14

It was a humid late-August afternoon in Washington, DC, and Judge Norcross had gotten himself into another serious pickle. Bob Stephenson was smiling over at him, already amused at the imminent disaster.

“Yeah, come on, Your Honor.” He gave Norcross a poke. “Show us your stuff!”

The three months since the Dubrovnik plane crash had not been easy. All summer, Judge Norcross had been flying down to Washington every Friday to visit his nieces and give them a weekend in their own home. Lindsay and Jordan spent their weekdays with Bob and June Stephenson—old State Department friends of Ray Norcross. The arrangement was supposed to be a temporary stopgap, but it hadn’t worked out that way. Ray’s skin grafts were taking longer than expected to heal, and recurring infections continued to bar any move from the hospital in Germany.

This particular Saturday, Norcross and the girls had come to the Stephensons’ plush home to enjoy, supposedly, a poolside barbecue. Up until now, the event had not been much fun, for a couple reasons.

First, there were the Stephensons’ twin eleven-year-olds, Lloyd and Curtis. Typical of boys their age, they had been spending the afternoon trying to outdo each other with cannonballs that basically prevented anyone else from getting into the pool or even near it.

One of them—Curtis, probably—was standing at the end of Norcross’s deck chair with his hands on his hips, smelling of chlorine and backing up his father’s challenge.

“Yeah, Mr. Judge,” he said. “Put up or shut up.” The kid wasn’t smiling. In the background, the second twin crashed into the pool, screaming “Cowabunga!”

The second problem was the girls. Lindsay was lying in a recliner well off to the side, alternately submerged in her phone or pretending to doze, waiting out the time until they could go home. Twice, she’d turned down, with no expression of thanks, Bob Stephenson’s hearty offer of a cheeseburger with all the fixin’s. Jordan, in a green swimsuit with pink rosettes on the shoulder straps, mostly stuck close to her uncle’s side, looking lost and visibly wincing at the nonstop hoots from Lloyd and Curtis to come on into the water. When their calls lured her near the pool, she was promptly drenched by a vigorous and deliberately timed cannonball.

Like most kind parents, Bob and June Stephenson were ambivalent about discipline and gave their boys a long leash. Bob’s murmured, “Hey, watch it now,” had little effect.

Norcross tried to comfort Jordan as she skittered back to him, saying, “It’s okay, Jordan. Cannonballs are for amateurs. I bet they couldn’t do a can opener.”

Curtis immediately jumped on this.

“What’s a can opener?”

“It’s a kind of dive,” Norcross said dismissively. “It’s harder to do and much more exciting than a cannonball.”

“Show us.”

The other twin chimed in, yelling from the diving board, “Yeah, show us. Show us!”

Which was when Bob leaned toward him with a glint in his eye and threw down the gauntlet. Bob was not a mean-spirited man, but he had a quality Norcross had never liked, the tendency to use teasing as a form of aggression he didn’t have to own up to. Everybody was supposed to be a good sport. His boys, unfortunately, seemed to have acquired this trait from him.

“Yeah, come on, Your Honor. Show us your stuff.” Bob was wearing trendy black frame glasses, a tan silk sport shirt over his black trunks, and a wolfish grin.

Back in Wisconsin, Norcross had been a good athlete, lettering in ice hockey and cross-country skiing. Over the years, he’d stayed trim. Even in his forties, he did not disgrace himself in swimming trunks. But he hadn’t been off a diving board in more than twenty years.

“Okay, I will.”

The girls’ eyes tracked Norcross as he stood and stripped off his Boston Red Sox T-shirt. Folding his arms behind his head, he stretched, and glared down at Curtis. “Watch and learn.”

“Oh God,” Lindsay said. She rose from her recliner and began pacing toward the far edge of the yard, examining the grass.

Generally speaking, Judge Norcross had less concern than most people about looking like a blockhead. There were worse things a person could do. But on this occasion, he really dreaded making a fool of himself in front of the girls.

