Bringing Up Baby Page 18

  Colin ignored the drink, folded his arms on the table and leaned toward his father. “I’m not the one who put Amanda up for adoption or used the poor kid just long enough for an interview to boost my bloody career or pretended I cared about the baby, then passed her off to the first couple who wanted her.”

  Mike downed his whiskey in a gulp and slammed his glass on the table. “If you believe that, son, you’re even dumber than I thought.”

  Colin waited for the surge of virtuous indignation, the permeating sense of the rightness of what he’d done. He’d felt bitterness but no regrets when he’d cut his ties with Felicia, but walking away from Devon hadn’t brought the same satisfaction. Instead, he suffered a chronic feeling of unease, like a bed of nettles had taken root in his heart.

  To fuel his anger, he shoved away memories of Devon in his arms, her puckish smile and her tender care of Amanda, and clung instead to the picture of her, conspiring with the attorney to send Amanda away. She’d fooled him once. He wouldn’t allow her to bamboozle him again. He hardened his heart and glared at his father. “What else am I supposed to think?”

  “How about the truth?” Mike grinned, his good humor evidently restored by the belt of liquor. “There’re holes in your conclusions big enough to drive a Caterpillar earth mover through.”

  “What kind of holes?” He realized his father’s good-natured smile wasn’t whiskey induced, but the same expression the old man sported when he held a winning poker hand.

  “I take it you know all about the child’s trust fund?” Mike asked with the feigned innocence of a cardsharp.

  “What trust fund?”

  His father shrugged. “More than enough money to support Devon Clarke and Amanda for the rest of their days. And it’s all under Devon’s control.”

  Uneasiness pricked Colin. “What difference does the money make?”

  His father circled the rim of his glass with his finger. “Seems to me if Devon is the career-conscious, money-grubbing gold digger you claim, keeping the child and the money would have paid off in the long run. There was enough to pay a full-time nanny and still have tons of cash to spare.”

  “Are you saying Devon was making money off the baby?” Colin’s anger boiled through him with fresh strength.

  Mike shook his head. “Devon refuses to touch a cent of the trust fund. Put it all in an account for the child. And she is well aware whoever adopts the child will also keep the money, although she plans to keep that fact hidden until she’s located the right family.”

  “If she has all that money, why is she so anxious to get rid of Amanda?”

  Mike tapped his forehead with his index finger. “Now you’re grinding the old brain into gear. You figure it out.”

  Images of Devon’s tear-streaked face when Amanda disappeared and her joy at the child’s return flashed through Colin’s mind, and the answer hit him like a ton of bricks.

  How could he have been so dense not to see it? He’d let his experience with Felicia color his assessment of Devon, causing him to jump to all the wrong conclusions. His own stupid pride had kept him from understanding Devon’s motivations, from acknowledging she loved Amanda so much that she’d give the child up to keep her safe.

  He lifted his gaze to meet his father’s. “She was afraid for Amanda.”

  “Blessed Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” his father sighed with a dramatic roll of his eyes. “I didn’t sire an imbecile after all. Of course she was afraid. Three times somebody tried to take the child. Devon wants Amanda far away with a new identity where no one can harm her. Too bad now her good intentions are all too late.”

  Colin’s head snapped up, and he fixed his father with a piercing stare. “What do you mean, ‘too late’?”

  Mike’s grin faded into a scowl. “Before Amanda’s adoption by the Watsons could be finalized, Ernest Potts, the half uncle, sued for custody, claiming Devon’s an unfit mother.”

  “Devon’s a wonderful mother,” Colin insisted. “The man must be crazy.”

  Mike raised his bushy white brows. “Or greedy. He knows if he gets Amanda, he gets the trust fund, too.”

  Colin groaned and buried his face in his hands. “I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

  “That you have, son.” Mike nodded solemnly. “Now what are you going to do about it?”

  DEVON SHIFTED in the hard wooden chair and fought against claustrophobia. The courtroom was nothing like the airy chambers with tall windows on old “Perry Mason” reruns. Its dropped ceiling with flickering fluorescent lights, cramped, windowless space and musty carpet seemed like a foretaste of prison.

