“Thank you—so much.” Meg’s whisper drifted out in a rush of gratitude.
“My pleasure.” Jess eased into her chair with a sleeping baby in her arms.
“And mine,” Meg whispered to herself, leaving Jess to hum quietly to the little girl. She almost tiptoed down the long wooden hallway while a silly grin tickled her lips.
And sweet, sweet Ruby’s . . .
15
That’s it, then, Joe—the next time we meet, it’ll be for a settlement check long overdue.” Bram circled his desk to grip Joseph Monteleone’s hand as if they were old friends instead of merely attorney and client. He cuffed Joe’s frail shoulder, grateful the retired factory worker would finally be compensated for the limb he lost due to his employer’s negligence.
“Thank you, Mr. Hughes—I don’t know how we can ever repay you.”
“Your well-being and restitution is payment enough, Joe, and I already told you—we’re in this together, so it’s Bram, not Mr. Hughes.”
“Yes, sir,” Joe said with several bobs of his head, twisting a dog-eared hat in his hands. “Well, then, you can bet your last dollar that Helen and I will be praying for you, Mr. Bram, that God will bless you for all you’re doing for us.”
“He already has, Joe, but I welcome any and all prayers. Give Helen a hug for me, all right?” With a protective palm to Joe’s back, Bram ushered him to the door, pausing to squint at the shadow of a young lady in the dark hallway where the only light to be found was that which filtered out of open offices. His mouth sagged in surprise. “Meg? What are you doing here?”
She halted not ten feet away, eyes wide and the hallway shadows unable to hide her shock, which was clearly equal to his. She wagged the envelope with an open-mouthed smile. “I have a delivery for Mr. Wilson, but I could ask you the same thing, Mr. Hughes.”
Bram cleared his throat. “I’ll be in touch, Joe, when I receive the settlement.”
“Thank you, Bram. God bless.”
Joe shuffled down the hall and Bram grinned, posturing a hip to the wall. He folded tan arms beneath rolled sleeves that were clearly out of character for his meticulous dress at McClare, Rupert and Byington. “On official business for the DA’s office, are you? Pretty impressive, Bug, for two weeks on the job.”
Flashing a grin that was a mirror reflection of his, she matched his casual stance with a plunk of hands to her hips. “Yes, as a matter of fact, Counselor Hughes, it is. What isn’t impressive, however,” she said with a jag of her brow, “is how my best friend failed to tell me he volunteers at the one place I’ve been dying to work.”
He steered her into his tiny office with a chuckle, tweaking her neck before seating her in a rickety wooden chair in front of an equally scuffed and scarred desk. “Jealous, are you? Bored with the pastoral views of Portsmouth Square, I suppose.” He waved his hand at a dirty window that overlooked a brick wall. “Longing for the urban charm of the city, no doubt.”
She laughed, eyeing the room’s dingy bare walls yellowed with age and the planked wooden floor that hadn’t seen a waxing in many a year. “Indeed, but teasing won’t get you off the hook, Bram Hughes, for shutting me out of this most important aspect of your life.”
He tossed her a grin. “I didn’t think so.” He circled his desk to sit down, then flipped Joe’s file onto a stack of others next to a rusty typing table with an antiquated Remington. His lip quirked at the stark difference between his job at Logan’s prestigious firm and the volunteer hours he worked here, where pro bono attorneys typed their own files.
Shimmying to the edge of her seat, she leaned in with a fold of hands on his desk. “So, counselor, just when exactly did you start working here?”
He glanced at his pocket watch, then straightened his tie before he slanted back in a wooden swivel chair that squealed unmercifully. A half smile played on his lips as he studied her. “Since you deserted us for Paris. Had to do something with those empty Saturdays once you left.” Humor laced his tone. “Nobody mans the sails like you, Bug, on those weekend treks to Sausalito, or takes me to task in tennis or chess.”
A wispy sigh feathered her lips as she settled back in her chair like him—appearing relaxed and comfortable, as best friends should be. “Goodness, I miss those days,” she said softly, her faraway look conjuring memories of the old Meg.
