Swept Away. Gwynne Forster

her as the head of the agency.

      Enraged, she phoned Schyler. “What’s the meaning of this? Are you trying to destroy me? Why are you persecuting me?”

      His long silence only served to heighten her annoyance. Finally he gave her an answer different from what she would have expected, all things considered.

      “Ms. Overton, I am not your attorney, but I will give you some good advice. Please don’t appeal to my good nature. I have one, yes. But I place my responsibilities above my personal feelings.”

      Her bottom lip dropped. She held the phone away and stared at the receiver. Talk about chutzpah! “Your personal feelings? Where do they come in?”

      He let her have another pause. “You’re old enough to know the answer to that question. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll see you in court next Monday. And be prepared, because I’m duty bound to get a conviction in this case, though I may have come to hate the thought, and I’m warning you that you’re in trouble.”

      “Wait a minute. I don’t know the answer to that question, and if you do, I wish you’d let me in on it.”

      He expelled a long breath, and she imagined that he closed his eyes and prayed for patience. “I tell myself the truth,” he said, “even if I don’t mention it to anybody but me. You were right there with me when it happened, so you know what I’m talking about. But don’t let that lull you into complacency about this court case.”

      So he acknowledged the electricity between them, felt it and would still do what he regarded as the noble thing. If she hadn’t been facing the fight of her life, she’d admire him for it.

      “One doesn’t expect protection from one’s avowed executioner. Better look closely at your motives, Mr. Henderson. See you in court.”

      She hung up, her nerves rioting through her flesh, making a mockery of her cool manner. The case against CPAA hadn’t been settled, and now AFTC had indicted her. That indictment was a death knell that filled her head with dislike for Schyler Henderson. Yet, his eyes, his smile, his masculine bearing raised havoc with her feminine soul. The moist telltale of desire dampened her pores, and her heart stampeded like horses charging out of a corral. She dropped her head into her hands as her warring emotions pitted her against herself.

      The day of decision arrived, but before the judge ruled on the case against CPAA, Schyler presented to the judge his agency’s case against Veronica herself. Once more, she refused to answer questions but, instead, challenged Schyler and AFTC.

      “My record is my defense. The whole of Baltimore, Maryland, knows what I’ve contributed to this community. Whose sins are you demanding that I pay for?”

      Schyler knew that the effect of the blow she’d landed had to be mirrored in his face, telling her that she’d touched a nerve.

      “I’m not being personal, so would you please try to resist it?” he said, deciding against a return thrust.

      She countered his every point, fencing as skillfully as Errol Flynn or the great Olympians of the past. And he wanted her to destroy his arguments, prayed that she would, though he did nothing to help her. After she’d been on the stand for about an hour, Schyler conferred with the district attorney, who then asked the judge for a bench consultation, saying he wanted to withdraw the charges, that he could not aptly substantiate them.

      Schyler knew without doubt that only once before in his life had he experienced such an overwhelming sense of relief. He’d finally lost a case, but he couldn’t be happier. AFTC would make certain that Natasha Wynn received all the support she needed, but her two weeks of pain on the streets of Baltimore had taught her and all concerned a lesson. Him, too, and maybe he’d needed it. He went out to face the reporters who crowded around him, their bulbs flashing and notepads bobbing in the air as they shouted for his attention. He was the man of the moment.

      Over their heads, he saw Veronica walk out undisturbed. A fierce pain gnawed at his belly; her wings had been clipped, and he and AFTC had engineered it. Their intentions had been good, but as his father had told him dozens of times, the highway to hell was paved with good intentions. He watched her for as long as he could see her, her head high and chin up, and fought the urge to wade through that sea of reporters and take her into his arms.

      Veronica made her way back to the office, called a staff meeting, gave them the outcome of the trial, packed her briefcase and left. Several blocks from the train station, at the corner of Reisterstown Road and Bock Avenue, she crossed the street to where she knew she’d find Jenny with her shopping cart full of useless things.

      “You here early today, Ronnie.” Jenny claimed the gap between her front teeth made it impossible for her to say “Veronica.” “Ain’t a bit like you. You not sick, I hope.”

      In spirit, maybe. “I’m all right, Jenny. Thanks. I have a few things to do at home.”

      Jenny squinted at the sun and sucked in her cheeks. “I been sitting here every day it didn’t rain for the last almost two years, and this the first time you ever had anything to do at home. Well, I ain’t much to offer help, but ifn’ you need any prayers, you just let me know.” She rolled her eyes skyward. “He don’t always answer mine for me, but when I prays for other people, he do.”

      Veronica pressed a few bills into Jenny’s hand. “Thanks, friend. I’ll take all the prayers I can get.”

      “I sure do thank you, Ronnie. I know I’ll get something to eat every evening, ’cause somebody from Mica’s Restaurant across the way always brings me some fried lake trout and cornbread and collards. What you give me, I uses to buy soap, toothpaste, aspirins and things like that. I could use another blanket this winter.”

      “I’ll make sure you get one. If you’d just go see that social worker, we might be able to get you a place to stay.”

      She’d given up hope of getting Jenny off the street. What had begun as a solution to the loss of her apartment had become a matter of psychological dysfunction. Jenny no longer seemed to want a home; she had become inured to her hardships and accepted them as her way of life.

      “Yes ma’am. I’m goin’ down to the shelter and get cleaned up, and I’m goin’ to see her. Yes ma’am, I sure am.”

      Veronica waved her goodbye and struck out for the train station.

      At home, Veronica watched Schyler on the local news channel, transfixed by the smooth manner in which he made it seem as though all parties to the litigation had won. Won? She’d had the carpet yanked from under her. She flipped off the television and took out her knitting, hoping to settle her nerves with the rhythmic movements of her fingers, and at the same time, to make some headway on the two dozen mittens and caps that she gave every Christmas to children at the homeless shelter. Schyler’s hazel eyes winked at her and refused to be banished from her mind’s eye. Reluctantly, she answered the telephone, hoping that the caller wasn’t from the media.

      “Hello.”

      “Veronica, I just saw Schyler Henderson’s press conference,” her stepfather said. “I hope the man will leave you in peace now. He can say what a great agency you’re running, but if he thought so, why did he do this to you? I feel like calling him and giving him a piece of my mind.”

      She couldn’t help smiling. Sam Overton never failed to support her. Time and again he’d proved his boundless faith in her, and she loved him without reservation. “He was trying to make amends as best he could. I can’t deny that the case has done some damage, but the agency will survive, because nothing exists that can replace it.”

      “All right, but what about all those awards the city and state have given to you and to the agency? They can forget about what you’ve done for that city?” She could imagine him snapping his fingers when he said, “Just like that? It’s sickening.”

      “Don’t worry, Papa, I’ll be fine.”

      “Then what’re you doing home this time of day?