All summer, he had been getting regular advice about how to handle them from his old Peace Corps sweetheart, a woman named Susan O’Leary, who was a child psychiatrist, divorced now and living in a big house on Beacon Hill in Boston. She’d emailed him several helpful articles outlining things to do—and not do—with a grieving child, and they’d followed up with three in-person dinner tutorials. These evenings featured almost as much romantic nostalgia about their two years in the Highlands of Kenya as they did pointers about how to manage Lindsay and Jordan. Their meals so far had stayed within bounds—only an extralong hug at the end—but Norcross felt guilty anyway. Susan was very sweet, and Claire, he had to admit, had so far not been nearly as much help as she was.

Even with Susan’s advice, his weekends with the girls were often hard. The littlest things sent Jordan into uncontrollable fits of sobbing, and Lindsay rarely emerged from behind her iron mask. Nevertheless, as he walked toward the diving board, Norcross was comforted to think that he might have done one or two things right with them. He’d promised Jordan that someone would always be there to take care of her. He’d shared with her his own belief that while people died, love didn’t. He’d told her that her love for her mother would never go away. Bedtimes were especially difficult, and sometimes this consolation would stop Jordan crying and send her off to sleep.

Then, one evening after Jordan had gone to bed, Lindsay noticed a vase of purple irises he’d brought and mentioned how her mother liked flowers. Acting on a suggestion from Susan, Norcross plucked up his courage and spoke.

“What would you say to your mom?” he asked. “If you could tell her just one thing?” When Lindsay closed her eyes and shook her head, Norcross blundered on. “If I could say anything to Faye, I’d tell her that I’ll always remember her, that in some way she’ll always be with me.”

To his surprise Lindsay hadn’t fled the room. She’d stayed and finally said in a soft voice, “I’d tell Mom I’m sorry about our fight.” She’d looked down and scrubbed at the carpet with her toe. “That I didn’t mean the things I said.”

She’d quickly gone off to her bedroom after that, but she came to the foot of the stairs a while later and, without making eye contact, said, “Thank you.” It was like a gift from heaven.

Why all this should provoke Norcross into trying to do a can opener, and probably making an ass of himself, was not clear. The concrete skirt around the pool felt very hot, almost scorching, on his bare feet. He noticed that Bob was getting out of his deck chair and, still grinning, was joining his boys nearer the pool to enjoy the spectacle. June was shouting some cheery encouragement from the kitchen window. Lindsay was at the far end of the yard, her back mostly turned to him. Jordan had both hands over her mouth, her eyes wide.

As he mounted the step, Norcross hastily reviewed the three essential components of a decent can opener.

First, it was essential to get maximum loft from the board. He must not—must not—be shy about taking a good high leap on the very end. He had to remember, when he came down, to keep his knees fairly stiff to maximize the impact, so that the board would fling him as high as possible straight up into the air.

Second, as he reached the apogee of his liftoff, he needed to remember to tip backward at a slightly oblique angle, as though he were leaning onto a pillow of air behind him. If he tipped too far back, he’d risk braining himself on the board, or coming unraveled and doing a kind of backward belly flop—very painful and ridiculous. If he stayed too vertical, he’d hit the water wrong, and the result would be a swishy fizzle.

Third, just as he reached the top, keeping his torso as erect as possible, he had to grab his right knee and then yank it fiercely against his chest in the split second before he hit the water. The result, if it worked, would be a respectable initial splash, but, much more important, a booming recoil that would send a spout of water twenty or twenty-five feet into the air.

In a kind of dream, Norcross took four quick steps down the board and leaped up as high as he could, coming down clean and hard on the end. Everything after that was pretty much blurry instinct. It occurred to him somewhere along the way that the Stephensons’ deep end was only ten feet and he was over six feet tall. The blow to his left ankle as it cut through the water and struck the bottom was sharp, but it didn’t feel as though he’d fractured anything.