Bram drew in a quiet breath, suddenly missing that shy little girl whose eyes glowed whenever he’d partnered with her in tennis against Alli and Blake. Or the flush of her sun-kissed cheeks when he’d dubbed her first mate on his prized sailboat during family sails on the bay. He exhaled slowly, his smile sad. “Me too, Bug.”
“So . . . ,” she said with a tip of her head, “do you love it here? You’re a volunteer, not salaried, right?” Her nose wrinkled in that adorable little-girl way that had always called attention to freckles now hidden beneath rice powder and rouge. “And for goodness sake, Bram Hughes—what on earth are you doing here during the week?”
He laughed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, I like it here and no, I’m definitely not salaried. Marcus has his hands full with the rent on this storefront, I’m afraid, so he has a pool of lawyers like me who volunteer their time.” Resting his head on the back of the chair, he watched her through a lidded gaze, his faint smile warm with affection. “Logan has graciously allowed me one free afternoon a week of my choosing in addition to the Saturday mornings I’ve committed to here. And although it’s pro bono work, in some ways the pay is greater than what I receive in your uncle’s firm—giving back to a community I love, helping the less fortunate, makes me a richer man in more ways than one.”
“Oh, Bram, that’s what I want too!” she breathed, hands clasped to her chin. “Would you . . .” Her teeth tugged at her lip. “I mean . . . would you . . . mind if I filled out an application to volunteer here too? You know, to help out on Saturdays like Jess?”
Here? Bram’s heart stopped for a split second, but he never let on, too practiced in the courtroom to allow his true feelings to show. Just like he’d done since Meg returned from Paris. Yes, they’d both embraced this new friendship plagued by the undercurrents of attraction—at least for him—but it had been more difficult than Bram expected. All the sweet gentleness and little-girl playfulness he’d enjoyed with Meg over the years was still there, but now it was coupled with an outer beauty that Bram found hard to resist as a man. Oh, he still battled her in chess and partnered with her in family gatherings, be it pinochle or badminton, but always with others around. Since her return, he’d taken great pains to avoid being alone with her, evading the private conversations that had once been the mainstay of their friendship.
But here? Working side by side with her every Saturday? He fought a gulp. The one place other than the firm where he’d been able to lose himself in other people’s lives and forget about this annoying attraction to his best friend?
“Bram? If you rather I wouldn’t . . .”
He blinked, Meg’s face blurring back into view, the gentle slope of her brows a clear indication he’d hurt her feelings. His chest constricted at the thought of causing Meg any pain at all, and with a noisy squeal of his chair, he sat straight up, fingers latched to the edge of his desk. “Of course I don’t mind, Meg. I think it’s incredibly noble of you to want to give of your time to volunteer, and heaven knows we—they—need you.” He hesitated, battling the urge to jump up and round the desk to pull her into his arms. He offered a conciliatory smile instead, head bowed as if to nudge her lips into a smile that would chase the hurt from her eyes. “I’m just wondering if you don’t already have a pretty full agenda working five days a week for the district attorney.” The edge of his lip tipped. “Hear tell he’s as big a slave driver as your uncle.”
It worked. Her eyes crinkled with a smile. “Oh, Mr. Turner has been wonderful, Bram, and I will admit that I come home pretty worn out, but I dearly love it.” She paused, a flicker of concern in green eyes that held him captive. “Or, at least I did.??
?
He peered at her, eyes in a squint. “Did? Has something happened to change your mind?”
She sighed, a wavering sound that always tugged at his protective instincts. Her gaze locked on the hands in her lap while she picked at her nails, a nervous habit she’d obviously inherited from her mother. “I hope not, but I won’t be sure until I see how it goes . . .”
His brows arched in a frown. “How what goes?”
Another shaky sigh escaped, drawing his gaze to the fullness of her mouth before he forced his eyes to meet hers. “How my relationship with the new intern goes . . . ,” she whispered, teeth scraping the edge of her lip in another nervous habit with which he was intimately familiar. The dark lashes swept up to reveal that innocent stare that had always gut-punched him with the need to protect her, encourage her.
Love her.
“Devin Caldwell.”
