Reflection Point - By Emily March Page 0,67

so possessive as she did now. “Did you guys … uh …”

Sarah’s oh-so-innocent look morphed into a grin. “No. Zach and I made great friends, and we were content to keep it that way.”

Ali said, “Mac and I were separated but not divorced. Zach’s attention was good for my ego, but it was innocent. So, what sort of trouble are you in, Savannah? Zach-related trouble, which could be wonderful, or non-Zach-related trouble, which is maybe not so great?”

Unaccountably, she experienced the strangest urge to tell them about her time in prison. For a long moment the words hung on the tip of her tongue. That shocked her, and she wondered just where she’d left her brain. Life was good at the moment. Why would she want to screw it up?

Truth is powerful, Zach had said.

Maybe he was right. She wrinkled her nose. However, she could darn sure start out slow. “I don’t want to talk about Zach, but maybe I’ll share my speck of trouble with the regulators.”

“Regulators?”

“It involved moonshine. I was a kid. Let’s get the cobbler in the oven, then I’ll spill the beans.”

“Awesome!” Sarah said. “What’s next?”

“My secret ingredient. The secret to my peach cobbler is—”

The ringing of her office telephone interrupted her, and though it was after hours, she didn’t want to ignore it. Besides, she had fun teasing Sarah this way.

Walking into the room she used as her office, Savannah picked up the receiver. “Savannah Soap Company? May I help you?”

A male voice said, “I’d like to speak with Ms. Savannah Moore, please?”

“This is she.”

“Oh. Very good. Ms. Moore, I’m happy to have reached you. My name is Alan Powell. I’m an attorney in practice in Atlanta.”

An attorney from Georgia. Her stomach sank to her toes. I haven’t done anything wrong. Nothing. I’m innocent! “We ship to all fifty states, Mr. Powell. Which of our items do you wish to order?”

“I’m not calling about a soap order, Ms. Moore.”

Can’t blame me for trying. “I’m not interested in franchising my business at this time.”

“That’s not the reason for my call, either. I’m calling about your nephew.”

Tommy? Surprised, Savannah shifted her phone from one ear to the other. “Excuse me? What did you say?”

“Thomas James Moore, age fourteen. The only child of your brother Gary Moore and his wife, Jane, now deceased.”

“Jane is dead?”

“We have confirmed that information, yes. Jane Moore died of a drug overdose in Peoria, Illinois, ten years ago.”

Not long after she abandoned Gary and Tommy, Savannah realized. “Is Tommy okay?”

“Your nephew is currently in a temporary foster home under the direction of Social Services. Ms. Moore, your brother Gary is being held in jail without bond on numerous alcohol-related charges. He hit a pedestrian while driving drunk.”

Oh, no.

“Luckily, the injured woman survived, so at least he’s not facing manslaughter charges. I’ve been appointed his public defense attorney and I’m good, but I will be honest. Barring a miracle, he’s going to jail. That leaves his son in dire circumstances. Ms. Moore, TJ needs your help.”

TJ? Thomas James. Tommy.

“Will you take him?”

Savannah grabbed for the edge of her desk to support her suddenly weak knees and in doing so, accidentally sent a metal staple gun skimming across the surface. It crashed against a flower vase, which teetered and then fell. Glass shattered against the wood floor, the sound bringing Sarah and Ali to check on Savannah, concerned looks etched across their faces.

Savannah only vaguely noticed them. Her mind was spinning. Gary had visited her one time while she was in jail, and he’d been an absolute ass. He’d said that he and TJ were moving to Atlanta, and he believed everything Kyle had said. He’d told her to her face that she was a worthless human being and that he was washing his hands of her. After her release, she’d sucked up her nerve and attempted to pay him a visit, but he’d refused to let her in the front door and denied her the opportunity to see Tommy.

“Ms. Moore? Are you still there?”

“I … uh …”

Ali placed a hand on Savannah’s forearm. “Honey, you okay?”

“She’s white as a sheet,” Sarah said, stooping to pick up the larger shards of broken glass with her hands.

“Mr., um … what was your name again?”

“Powell. Alan Powell. I know this is an unexpected phone call, but I’m concerned about the boy.”

“But I couldn’t possibly do that. They wouldn’t let me. I’m a … a …” She remained aware enough to remember that she wasn’t alone, and she

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