Kathleen Creighton - One Summer’s Knight

Executive Senior Editor

It had never entered Summer Robey’s mind that she might go to jail. Primarily because it was unthinkable.

Jail. The word, spoken in the judge’s stern, Southern voice, rumbled inside her head like far-off thunder, ominous and threatening. Impossible, she thought. There were the children. The animals. She couldn’t possibly go to jail.

Summer, she ordered herself, take a deep breath. They didn’t really put people in jail for owing money anymore, did they? Hadn’t there been wars fought over that sort of thing? Hadn’t debtors’ prisons been banished long ago?

Deep in her heart she knew she wouldn’t really go to jail. For one thing, her family would never let it happen. It was the injustice of it all that was so overwhelming. And the humiliation. Oh, Lord, the humiliation.

Sitting in that overheated courtroom, hearing the judge’s rebuke echo in her ears, Summer felt exactly as if she’d been slapped. Her cheeks burned with it! All right, she’d never actually been slapped in the face in her life, but she was sure this must be what it would feel like. To be scolded like a child, publicly chastised in front of all those people…those strangers, the clerks and bailiffs, the spectators and lawyers.

Especially that lawyer, the opposing counsel, her enemy, the hospital’s high-priced ace. What was his name?

Two last names. Riley…Grogan-that was it A strange name, she’d thought, for a man so polished, so elegant, so immaculately groomed-so utterly heartless!-with his soft, Southern aristocrat’s voice and his cold blue eyes. A street fighter’s name. Oh, how she wished she’d had someone as ruthless fighting on her side!

She should have hired a lawyer, no matter what the cost. Charly had told her so, and now that it was too late, Summer knew that she was right. Charly was Summer’s sister Mirabella’s best friend, as well as the family’s attorney, but at the moment she was off in the South Seas honeymooning with her husband Troy, who also happened to be the big brother of Mirabella’s husband Jimmy Joe. Which, as Jimmy Joe would have put it, was a whole ’nother story.

“First thing you do is get yourself a lawyer and declare bankruptcy,” Charly had yelled over a bad satellite phone connection from somewhere in Tahiti. But Summer had cringed at the thought. It would have been bad enough having to ask Bella and Jimmy Joe for the money to hire an attorney. Horrible enough having to take her humiliating family problems-her miserable failures-to a stranger. But bankruptcy? Never. Summer Robey might be all but penniless and backed into a corner, but she did have her pride.

And what had all that pride got her? Simply the worst, the most humiliating day of her life.

How could this have happened? How could she be held liable for her ex-husband’s hospital bill when it was he who had deserted her, deserted his kids, leaving them virtually penniless and with the bank foreclosing on their home?

But unbelievably, none of that had mattered to this Southern judge. Immaterial, he’d called it, even if she’d had proof of her allegations. Which she didn’t. How could she have known Hal would become so desperate as to do such a thing? He’d seemed better, those last few months. She’d even allowed herself to hope… Stupid. Stupid. She should have known.

But it had never once occurred to her that she might not be believed. It was Hal Robey who was the compulsive gambler and congenital liar, Summer who was the responsible parent and respected veterinarian-didn’t that prove something?

Too bad. As the judge had coldly pointed out, there’d already been a ruling in this case, and the deadline for appeal had long since passed. The case could not be retried. Meanwhile, there was a judgment against her. She had been ordered by a California court to pay the rehab hospital’s bill. An order that she had chosen to ignore. Therefore, the judge had no option but to find her in contempt.

Contempt. Oh, yes, she’d seen it in the judge’s eyes when he’d scolded her as if she were a child-or an irresponsible nitwit. Of course, she knew that’s what he thought, that she was just another California bimbo, a dumb little beach bunny. And who could blame him? Because, unfortunately, that was exactly what she looked like.

For most of Summer’s life her looks had been her greatest trial For while she realized she looked very much like her name-golden and breezy, carefree and sunny-that was not who she really was. For one thing, she knew she looked much younger than her thirty-five years-when she wasn’t gaunt and hollow-eyed with worry-young enough to still get carded every time she ordered wine with dinner or bought a six-pack of beer at the supermarket, young enough that she could have fit right in with the crowds of gum-popping teenagers who hung out at the mall near her clinic, making conversation that seemed to consist mostly of “I mean, like, totally awesome, y’know?” No one would ever guess to look at her that she was a practicing vet with two kids and a truly frightening house payment.

