Chapter Three

When McCormick awoke in the morning, there was a faint light coming in from the half-window at the top of the wall in the basement bedroom. He stared in the direction of the window for a few moments, still cloudy-headed with sleep, and then checked his watch.

9:10 a.m. Which meant the judge hadn't bothered to wake him. Yesterday it had taken them roughly forty-five minutes to get from the airport to Rick and Marion's house; McCormick knew it was very unlikely that Hardcastle hadn't left yet. If he knew the judge – and last night he had told Marion he knew him very well – the man had probably left for the airport no later than 8:30. To compensate for rush hour traffic, just in case the Aunts' plane was early . . . or an easy excuse to leave a still-asleep ex-con behind.

After a quick shower and a change into fresh, only slightly wrinkled clothes, Mark tromped upstairs. Warren was sitting at the table with a cup of coffee. Seeing Mark enter the kitchen, the young woman tipped her chin in the direction of the coffee pot. "It's fresh," she said.

Mark gravitated toward the coffee pot, saw a nearby mug rack on the counter, and selected the largest one. He filled the mug, then leaned against the counter as he took a sip. "Hardcastle left already?"

Warren nodded. "He was leaving right when I got up." She looked at the clock on the wall, which read 9:35. "That was about an hour ago."

Even though he was still a little miffed that the judge had left without him, McCormick took some pleasure in the fact that he had correctly calculated what time Hardcastle had left. "Where's your mom?" he asked next.

Warren toyed with her cup. "She's lying down. She hasn't been sleeping well. And then the Aunts called at 6:22 – I know exactly when, because I looked at the clock when I heard the phone ring – to let us know their flight was delayed." She gave a very Hardcastle-ish huff, then muttered, "Just because they were up at the crack of dawn doesn't mean everyone else was."

Mark had lowered his mug. "Delayed?" he repeated, confused. "How much?"

"At least at hour. They're supposed to be landing closer to 11:00, now."

"So why did the judge leave so early for? He's just going to be hanging around the airport for an hour or more."

Warren had been taking a drink, and she now lowered the cup to the table, placing it down with more force than was necessary. She turned in her chair so that she was facing Mark, and raised her head defiantly.

"How the hell should I know why he left so early? I have other things to worry about than Uncle Milt's schedule! Like going to the flower shop with my mother and picking out flower arrangements for my father's funeral. And calling the newspaper office to demand they reprint his obituary." She gestured at a newspaper on the table. "They have the wrong year down for when my parents got married, and they even spelled his damn name wrong – "

Warren's voice broke off in a shuddering gasp, and Mark quickly crossed the kitchen to sit next to her and put his arms around her. But it was barely five seconds before Warren pushed him away. "I'm all right," she said quickly, her voice trembling. "You don't have to baby me."

"I'm not ba—" McCormick broke off, sighing in frustration. "Warren, listen: I know you're a Hardcastle, and that you guys can't show weakness and all that, but your dad just died! It's okay to feel sad."

"I don't have time to be sad," Warren said. "There's too much to do, and I have to take care of my mom, and – "

"Let us help. That's what we're here for, right? And the Aunts, when they get here – they can't not help. And then what about your dad's family? The judge said he had seven brothers and sisters?"

Warren took a deep breath as she tried to calm herself. "Yeah. One of his brothers died a couple years ago, but the rest are still alive. They should all be at the wake tomorrow, or at the funeral. We probably won't see many of them before that." At McCormick's questioning expression, she elaborated. "Most of them live out of state. When they get here they'll be staying at a hotel by the airport. That's the only thing that really works – we sure as heck wouldn't have room for them all here." She waved her hand, indicating the house. Mark glanced around, trying to picture six couples – many with kids and grandkids – attempting to find places to sleep in the modest home. Well, "modest" when compared to Gulls' Way.

Warren took a sip of coffee, then furrowed her brow. "I don't think them staying here would be good idea even if we did have the space. My mom had a hard enough time with just Aunt Connie and Uncle Matthew. They came over right after Dad died, to make sure she was all right, you know? But then Uncle Matthew started talking about the funeral arrangements, and he had all these weird ideas, and my mom couldn't take it. She was actually relieved when they left."

"So forget about them," McCormick said dismissively. "But there's gotta be something I can do. Just tell me. You want me to drive you and your mom to town? Call the newspaper for you? Beat somebody up?"

Warren gave a half laugh that sounded more like a sob. This time she initiated the embrace, and rested her head against Mark's chest.

"For now, maybe just drive us to town later. Although when it comes to my cousins, I might want to take you up on that last suggestion."

"Oh, yeah?" McCormick hugged Warren a little tighter, letting his chin rest on the top of her head. "Just point them out. I've got a pretty mean right hook." He was quiet a moment, and then said, "But maybe don't tell Uncle Miltie I offered."

Warren smiled, and a genuine laugh broke through. She pulled away, sitting up to rub her hands over her face and then through her hair. Mark watched her quietly, and feeling his stare, she sent him a suspicious look. "What now?" she asked crossly.

"I – Well, it's – I was wondering – "

"Oh, spit it out, Mark!"

The terse demand caused him to do just that. "Your first year in law school, did you have Professor Treater?"

Warren's look of suspicion faded, replaced instead with confusion. "Treater?"

"Yeah. So. . . " Mark was still hesitant, but his curiosity forced him to press on. "Did you?"

Warren shook her head with a slight scoff. "Contracts is a required course for first years. Alt and Treater are the only ones who teach it, and Alt's classes fill up fast. So yeah, I got stuck with Treater."

"What did you think of him?"

"He knows what's he talking about." Warren made a face. "But he's an ass. And he's especially hard on the good students, which is really unfair."

Mark inwardly hoped that was true, and that it could possibly explain the professor's attitude toward him. "So he was hard on you."

Warren snorted. "He's also hard on the students who he doesn't think got there on their own merit. A lot of the professors were that way with me, thinking I only got into law school because the famous Superior Court Judge Milton C. Hardcastle is my uncle. It took a while for them to see me for me. Especially Treater." She smiled slyly. "The students have a little saying about him: His class is – "

" – no treat," Mark finished the phrase, he and Warren speaking the last two words in unison. Then Warren was silent. She stared at Mark in bewilderment.

McCormick went on, seeming unaware of Warren's intense stare. "Of course, the subject matter doesn't help. Contract Law – all that reading and memorization, and if you don't have the terminology just perfect. . . " He sighed. "At least Civil Procedure is active, and interesting. Plus I've got some personal experience that helps with that. Not really Civil, mind you, more Criminal, but there are a lot of similarities. . . " Mark trailed off, finally noticing how Warren was looking at him. He smiled back at her, shrugging awkwardly.

"Mark – Are you – " Now it was Warren's turn to be at a loss for words. She looked away briefly, made a soft sound that could only be described as amused disbelief, and then turned back to the ex-con.

"Is there something you want to tell me, Mark?"