Page 6 of Mornings By the Linden Tree
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“Honestly, Wes, if there is anything more we can do, just say it,” Martin Crowe, the senior partner in our firm, said as he leaned in far too close to his phone camera. “We were all devastated when Rissa told us about your sister. I know how valiantly your parents tried to help her out when they were alive.”
I moved from the window and the glare on the screen to the corner of the suite. I placed my laptop on the coffee table next to a bottle of spring water and a travel bottle of acetaminophen.
“Thank you. She battled with drugs since she was a teen,” I confided as I lowered myself into the cushions, feeling the weight of the world sloughing off my shoulders as they finallylowered from my ears. Not that Marty needed the background information. He’d known my family for years. Rolling my neck, I winced as several vertebrae popped. Tension still rode my brow, though. I’d need more painkillers soon, but after this video call. I disliked having people I respected see me look weak. And I was as wobbly as Jell-O at the moment. “We’d done all we could, but in the end, Aida had to stop for Aida’s sake.”
“Very true.” He sighed as he stared at me. “You look rough.”
“I’m not going to lie. It has been a bastard of a day. Identifying Aida was gutting. She was still so young with so much life to live. She could have done so many amazing things if addiction hadn’t had its claws in her so deeply.” Marty nodded solemnly. I reached for the water bottle and noticed a streak of what had to be dried snot on my sleeve. Ah, Valeria. “So, I may need to take more than a few days. Some complications have come up that I didn’t foresee when I talked to you last.”
“Complications? Of a legal nature? You know you have all the resources that Preston, Miller, Crowe, and Barlowe have to offer. Is there some problem with her will?” He lifted a tall glass of tea to his lips. Thin lips. To match his thin face. Everything about Marty was thin. His hair, his face, his frame, his patience. Brilliant lawyer, though.
“Well, the will in question was a handwritten proclamation saying that if anything were to happen to her, I was to take her daughter.”
Martin’s gray eyes flared. “Daughter?”
“Yes, Valeria Barlowe, aged three. Father not listed on the birth certificate and presumed unknown. Probably a junkie or a dealer. I don’t know. I’m making suppositions.”
“Fuck me. A daughter. What are you going to do about the child?”
The ice in his frosted glass tinkled softly. The soft thud of people nearby playing tennis flowed into his phone and into my hotel room.
“I had plans to place her into foster care with a well-chosen family, but I’m now thinking of taking over guardianship of her.”
Marty’s eyes blinked so rapidly he could have been trying to speak in Morse code. “Really?” I sat back, rubbed at my brow with my water bottle, and waited for more. “Really. Well, that’s certainly interesting, Wes. I was under the impression you hated kids.”
“Hate is a strong term. I dislike the noise and dirt of children,” I replied as my sight touched upon the crust on my sleeve. “And only for the summer. As a trial run of sorts.”
“And what happens when fall comes?”
“We’ll see how things are going and make a decision then.” His lips flattened. “What?”
“I was just wondering how difficult it would be to let that girl grow attached to you and then lose you. She’s already lost her mother and come October she could lose her uncle.”
Well shit. And here I thought this was a good compromise. “You think I’m hedging, don’t you?”
“I think you’re in a place where you feel out of control. And knowing you as well as I do, I can see you’re looking to have this situation resolved in a cold, legal manner, which isn’t always how matters of family and the heart are, or should be, remedied.”
“This coming from a divorce lawyer,” I tossed out while rolling the cold bottle over my tight brow.
“Yes, this is coming from a divorce lawyer who has seen what losing a parent can do to a child. And this is also coming from a father and paw-paw.” I huffed aloud. “Wesley, look, I know this isn’t your comfort zone, but I also know that deep down you will do the right thing by that little girl.”
I lowered the bottle to stare at him. “She wiped snot on me.” I pointed to several crusty mucus patches on my Burberry cashmere. “Surely, you’re not telling me parents enjoy being used as a tissue because if you are, I cry bullshit.”
“Okay, well, yes, most of us dislike that.” Marty had four grown kids and a few grandchildren. Three? Five? I didn’t know for sure. When he started bragging them up during our weekly squash games, I zoned out. “But you seem to have a particularly vibrant dislike of all things child. I just want you to make sure you can do this long term. If not, it’s best to let her go into the foster system now. Valeria does not need to love and lose another adult.”
I let my eyes drift shut. He wasn’t saying anything my internal Wesley hadn’t already stated quite vociferously. I’d never been overly fond of children. I’d not spent much time around many of them, citing them to be loud, germy, and always wishing to touch things. Or wipe their noses on them. I sighed before opening my eyes again. Marty was still there in his tennis whites waiting for me to reply.
“I looked at her and saw Aida.”
That was simply the raw, honest truth of the matter. Yes, I had no clue whatsoever about how to care for a child. Yes, I was an uptight prig of a man who doled out affection in miserly little snippets. And yes, I was a little imperious at times. But I also knew my niece was in need of a stable home with someone who would ensure she was well fed, nicely clothed, and sent to the best schools so she would not end up working in a fleabag hotel changing dirty sheets like her mother had to, to feed a tiny girl as well as a monstrous addiction.
Marty gave me a knowing nod before taking a sip, then lowering his glass out of view. “I always knew there was a tender spot hidden behind that cool, officious exterior. I’m glad, Wes, truly glad. Children can be terrors. God knows mine drove me tofits when they were little. Then the teen years come. Talk about nightmarish times!”
“You’re not really selling the glory of becoming a guardian too well,” I dryly said and took a swig of pure, cold water. My throat was dry, my eyes dusty, and my neck stiff from carrying a worry rock the size of the one Sisyphus pushed up that dang hill.
“No point in trying to gild a skunk’s ass. Kids can be a lot of headaches. They can also provide you with amazing life lessons and tons of joy. What can we do for you to ease the transition into guardianship?”
