Heart Vs. Humbug

Octavia knew if either Kay Kellogg or Marc Truesdale, her other partners at Justice Inc., had asked her that question, she wouldn’t have told them. She certainly wasn’t about to tell Adam Justice, their firm’s senior partner—not after watching Adam turn from man to legal machine during the last six years.

She sent him a large, charming smile, the kind that she knew he didn’t know how to take. She hoped it might just make him uncomfortable enough to back off the question.

“Insurance,” she said.

The light eyes before her now pointed like two blue lasers. “What do you mean, insurance?”

The smile hadn’t worked. Octavia knew there was only one sure way to effectively distract the legal mind that was now so firmly fixed on what she had no intention of revealing. She was the only partner at Justice Inc. who both knew Adam Justice’s Achilles heel and had the guts to aim for it.

“Six years ago, Adam, you and I were involved in something that neither of us wish to share with anyone else. I want to ensure that neither of us will be forced to speak of it.”

Unconsciously, Adam’s fingers found and stroked the long white scar that disappeared down his neck into his starched white collar.

“You anticipate that someone might try to force answers from you or me about that...time? Why?”

“Anything is possible when it comes to an attorney of Brett Merlin’s ability. I intend to be thorough and aggressive in representing my grandmother. I have no doubt that the Magician will be equally as thorough and aggressive in representing his client. As we both know, his trademark is an uncanny knack for pulling obscure facts and laws out of his legal hat and combining the two to effect his adversary’s demise. I prefer to limit the facts he finds.”

“So by putting our relationship under a formal legal umbrella, you have placed our knowledge of each other and our communications under the attorney-client privilege.”

“Exactly.”

Octavia waited. Nothing showed on Adam Justice’s stone face in the long moment that passed. Only Octavia’s knowledge and sensitivity to the situation allowed her to see the fleeting, tiny flicker of light behind his pale blue eyes.

“All right,” he said finally.

Octavia didn’t show the relief that poured through her. She didn’t dare. Her senior partner was far too observant. He would have immediately suspected her “other” agenda.

Everything had to be done by the book with Adam Justice. Like Brett Merlin, he lived by the letter of the law.

But Octavia was not that kind of lawyer. She used her knowledge of the law to support what she knew to be its true code of justice. And now that the letters in some dusty law book were getting in the way of the spirit with which they were originally formed, Octavia knew it was time to get creative and find a footnote somewhere.

Or pencil one in.

Adam had been the only weak link in the bold plan that she had formulated today. Now that weak link had been braced. Now she could go ahead and fight for justice her way.

* * *

“BRETT, YOU REALLY SHOULD stay here. We’ve plenty of room. It will be no trouble,” Nancy Scroogen insisted as she dished out blueberry pancakes onto Brett’s breakfast plate.

Brett looked up at his aunt, still unsettled to see the deep lines that had dug themselves around her eyes and mouth, seemingly overnight.

Nancy Scroogen was his mother’s youngest sister, a mere ten years older than Brett. Brett had gotten along well with his aunt, admiring Nancy’s tomboy spirit and sense of adventure.

They had corresponded regularly after Nancy had used her journalism degree to land herself a job as a foreign correspondent. Over the years he had enjoyed her light, breezy postcards from exotic ports of call.

Then, seven years before, Nancy had surprised him completely by suddenly giving up her profession and spirit of wanderlust to settle down and marry Dole Scroogen. Brett had barely heard from or seen her since. Until a week ago.

Now, as he looked at her across the dining-room table in Dole Scroogen’s East Bremerton home, he was sad to note how tired she appeared. Despite her assurances to the contrary, he was certain she didn’t need someone else in the house to look after. Not when she already had her hands full, he thought, as he noted the scowling faces of Dole and his son Ronald.

“Thanks, Nancy, but I’m comfortable at the hotel. This matter I’m handling for Dole is very simple and should be settled soon. Then I’ll be on my way to tackle Rainier. I’ve climbed it in summer, but I’m told the real test is in winter.”

“You want to spend Christmas climbing a mountain, Cousin Brett?” six-year-old Katlyn asked.

Brett smiled at Nancy’s little girl sitting beside him. Fortunately for Katlyn, she had inherited her mother’s peachy complexion—and attitude.

“The sunlight sparkling on the snow and trees beats any artificial string of lights, Katlyn.”

“But don’t you want to be home Christmas morning to open all your presents under the Christmas tree?”

Brett stared into his little cousin’s eyes, so obviously full of delighted anticipation for that highlight of the season. Sometimes he wondered what it would have been like to have been brought up believing in fantasy instead of staunchly facing reality.

“Your cousin Brett has never been a big fan of Christmas,” Nancy told her daughter. “Probably because my sister and her husband didn’t believe in decorating or exchanging gifts.”

“You didn’t get Christmas presents when you were a kid?” Katlyn asked in obvious dismay.

“I was given what I needed at other times of the year,” Brett explained.

“Even Santa Claus forgot you at Christmas?”

Brett prided himself on never lying, for any reason. But he also knew from the warning look on Nancy’s face that his answer to Katlyn’s last question had better be the right one.

“What did you ask Santa for this year?” Brett asked, trying to both deflect his inquisitive cousin and to maintain his integrity.

“I sent Santa a whole list. I sure hope he reads it. Why don’t you ask Santa to bring you a mountain so you don’t have to go away?”

“Katlyn,” Nancy intervened, “leave your cousin alone now so he can eat his breakfast in peace.”

“I’m out of syrup,” Ronald Scroogen complained in his typically too loud and too sour tone.

Nancy immediately rushed to her feet to get more from the kitchen. Brett flashed Ronald a disapproving look. The young man could have easily gone to the kitchen and gotten it himself.

Ronald was Dole Scroogen’s twenty-two-year-old son from a previous marriage. He resembled his father physically, right down to the sour puss and whiny tone of voice. He also had that insecure, young man’s way of making everything that came out of his mouth sound like a challenge or a complaint.

Nancy returned to the table with the syrup. Ronald took it out of her hand without a word of thanks.

Brett caught Nancy’s eye over the beautiful handmade wreath of fragrant bay leaves adorning the table’s center. He sent her an appreciative smile.

“Everything smells, looks and tastes wonderful.”

The surprise and gratitude of her returning smile confirmed Brett’s suspicion that his aunt wasn’t accustomed to getting any appreciation from the two other males sitting at this table. He took a sip of her excellent coffee and worked on controlling his growing irritation.

Brett was only here because of Nancy’s call for help. If it hadn’t been for Nancy and her little girl, he’d be long gone on his postponed climb. Seeing how her husband and stepson treated her, Brett was surprised that the full-spirited Nancy he once knew wasn’t long gone, too. What was keeping her here?

Love, he supposed. Brett stabbed his pancake and shoved it into his mouth, knowing it did no good to wonder how anyone could love Dole Scroogen.

Love was an incredibly imbecilic malady that struck even the sanest of souls and overnight turned clear reasoning power into gooey rubber cement. He remembered the affliction well.

He also remembered what it felt like to wake up the next morning only to realize he’d fallen for a fantasy.