“Maybe it's just as well I'm leaving town.” But Phila's instincts told her Ruth Spalding was not the real threat.
“I agree. Go off to the coast, friend, and see if you can't get that old gleam back in your eye.”
“I didn't know I had an old gleam to recover.” Phila smiled.
“You do, you know. In fact, I think I detect a few returning sparks already. You look a lot better than you did a couple of weeks ago.”
“Thanks. I think.” Phila drew a deep breath. “Thelma, I'm a little scared.”
“Leaving a career is always a little scary,” Thelma said gently.
“I feel I'm changing more than just a career. I think I'm changing my whole life, and I can't see what the new direction is going to be.”
“You're strong, kiddo. Don't ever forget that. Want some advice, though?”
“Sure. You're one of the few people whose advice I trust and you know it.”
“Choose carefully when you choose your next line of work. You were a good caseworker, one of the best, but you were a maverick. An urban guerrilla trying to work within the system. You were always twisting, bending and pushing the rules. That can be very frustrating after a while.”
Phila wrinkled her nose. “I hadn't realized you noticed.”
Thelma shrugged. “I let most of it go by because I wanted the results I knew you could get. But that's a hard way to work. Hard on you. I don't think you were really cut out to work in a bureaucratic system of any kind, let alone one like ours where you can see your failures in a string of little ruined lives. But you're a born crusader. A rescuer of others. it's your nature, Phila. It's one of your strengths. It's also your greatest weakness. Take that into consideration when you go job hunting again.”
Later that evening Phila finished packing the last of her things and stood surveying the little house she had been renting for the past two years. It had been the closest thing to a home she'd had since the day her grandmother died. It hurt now to see her once cozy retreat looking empty and lifeless.
There would be another house, she told herself. That was one of the things you learned in foster care. There was always another house. And one of these days she would have one that really belonged to her; a real home. For keeps.
She was taking very little with her, just her personal belongings and the books she could not bear to give away. Most of the furniture and kitchenware had been put into storage. The phone would be disconnected in the morning.
Phila realized she did not even know where she would be living a month or two from now. She felt as though she were starting over from scratch, and she knew that was the way it had to be.
She had closed the door on her career as a social worker the day she had testified at the Spalding trial. She could no longer lay claim to being a professional, and she knew it. Everything for which she had trained and worked was over.
The stupid tears started to burn in her eyes again. She dashed them away with the back of her hand just as the phone rang. Grateful for the interruption, she snatched up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Hello.” Nick Lightfoot's voice was as calm and quiet over the phone as it was in person. “I called to see how the packing was going.”
“It's done. I'll be leaving tomorrow.” Phila sank down onto a suitcase, clutching the receiver. For some silly reason she no longer felt like crying. “Don't worry, I'll be in Port Claxton on the Fourth.”
“Got a pen? I'll give you directions to the cottages.”
“Yes. Yes, I've got one here somewhere.” She fumbled for a pen and a pad of paper in her purse, hoping it would take him a long time to give her the directions. She wanted companionship tonight, any companionship, even that of a Lightfoot. “All right, go ahead.”
Nick gave her directions in a crisp, well-organized fashion that made her realize he was, by nature, a very methodical, organized man. She would have to keep that in mind, she told herself. Methodical, organized, conservative thinkers rarely did things without specific reasons. Definitely not impulsive types.
When he was finished, she dropped the pad back into her purse and tried to think of some way to keep the conversation going. There was a long silence on the other end of the line.
“What are you doing?” she finally asked, somewhat inanely.
“Right now? Taking care of some things here at the office in Santa Barbara so I can leave town for a few weeks without worrying too much about Lightfoot Consulting Services falling apart.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Not too exciting.”
“About on a par with packing.”
“Yeah. What did you have for dinner?”
“Nothing. There's nothing left in the house to eat.”
Nick muttered something that sounded like an oath. “Why don't you go into town and have a burger or something?”
