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“Your hobbies,” she told him, surprised to find just how much she did want to know. That and everything else about him.
It had been a while since she’d had a close friend. She could be forgiven for finding the experience addictive.
“I don’t have any.”
Other than tennis. Which he’d already told her he hadn’t played in years until she came along. And now he only played it with her.
“None?” What kind of person had no hobbies?
Except maybe her ex-husband. Work, getting ahead at any cost to anyone, had been Thomas’s all-consuming pastime.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Seemed like a waste of energy.”
Turning off the light in her room, she returned to the floor, watching the moonbeam that pierced her wall of windows and landed on the navy carpet. An Enya CD was playing softly in the background, partly as a camouflage for her voice if the boys awoke, mostly to soothe the tension that had caused several restless nights in a row.
“What do you do for fun?” she asked in spite of his obvious desire to talk about something else.
“Spend my days with kids.”
Great answer. And no answer at all.
“You don’t watch movies, you don’t have a hobby. What happens on weekends when you don’t have basketball films to watch?” She had no idea why she was pushing this. Except that the darkness and the privacy of the telephone—where she was just a voice talking to another voice—gave her a sense of protection. Enough to take the chance.
“I wait for Monday.”
He didn’t sound the least bit sad about that. But his response brought tears to her eyes.
THE REPORT WAS WAITING for her when she got off the bench Monday afternoon. Abraham hadn’t shown up for school, and the principal’s office, upon receiving no answer at home, had called Diane Moore. The probation officer had called Abraham’s caseworker from Child Protective Services. When they’d arrived at the home, Abraham was there, as was his mother. The boy had been in bed, the covers up to his neck, apparently suffering from flu.
But when Abraham moved, the C.P.S. officer had seen bruises.
Carla Billings had been questioned about her order to call the school anytime Abraham was absent. She said she’d meant to. Asked why she hadn’t answered the phone, the response had been that she hadn’t heard it ring.
Her son was on probation, in danger of being removed from her home, and she hadn’t been able to do any better than she’d “meant to.”
“I want them both in my courtroom first thing tomorrow morning,” Valerie told Leah.
Abraham’s probation officer would make the call, ordering Carla to bring her son to court. There would be no reason given—a status hearing, under the circumstances, was not unheard of—because Valerie wasn’t going to risk giving Carla a chance to take the boy and run.
In the morning, the woman would no longer have the chance.
As of tomorrow, Valerie—the Arizona court—was going to be Abraham’s guardian. The thought left her feeling slightly sick.
And Kirk Chandler would never understand.
KIRK TRIED SEVERAL TIMES to call Valerie on Monday night. He couldn’t leave a message at home in case her boys picked up. And although he’d left a message on her cell phone, he knew she rarely had it on when she was with her sons.
“Damn.” He slammed his fist against the pantry door in his sinfully large kitchen. Frustrated. Concerned. And uncharacteristically helpless. Kirk Chandler had a contact list long enough to fill a book. And no one to call.
Worse, he had no knowledge upon which to draw.
Grabbing his cell phone from the built-in counter desk next to the pantry, he punched the automatic dial.
“This better be good, buddy. It’s after midnight here.”