Bram blinked, barely able to believe he’d heard correctly. Speaking of gut-punched! He leaned in, jaw sagging low. “As in that annoying little twit who used to make your life miserable—that Devin Caldwell?”
She nodded, a tiny smile peeking through despite the thumbnail she chewed.
Facial muscles slack, Bram slumped back in a stupor, hands dangling over the arms of his chair. “Well, I’ll be,” he muttered, his lips sliding into a grin. “Talk about the chickens coming home to roost—or maybe I should say, ‘vultures.’ Did he recognize you?”
A giggle escaped as she shook her head, her grin going head-to-head with his. “Not even a little. Flirted with me outrageously, then asked me to fetch him coffee . . .” A twinkle lit her eyes. “Right after proclaiming the ‘other intern’ to be ‘long on brains and short on beauty.’ ”
He stared open-mouthed, assessing her reaction for hurt before he cut loose with a hearty laugh, grateful she seemed as tickled by the dolt’s ignorance as he. “Oh, that is rich, Bug. What did he say when he found out who you were?”
Her grin was pure sunshine. “Told me I brewed a very decent pot of coffee.”
Bram laughed out loud, the sound as joyous as the pride that pumped in his chest. “A scalding pot, if I have my guesses right.”
She gave a little shrug of her shoulders, a bit of the imp in her eyes that reminded him so much of her sister Alli. “There may have been some singeing involved, I suppose—possibly in the vicinity of both his cheeks and his pride.”
Bram chuckled and snatched a pen from his desk, twiddling it as he watched her closely, his smile sobering. “And how do you feel about working with him? Are you . . . ready?”
———
Meg paused, Bram’s sensitivity to the pains of her past nudging her, as always, to consider the true state of her heart. Was she? Ready to face the person who had wounded her more than any other? The main person responsible for her deep-seated feelings of shame and self-deprecation? Her heart thudded to a stop as her eyelids wavered closed, her mind whirling back to the time he’d shattered her confidence once and for all . . .
“Congratulations, Miss McClare,” Sister Margaret had announced that final day of junior year, “your exemplary academic record has earned you the honor as Queen of the Junior Prom.” A ripple of titters had circled the room, pinking Meg’s cheeks, but they hadn’t daunted her joy one bit. Because everyone knew who the King would be—St. Patrick’s finest and every girl’s dream: one Devin Caldwell. Her pulse skittered with anticipation at the prospect of dancing away the most important night of her life in the arms of the one boy for whom she pined.
Never had she taken greater pains with her appearance than the day the girls of St. Vincent’s and the boys of St. Patrick’s decorated the gym for the prom. Alli and Cassie helped Meg pick out a new dress and Mother had labored over her hair, making her feel like a princess for the very first time. Both her face and her mood had been aglow when she’d hurried into the storage closet for a box of bud vases Sr. Margaret asked her to retrieve. Hefting the box in her arms with a grunt, she’d turned to leave . . .
“Excited?” Devin Caldwell’s voice drifted in from the hall, halting Meg’s breath. “To be stuck dancing with Megan McTubby?” Laughter echoed through the corridor as she pasted herself to the wall, her cheeks aflame along with her confidence. “I’d rather dance with a hog—more personality and smells better too.” A round of chortles filtered into the dark coat closet where Meg’s heart had bled as thoroughly as the tears from her eyes.
“Cheer up, Dev—maybe she’ll step on your foot and break it, so you won’t have to dance at all,” Ryan Morrow had snickered, making Meg wish she could disappear and never come out.
“Or maybe being that close to her ugly puss will make you nauseous and you can sit most of the dances out,” Neil Mayfair said with a chuckle.
“I hope she’s too nauseous to come at all so I can dance every dance with Lu-Ann—”
Crash! Meg’s heart and lungs had seized when the box slipped to the floor, the sound of breaking glass halting both her air and the conversation in the hall.
“What the . . . ?”
Never would she forget the sound of their laughter when Devin Caldwell had whooshed open the door, exposing Meg to more shame and humiliation than she’d ever known before. The deep hurt she’d experienced that day had shattered any confidence she had as thoroughly as the broken vases on the floor . . .