“I'm not hungry.”
“Promise me you'll have breakfast before you start the drive to Port Claxton tomorrow, okay?”
“Why should I promise you that?”
“Humor me. I get the feeling you don't eat properly.”
She was not up to arguing. “All right, all right, I'll have breakfast. Satisfied?”
“For now. I'll see you soon, Phila. Good night.”
“Good night.” Reluctantly she put the phone back in the cradle. Her stomach rumbled. It occurred to her that she was a little hungry, after all. Maybe she would run into town and grab a burger.
Phila was still sitting on her suitcase, feeling bemused and confused and wondering how hungry she really was, when the phone rang again. She jumped and picked up the receiver, ruefully aware that she was half hoping Nick had thought of some small twist in his directions that needed to be explained in greater detail.
“Hello?”
“It's not over, you bitch, just because you're leaving. It's not over. You lied. You lied about my husband. He's in prison because you lied. They took away the children. All the children are gone and my man is in prison because of your lies. You've ruined everything—”
Phila cringed and gently lowered the phone back into its cradle, cutting off Ruth Spalding's sobbing accusations.
CHAPTER FOUR
It was not the first time Phila had stood at the gate and stared through the bars at a large family party that didn't include her. She and Crissie had spent most of their teenage years knowing what it was to be on the outside looking in.
But Phila had to admit this was the first time she'd stood outside such an elegant gate or observed such a huge bash. When the Lightfoots and Castletons celebrated the Fourth of July, they went all out. It looked to Phila as if the entire town of Port Claxton had been invited.
She curled her fingers around the wrought-iron bars and stared at the festive scene. The sweeping expanse of incredibly green lawn was filled with people in shorts, halter tops, short-sleeved shirts and jeans. Four long barbecue pits had been set up, manned by a team of professional-looking chefs. The fragrance of broiling steaks and hamburgers wafted through the air. Ears of corn on the cob wrapped in aluminum foil were sunk deep into hot coals. Massive bowls of potato salad, pickles and relish were arranged on side tables. Beer and soft drinks were being dispensed under a striped awning.
All very patriotic and traditional and, done on this scale, very expensive.
Two stately homes with long, graceful porticos dominated the crest of the hill above the lawn. Behind them was a sloping, wooded hillside that fronted the wide expanse of beach.
The Lightfoot and Castleton beach cottages were each two stories high and painted a fresh, crisp, classic white. The charming, multi-paned windows had dark green shutters. Phila could see green porch swings behind the columns of the porticos. She just knew there wouldn't be a stick of furniture inside that dated from any later than 1850.
For a minute she thought she must have taken a wrong turn and wound up in the wrong place and the wrong year. Virginia, say. Or Maryland, sometime in the early eighteen-hundreds.
The biggest American flag Phila had ever seen waved from the top of a tall flagpole set in front of the two homes.
“May I help you, ma'am?”
It wasn't a polite inquiry; it was a direct challenge. Phila jumped as the masculine voice cracked behind her. She whirled around, half expecting to find herself facing a uniformed guard armed with a high-powered rifle and a big dog.
What she saw was a heavily built bald man in a truly spectacular aloha shirt. The shirt, colorful though it was, did not reassure her. All her ingrained animosity toward people who thought they could tell her what to do rose to the fore.
“Help me?” she repeated sweetly. “I doubt it. You don't look like the helpful type.” She swung around to continue staring through the bars at the Castleton-Lightfoot Fourth of July picnic.
“This party isn't open to tourists, just local residents, and I sure don't recognize you, ma'am. You'll have to be on your way.”
“It's all right, General, I'm here at the request of his lordship.” Phila didn't turn around again.
“What's this lordship crap? Cut the comedy, sister, and move your little ass on out of here. This is private property. No one goes through those gates unless they're local residents or friends of the families.”
A palm the size and weight of a steer carcass closed around her shoulder.