  She smoothed the skirt of the pastel floral dress St. Clair had suggested she wear. Something demure and maternal, he’d said, to impress the judge. She grimaced at the irony of her situation. She’d come to court to fight like hell to keep Amanda long enough to give her away again.

  At the sound of people approaching across the aisle, she glanced up and met the gaze of a balding, middle-aged man with piglike eyes. Ernest Potts! He pulled out a chair for a woman with bleached-blond hair.

  Devon’s memories clicked like a high-speed computer. She’d seen them both before—Ernest on her street in his green Buick the day Amanda had arrived, and his wife in the department store the day Amanda disappeared. In that instant, she knew without doubt the two of them had been responsible for every attempt to take Amanda from her.

  She leaned toward St. Clair and whispered her deductions in his ear. “If we can prove they’re responsible, we’ll win our case.”

  And I can keep Arnanda! With the Pottses behind bars, she’ll be safe. And in her heart she knew, even in her worst maternal moments, she’d be a better parent than either of the Pottses.

  She tried not to think of Colin, who’d walked away two months ago without giving her a chance to explain her rationale for Amanda’s adoption. The ache in her heart stole her breath, and she attempted to console herself with the prospect of single motherhood.

  “It may be too late,” St. Clair whispered in her ear and helped lift her to her feet by her elbow. “The judge is coming in now, and we have no evidence to support your allegations.”

  After the judge had seated himself at the bench, Devon settled back into her chair and leaned toward St. Clair. “I can testify that I saw them in our neighborhood and at the department store where Amanda was taken,” she murmured.

  “All circumstantial,” he mumbled in a low voice and rose to his feet again. “Yes, we’re ready, Your Honor.”

  For the next three hours, she listened and squirmed as Potts’s attorney called police and security personnel forward. All testified that Amanda had disappeared while under Devon’s care. The fire chief testified that it was her apparent carelessness that had caused the fire at her house the day of Amanda’s arrival.

  Then the seedy lawyer called Mrs. Kaplan to the stand. The dear old lady came forward, threw Devon an apologetic glance and took her seat beside the judge. She fidgeted like a water drop on a griddle and twisted the lavender skirt of her best dress with nervous fingers.

  “Mrs. Kaplan,” Potts’s lawyer crooned in an oily voice, “you reside across the street from Ms. Clarke?”

  Mrs. Kaplan nodded nervously.

  The judge dropped his gruff expression and smiled at the older woman. “Please answer aloud for the record.”

  “Yes, I do.” She looked over at Devon and lifted her shoulders in a helpless shrug.

  Devon nodded encouragement, but her heart sank as the older woman described how Devon’s car with Amanda in it had ended up on her front lawn. Mrs. Kaplan left the stand, unable this time to meet Devon’s glance.

  Potts leaned forward in his seat beside his attorney and smirked at Devon with a malicious grin. His wife, appearing uncomfortable, refused to look her way.

  Devon huddled with St. Clair. “You have to do something. They’ve made me look worse than Cinderella’s stepmother.”

  St. Clair’s demeanor was calm, but she could read the frustr
ation in his tone. “If you have some solid evidence to disprove any of this, let’s have it now.”

  “I can’t disprove it—it all happened,” she muttered through gritted teeth, “but I know Potts was behind it. Can’t you ask for a delay?”

  He nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  She cast another sideways glance at the couple seated at the table across the aisle and quashed a shudder. She couldn’t allow those two to take Amanda. Their coarseness and bad manners offended her, but more than that, the couple lacked honesty and decency. What kind of environment would they provide for her little angel?

  In the air-conditioned stuffiness of the room, she could almost feel Amanda’s tiny body snuggled against her, the plump arms encircling her neck, the pudgy palm patting her cheek while the precious voice whispered “Mama” in her ear. Too late, she realized she could never give the baby up, not even to the most qualified adoptive parents in the world. In a few brief months, Amanda had become her child, and she would fight until her last breath to keep her.

