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FRANCESCA SET HER suitcase down and cast her gaze around the opulent foyer. Streams of gold from the skylight illuminated the expansive entrance. Wood floors were polished to a sheen. Yellow daisies from the garden speared out of the Waterford vase on the Cocobolo rosewood table at the center of the foyer. It had been six years since Francesca was home, and although everything looked the same, it felt different.
Francesca set Bear down to let him roam his new home. After a short probing walk, Bear leaned into her and sighed. She knew precisely how Bear felt. It all felt new and strange to me her. On hearing the voices flowing from the kitchen, Francesca gestured Bear to follow her down the hallway lined with portraits of her mother, father, and the Thompsons long gone where she found two women fussing over a coconut cake.
The older woman was trim with sharp, dark eyes set in a ruddy face. She wore thick-soled loafers, a starched, baby-blue inform with a white collar, and a lace apron hung around her waist. Her hair, as black as night—due to the regular application of Henna—was tied up into a tight bun that gave her an instant facelift.
Next to her, in a black maid’s uniform, stood a younger woman. She was pretty with delicate features. Thin eyebrows, a small puckered mouth, a tiny upturned nose, and the greenest eyes Francesca had ever seen were set in an oval face. Her hair, also tied into a bun, was shades lighter than the older woman’s.
“Miss Thompson, we weren’t expecting you for another hour.” The younger curtsied while the older woman eyed an exploring, sniffing Bear, with disdain. “I’m Missy, the new maid, and this is my mother, Jean Richards, your cook.”
“Nice to meet you both, and I’m sorry I didn’t let you know about my early arrival. The flight made good time. Something to do with favorable winds. I’m Frankie, not Miss Thompson, and please don’t curtsy.”
“But Mrs. Thompson...”
Francesca held a hand up to silence Missy. “I don’t care what my dad’s wife said to you. I’m not the queen of England, and she certainly isn’t either.”
“All right, Frankie.” Missy liked what Francesca was made of. “And who is this?”
Francesca bent down to pick up Bear. “This is Bear. Say hello to the ladies, baby.” At the command, Bear offered a smile and his right paw. “Go ahead, shake it.”
“Isn’t that darling,” Missy said, taking Bear’s paw.
“Not in my kitchen, it isn’t. There’s food all around and that...”
“Beautiful little dog is part of the family, Mum.” Missy scratched Bear behind the ear. “Mum’s very particular about her kitchen.”
“I am. I’m sorry about my abruptness, Miss Thompson. You will be Miss Thompson to me,” she pressed the point when Francesca opened her mouth, “and I will be Mrs. Richards to you.”
“She won’t let up, so best to agree,” Missy murmured, then turned to her mother. “Mum cut Frankie a piece of cake. I’ll get her a cup of coffee. That’ll hit the spot after her long trip. How about you Bear, are you hungry? I picked up some of that Puppy Chow your mommy told me you liked.” Bear’s ears perked up. “I guess that means yes.”
“That is not eating in my kitchen,” Mrs. Richards piped up when Missy filled Bear’s bowls with food and water.
“Would you like to eat on the terrace, Frankie? It’s a beautiful summer day. I’ll set Bear’s bowls out there too. Have a seat, and I’ll be out there in a minute.”
Missy set cake and the steaming cup of coffee before Francesca. “I know this is your home, Frankie, but for your sanity, well, mainly mine, would you mind doing what Mum says? See, you seem like the diplomatic, polite sort, but I’m not. I tend to get violent when frustrated, and I know you don’t want me to end up as your first client.”
Francesca snorted a laugh. “Don’t do anything just yet. I still need to pass the bar exam later this month,” she called after Missy as she walked into the kitchen and came back out with Bear’s food.
“You’ll ace your exam. Any girl who walks out with a Ph.D. from Stanford will have no problem passing the bar.” Missy set bowls of food and water down. “This is for you, Bear.”
“Thanks for your confidence.” Francesca watched Missy’s lips curve when Bear sidled up to chow down, his tail happily wagging. Anyone who treated Bear as well as Missy did was all right by her. She and Missy were going to be good friends.
“It’s a fact. Poor baby, he was hungry.”
“He’s always hungry. For a small dog, he has a bear size appetite.”
“Ah, hence the name.” Missy eyes shot upwards when a pair of blue jays winged by in the sun-drenched, blue sky.
“By the way, I’d hide your shoes if I were you. And it’s not a Ph.D. I have.”
“My shoes aren’t worth much. You’re welcomed to them.” Missy ruffled Bear’s fur. “It’ll give me a good excuse to replace them without having mom harping about me spending money needlessly. And whether a Ph.D. or some other degree it’s more than I could ever do. It takes brains to do what you’ve done, Frankie. Anyway, I better get back to it,” she said when she saw her mother eyeing her. “Can I get you or Bear anything else?”
“No, thank you. When is Mrs. Thompson going to be home?” Francesca asked with reluctance.
“She’s out,” spending your father’s hard-earned money. “Won’t be back for a while. She said she’d be staying at the downtown condo to give you some time to settle in.” With that, Missy headed back into the house.
“Hmm, how benevolent.”
Nothing was the same. Her father had remarried, and Tommy was gone. Mrs. Richards had replaced Mrs. Scott since her return to Ireland with Mr. Scott to start anew after Tommy’s loss caused him to spiral into a deep depression.
“I need to take him far away from here. There are too many memories causing him pain. Everywhere he turns, he sees Tommy. I’m afraid if I don’t take him away, he’s going to die of a broken heart.” Mrs. Scott had said to Francesca, and six months later, they’d sold their home, the garden center, and set off to start a new life abroad.