And beach bunny? Well, she was blond-thanks to genetics, not choice-with a healthy glow to her skin that had little to do with exposure to the sun. But with the demands of her clinic, not to mention the hectic schedule set for her by the children’s activities, she had precious little time for the beach. If it wasn’t some school project, it was David’s swim practice or one of Helen’s gymnastics meets-for which Summer would almost invariably show up late, still wearing a smock smeared with heaven-knows-what and reeking of nervous animal. At least the children would forgive her for that, since it was what they’d grown up with and were pretty much used to. As co-custodians of an elderly and vile-tempered Persian cat, a timid but adorable Chihuahua, and an African gray parrot with an IQ surpassing that of some college students of her acquaintance, they often wore those telltale smears and scents themselves.

Theirs had been a lively household at times. Interesting, to say the least Had been.

Summer sat quietly, her shoulders slumping with defeat. As she gazed out the courtroom’s high, multipaned windows at a January sky the dingy gray of old dishwater, she thought about the blue of January skies in California, and the roses that would still be blooming in the front yard of her ranch-style house, nestled in its securely affluent suburb at the foot of the San Gabriel Mountains.

And she thought about the rented mobile home she and the children and the animals lived in now-an ugly brown shoe box set down in a patch of dusty, weedy grass, with a gravel driveway and a single oak tree for shade. But convemently located only a mile from the terminus of the mobile vet service where she’d found employment as a vet-tech, traveling around to local communities, helping to dispense rabies shots and heartworm pills. Her own clinic-yes, perhaps she missed that most of all.

Lively, chaotic…interesting. Oddly enough, she realized as she pulled her gaze away from the windows and began to gather up her coat, her purse, notebook and pen, those words she’d used to describe her former life did still apply to this one. But, oh, how different. Thanks to Hal, that charming scoundrel she’d married right out of vet school with everyone’s blessing, something else had been added. Fear. Of all the things she had to forgive her former husband for, that was the hardest.

Forgive you, Hal?

As much as she wanted to, she really couldn’t blame Hal; she knew compulsive gambling was a sickness, like alcoholism or any other addiction. She knew her husband needed help, more help than she’d been able to give him, and that he’d tried, truly tried, more times than she could count, to straighten himself out.

But this… this time it’s too much, Hal. Even for you. Yes, I’m angry, damn you. I’m angry with you for taking away the life we knew, but especially for putting that look of fear in your children’s eyes.

The cold of the January sky came to settle around Summer’s heart. No way around it, she would have to borrow the money to pay the judgment. Her sisters would help out-Bella, and Evie, if she could track her down in whatever desert or jungle she was filming at the moment. And Mom and Dad probably would, too, if she asked them. Oh, she did hope it wouldn’t come to that. Their retirement income was stretched thin enough as it was.

Slowly she rose, lifted the strap of her handbag to her shoulder, folded her coat over her arm. She took a deep breath, pleased that her legs no longer felt as though they might buckle, and began the short walk up the aisle between the rows of spectators’ seats to the double doors at the back of the courtroom.

“Would you excuse me for a minute?” Riley touched the sleeve of his client’s expensively tailored suit and moved around him on a course intended to intercept the woman who was just emerging from the courtroom. She hadn’t seen him yet. He had an idea that when she did she’d take pains to avoid him, and he meant to see that she didn’t, if he could

He saw that she still wore a dazed look, along with a slight flush-residual effects, he was sure, from the humiliation of the public dressing-down she’d just endured. Riley did regret that, especially since he knew it was mostly his fault the way Judge Stoner had lit into her. Well, hell, it was his job to bring judges and juries around to seeing things the way he wanted them to, and he was good at it He could have had that judge convinced Summer Robey was Joan of Arc or Lizzie Borden, if he’d wanted to, but it had suited his purposes to make sure she came across as merely arrogant and irresponsible instead. The fact that she had a body that’d look right at home loping across a California beach in one of those red lifeguard’s bathing suits they wore on that popular TV show hadn’t made his job any more difficult, either. But while he hadn’t wanted to risk her appearing even the slightest bit sympathetic, he really hadn’t intended the judge to come down on her quite so hard.