  The opposing lawyer stood and approached the bench, and Ernest Potts caught her eye and flashed a triumphant grin.

  Good Lord, what are they up to now?

  The lawyer hooked his thumbs in the vest of his outdated three-piece suit and strutted like a bantam cock before the bench. “Your Honor, we intend to prove not only that Ms. Clarke is negligent in her responsibilities toward her ward, but also that she is a woman of loose character and poor moral fiber.”

  Devon flinched as if she’d been struck.

  The smug little man turned and pointed his finger at her. “This woman cohabited for weeks with a man who is not her husband, but worse than that, this incompetent guardian has foisted herself upon the American public as baby-care expert, Amanda Donovan.”

  A collective gasp arose in the courtroom, and for the first time, Devon was aware of the small group of spectators who filled the tiny room behind her. Footsteps scurried up the aisle and the courtroom door slammed. A reporter, no doubt, off to call in the scoop.

  Her stomach churned and her hands turned to ice. Her career no longer mattered. The syndicate could fire her if they wished. All she could think of was Amanda, safe and secure at home now with Betsy and Mike, but not for long. What Potts’s attorney had claimed about Colin staying at her house and her fooling the public with her column was all too true.

  St. Clair jumped to his feet. “We ask for a continuance, Your Honor, to dispute these allegations.”

  “Request denied.” The grim-faced judge scorched her with a disapproving look and consulted his watch. “But it is close to the lunch hour. We’ll recess until two o’clock.”

  He dismissed the court with a bang of his gavel that shattered Devon’s heart. She’d lost everything now. After disentangling Sara Davis from the fallen Christmas tree, Colin had walked out of her life forever, and soon her darling Amanda would leave, not for a safe and happy home, but to provide a greedy aunt and uncle with her trust fund.

  Devon laid her head on her folded arms, blocking out the sickly, flickering lights and ignoring the buzz of voices beside her.

  Through the haze of pain, a hand gripped her shoulder. “Devon?”

  Colin’s voice. Her agony at losing Amanda had driven her over the edge, and she was suffering auditory hallucinations.

  Strong hands lifted her by the elbows and turned her around. She looked up into Colin.’s face.

  “I love you, Devon, and everything’s going to be all right.” He crushed her in his powerful embrace and his lips grazed her forehead before he released her and stepped away. “Now I want you to meet two very important people.”

  She glanced to the end of the table where St. Clair was conferring with two strangers.

  The first, a stocky young man in faded jeans and a leather motorcycle jacket, turned toward her. A diamond stud flashed in his right ear as he extended a meaty paw toward her. “Sam Janowsky. Pleased to meetcha.”

  “Sam’s a private investigator,” Colin explained. “He’s been researching this case with me for the past six weeks.”

  Colin motioned to the distinguished, gray-haired gentleman in an Armani suit, who broke off his intense conversation with St. Clair to offer his hand. The strength of his grip belied his mild appearance. “Don’t worry, Ms. Clarke. We won’t let them take your child.”

  Colin eased her into a chair just as her knees threatened to buckle. “William Wollencroft just flew in from Philadelphia. He’s the country’s best legal expert in child custody cases.” Colin nodded to the newcomers. “You have your work cut out for you during the recess, gentlemen.”

  St. Clair, appearing as stunned as she felt, motioned them up the aisle. “My office is in the next building. I’ll have lunch delivered while we confer.”

  Devon shook her head, too punchy from the rapid chain of events to think straight. Like a drowning swimmer who’d gone under for the third time, only to be snatched from the watery jaws of death at the last minute, she clung to Colin’s arm. “Who hired those two?”

  He pulled her against the comforting breadth of his chest, and her shivers eased. “I did, several weeks ago.”

  She tipped her head to search for traces of the outrage he’d exhibited at their last meeting, but found only affection shining in his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me? I thought I’d never see you again.”

  His arms tightened around her shoulders. “Gathering all the information we needed took most of my time—and I didn’t want you to know how dirty these proceedings might be.”