As Norcross’s head broke the surface, the first thing he saw, to his immense satisfaction, was Bob’s astonished face, cracked open in a hoot of laughter. The man could evidently take a joke as well as dish one out.

“Bravo, Your Honor!” Most of his tan silk sport shirt was now dark brown. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, muttering to one of the twins, “Go grab me a towel there, will you?”

Jordan came dancing up to the edge of the pool. “Oh my God, Uncle Dave. Oh my God! That was awesome!”

From the end of the yard, Lindsay gave her uncle a half smile and a silent clap of applause that only the two of them could see.

The Norcross family’s Saturday victory somehow made the imminent return to the weekday routine harder to bear, especially for Jordan. Sunday afternoon, as the time for the handoff back to the Stephensons drew closer, she slipped into something as near to rebellion as her shy character permitted. When it was time to pack up, she plopped herself in the big chair in her room and pretended to be lost in a magazine.

Judge Norcross was standing in the doorway, admiring the little girl’s stiff, queenly posture, profiled against her bow window. June Stephenson would be arriving in ten minutes or so, and he’d asked Jordan three times to pull her backpack together. A cab was already on its way to hustle him to the airport.

“Well, look at you.” Norcross pulled on the end of his nose and sniffed.

Jordan, leaning over her magazine, pretended not to hear him. Her short blond hair fell across the side of her face, blocking him out. The child’s feigned preoccupation gave Norcross a pang. The façade of aplomb was impressive, and sad, in a six-year-old.

After a few seconds, without looking up, Jordan responded, a little distantly, “God bless you.” She was wearing a yellow T-shirt, green shorts, and red sandals. Her pale-white little-girl legs barely reached the hassock. Her ankles were neatly crossed.

“Well,” Norcross hesitated. “Thank you, I …”

Jordan peeked around her hair, turning her face to him. “You sneezed.”

Behind her attempt at composure, she looked very unhappy. How would he have felt at her age confronting the prospect of five days with Lloyd and Curtis? Horrible.

“I did? That’s funny. I usually notice when I sneeze.”

“You said, ‘luh-katchoo.” She drew out the words and raised her eyebrows, trying to press her joke into his brain. “Get it?”

“Yes. Look at you. You look like a princess.”

Jordan rolled her eyes and went back to her magazine.

Lindsay thumped down the hall with a duffel bag over one shoulder. “Come on, Jordan. Move it. Uncle Dave’s throwing us out again.”

“I’m not throwing you out.”

“Okay, move it, Jord. Uncle Dave’s abandoning us again.”

“I’m not …”

“Just kidding.”

“Wait.” Norcross broke into a smile. “Luh-katchoo. I get it!”

Jordan put down her magazine and shook her head resignedly. “Never mind.”

When June Stephenson pulled into the back courtyard, she was outwardly cheerful. The boys, she said, couldn’t stop talking about the can opener and trying to do it themselves. Norcross thought he could sense shadows underneath this sunny cellophane. June’s determined profile as she drove off with Lindsay and Jordan told him that their extended sojourn was getting as difficult for the Stephensons as it was for the girls.

In the cab on the way to Washington National, Norcross wrestled once more with the possibility of bringing his nieces to Amherst. It had occurred to him many times that he ought to have Lindsay and Jordan up, at least for a week or two. He had room for them, physically, but he’d always told himself that they’d hate the idea. What would they do in a strange town where they knew no one? Equally important, what would he do with them under foot all week?

For most of the summer, Judge Norcross had had a defensible rationalization for his avoidance in the form of an interminable patent trial. The disputed patent covered a highly technical process for placing an oxide coating on raw aluminum, and it had massive implications for everything from lawn furniture to airplane bodies. Hundreds of millions of dollars were at stake. Putting another major project, like his nieces, on his plate had been unthinkable. Now the patent trial was over, and he had to confront what would happen if the Stephensons ran out of gas.

