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JULIETTE
“Ms. Sullivan,” I said, as we stood in the parking lot of the station, surrounded by cars and bird poop. “I can’t thank you enough. You made a miracle happen—”
“No,” Nora said, sliding her briefcase onto the hood of her car. She turned to face me, unbuttoning her sleeves and rolling them up her arms in the midday sun. “He was scared of what he didn’t know. I just told him the truth and let him make up his mind. I didn’t let him dictate my actions.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was—”
“Scared. Like the kid. I understand. Trust me, I do.” Oddly enough, I had the sense that Nora did understand. “It is not my job to hurt kids or to break up families. I have to make every reasonable effort to prevent removal of children from their homes. It’s my job to keep kids safe, and to that end, I appreciate what you’ve done. As wholly misguided and illegal as it was.”
“You’re not what I expected,” I said.
“I get that a lot. Look, call my office tomorrow and we’ll set up some meetings.” Nora tilted her head slightly, regarding me carefully. “You and Miguel appear to be close.”
I nodded, leaning against her car, not feeling as if I was under scrutiny anymore. Feeling more as though I had found a powerful ally. “He and his sister are special kids. They just need someone to care.” I let that sink in for a moment.
“You should consider being a foster parent,” she suggested.
“Me?” I asked, the idea shocking the hell out of me, so much so that I said the most asinine thing that sprang into my head. “I’m not married—”
“You don’t need to be,” Nora said. “You need to meet the qualifications and fill out the application. I would be willing to write you a letter of recommendation.”
I gaped. “You would? But the letter in my file—”
“Will still be there, with some qualifications.” She lifted a finger. “We’re a small parish and I’ve got seventeen kids in eight foster homes. We’re strapped. And a woman like you is the kind of person we need. Someone who cares enough to put the kids first. With some training and some help, you’ll be perfect. And considering that Miguel and Louisa have a fairly high likelihood of being put into foster care, it would be good to have them placed with someone they know and trust.”
“But you said you knew of someone who would take them both.”
Nora’s smile was sly and realization dawned.
“That’s sneaky. What if I didn’t want to be a foster parent?”
“I have a hunch about you, Chief Tremblant,” she said, and opened up her briefcase while I turned over the idea in my head.
It was nothing I had ever considered. Ever. But I would know that Miguel and Louisa were safe, that they had a future they deserved and that I would be a part of it.
Thinking of watching them grow up, being privy to their lives, their adulthood, thrilled me, filled me with a big fat warm glow.
And then of course, maybe, in time—twenty or so years—I could win back Miguel’s trust.
“Think about it,” Nora said, handing me a blue folder with the words So You’re Thinking About Being a Foster Parent? printed on the front.
I am? The idea took hold, gripping me with such force I wanted to shout.
Yes. I am.
Later that week, my father Jasper Tremblant was staring down at the low-fat, low-sodium, low-taste gumbo I had made for our monthly dinner.
“This isn’t étoufé,” he said.
“Étoufé is all butter, Dad.”
“When it’s done right, yeah.” Dad looked affronted and I tried hard not to sigh. I spread my napkin over my lap and scooted in closer to the dining room table.
Aside from these monthly dinners, the napkins were usually balled up in a drawer and the table was lost under books and bills. But Dad liked a little pomp and circumstance. Or maybe he expected it. Or maybe I thought he liked it and so I did it.
I didn’t know anymore.
All I was truly aware of was the slight dread I felt about these nights. The apprehension that had long ago replaced any of the excitement I might have felt.
While I’d swept the floors, and cleared off my dining-room table, I’d wondered if this was how every woman of a certain age felt about her father.
Or if I and Dad were just special.
I’d wondered if things would be different if Mom were still around, but somehow I doubted it.
“Butter is off the menu, should have been a long time ago. I’m just trying to help you take better care of yourself.” I dug into my dinner—if he didn’t eat it, fine. Whatever. I couldn’t make him do anything. He was an adult, even though he didn’t always act like it.