Phila lost her temper. She tried to shrug off the heavy palm and failed. That only made her angrier. “Take your hand off me, you big ape. I told you, I've got an engraved invitation.”
“Is that right? Then suppose you show it to me?”
Phila looked up into a face dominated by a nose that had obviously been broken more than once. A thin, severe little mustache crowned the man's tight lips. There was something in his painfully upright posture that clued her in.
“Ex-Marine, right?” she hazarded.
“For your information, ma'am, there ain't no such thing as an ex-Marine. A Marine's a Marine till the day he dies.”
“How unfortunate for you,” Phila retorted. “That will certainly be a terrible burden for you to carry the rest of your life.”
A dark red flush rose beneath the man's leathery tan. The severe little mustache twitched, and the beady eyes bulged with outrage. “Why you smart-mouthed little—”
“Take your hands off me this instant or I'll get myself an ACLU lawyer and sue you from here to the shores of Tripoli!”
“Is that right? Well, I might as well give you something to sue about.” Without any warning, he put his huge hands around her waist and tossed her over one massive shoulder.
Phila screeched at the top of her lungs, but apparently no one on the lush green lawn heard her above the general laughter and chatter. “Put me down or so help me I'll see you in jail.” She started pounding his back furiously with her fists. It was like hitting an elephant. He was not crushing her so she did not panic, but she fiercely resented the manhandling. “You're a perfect example of the sort of imbecile produced by this country's military mentality. Where did you come from? Some secret government breeding program that's run amok? Put me down.”
“Hello, Tec. I see she got to you real fast. She's good at that.”
“Nick!” Phila raised her head at the sound of the familiar—and infuriatingly calm—voice. “Thank heavens you're here. Do something quick. This jerk is crazy.”
“Sir. It's you, sir.” The ape sounded thrilled, Phila thought in disgust. “Welcome home, sir. We're damn glad to have you back again.”
Phila twisted frantically. “Nick, do something. Tell this monster to put me down. Then call the cops. This man is extremely dangerous. I want him arrested for assault.”
“Tec wouldn't hurt a fly unless he was really provoked,” Nick said casually. “Of course, if you're going to go around provoking people, you've got to expect some response, Phila.”
“I was not provoking him. I was standing on my constitutional rights, damn it. Make him put me down this instant or I'll sue Castleton & Lightfoot as well as this creep. I'm sure a good lawyer could prove that anybody who hired this guy was guilty of extremely bad judgment.”
“Holy shit, sir, this isn't her, is it? Is this that lady friend you told Harry you were bringin' with you?”
“I'm afraid so. Philadelphia Fox, allow me to present William Tecumseh Sherman. An old friend of the family. He's worked for the Lightfoots for years. Ever since he got out of the service, in fact.”
“Fire him,” Phila answered.
“You'd better give her to me, Tec. She gets a bit temperamental at times.”
“Sure thing, sir. Real sorry about the mistake.” Tec began to shift his burden. His hands went around Phila's waist and he lifted her off his shoulder. “I asked her who she was, and she just gave me some sass.”
“That sounds like her.”
“I was supposed to keep an eye on everyone who tried to get through the gates this year. Last year a couple of bikers tried to crash the party. Caused a little trouble before I could get rid of 'em.”
“Do I look like some kind of motorcycle mama, you idiot?” Phila closed her eyes as the sky spun overhead. She waited impatiently for her feet to touch the ground. She kept talking while she was in midair. “This is absolutely intolerable. I can't believe this man has kept a position with your family all these years, Nick. Do you people booby-trap your front lawn, too? Put alligators in swamps around the front door maybe? Are there any more military robots like this one hanging around? Uzi machine guns in the hall…Ooof! Nick!”
A second pair of large hands caught her around the waist, and the next thing Phila knew she was hanging over Nick's broad shoulder.
“I'm going to use my shares in Castleton & Lightfoot to drive both families into bankruptcy,” Phila swore.
