what your hairstylist is for. He or she should keep on top of the latest styles and be able to suggest one that’s right for you.”

  “I don’t have a stylist,” he grumbled. “I use a good old-fashioned barber—when I have the time.”

  “Ummm.” She wouldn’t say that it showed. She didn’t have to. After a few silent moments during which frustration got the better of him, he thrust his hand through his hair again and sent her a glower that seemed to signal some kind of surrender.

  “Okay, okay, in detail, what sort of hairstyle should I be wearing?”

  She smiled, warming to the subject. “Well, it should be shorter, definitely shorter, especially on the sides.”

  “I hope you’re not talking about one of those buzz cuts.”

  She laughed. “Hardly. But it should be short enough that it needs trimming every week to two weeks to keep it in shape. And the top sh
ould be no longer than an inch at the crown, graduating to maybe two inches right in front. Then you just spritz a little dollop of mousse in your palm—and you just kind of shape it right here like this.” Reaching across the table, she demonstrated by raking her fingers through the hair at the top of his forehead. His thick caramel brown hair was roughly textured, almost springy to the touch, yet without a hint of curl. She pulled her hand away. “Actually, you might not need the mousse. Just comb it up and let it dry or blow it that direction with a gun-type dryer.”

  “I’ll, um, remember that,” he said, avoiding her gaze and patting down his hair where she had ruffled it. He opened his briefcase and stowed away the pad and pen, saying, “Listen, about Miller…He tried to get me to tell him where you lived, but I didn’t. Not that it matters, really, because if he truly wanted to know where to find you, he could easily enough. Trust me on this.”

  “All right,” she said. “So what should I do? Move again?”

  He shook his head. “No, that’s temporary protection at best. I’ll have a talk with Kennison, let him know that Miller’s straining at the leash. Abe’s too smart not to reel him in. But if he makes another one of these threats, we’re going to the police. Understand?”

  She was genuinely surprised. “I thought the police could only get involved if he actually followed through.”

  He lifted one shoulder in a noncommittal shrug. “Technically, there’s not much they can do, but keeping them apprised of his threats serves several purposes. One, if the worst does happen and he actually follows through, the authorities will tend to act more quickly and take the situation more seriously than if it comes to them out of the blue. Also, we may have to build a case for harassment later, and complaints to the police could be a very powerful tool for our use. In essence, we’re documenting his abuse through a fairly impeachable source. Plus, once he knows he’s been reported, he might back off. Just the threat of prosecution might be all the protection you need.”

  She nodded. “I understand.”

  “Good. Now this doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t take routine precautions to protect yourself. Just don’t move without telling me first. Okay?”

  “Does this mean that you’re taking my case?” she asked finally.

  He immediately began hedging. “I didn’t say that. I’m still investigating. Once I’m reasonably assured of success…Well, let’s cross that bridge when we come to it, shall we?”

  She nodded, disappointed in spite of the good advice she’d just received—and given. He closed his briefcase again, this time with every indication of leaving. Suddenly she didn’t want him to go. “Can I get your anything? A cup of coffee? A sandwich?”

  He shook his head, glancing at his wristwatch. “No, thanks. I have an appointment downtown in a few minutes.”

  “All work and no play,” she began, reciting Parker Sugarman’s words, then wisely cutting them off.

  Edward lifted a brow censoriously as he slid out of his side of the booth. “Well, if I’m working long hours, then so are you.”

  “Yes, but I have to,” she pointed out. “I have to support my— m-myself.”

  “And I don’t?” he retorted, completely missing her little slip of the tongue.

  “But you make so much more money than I do,” she argued lamely, sorry she’d ever broached the matter.

  “Not in this case, I don’t,” he pointed out wryly. “Not yet and maybe not at all.”

  “I see,” she said quietly, embarrassed by the obvious. To her surprise, he immediately took pity on her.

  “Hey, I didn’t mean anything by that.”

  “Of course not,” she said blithely. “After all, I did offer to…" She swallowed the reference to marriage at the last moment. “That is, I—I’m very grateful for the time you’ve given me, and I—I hope it won’t be for nothing.”

  He smiled—sort of. It could have been an uncertain grimace. “No problem.” He got quickly to his feet, saying, “You know to call me immediately if you hear from Bryce, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine. I’ll be in touch.” With that he left her, shouldering his way through interior and exterior doors to the parking lot

  She rose wearily, uncertain whether she was relieved or just exhausted. It was no surprise when Fancy appeared at her elbow.

  “So what’d he say?”

  Laurel was suddenly too weary to relate the details. “Suffice it to say, maybe I didn’t blow it after all.”

  “Yeah?” Fancy gushed. “He’s gonna take the case?”

  “Well, at least he hasn’t said no yet,” Laurel told her dryly.

