A Promise to Remember (3 page)

"Oh, Andie. Didn't mean it that way. You know I didn't. But
you have to understand. Say the wrong word to the wrong person, and you find yourself in court."

"Yeah. Thanks for the advice." She knew her tone belied the
polite words. Good. Maybe Christi would get the message. Not
that she ever did.

Christi picked up a loaf of bread. "I'll help." She walked into
the pantry. Seconds later, she emerged, shaking her head, bread
still in hand. She tossed the loaf on the counter and rummaged
through the cabinet under the sink, where she emerged with a
bottle of 409 and a sponge.

Andie took a few silent steps to watch her.

Christi emptied three full shelves. There were scattered
crumbs and a round sticky spot where Andie knew syrup had hardened into a sugary mess. This Christi targeted first, then
scrubbed the shelves before putting things back. Though not
necessarily in their original location. When she turned around
and saw Andie watching, her eyes opened a bit wider. "Didn't
know you were back there."

"So I gathered."

Christi extended her upturned hand as though she were a
Price is Right model, demonstrating a new appliance. "Isn't
it amazing how much having a clean, organized kitchen can
brighten your mood?" She raked her hand across the top shelf.
"See, all the cereals together, the bread products, the cooking
supplies. Better, hmm?"

Andie looked at the shelves. They did look better. But why
did it matter? "Yes, of course." She turned and walked out of
the pantry.

Christi followed. The silence grew awkward, and Christi kept
looking out the window toward her car. She jingled the keys
in her purse. "Want to go for a ride? I promise I'll drive like a
grandmother so I won't scare you."

Andie shook her head, ready to be alone. "No thanks, but
you go ahead. You shouldn't be cooped up inside on a beautiful
day like this."

Although Christi's face remained fixed, a brief spark in her
eyes gave away her relief. "Sure you're okay? Anything I can do
for you?"

Leave me and nil, dirty shelves in peace. "No, I'm fine."

Christi nodded. "Okay, then. Expect to see you back at tennis next week."

"Maybe."

Andie walked Christi to the back door. Just outside, Christi
turned. "Remember, stay away from Alfords for a while." She
removed keys from her Prada bag. "Shame our world has come
to this."

Andie's eyes puddled in spite of defensive blinking. Hold it
in so she can leave.

Christi looked at her car, then back again. "Need to be going."
She beat a hasty retreat to her convertible, where she revved
her engine and threw up a parting hand as she escaped down
the driveway.

The Lexus glided to a stop in front of Melanie's house. The
driver emerged, surveyed the neighborhood-one- and twostory homes, tidyyards, cars spilling out of the driveways. Probably not what he was used to, but nice by most standards. He
smoothed the slacks of his expensive-looking suit. When he
reached inside his car, Melanie moved away from the window
and opened the door.

She already knew what he looked like from television and
news reports. In person, he was shorter than she'd expected,
his hair a tad more gray. He started toward her, and his swagger
revealed every bit of the cockiness she despised.

What was she thinking in bringing him here?

"Les Stewart." He smiled at her and extended his hand, a
hand that looked as if it had been manicured recently. The
handshake was, as she had supposed, firm, but his skin was so
soft she decided the man had never done a decent day's work
in his entire life. He, too, seemed to feel this difference for a
moment, looked at their hands, then pulled his own away as
if ashamed.

She would force herself to be polite to the overstuffed turkey.
For Jeff's sake. "Please come in, Mr. Stewart. Would you like
some coffee or tea?"

His eyes opened just a little wider. "Tea sounds wonderful."

She pointed toward the worn blue-and-orange-plaid sofa.
"Make yourself comfortable. I'll just be a minute." She went into the kitchen and smirked as she poured tea into two glasses.
No doubt he was expecting Earl Grey, or Tazo, or one of those
fancy teas she saw in the coffee shop windows.

When she walked back into the living room, he had assembled
an impressive array of official-looking papers on the scarred coffee table. She set a cork coaster on the table and watched his
face when he saw the tumbler of iced tea she set before him.

The corners of his eyes crinkled, but otherwise he suppressed
any hint of surprise. He lifted the glass in a mock toast and took
his sip. Then his eyes opened wide. "This is delicious."

"I've yet to meet a highfalutin hot-tea drinker who didn't prefer
my iced tea to any of that fancy stuff. It's the homegrown mint
that makes a difference."

He looked into the glass where the green leaf floated on the
surface. "Hear, hear." He looked at her this time with genuine
appreciation. No doubt he expected a woman of her social and
financial status to be totally cowed in his presence, but Melanie
had never been one to like pretension. Or chitchat.

"What, exactly, do you think you can do for me, Mr.
Stewart?"

"Mrs. Johnston-"

"It's Melanie. I prefer to leave Mr. and Mrs. to old peopleand the younger ones who think they're too important to have a
first name. If you ask me, those are the kinds of people whose
names I'd just as soon not know."

He smiled and offered a single nod. "Have you read the
newspaper accounts of the accident?"

"Read 'em all. Saved the ones about Jeff in a scrapbook in
the kitchen."

"Good. Then you are aware that Chad Phelps was driving
with a suspended license."

"Yeah, I read that."

"In a California court, his parents are liable for his behavior.
They should have made certain he didn't have access to a car,
whether or not they were home."

"What's a kid that age doing with keys to a BMW, anyway?"

