Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction for entertainment purposes only. The characters and concepts of Hardcastle & McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators.

FAMILY MATTERS

by Susan Zodin

Timeline: Approx. 2-3 weeks after the Judge is shot in the TV episode "Birthday Present" (March 1985).

References made to TV episodes: "Birthday Present", "The Long-Ago Girl", "Ties My Father Sold Me", and "Rolling Thunder", plus info from several fanfics describing Mark's early life and the personal histories of Nancy and Tommy Hardcastle.

Mark McCormick reached his arms up in the air, stretching out his upper back and shoulder muscles. Sweeping out the attic of Gulls' Way was not his favorite recreational activity—especially since the "cleaning" made him more dirty. Well, he reflected, he didn't have anyone to blame but himself. Going crazy with the silences in the house due to the Judge's temporary absence in the hospital, and stuck inside because of a rainstorm, he had decided to "clean up the place" –voluntarily, for a change—including the parts of it Hardcastle usually insisted on keeping closed up. Because of this, Mark had seen the insides of rooms he had never been in before during his year at the estate. He felt strangely hesitant about going in some of them, but tried to laugh the feeling off. After all, ol' Hardcase didn't have torture chambers or Bluebeard's harem locked behind the doors. No skeletons jumping out of the wardrobes. Yeah...no skeletons...but, somehow it seemed as if ghosts were present in some areas. Closets with school jackets and old sneakers, bedroom walls still bearing high school sports pennants and team pictures, bookcases with novels and popular paperbacks of the '50's and 60's, a lady's sewing basket sitting in a chair by a dressing table. Earlier this morning, entering what appeared to be a study, he had pulled a window shade cord to illuminate the room, but the whisper of the dry linen rolling up made a shiver run down his spine. These walls hadn't seen sunlight in ten years or more. Spider webs hung like lace from the curtains. He hurriedly ran the vacuum across the rugs and wiped at the shelves and tabletops with a dusting rag, then left the room, hair prickling on his arms and feeling as if something invisible was chasing him.

He had felt a sudden urge to run down the stairs and go outside—to safety. His inner mind kicked him—what was he doing acting like a little kid scared of the dark? Nothing was here. Nothing would hurt him. Yet, he felt that something was watching him. He thought of Nancy and Tom Hardcastle---the Judge's dead wife and son. Were they here, somehow? Watching him? What did they think of him?--an intruder?--someone who didn't belong? He suddenly felt guilty about living in "their" home...trying to be a friend (or a son?) of Milt's. And now...he was going through their rooms, picking up their things (even just to clean them—he felt like he was contaminating them all over again by his presence). Were they damning him from the beyond—judging him by his criminal and bastard child past? He wasn't rich...he didn't have an important name or background, yet he was living in luxury he hadn't earned; trying to imagine himself as part of a family he really didn't have. The Judge was, after all, just that. His judge. His warden. His employer. Not really his father (oh God, how he wished sometimes that...) Hardcastle had said that he wasn't a substitute for Tommy...was he? What was he?

2

He sneezed as he picked up another stack of books and old magazines and moved them over to the corner table. His foot hit against a cardboard box on the ground, tearing the paper corner. Drat! Now he would have to find another container to repack the stuff. He pulled out the papers and photos from the damaged package and started sorting through them to make a neat stack. In one picture, the Judge and Nancy smiled at him, posing for the camera in what seemed to be the garden behind the pool area. Other snapshots showed the family camping out--Hardcastle and Tommy holding up strings of freshly caught fish, Mrs. Hardcastle emerging from a tent doorway in the early morning, her hair awry and directing a mock scowl at the photographer—probably Milt!, the Judge stretched out asleep in a hammock. Mark smiled at the happiness coming from the scenes. They weren't even his memories, but he felt a comfort in them. Milt, on the other hand, seemingly shut them out in taped boxes, forgotten (?) in the dusty attic if not in his heart. Sighing at the waste, McCormick pulled out an old clipping from a newspaper. Unfolding it, he found that it was the Hardcastles' wedding announcement, dated in March 1945. Milt looked handsome in his suit, but the radiance of Nancy's smile was what brought out the power of the photo. Kindness and affection were obvious in her face. The Judge had been a very lucky man, Mark reflected. He smiled. What had he been afraid of that morning? Ghosts in the house? Well, if there were, they couldn't wish him ill...at least, hopefully not. Looking at Nancy's portrait, he couldn't imagine her feeling hateful or resentful toward anyone. He remembered Sarah's comments about Mrs. Hardcastle when he had first moved in—the housekeeper had said that the Judge's wife was like a "saint". She had commented on her concern for others and good works for the community. The Judge himself had recently admitted, in one of his rare comments on the subject, that Nancy loved kids and enjoyed working in the flower gardens and decorating the home with art works. She had wanted to make the environment of Gulls' Way not only a beautiful estate physically but also a loving and caring home for its inhabitants. From what McCormick knew, she had succeeded. It seemed as if the two had had a wonderful marriage. Mark suddenly took another look at the clipping's date. "March 23, 1945". March 23rd was three days from now...and, he realized, it would have been the Judge's fortieth wedding anniversary. He sat down on an old chair, ignoring the dust.

