She’d taken him at his word. Everything in the room was pink except for the creamy white headboard, chest of drawers, and vanity table with an oval mirror that swiveled between upright spindles.
He had added touches he thought Georgia would like: picture books with pastel covers featuring rainbows and unicorns and such, a menagerie of stuffed animals, a ballet tutu with glittery slippers to match, and a doll wearing a pink princess gown and gold crown. The saleswoman had assured him it was a five-year-old girl’s fantasy room.
The only thing missing was the girl.
He gave the bedroom one final inspection, then left the house and, without consciously intending to, found himself driving toward the cemetery. He hadn’t come since Mother’s Day, when he and his in-laws had brought Georgia to visit the grave of the mother she didn’t remember.
Solemnly, Georgia had laid a bouquet of roses on the grave as instructed, then had looked up at him and asked, “Can we go get ice cream now, Daddy?”
Leaving his parents-in-law to pay homage to their late daughter, he’d scooped Georgia into his arms and carried her back to the car. She’d squealed whenever he pretended to stumble and stagger under her weight. He figured Beth wouldn’t take exception. Wouldn’t she rather have Georgia laughing over an ice cream cone than crying over her grave?
Somehow, it seemed appropriate to visit today, although he came empty-handed. He didn’t see what difference a bouquet of flowers would make to the person underground. As he stood beside the grave, he didn’t address anything to the spirit of his dead wife. He’d run out of things to say to her years ago, and those verbal purges never made him feel any better. They sure as hell didn’t benefit Beth.
So he merely stared at the date etched into the granite headstone and cursed it, cursed his culpability, then made a promise to whatever cosmic puppeteer might be listening that, if given custody of Georgia, he would do everything within his power to make amends.
* * *
Holly checked her wristwatch as she waited on the ground floor of the courthouse for the elevator. When it arrived and the door slid open, she stifled a groan at the sight of Greg Sanders among those onboard.
She stood aside and allowed everyone to get off. Sanders came only as far as the threshold, but there he stopped, blocking her from getting on.
“Well, Judge Spencer,” he drawled. “Fancy bumping into you. You can be the first to congratulate me.”
She forced a smile. “Are congratulations in order?”
He placed his hand on the door to prevent it from closing. “I just came from court. The verdict in the Mallory case? Not guilty.”
&
nbsp; Holly frowned. “I don’t see that as cause for celebration. Your client was accused of brutally beating a convenience store clerk during the commission of an armed robbery. The clerk lost an eye.”
“But my client didn’t rob the store.”
“Because he panicked and ran when he thought he’d beaten the clerk to death.” She was familiar with the case, but since the defending attorney, Sanders, was her opponent in the upcoming election for district court judge, the trial had been assigned to another court.
Greg Sanders, flashed his self-satisfied smirk. “The ADA failed to prove his case. My client—”
Holly interrupted. “You’ve already argued the case at trial. I wouldn’t dream of asking you to retry it for me here and now. If you’ll excuse me?”
She sidestepped him into the elevator. He got out, but kept his hand against the door. “I’m chalking up wins. Come November…” He winked. “The big win.”
“I’m afraid you’re setting yourself up for a huge disappointment.” She punched the elevator button for the fifth floor.
“This time ’round, you won’t have Judge Waters shoehorning you in.”
They were monopolizing one of three elevators. People were becoming impatient, shooting them dirty looks. Besides the fact they were inconveniencing others, she wouldn’t be goaded into defending either herself or her mentor to Greg Sanders. “I’m due in court in fifteen minutes. Please let go of the door.”
By now, Sanders was fighting the automation to keep it open. Speaking for her ears alone, he said, “Now what would a pretty young lawyer like you have been doing for ol’ Judge Waters to get him to go to bat for you with the governor?”
The “pretty” was belittling, not complimentary.
She smiled, but with exasperation. “Really, Mr. Sanders? If you’re resorting to innuendos suggesting sexual impropriety between the revered Judge Waters and me, you must be feeling terribly insecure about a successful outcome in November.” Without a “please” this time, she enunciated, “Let go of the door.”
He raised his hands in surrender and backed away. “You’ll mess up. Matter of time.” The door closed on his grinning face.
Holly entered her chambers to find her assistant, Mrs. Debra Briggs, eating a carton of yogurt at her desk. “Want one?”
“No thanks. I just had a face-to-face exchange with my opponent.”