The Scott’s leaving was a shock, but not as much as Peter’s marriage to Tiffani. Tiffani—with an I as she insisted on pointing out—was thirty years younger than Peter and only six years older than Francesca. That Tiffani had the I.Q. of a sloth didn’t play into the equation when Peter proposed. That Tiffani had a spill of platinum blonde hair, a double D cup size, a tiny waist, and up until they married had been a cheerleader for the national football team did.
Francesca disliked Tiffani the moment they’d met. Not so much because her father had never told her about Tiffani or his intention to marry her. Not so much because Peter introduced Tiffani as her stepmom over their twenty-four-hour layover in Stanford on their way to their month-long honeymoon in Hawaii, but because Francesca saw through Tiffani’s perky façade.
Women like Tiffani controlled the tide of a man’s life, and Francesca saw just that in the way Peter was twisting himself into a pretzel for her. Barbie’s interest was in Peter’s bank account, not him, and her tight, curvy body blinded him to Tiffani’s real motive, but not Francesca.
Nothing was the same.
Mrs. Scott was gone, her father had remarried, and Tommy was lost to her. Francesca felt a horrible, heavy sadness press down on her chest.
“You’re out there, Tommy. I know you are, and I’m going to find you.” Francesca vowed although it was going on two years since the arrival of the telegram from the war office.
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FRANCESCA DARTED EYES UP FROM THE newspaper to Peter. Framed in the doorway of her office, he seemed to fill it with his imposing presence. In a gray pin-striped suit, wisps of gray woven through his hair at the temple, he looked handsome and distinguished.
“The war is over.”
“Front page news.” Francesca set the newspaper down.
The sadness resonating in her eyes told Peter she was thinking of Tommy. Three years gone, and Tommy was still stopping Francesca from moving on with her life. Peter hadn’t seen Francesca with a man or date anyone. She attended the company functions, stiffly, but dutifully. Francesca refused to participate in the country club functions or spend time with her friends. Her days were filled with work, home, and Bear.
Peter wished Katherine was around. She’d know how to help Francesca move on with her life. He missed his wife. Peter missed talking to her. He missed her laugh and lying next to her in bed. Tiffani was a sexual woman and fulfilled his needs in the bedroom beyond his wildest expectations, but she had the intellect of dead bark. Katherine was his intellectual equal, and sometimes a thoughtful exchange with a woman was more gratifying than a quick a roll in bed.
“I want to talk to you, Frankie.” Peter closed the door behind him. End of war news making the rounds in the office had the staff abuzz with excitable chatter and laughter. “Do you keep any alcohol in this office?”
Francesca shook her head. “Just water. Can I get you a glass?”
“No.” Peter sunk his six-foot frame into the wide-backed guest chair across Francesca. “I want you to take first chair on the John Adam case, Frankie.”
“The physician suspected of physically abusing his wife and ultimately cracking her skull open.”
“That’s the one. He called me a few days ago, asking if I would take his case. Yesterday, I spent most of the morning at the Brockville prison speaking with him. Here are the notes.”
Francesca locked a stunned gaze on her father’s face. “It’s a murder case, Daddy. I just started practicing. I can’t take on such a big case yet. Besides, I don’t know that I want to defend a wife-beater.”
“You’re a lawyer, Frankie. You won’t always have the luxury of choosing who you represent. Moreover, I believe him to be innocent. And not only do I think you can defend him, but I believe you can win the case. It’s the perfect case for you to make your name.”
“Are you saying that as my father or my boss?”
“Both. As your father, I’m looking after your best interest. As your boss, I want you to succeed.” Peter stretched out his long legs, crossed his feet at the ankles. “This is a great opportunity for you. It’s the perfect case to make your name. He’s a broken man who needs your help, Frankie.”
Mulling the idea in her head, Francesca tapped the pen in her hand in a see-saw motion on her desk. “But I’d be going up against James Templeton. He’s one of the best criminal prosecutors in the business.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I’m the best lawyer. Pfft, he only has ten years of litigation under his belt.”
“That’s ten more than I have.” Francesca rose, turning her back to Peter as he walked to the window.
It was a bright September day, filled with sunshine, renewed hope, and celebration. Horns beeped, strangers shook hands and hugged at the news the men were coming home. Possibly physically injured, maybe mentally damaged, but they were coming back nonetheless. Tommy wasn’t.
“You have to jump into the shark-infested water some time, Frankie,” Peter said.
“James hasn’t lost one case, Daddy.”
“Until now. You’re a Thompson, Frankie; you can do this. Meet with John and feel him out. You’ll have me to consult when needed and all the office resources at your disposal. How about it, Frankie?” Peter eyed his daughter, gauging, for her response.
She took a deep, clearing breath. “All right, if you think I can do this.” Francesca saw her father brighten as she hoped he would. She was a grown woman, and validation from her father was still what she needed most.
“Of course you can do this. You’re a Thompson.” The prideful expression that welled up in Peter was one Francesca thought never sat comfortably on his face.
“I am,” Francesca said, doing her best to shield her apprehension.
Francesca was right to doubt herself. Peter knew his daughter wouldn’t win the case. She was too inexperienced, but she’d put up a good fight, which is what Peter wanted. There was nothing like a woman challenging a man’s intellect to stir his juices and work up his interest, and with Francesca going up against James Templeton, she’d do just that.
Trap and prey set, he’d let Francesca play out her part. When the time was right, he’d move in to rescue the case.