Forty years. Well, the marriage was only 27 years "on earth" since Nancy had died in 1972, but McCormick knew that the Judge still considered himself, in his soul, to be bound to her. He dated a little, but never got serious about anyone---definitely not enough to consider remarrying. Even the recent meeting of his old flame from the war, the ex-actress Jane Bigalow, had not really seriously changed his mind about this. Mark had to admit---ol' Hardcase was loyal to his wife...butit was more than that. He had loved her truly. Not a wartime romance—a "flame" of excitement and comfort in uncertain times, but a partnership for life...and after.

Mark climbed down the attic stairs and went into the garage to find a new box. Carrying it back to the top floor, he started packing the papers and photographs carefully, as if the life they held still was.

That night, McCormick phoned Frank Harper, one of the long-time friends of Hardcastle who had known the Judge's family years ago. "Frank...yeah, it's Mark. Fine, how about you? Yeah, the Judge was doing great when I phoned him this morning. I've been stuck here at the house cleaning up stuff. Yes, you can see the floor now! I sandblasted the dust off the furniture and swabbed the decks! Yeah, okay...okay. Lemon fresh scent and everything. Hey, Frank...I've got to ask you something serious. NO!...quit that, Frank! Okay...uh, I have a question about the Judge's wife. No, you know he hardly ever talks about his family to me. Thinks it's none of my business...well maybe it isn't, but...well...I found a newspaper clipping about their wedding while I was cleaning the attic. Do you know that their fortieth wedding anniversary would have been in three days? Yeah...forty. Well...anyhow, I just wanted to know if the Judge ever goes to see her and Tom...I...I mean, to visit or something. I know he doesn't want to remember in front of anyone else, but does he ever go up there to the cemetery by himself? I was thinking...well, seeing how he's stuck in bed for a week more, maybe I ought to take some flowers or something up there for him...I mean, if he would like to have done that anyhow." Mark listened to the response of the police lieutenant. "Okay, thanks. Hey, don't you ever tell him about this, okay? He'd probably toss me in the ocean or hang me from the basketball hoop. I just...well, I guess I owe him a favor, and this is a "chore" I don't mind doing. In fact, well...I guess I feel I ought to do it for myself as well. Thanks!" He hung up, feeling more cheerful in the empty house than he had all week.

Over the next two days, McCormick mowed the lawn, worked in the gardens, swept off the main driveway with the leaf blower, changed the oil on the Corvette, and did the laundry. He drove up to the hospital the second morning to see Hardcastle, grateful that the older man was recovering well from the gunshot attack of Weed Randall. Mark smiled at the Judge, who was griping as usual about the food and early morning wake-ups for vital sign checks, but felt a sudden recurrence of shame as if his actions in having to kill the gunman during his escape had damaged his value in the Judge's eyes. Hardcastle insisted he had had no other choice and that he was proud of Mark for his decisions in the incident, but McCormick still felt uneasy about the whole thing. Randall had used him as an instrument of suicide when he was cornered, knowing that McCormick would react this way afterwards. Mark hated him for that...as well as for the attack on the Judge. Squatting by Hardcastle's body on the bench, holding his pale face in his hands, Mark had seen his own life blown away by that bullet...his life and future seemingly crashed in ruins as his best friend sat slumped in the chair...his life oozing out of his chest. Mark closed his eyes with pain for a few seconds, then jumped at the Judge's voice.