  Fancy waggled her hand-drawn brows. “Maybe that marriage proposal wasn’t such a bad idea, after all.”

  Laurel could only smile wanly and shake her head, weary to her bones.

  “Listen,” Fancy said, taking pity on her. “You go on home to that little boy. I can close here by myself. I’ll make Plug help.”

  Laurel laughed at the very idea, but she was just too tired to argue. “Thanks, Fancy. I owe you.” It wasn’t the first time.

  Kennison greeted Edward like a fond uncle.

  “Edward, my boy, how good to see you again!”

  Edward clapped a palm heartily against Kennison’s soft, pale one and pumped his arm enthusiastically, fighting a grin as the older man fought against showing pain at the fierceness of his grip. After several seconds, Edward took pity and released him.

  “Have a seat, won’t you?”

  Edward waited until the tall, dignified, silver-haired man lowered himself into the imposing chair behind his desk before filling a much smaller one in front of it.

  “Now,” Kennison said, every inch the elder statesman, “how may I help you?”

  Using the nickname that he knew Kennison hated, Edward smiled and got right to the point. “Well, Abe, I’m after some information. A young woman named Laurel Heffington Miller came to see me the other day. It seems she’s in a rather odd position. Somehow, her exhusband managed to gain control of every one of her assets during their divorce, and naturally she’d like them back.”

  Kennison spread his hands, not quite able to suppress a smile of such smugness that Edward had to physically restrain himself from removing it. “I realize how it must look,” he said smoothly, “but Mr. Miller really does have his wife’s—”

  “Ex-wife’s.”

  “Ex-wife’s best interests at heart.”

  “And would you care to explain those ‘best interests’ to me?”

  Kennison’s lips quirked. Edward had the unmistakable impression that he was enjoying himself. “Well, I’m not sure I can do that. It’s unethical, you know, to betray a client’s confidence.”

  “She’s not your client,” Edward pointed out succinctly.

  Kennison pursed his lips. “True. All right, then. It certainly can’t hurt Mr. Miller’s position.” He made a great display of composing himself and choosing his words, as if he hadn’t been bursting to blab this from the moment Ed had mentioned Laurel’s name. Finally he took a deep breath. “Poor Bryce really has no other choice. Mrs. Miller, she isn’t…responsible.”

  “Responsible,” Edward repeated, waiting for the rest and knowing that he wasn’t going to like hearing it.

  “Frankly,” said Kennison, “she’s unstable.”

  “Oh, really?” Edward smiled and shook his head, playing it as if for a jury. “Funny, she seemed stable enough to me.” Or did she?

  Kennison’s smile brimmed with pity. “That’s because you aren’t acquainted with her history.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” Ed said, as if only then remembering. “You represented her grandmother, didn’t you?”

  “I did.” He bounced the tip of one finger against his chin contemplatively, as if deciding how much to tell. “I always felt rather sorry for young Laurel,” he finally said. “Virdel Heffington was an autocratic, stubborn old woman to whom consequence was everything. Her mother, Virginia, was the daughter of
a Louisiana shrimper, but Delbert, her father, had some pretensions to greatness. It was rumored, but never substantiated, that he was a direct descendant of Sam Houston, and that was reason enough in his mind to gain his daughter entry into the homes of the finest families in the state. I understand that she was rather brash and obvious, but she was also very beautiful, and eventually she made herself a good marriage.”

  “To Mason Heffington.”

  “Correct. And as with so many pretenders, she became more protective of her social position than the true elite. She produced the requisite heir, then set about making herself the queen of Dallas society. That was her work, promoting the Heffington name, sustaining the aura of Texas ‘royalty’ with which she cloaked herself. I think she came to believe her own press, as it were.”

  “And how did this affect Laurel?” Edward prodded, more than a little interested in the tale. Moreover, he sensed that every word of it, so far, was fact.

  Kennison spread his patrician, manicured hands. “In every possible way. Virdel, whose name was a combination of both her parents, controlled every aspect of her granddaughter’s life. Laurel’s father was only too willing to relinquish his daughter to her direction. It freed him to travel the globe in search of entertainment. Her mother was a biddable, appallingly stupid woman who repeatedly succumbed to her husband’s expectations and demands. And Laurel, like everyone else, fell far short of her grandmother’s standards, something I’m sure Virdel never let her forget. It was an unhealthy situation. It should come as no surprise that Laurel developed certain, er, abnormal behaviors.”

  Like asking virtual strangers to marry her, said an alarmist voice inside Edward’s mind. He shifted uncomfortably, dreading what was yet to come but resigned to it. Since his interview with Bryce Miller, he had suspected what tack Kennison was prepared to take in order to retain control of the Heffington millions, but he needed confirmation. More than that, he required a peek at the opposition’s ammunition. “What ‘abnormal behaviors’ would those be?” he asked, never doubting that Kennison could and would tell him.