“Take it easy, Phila. I'll handle it from here, Tec. See you a little later?”
“Yes, sir. You better believe it, sir. Sure is good to have you back.”
“Thank you, Tec. I wonder if the others will feel the same way.”
“I'm sure they will, sir. Not much doubt about it.”
From her upside-down position Phila caught the expression on Tec Sherman's face. He was grinning widely at Nick. This was one member of the clan who was apparently happy to see the prodigal son. Of course, she reminded herself, Tec wasn't exactly family. Just hired help.
“Put me down, Nick. The joke has gone far enough.” She saw the wrought-iron gates slip past her field of vision as Nick strode through them. When she looked down she saw a sea of deep, verdant green under his feet.
“This is the Fourth of July, Phila,” he explained. “You're supposed to have a little fun on the Fourth.”
“This is a Lightfoot's way of having fun? Manhandling innocent women?”
“I've never tried it before,” Nick said thoughtfully. His palm slid higher up along her jean-clad thigh. He squeezed gently. “It's not half bad.”
Before he could continue, another male voice interrupted. This voice was vaguely familiar. Rich, well modulated, very smooth. An excellent speaking voice that could make the listener believe anything. She had heard it once on the telephone. It belonged to Darren Castleton.
“Hey, Nick. What the hell have you got there? Your technique with the ladies undergone a few changes during the past three years?”
“I never did have your finesse, Darren.”
“That goes without saying. You're a Lightfoot, not a Castleton. But you sure as hell never used to go in for the kind you had to bring home over your shoulder. This one must be interesting.”
“She is.”
“Good to see you, Nick.” Darren's voice turned earnest. “Damn good. It's been too long.”
“I just hope it's been long enough.”
Phila felt Nick's right arm move from across the back of her thighs and she realized he was shaking hands with Darren. “If you two have finished the grand reunion, I would appreciate it if someone would let me stand on my own two feet.”
“I think sh
e's irritated, Nick.”
“Not my fault. She had a small altercation with Tec down at the front gate.” With an easy movement, Nick put Phila down and watched, grinning, as she pushed hair out of her eyes and straightened her fuchsia-and-green-print camp shirt. “Darren, meet Miss Philadelphia Fox.”
Phila glowered at the remarkably handsome man in front of her. He looked to be about the same age as Nick, but that was where the resemblance stopped. While Nick was big and solid and blunt of feature, Darren Castleton was graceful, lean and aristocratic.
There were just enough craggy edges on his fine features to save him from being pretty, Phila decided. He had the kind of teeth that would grace any campaign poster. His light brown hair and clear, blue eyes gave him the sort of all-American look that people tended to trust on sight.
There was, she had to admit, something quite attractive about Darren Castleton, something beyond the nice features and the charm. The word charisma came to mind when she realized she was smiling up at him. When he held out his hand, she took it.
“Hello, Mr. Castleton.”
“Darren,” he corrected instantly. His handshake was solid. “Glad to meet you, Phila. Sorry about whatever happened down at the gate. Tec tends to take his duties seriously.”
“It's probably the military mentality,” Phila explained. “It's a severe handicap.”
“You may be right.” Darren exchanged a quick grin with Nick.
“I guess the Castletons and Lightfoots suffer a lot from that sort of thing,” Phila murmured.
“Some of us endeavor to rise above it,” Darren said, still smiling.
Crissie had had little respect for males in general and had not dwelt on them in her correspondence or phone calls. Men were just creatures to be maniuplated when it was useful to do so. But she had made one or two observations about Darren Castleton that Phila remembered. They're talking about a political career for him, she had remarked. He'll probably be good at it. Endless teeth and a wife Eleanor handpicked especially for the job of being a politician's wife. Hilary says she's willing to have the families finance Darren's campaigns. Running for office takes a ton of money, she says, and lots of clout. The Lightfoots and Castletons have both.