Family Tree

“He’s only ten. I don’t want to wait until he’s grown. There’s nothing for me in this town. Everything here sucks.”

“Jesus, do you hear yourself? What brought this on?” Shit, was there another boyfriend? One who didn’t like the commute to a small Vermont town?

“I can’t keep living like this,” Celia said.

“Like what?” he asked. “Like someone who doesn’t want to get a job because it interferes with all that shopping and travel?”

She sniffed. “Fletch, can’t we all move to Boston? We were happy there when we first married, right? You could join a big firm with a partner track, or—”

“I’m not moving to Boston.” He spoke quietly, even though he felt like yelling. “Teddy’s life is here.”

“What about my life?” she asked.

Fletcher’s patience ran out. “What the hell do you want? You ended up with everything you said you wanted in the divorce, remember? The house, the Florida condo, both cars, shared custody, the retirement plan, half of all the assets—”

“Don’t reduce me to a cliché. I wanted a truly meaningful life with you, Fletcher.”

“You found meaning in shopping.”

“Very funny. Did my happiness ever really matter to you?”

He didn’t reply. He honestly didn’t know the answer. What he had come to understand about Celia was that she would probably never be happy. There was always something more for her to want—a better house, a country-club membership, a vacation home in South Beach, expensive jewelry, a more prestigious social life—but attaining it never brought her joy. Her anger swirled in the atmosphere like a toxin.

She loved Teddy. That was something he’d never dispute. Everybody loved Teddy, the way everyone loved a new puppy on a sunny day. Their son was affectionate and funny and smart, the kind of kid other parents approved of and teachers complimented.

It was particularly gratifying for Fletcher, because he himself had never been that kid. He’d been the outsider, the newcomer, the motherless boy, an object of suspicion. He never wanted Teddy to feel that kind of pain, so he’d made a commitment to raise his son in the most stable, secure place he knew—right here in Switchback. Initially, Celia had agreed, but her contentment hadn’t lasted. She always seemed to need something that hovered just out of reach.

He reclaimed his patience with an effort. “I need to get back to the courtroom. Can we finish this discussion another time?”

She glared at him, her beautiful sky-blue eyes turning cold. “There’s nothing to discuss. I don’t know why I thought you’d open your heart and your mind to me.”

“My focus is Teddy. He needs us both.” Fletcher softened his tone. “If you absolutely have to live somewhere else, you’re free to do that. Just—please—find a way to stay in our son’s life.”

Her glare turned to sadness. “You know I can’t live without Teddy.”

“And he can’t live without his mom.”

She looked at him for a long moment. He could see the fight go out of her as she turned toward the door. “Tell Teddy I’ll see him later, okay?”

Fletcher took a moment to get his head back into the law. The uneven wooden floor and wavy glass windowpanes of his chambers bore testament to the age of the building, which dated back to the 1880s. His framed credentials hung on the wall, and there was a plaque with engraved nameplates of all his predecessors, men and women who had walked these floors and deliberated the law for decades. These chambers had once housed Emerson Gaines, who had gone on to serve on the Supreme Court.

Fletcher had the distinction of being the youngest judge in the state. Some days, however, the youngest judge in the state didn’t feel so young. A lot of life had happened to him while other people his age were still revving their engines. He hadn’t planned it that way. But he hadn’t been given a choice either.

Most people looked forward to Friday nights. Fridays were for decompressing, kicking back, activating weekend mode. Pizza and movies. Games at the high school—football, hockey, or basketball, depending on the season. Happy hour or dinner with friends. Fletcher was not most people. He had no particular fondness for Fridays when he had to surrender his son to his ex.

After work at court, a bunch of the guys went out for a pickup game of hoops, then pitchers of beer afterward at the Switchback Brewpub. When Teddy was with his mother, Fletcher often joined them. Then he would return home to an empty house, with the empty weekend stretching out in front of him.

This was the arrangement he had agreed to in the divorce, and he was obligated to stick to it. Life was better since he and Celia had split up. He had a house in the village, close to Teddy’s school and to the courthouse. He’d dated, but nothing serious developed. Deep down, he probably didn’t want anything serious. He was good at a lot of things, but making a relationship last didn’t appear to be one of them.

Court business was just wrapping up at the end of the day when Gordy Jessop rushed into the courtroom, his ill-fitting suit jacket flapping, his breath coming in agitated huffs. Despite his disheveled appearance, Gordy was a good lawyer who had built a vibrant local practice over the past few years. In the days when he’d been with a rival firm, Fletcher had gone against him plenty of times. And Gordy had handled Fletcher’s divorce.

“It’s late, I know,” said Gordy. “Sorry, Your Honor.”

Fletcher glanced at the clock over the courtroom door. Shoot. He didn’t want to keep his staff late on a Friday.

“What’s up, Counselor?” he asked Gordy.

“I’ve got a petition here to revoke a power of attorney,” said Gordy. He submitted the documents, which had been stamped by the clerk. The ink scarcely looked dry.

Fletcher didn’t relish reading through the long sheaf of documents, but he couldn’t very well make a ruling without doing that.

“Is it an emergency?”

“Um, no. Not really. But it’s urgent.”

“Have Mildred schedule it for Monday.”

“Your Honor.” Gordy shuffled from foot to foot as though he had to take a whiz. “If you could just give it a look …”

Gordy wasn’t usually this insistent. Fletcher set his jaw. He glanced down at the motion, then blinked, not sure he could trust his own eyes.

The action was being taken on behalf of Annie Rush, FKA Annie Rush Harlow.

Annie Rush.

Despite the passage of time, the memories and feelings had never completely faded. Now, seeing the name on the pages of a court document, Fletcher felt weirdly self-conscious in the presence of the people lingering in the courtroom. Just the thought of her brought a flood of remembrance—dark-lashed, laughing eyes. A face that could light the world. A heart full of dreams. Joy and anger and hopelessness. And finally, surrender.

Although his heart was beating fast, Fletcher maintained his usual demeanor of professional detachment. “What happened, Counselor?”

“Her family—specifically her mother—needs the power of attorney revoked. It was assigned to her husband, a guy named …” He consulted one of the forms.

“Martin Harlow,” Fletcher muttered.

“Yes. Her situation has changed radically.” Gordy glanced over his shoulder at the nearly empty courtroom. The afternoon light outside the window was fading. Gordy looked back at Fletcher. Then he leaned in, lowering his voice. “Fletcher. Annie needs you.”

“Thank you for expediting this,” Caroline Rush said to Fletcher. “Annie doesn’t need a power of attorney anymore. Especially not—” She stopped herself from saying Martin’s name. “And for stopping by the house. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to. I’m sorry about what happened to Annie.”

Caroline’s hand shook as she carefully placed the legal document in its folder. She felt an overwhelming sense of relief along with sadness and apprehension. Once upon a time, she had joyfully given her daughter to Martin Harlow, believing Annie’s future was secure with a husband who would love her forever. Now Caroline was taking her daughter back, and she had no idea what to believe anymore.

“Sit down,” she said, gesturing at the kitchen table. “I just made a pot of coffee.”

“Thanks.”

She set down the French press along with a plate of salted maple shortbread cookies. “I don’t have the baking skills of my mother or my daughter,” she said, “but I find that if you use enough butter and maple syrup in a recipe, you don’t need much skill.”

He tasted one, and the expression on his face was gratifying. “Good to know.”