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Shuffling noises follow, then a man's voice comes on the line. "What's going on, Deb?"
"Lachlan MacTaggart is on the phone. I've got him on speaker, honey, so you can talk to him too. He says Erica is in trouble."
"What have you done to my little girl?" Frank Teague demands.
"I haven't rung you to talk about my relationship with Erica. As I told your wife, Erica is in serious legal trouble, and she needs you both. Please, you must go to Chicago. I will pay for your airline tickets. Say you'll do this—for Erica, not for me."
"A strange man calls and orders us to do stuff for him," Frank says. "Yeah, that's not suspicious at all."
"Please, Mr. Teague. I willnae hang up until you both agree to go to Erica. I'll pay for you to fly first class."
"First class?" Deb says. "We can't say no to that. Can we, Frank? Besides, if there's even a sliver of a chance that Erica really is in trouble, we can't not go."
"Guess not. Okay, Lachlan, buy us those plane tickets."
"I'll ring you back as soon as I've arranged for your flight."
We say goodbye, and relief rushes through me so powerfully that I drop onto the nearest chair and let out the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. Erica won't be alone. At least I've done that much for her.
How long do I need to wait for Erica to recover from what I've done to her?
Mrs. Teague texts me the next morning to let me know they have arrived in Chicago. Erica will have someone there to support her through her ordeal. Rory rings me that afternoon with assurances that Erica's legal problems are solvable and he and his associates are working on it. Rory has no employees, but he's cultivated a network of professionals who help each other on tough cases. He even knows a bloke at the Home Office.
A few days after Erica's parents arrived in Chicago, I get an email from FedEx informing me that my package has been delivered to Erica. Will she even open the envelope? It has my name in the return address, after all. Maybe I should've written something poetic and full of emotional rubbish, but I couldn't make myself do that. It's too soon, isn't it? I kept my message short and to the point.
I'm sorry, it said.
My note had been accompanied by a sprig of bell heather—Erica cinerea. I hope she remembers the flower's name and understands its meaning. Though I want to know that she understood, it's still too soon to ring her or email her or show up on her doorstep.
But heaven help me, I want to do that so badly that restraining the impulse hurts deep inside me.
A few hours later, Deb Teague rings me.
"How is Erica?" I ask before she can speak.
"She's doing all right, considering. Your note and flower made her cry."
"I shouldn't have sent it. Sorry. I'm no good at figuring out what women want."
Mrs. Teague laughs, but it's an affectionate sound. "Crying means she loved it, Lachlan. Trust me. If she hated your guts, she would've burned the flower and the note, then poured holy water on the ashes."
"I see." No, I don't, but it would be impolite to question her statement. At least Erica doesn't despise me, apparently. "Thank you for calling to let me know, Mrs. Teague."
"Call me Deb. Though I have a feeling you'll be calling me Mom before long."
"Not sure about that. Erica shouldn't forgive, even if she wants to."
"Unless you framed her for a crime, you deserve forgiveness for whatever happened between you two." She pauses as if she's deciding how to phrase her next words. "Erica loves you, Lachlan. Anyone can see that. Just give it time."
"I'm trying to do that."
"Good. In the meantime, you can call me and Frank anytime for Erica updates or just to talk."
"Would every day be too often?"
She laughs again. "Call us five times a day, I don't mind. Frank might give up after a while and go watch TV, but I'd love to listen to your voice all day long."
I can't help chuckling. "Thank you, Deb. You and Frank have been kinder to me than you should, but I appreciate it."