As he was inching his way through the security line at the airport, he noticed that he was favoring his left ankle, which was still recovering from the blow on the pool bottom. The thought of having a good story to regale Claire with nudged aside his worries about the girls. She’d been away most of the summer on a teaching gig at Dalhousie University in Halifax, Nova Scotia, and she was returning to Amherst that very day. When he closed his eyes, he could almost smell the faint coconut aroma of her hair conditioner.

After clearing security, Norcross was making his way to the crowded gate area, when a deep voice close to him suddenly said, “Good afternoon, Judge.”

Norcross had been so preoccupied he hadn’t noticed FBI agent Mike Patterson, sitting four feet in front of him. Patterson stood up, shook hands, and gestured to a slim woman with short gray hair.

“Let me introduce my wife.” Patterson nodded at her. “Fran, this is Judge Norcross.”

As Fran Patterson stood and shook hands with Norcross, her face broke into an easy smile, and she leaned back to take the judge in. “Well,” she chuckled. “This is a pleasant surprise. I’ve been getting an earful about you.”

Patterson glanced at his wife nervously, and she added, “Don’t worry, Mike, I’m not going to give away any of your secrets.” As with so many married couples, it appeared Fran was the more engaging, sympathetic partner. She smiled again and spoke with a relaxed warmth. “These are our kids.” She looked down at two teenagers who were sitting next to them. “Stand up, please.”

They were a year or two apart, each quite tall—the older one, the girl, nearly six feet. Both of them had been engrossed in their phones and now stood self-consciously, glancing at each other for support. Their mother continued, “This is Margaret, and our younger one here is James.”

Margaret glanced at her mother, then held out her hand to shake with the judge. The boy followed suit, and Norcross was impressed at the firmness of their grips and their forthright eye contact. After a nod from their mother, they both sat down again.

Fran’s smile faded, and she took a deep breath. “Looks like we’re going to be residing up your way for a bit.” It was not clear if she was pleased about this move.

“Really?” Norcross was distracted by some announcement from the gate. Flights out of National were often delayed.

Patterson broke in. “We’ve rented a house in Amherst Woods. The kids will be starting at the high school in a couple weeks.” In response to this comment, Margaret looked up at her father disapprovingly and muttered, “Senior year.” James, who looked about fourteen, was preoccupied with some message on his phone.

“It’s a nice area,” Norcross said. “Amherst Woods is just a stone’s throw from my house.”

Fran laughed and poked Patterson on the shoulder. “Don’t be tempting my husband. He has a strong pitching arm.”

Mike Patterson looked at her, uncomfortable, but suppressing a smile.

Norcross needed to break this off without being rude. Things were getting too chummy. Fortunately, Patterson felt the same way.

“Well,” he said. “We better get the kids ready to board. Nice to see you.”

“Very nice.” Norcross nodded to Fran. “I hope you all enjoy western Massachusetts. It will be a change from Washington, DC.”

“It certainly will be.” Fran looked down. “Jimmy, finish up on your phone there, please.”

Later, as he settled into his seat on the plane, Norcross wondered what it would be like for the Pattersons to relocate to mostly white Amherst, Massachusetts, after mostly black Washington, DC. Like the thought of the girls, however, this reflection soon evaporated in the anticipation of seeing Claire again. She wasn’t expecting him until tomorrow, and he was hoping to surprise her.

When Claire had made her commitment to the summer sabbatical in Nova Scotia—early in the year, way before the plane crash and Sid Cranmer’s indictment—the plan had been for David to fly to Halifax in June, before the patent trial, so he and Claire could take two weeks to drive through Nova Scotia, up to Cape Breton, and on to Prince Edward Island. They’d even hoped that, later in the summer, David would be able to run up for an occasional weekend. An easy nonstop flight shuttled between Boston and Halifax.

