It's Never too Late - By Tara Taylor Quinn Page 0,5
she was in high school.
“Are they still in the big house?”
“Yes, though Dad finally consented to hiring a full-time landscaper and live-in housekeeper.”
The elder Parsonses had bought the desert mansion fifteen miles outside of Shelter Valley when Will was in high school. And ten years later Addy had been a very brief member of their household.
“And how’s Bethany?” Addy asked of the baby girl Will and his wife, Becca, had conceived after twenty years of marriage and numerous miscarriages. Becca had finally given birth at forty-three.
“Twelve going on twenty,” Will drawled, but Addy heard the adoration and pride in his voice.
“Getting nervous about the next few years, Papa?” she asked, grinning.
“No more so than I’ve been for the past twelve. In this town she’s not going to get away with much without her mother or me hearing about it.”
“Becca’s still mayor?”
“Reelected by a landslide.”
“And Kaelin?” The Korean boy Becca and Will had adopted four years after Bethany was born.
“Just made first baseman on his Little League team and can’t wait for play-offs so that he can spend every waking hour on the field at the park.”
A flash memory of summer days spent at the park in town, watching Elijah play ball with his friends, and then going across the street for ice cream, haunted Addy. She sipped her tea.
“How are you doing, Addy?” Will’s tone softened.
“Fine. Busy.”
“I looked at your website. You’re managing on your own without joining a firm, which is impressive. I knew you were doing educational law, but you’ve got a long list of wins. You’ve only been out of law school, what, six years?”
Seven. And she only took cases she believed in—something she could do being her own boss. Right was right and wrong was wrong and she of all people couldn’t afford to blur the line.
With only herself to support, she could be picky.
“Don’t let the list mislead you. I eat dried noodles for dinner more often than most of the folks in my profession,” she joked. And spoke the truth, too.
She couldn’t even afford a secretary.
“I have a favor to ask, Addy.”
Leaning her head back against the couch, she relaxed. “I’ll do anything I can for you, Will, you know that. What’s up?”
“This is a big one.”
Bigger than welcoming a lost little girl into the family and taking time to make her feel as special and welcome as everyone else there? It had been a long time ago. They’d all moved on. Had completely separate lives. Didn’t really even keep in touch. But she’d never forgotten.
“I’ll do whatever I can.”
“How soon could you get away for an extended vacation?”
“I’m waiting on a verdict on a case involving a diabetic kid who was suspended for having needles out during class, and then I’m free. I quit taking new cases as soon as I saw that this was going to trial.”
She could only do so much on her own.
“What do you need? Research? Case law?”
It made perfect sense that Will, as president of a prominent university, might need some educational law advice.
“I need it all. We’re dealing with possible discrimination charges.”
“Does this have to do with Kaelin?” Will’s adopted Asian son. “Is someone giving him problems in school?” Hard to imagine in Shelter Valley. Not because the town didn’t have bigots, but because of Will’s and Becca’s standing in the community.
“It’s me, Addy.” His voice lowered. “I’ve received a couple of anonymous letters threatening to go public with proof that I’m allowing discriminatory practices at Montford.”
She sat up, fully focused.
“What kind of discriminatory practices?”
“It doesn’t say.”
“Is there more to go on?”
“Unfortunately not. No names, no classes or faculty names, no ethnicities or instances to follow up on. No hint whatsoever.”
“And no return address?”
“The letters were slid under my office door.”
“Surely you have a friend on the Shelter Valley police force who could find out who’s sending them.”
“Greg Richards, who’s been sheriff here for over a decade, is the only one who knows about the threats besides Becca and myself. I took the letters straight to Greg and he advised that until we know who’s behind this, we keep it to ourselves. If for no other reason than if this is just a sick attempt to make me sweat, Greg doesn’t want the perpetrator to know he’s succeeding. Greg is investigating, but there were no prints on the envelopes. It’s common paper. Common ink. And it’s not like we have a forensic lab here. Or like this is enough of an issue to warrant involving overworked forensic