Sitting there in Bram’s office, the old anguish throbbed like a reinjured wound, as raw as that day in the closet when her prayers had been dashed and Devin’s had been answered. No one ever knew it wasn’t the flu that kept her home from that dance. No one but Bram . . .
“Meg?”
With a harsh catch of her breath, her eyelids snapped up. “Wh-what?”
She saw a flash of worry in blue eyes so tender that tears stung in her own. “Aw, Bug,” he whispered, his voice husky with concern, “Devin Caldwell was a moron then and apparently still is, and a blind one at that.” He leaned in, so close she could see the blond bristle beginning to pepper his jaw. “You have always been one of the most beautiful people I have ever known—both in your heart and your soul—and now your face and form match perfectly. Don’t let the pain of your past color your future, Meg, because God has blessings in store.” He reached to skim the edge of her face with his thumb, worry clouding his eyes. “You have forgiven him, right?”
She nodded, grateful for Bram’s mentorship over the years, especially in things of the spirit. He’d convinced her long ago that the only way to stop the pain that people inflicted was to let go of the hurt and give it to God, allowing forgiveness to unleash the blessings of heaven. And it had—immeasurably—until Devin Caldwell had once again darkened her door.
“Good.” He leaned back in his chair, arms folded and gaze warm.
Shimmying back into her chair, she absently chewed on her thumbnail. “But from the shock and embarrassment I saw on his face, I suspect he’s more nervous than I, which is certainly a new scenario.” She sucked in a deep draw of air, releasing it slowly. “The way he ogled me in the coffee room, I just hope he doesn’t try and win me over with his charm,” she said with a shaky sigh. “Heaven knows he’s always had a disastrous effect on me.”
Bram gave a gruff clear of his throat and tossed the pen onto the desk. “Well, don’t let him, it’s as simple as that. Be professional and nice, but keep your distance.”
“You’re absolutely right.” She lifted her chin, mouth firming with resolve. “And trust me—I plan to. Ever since his growth spurt, he’s been every girl’s dream, and I have no desire to become another notch on his oversized ego.”
Bram’s smile tightened. “Good girl,” he said with his usual calm, which somehow appeared at odds with the troubled look in his eyes. Clearing his throat again, he fished his watch out to check the time. “Just see to it that you don’t. I’m enjoying the fact that the days of picking up the pieces of Megan McClare’s heart appear to be over.” He rose and skirted the desk to help her to her feet, ushering her to the door where he gave
her a side hug. “I don’t know about Caldwell being “every woman’s dream,” but I do know you’ll be Marcus Wilson’s dream if you apply for a volunteer position.”
“Oh, Bram, thank you!” She spun to face him, hugging him so hard that he chuckled as he ushered her into the hall. “To the dogs with Devin Caldwell,” she said with a giggle. “You’re the one who’s every woman’s dream!” She stood on tiptoe to deposit a kiss to his cheek, smiling at the ruddy color that suddenly crept up his neck. “Especially as a dear friend, Counselor Hughes.” And waving goodbye with the file in the air, she hurried down the hall to Marcus Wilson’s office, her pulse racing as fast as her thoughts.
Devin Caldwell—every woman’s dream?
“Ha—in his dreams, maybe, but not mine.” Warmth invaded her cheeks when she realized she’d spoken out loud and peeking over her shoulder, she was relieved to find the hall empty. All at once, she halted dead in her tracks, jaw sagging into a gaping smile of shock. Wait—it finally dawned—Devin Caldwell is no longer my dream. Her smile slowly bloomed into a grin. Eye on the bubbled glass door at the very end of the hall, she straightened her shoulders and continued on, thankful she was finally emotionally free without danger of anything more. Because Devin Caldwell may think he’s every woman’s dream, but since Paris? A smile flickered at the corners of Meg’s mouth as she softly rapped on the door.
She was not “every woman.”
16
Are you serious?” Bonnie stared at her through her horn-rimmed glasses, eyes as large as the gape of her jaw. Gaze locked with Meg’s, she lifted her mug to take a sip of the coffee she’d just brewed for their early-morning prayer chat and almost missed her mouth. “He’s the boy who pestered you all through school?”