"As I understand it, Mrs. Johns-Melanie, it was a birthday
present for his sixteenth birthday."

She already knew this, but it never failed to anger her. "What
kind of parents give their kid a car like that as a birthday present?" She twirled her glass around, then set it on the coaster. "Jeff
bought his car with his own money. Still has two years of payments on the thing." She laced her fingers together and pulled
against her right knee. "I suppose that fancy car is what helped
that other kid live long enough to say good-bye to his parents.
All that high-tech safety equipment." She sniffed and looked
away. "Maybe those parents had the right idea after all."

He took a deep breath, no doubt preparing the high-pressure
"take me because I'm high-powered" spiel. She would force
herself to listen, but knew that she could not go through with
this.

"Melanie, I would be honored to help you fight this battle.
Your son's life was snuffed out, not by simply an accident, but by
careless behavior. If you take action now, and we make certain
that everyone knows what has happened here, then we show
the world that this kind of lax behavior will not be tolerated."

At least he didn't have the gall to tell her how much money
he could get her, and how it would change Sarah's life and her
own. Their life had been just fine. Before.

"You just might save the life of another kid like Jeff. I think
your son would like to leave that as his legacy, don't you?"

Legacy.

The word snagged somewhere inside of her, and she knew she
flinched a little. Les Stewart certainly saw, but Melanie didn't
care. A spark of determination kindled deep inside. Every story about that other family showed how, with nothing but dollars,
they were buying a legacy for their son. But she couldn't do that.
She had no other choice. Two strings of cards wouldn't last. A
scrapbook wouldn't last. How else could she make certain that
something of Jeff lasted when he couldn't? This would he for
him. This would be about Jeff.

The front door swung open. Sarah's blue duffel bag came
flying through and landed in a heap, Santa Barbara Volleyball
League in bright gold letters across its side. She exchanged a few
shouted good-byes back toward the driveway, then came inside,
stopping almost immediately. Her eyes locked on Les.

He rose to his feet and extended his hand. "Hello there,
young lady. I'm Les Stewart."

Sarah lifted her hand but did not take his. Instead, she moved
it past him and up to her twisted ponytail. She narrowed her
eyes, looked him over, then crossed her arms and looked at
Melanie. "Who's this?"

"Honey, he just tried to introduce himself." Melanie looked
from Sarah's gray BMX T-shirt, volleyball shorts, and kneepads
around her ankles, to the fancy-suited man beside her. At six
feet, she was almost as tall, and not one bit intimidated. Good
girl.

Still, manners did matter. "Mr. Stewart, please accept my
apologies on Sarah's behalf. I'm sure she'll offer some herself
when she realizes how rude she just sounded."

Sarah glared at her. "What's he doing here?"

Les took a step forward. "Sarah-is it?"

Sarah did turn to look at him, although her expression told
him he was not worthy of the attention.

"Your mother invited me here to talk about your brother's
legacy." His voice was smooth, ingratiating.

"My brother's legacy, huh?" Sarah leaned backward so she
could see out the front door. "That's a pretty fancy car out there.
It yours?"

He hesitated. "Yes."

"Thought so." She studied his tie, looked down at his shoes.
"You're a lawyer, aren't you?" She looked him straight in the
face, daring him to prove her wrong.

"Yes, I am. I can help your mother make certain that Jeff's
death was not in vain. That something good comes out of it."

"Something good like you getting a newer model Lexus? You're
not doing this to help my mother, or to make sure my brother
has a legacy." She shook her head. "I'll bet you want to build a
bigger house in Montecito. That's where you live, isn't it?" She
folded her arms. "You must figure you can win a lot of money if
it's worth your time to drive all the way over here to the slums
of Goleta."

"Sarah, stop that this instant. Mr. Stewart is a guest in our
home, and I'll not have you talking to him that way."

Sarah flashed a look at her mother, and in it Melanie saw not
the teenage sullenness she'd expected but something fragile and
wounded. For a second she thought her daughter might even
cry, but Sarah shifted her hips and set her jaw, and the anger
returned to her eyes.

Les dropped his chin a half inch. "Sarah, it's important that
we send a message to parents that they are responsible for their
children."

Sarah pulled at a loose strand of hair, stared at the lawyer
with a withering glance for three painfully silent seconds before
snatching her duffel out of the entryway and fleeing down the
hall.

"I'm sure she misses her brother very much," Les said after
Sarah's door slammed.

"She does. She's also a teenage girl who can use up the
patience of just about anyone when she gets something in her
head. Don't take it personally, Mr. Stewart."

He flashed a practiced smile. "I won't. And please, call me
Les. I don't want to fall into either of your categories for the
title of Mister." He paused and let his facial muscles relax into
a serious expression. "Will you consider what I've talked to you
about?"

"Far as I'm concerned, there's not much to consider. I don't
care much for uppity lawyers-"

"But what about-"

"I wasn't finished." She looked at him, waiting. He needed
to learn the ground rules, right now. He was no "Mr. Big Shot"
around her house.

"Sorry."

She stared at him through another second of silence. "As I
was saying I don't care for uppity lawyers, but that other family is naming scholarships after their son, making him out to be
some kind of hero. My Jeff is going unnoticed and forgotten.
My son talked all the time about making a difference in the
world. But he didn't get the chance. And if taking this to court
could save another kid's life... if one other kid could be saved
because of this, Jeff would want that-and so that's what I'll
do. How do we get started?"