After the mess with Sid Cranmer broke in May, the promised Canada trip became even more important. They needed it to talk through how they would manage the situation with Claire’s friend, who was now also David’s defendant. In the days immediately after the dean’s garden party, they had worked out a temporary modus vivendi, or what Claire called a modus amandi, but it was too fragile for comfort. The time on their own would give them space to do some healthy arguing and remember their priorities. Then Ray’s protracted convalescence in Germany, full of promised returns and last-minute cancellations, destroyed all their plans.

Claire’s long absence opened up a hollow space inside Norcross that he felt every time the press of external demands lifted. Whenever he had a quiet moment, there she was—or, actually, there she wasn’t. The collapse of their vacation together, and a summer of unsatisfying FaceTime calls, made him especially anxious to get fall off to a good start. United States v. Cranmer had mostly been asleep over July and August while the attorneys fought over evidence and handled other cases. It would soon be moving to the center ring again, and Judge Norcross wanted Claire and him to have their feet solidly under them.

Norcross got back to Amherst in time to collect Marlene from the kennel, take her for a walk, and grab a quick shower. He hummed to himself as he put on a new black silk shirt he’d bought in DC. He’d never owned a black silk shirt before, and he liked it. He’d stashed a bottle of better-than-average champagne and a dozen red and yellow roses in the refrigerator before he’d left that Friday. The flowers still looked fresh, and Mission Cantina had their crispy fish tacos, Claire’s favorite, ready when he swung by on his way to the center of town. He kept picturing how Claire’s face would look when she opened the door.

As he approached her threshold, awkwardly balancing his offering of food, drink, and roses, a burst of Claire’s irresistible laugh erupted from the screened porch around the back of her house. It was the cracking-up gush that bubbled out of Claire when she was amused at something she knew should not really be funny—something a little mean perhaps, slightly crude, or sexy. Her bad-girl laugh.

Clunking her door with the butt of the champagne bottle, David found himself grinning. He wondered what could be tickling Claire so much. Some book she was reading? Some video clip on her laptop? In a few minutes, she would be showing it to him, or reading it to him, and they would be enjoying it together. After the weekend with his nieces, he badly needed a heavy dose of uninhibited adult fun.

When Claire opened the door, she looked startled. “David!”

“Hello, my dear!” David held up the champagne and waved it merrily. “Welcome home.” A smell of cooking wafted through the doorway.

“I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I know. …”

“You weren’t coming until tomorrow.”

“Right, but I …”

As David absorbed the confused look on Claire’s face, he felt his painstakingly choreographed surprise begin to curl up at the edges and turn brown. It collapsed into ashes when he saw a tall, blond, athletic-looking man emerge through the doorway from the porch area with a glass of wine in his hand. It was Darren Mattoon.

“Well, hello there, Your Honor.” Darren spoke with an ironical jocularity.

Claire glanced quickly back at Darren and then turned to David looking distressed. “He happened to be in Boston and gave me a lift from the airport.”

“Ah. Uh-huh.” David’s arms were getting tired from holding all the stuff, but he wasn’t going to put it down.

“It saved me waiting for the shuttle.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You weren’t around.”

“I know. Exactly. I wasn’t around, and your friend there gave you a lift.”

“Come in. Come in. We can …”

“No, listen, I think I’d rather save all this for another time.”

“It’s okay. I was just leaving,” Darren said.

This was an obvious lie. His wineglass was three-quarters full. The guy had a lopsided smile, and he seemed unfazed, maybe even enjoying the situation.

“Nope, nope, nope.” All David wanted to do now was get the heck out of there. As he hurried back down the sidewalk, he called over his shoulder. “Just shoot me a text later. Let me know what’s a good time for you.”

“You’re limping. How did you … ?”

“Long story.” Somehow, he managed to add, as he stepped back into his car, “This is not a problem. Really.”

One of the roses had fallen on the sidewalk, but he didn’t bother to retrieve it.