An Unlikely Match

Ellie stood speechless for a moment. She had never coached a sport in her life, but she did know the game, having played all through high school. Straightening, she folded her arms thoughtfully, one forefinger tapping her rounded chin.

“How many kids would I work with?”

“Nine is the minimum,” Ilene answered. “We actually have seven right now and could use a few more. Twelve is the max at this age.”

Twelve at most. Ellie looked around the room. She routinely corralled twenty-two in this small space and flattered herself that she actually taught them something worthwhile in the process. Twelve kids on an open field would be a piece of cake by comparison.

“How much time are we talking about?”

“It’s nine games and twenty practices in ten weeks, so roughly twenty-five hours.”

That was little more than a full day in total, spread out over more than two months. Besides, she’d always enjoyed soccer and could use the exercise. And hadn’t she just asked God to show her the needs of her pupils and how to meet them?

“Sounds like fun,” she decided. “Count me in.”

The girls hurrahed, bouncing up and down on their toes. Ilene Riddle reached past them to clasp Ellie’s hands with hers, silver bracelets jangling.

“Thank you so much. I’ll help every way I can, I promise. First practice is Wednesday afternoon at five-fifteen. Do you know where the field is?”

“I think so. Across the creek from the park, right?”

“Right. I’ll bring all the supplies. You just bring the expertise.”

“Deal,” Ellie said, smiling broadly.

As the trio took their leave, Ellie dropped down onto her desk chair once more. Well, it looked like she had her work cut out for her, starting tomorrow afternoon. She’d have to brush up on coaching tactics this evening. Thankfully, with all the information online, that shouldn’t be too difficult. She’d see to it tonight.

That left this afternoon to convince Asher Chatam to drop her grandfather’s case and turn his attention elsewhere.

Ellie smiled. Mondays really were her favorite day of the week.

Dropping the telephone receiver into its cradle, Asher stared at the leather-trimmed blotter on his desk. He hated Mondays. Just once, he wanted to get through a Monday without some unpleasant surprise. What, he wondered, had the aunties—and, by extension, he—gotten into? So much for settling this “routine” insurance matter and getting on with his life.

Unanswered questions about the fire at the Monroe house abounded, and Ellie Monroe had apparently done everything in her power to make certain that they remained that way. According to the adjuster, Ellie’s cell phone number was the only contact information that the company now had, and she’d come up with every excuse imaginable to prevent the adjuster from speaking with her grandfather. Most troubling of all, the Monroes had recently increased their coverage and moved their most precious belongings into storage. The adjuster had even hinted at a financial incentive. Something smelled, and it wasn’t smoke.

Asher was making notes on his computer when his secretary buzzed him. Without taking his eyes off the screen, he hit the intercom button.

“You heading home, Barb?” A fifty-something grandmother raising a grandson, Barbara was adamant about leaving the office by five.

“In a minute. There’s an Ellen Monroe here. She says it’s important that she see you but promises she’ll only take a few minutes of your time.”

Asher sat back in his chair. Well, well. Ventured right into the lion’s den, had she? Reaching forward, he shut down the computer and monitor.

“Send her in. Then get out of here and have a good evening.”

“Will do. See you tomorrow.”

He tightened the knot in his gold-striped tie, spun his tan leather chair to face the door and waited, hands folded. As the sound of footsteps on the polished oak floor in the hallway grew louder, Asher’s heartbeat sped up. He told himself that it was his normal reaction, the old fire-in-the-belly response to a challenge. The instant Ellie appeared in the doorway, however, he knew that he was kidding himself.

Wearing a dark purple pantsuit over a rose-pink blouse, she looked absolutely lovely. She also looked distinctly uncomfortable. Intending to use that discomfort to his advantage, he found a smile and rose.

“Just who I wanted to see.”

“Oh?” she said in surprise, her face lighting.

Nodding, he waved her over then watched as she folded down neatly into one of the chairs before his desk. She tucked a small handbag into the space beside her.

“Why did you want to see me?” she asked.

Sitting, he regarded her steadily. “Tell me why you’re here fir—”

“You should know that we can’t pay you,” she blurted, suddenly looking hopeful and somber at the same time.

Asher paused, concerned. He didn’t like to think it, but this information could support the idea that the Monroes had a financial motive for setting fire to their house.

She sighed, gulped and sucked in a deep breath, all telltale signs of a less-than-truthful client. Which, he reminded himself, she technically was not; rather, her grandfather was his client.

“Even with the insurance money,” she said, “I can’t imagine how we’ll pay for the repairs to the house. Granddad had already sunk every penny of his savings into the renovations before the fire. I don’t know what we’ll do now.” She went on to list numerous expenses that must evidently come before his fee.

It might be true that the Monroes were strapped for cash, but he knew a convenient dodge when he saw one, and his curiosity was now piqued. Ellie Monroe was actively attempting to derail the insurance settlement, and he meant to find out why.

“My aunts have essentially asked this of me,” he told her mildly, “and when I work for family I never take—”

“But we’re not family,” Ellie protested, “and you can’t go around working for nothing! It wouldn’t be fair. You have your own bills to pay, after all. I understand that.” She bowed her head, the very picture of stoic acceptance. He didn’t buy it for an instant.

Frowning, Asher leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the edge of his desk. “There’s no need for you to worry about my bills, Ellie.”

“So you’re going to do this pro bono?” she demanded, sounding miffed. “Isn’t that for charities and such?”

“Not necessarily.”

While she sputtered about fairness and good faith and half a dozen other things he didn’t follow, he mulled his options. He could throw her out—she wasn’t his client and therefore had no say in his employment. On the other hand, her reasons for derailing the settlement could range from merely misguided to serious malfeasance. And, because she was not his client, he had no way to protect her in either case. He decided he would do his best to keep her out of trouble. She was his sister’s friend and a tenant at Chatam House, which meant that he had represented her as well as her grandfather.

His decision made, he pulled open a side drawer, took out a receipt pad and flipped it open. “If it will make you feel better,” he interrupted, “then by all means, pay me.”

“But I just told you that—”

“How much cash do you have on you?”

For a long moment, she said nothing. Asher sat back in his chair, enjoying the moment. For once, he had reduced Ellie Monroe to speechlessness.

“What?” she finally squawked.

“How much cash do you have on you?” he repeated slowly.

Frowning, she pulled her purse into her lap. “Seven or eight dollars, maybe.”

“Let’s make it a buck, then,” he said, leaning forward to scribble out the receipt. “No, two. One for you, one for your grandfather.” He made certain to write both of their names on the correct line. After tearing the receipt out of the book, he tossed the pad back into the drawer and nudged it closed.