  She nodded, content, and pressed her cheek against his thudding heart. A question formed in her mind, and she raised her head to confront him once more. “Philadelphia lawyers and private investigators are expensive. Who’s paying for all this?”

  “Don’t you remember?” He kissed the tip of her nose. “I made a bundle off the Sara Davis interview.”

  Tears filled her eyes. For the past weeks, all the time she’d thought she’d lost him forever, he’d been thinking of her and Amanda and working to keep them together. If hearts ever exploded with love, hers was a prime candidate.

  He released her and pointed toward the door. “As much as I’ve wanted to hold you for weeks, there’s something more important we have to take care of before court reconvenes.”

  “What is it?” she asked over her shoulder as she preceded him up the aisle.

  “A surprise.” He pushed her gently to quicken her pace. “But you’ll have to skip lunch.”

  WHEN COURT RECONVENED, Colin took his place beside Devon at the table before the judge, and Wollencroft joined St. Clair.

  When Potts’s lawyer had finished presenting his case, Wollencroft moved into action like a well-oiled, precision machine. “I call Sam Janowsky to the stand.”

  Sam swore to tell the truth and took the witness chair, filling the box with his muscled bulk.

  “Mr. Janowsky,” Wollencroft began, “I understand that, in your capacity as a private investigator, you have traced the whereabouts of Ernest and Muriel Potts, who swore earlier under oath that they had not left the state of Missouri for the past six months.”

  Janowsky nodded, pulled a tattered notebook from his jacket pocket and responded, “After securing photographs of the Pottses and the license number of their car, I interviewed every motel owner in the county. The manager of the Crooked Palm Motel informed me the Pottses were registered there for a fourweek period from late September through most of October.”

  Potts’s lawyer sprang to his feet. “Objection. Hearsay, Your Honor.”

  The judge looked to Wollencroft with raised eyebrows.

  “We have a sworn affidavit from the manager and a copy of his register, Your Honor. And the manager is willing to come forward to testify in person, if needed.”

  “Objection overruled,” the judge intoned.

  For the next hour, the courtroom rang with objections from the plaintiff’s lawyer as Janowsky and Wollencroft presented a sheaf of affidavits, plac
ing Potts, his wife and their green Buick in Devon’s neighborhood time after time. The crushing blow came when the baby-sitter, who had cared for Amanda after her kidnapping, took the stand and identified Muriel Potts as the woman who’d brought her the child, claiming the baby as her own.

  Potts slumped in his chair, fixing Devon with a twisted scowl, but his sour looks couldn’t harm her now. With her hand clasped tightly in Colin’s, she watched Potts’s lawyer’s last-ditch attempt to discredit her.

  “Even if my clients did take the child”, he explained in a wheedling tone, “they did it for the baby’s own good. Ms. Clarke was a poor mother and living with a man she wasn’t married to.”

  A victorious smile flitted briefly across Wollencroft’s face when he called Colin as a witness. “Please tell the court, Mr. O’Reilly, your firsthand observations of Ms. Clarke’s parenting skills.”

  As Colin answered, his gaze locked with hers, and her eyes welled with happy tears at his words. “Devon is an exceptional mother. The years of writing her column, ‘Bringing Up Baby,’ have provided her with a wealth of information to supplement her inherent love and devotion to Amanda. In fact, she is so well qualified, I have asked her to be the mother of my children.”

  Potts and his lawyer exchanged a pleased look, as if Colin had fallen into their trap, but their expressions changed at Wollencroft’s next question.

  “And just what is your relationship to Devon Clarke?”

  Colin dug into the inside pocket of his jacket and produced a piece of paper. “Devon Clarke is my wife.”

  He handed the judge the marriage license, signed just two hours before in Judge Batsford’s chambers, where they had been married, with Mike, Betsy, Mrs. Kaplan and Amanda as witnesses.

  “And as soon as Devon’s guardianship of Amanda is settled,” Colin continued, “we want to begin official adoption proceedings for Amanda.”

  A rumble of applause broke out among the spectators, and the judge banged his gavel for order. But Devon heard and saw nothing but Colin, whose expression promised her all she’d ever longed for in life.