Magic Hour

The judge frowned. “In what way?”

“She needs more time with me. She loves me . . . trusts me. I can . . .” Her voice slipped, caught on desperation. “Save her.”

Ellie went to Julia, stood beside her.

“Will she always be a special needs child?” the judge asked gently.

“I don’t know,” Julia answered. “She’s come so far. She’s extremely bright, though. I believe she can rise above her past, but for many years she’ll need constant care and treatment.”

“There must be special schools for kids like her,” George said.

“There are,” his attorney answered. “And other doctors who could treat her. Your Honor, Mr. Azelle is a victim here. We can’t compound his tragedy by taking his daughter away again.”

“No,” the judge said. “And I’m sure Dr. Cates knows that.”

Julia turned to George. “She has no idea who you are, George. I sympathize with you, honestly I do—I was up all night thinking about what you’ve suffered—but the truth is, your daughter is what matters now. Father is a concept she can’t understand yet, and if she were taken away from me now—abandoned again—she could regress. She’d almost certainly retreat back into silence and howling and self-mutilation. She isn’t ready. I’m sorry.” She stared at him, willing him to believe her. “Maybe you could move here for a few years. I would keep working with her. We could slowly—”

“Years?” George looked shaken by that, as if he’d never considered it. “You want me to stay here for years while my daughter lives with you? While she learns to call you Mommy? And I get to be whom? The man next door? Uncle George?”

It was Julia’s turn to look shaken. “I could move to Seattle. . . .”

“You don’t get it, Dr. Cates.” His voice was gentle but firm. “I love my daughter. All those days behind bars, I dreamed of finding her, of taking her to the park and teaching her to play the guitar.”

“You love the idea of a daughter. I’ve read everything there is to know about you, George. When Alice lived with you, you were always gone. She was in day care five days a week. Zoë said you were never home for dinner or on weekends. You don’t even know your daughter. And she doesn’t know you.”

“That’s not my fault,” he said softly.

“I . . . love her,” Julia said, her eyes filling with tears.

“I know you do. That’s the problem. That’s why she can’t keep living with you or be your patient, here or in Seattle.”

“I don’t understand. If I can help—”

“She’ll never love me,” he said, “not as long as you’re around.”

Julia drew in a sharp breath. Slowly, she closed her eyes, battling for control, then she looked up at George. Everyone in the room knew there was nothing she could say to that.

“I’ll do everything for her,” George promised, “get all the best doctors and psychiatrists. I’ll make sure she’s taken care of. And later, when she loves me and knows who I am, I’ll bring her back to see you. I’ll make sure she never forgets you, Julia.”

&nbs

p; IN A SMALL TOWN LIKE RAIN VALLEY THE ONLY THING MORE PREVALENT than gossip was opinions. Everyone had one and couldn’t wait to share it. Max figured that the meeting in the courthouse had barely finished when people started talking about it.

He called Julia every ten minutes; there was never an answer. For almost an hour he waited for her to call him, but his own phone remained silent.

Finally, he couldn’t stand it anymore. She might think she needed to be alone; she was wrong. He’d made that mistake for too long—thinking that heartache had to be borne alone. He wouldn’t let her make the same error.

He got in his car and drove to her house. With every turn, he pictured her. She’d be sitting on the sofa right now—or lying in bed—trying not to cry, but one memory of Alice laughing . . . or eating the flowers . . . or giving butterfly kisses . . . and the tears would fall.

He knew.

She might try to forget it, to outrun it, as he’d done. If so, years might pass before she’d realize that those memories needed to be held on to. They were all you had left.

He pulled up to her house and parked. From the outside everything looked normal. The rhododendrons that guarded the porch were huge and glossy green in this rainy season. A pale green moss furred the roof. Empty planters hung from the eaves. Behind and around the house, giant evergreens whispered among themselves. He crossed the yard and went to the front door, knocking softly.

Ellie answered, holding two cups of tea. “Hey, Max,” she said.

“How is she?”