"Hey, kiddo...what's the matter?"

Mark pasted on a cocky grin. "Nothin', Hardcase. Just a little tired after all the cleaning up at the house. Hey...you ever think about digging a trench from the back door to the shore? We could let the water come up at high tide and wash out the whole ground floor!"

The older man chuckled. "Hey, not a bad idea. When can you start digging?"

McCormick grinned back. "Oh, no...I'm on strike."

"I'd like to strike you," the Judge laughed, throwing a pillow toward the young ex-con. "A little hard work never hurt anybody. Besides, you get a great tan and big muscles to impress the girls with."

"Yeah...what girls? I haven't had a date in a month."

"What happened to Angela?...or was it Buffy?...or Tammy...?" The Judge grinned. "Maybe I'm thinking of Daphne...or Roberta. Susie?"

"All right--- all right, Judge. You made your point." Mark walked over and sat down by the bed. "I guess I've sorta played the field. But...it's just that I...well, it's silly. Forget it."

As Hardcastle tried to shift his body in bed, Mark propped a pillow under the jurist's left arm. The Judge looked at Mark's serious face. "What is it, kiddo?"

McCormick fidgeted. "Well, it's really stupid, and you probably won't believe it, but I don't know how to act around women."

"You mean the 'smooth charmer and flashy show' approach isn't working anymore?" Hardcastle grinned. "That's probably why your love affairs only last a week or two. You've got to be serious with a woman...the one you really love for everything instead of a firecracker romance with bimbos who like the early excitement but won't wait around for the real life."

"Yeah, Judge...I want to get serious with someone, but...it's hard for anyone to get serious about me."

"What do you mean, McCormick?"

McCormick took a big breath. "Well...it's just that no "real" woman—I mean the nice, decent ones...would ever take me seriously. I mean...look at me. High school education. Ex-car racer. Ex-convict. Maintenance man and gardener for practically minimum wage." He held up a hand to forestall the Judge's expected response. "No, I don't mean anything by that. Just that...well, look at it. Great resume for a husband, huh? Who would want to link up "for life" with a guy like that?" He ran his hand through his curls in exasperation. "Well, anyhow, I guess that's why I fake it with the bimbos --at least they don't think seriously enough about anything to judge me or care. All they want is attention and a fun time."

"What do you want, Mark?" the Judge asked softly. His blue eyes dwelt on the troubled face of the young man.

"I want...don't get mad, Judge...I want someone like...your wife. I've seen her picture in the den. Sarah talked to me about how kind and fun she was to know. She seems like a great person—caring about others. Sorta like my Mom was. You know, even with having to work most of the time, my Mom played with me, read books, walked on the beach on Saturday afternoons, took me shopping---she loved me. Not for what I did good or because she was "supposed to" by society, but because it was natural for her to be that way. Even when I was bad, she never changed."

"You were lucky, kiddo. And I was lucky too. Nancy and I--boy, we were total opposites in some ways. A rich heiress living in a mansion by the sea and a hick-kid from the sticks of Arkansas working as a street cop and doing a lot of dreaming about being a bigwig in the law. 'Never work', people told us. Somehow, we didn't listen. Got married and had some wonderful times together." He sighed wistfully. "Lots of wonderful times. Had a great son. Shared laughter and tears. Lots of memories. Yep...memories...." He wiped away a stray tear falling down his cheek.

Mark reached over and squeezed the jurist's arm. "I'm happy that you got that kind of life, Judge. You deserved it."

Hardcastle harrumphed a little, trying to recover his usual external gruffness. "Well, kiddo...you deserve it too. And I've told you before...your past is just that. Past. Get more confidence in yourself—your true person inside—and be proud of what you are doing now with your life and making your future to be. I am...and the right woman will feel so as well, one day."

McCormick smiled. "Thanks, your honor."

The next morning, Mark awoke early and went out to the gardens with a basket. He wandered through the outdoor plots and the greenhouse, carefully examining the beds and pots of dahlias, roses, zinnias and hibiscus, choosing the best blossoms. Entering the gatehouse, he put the floral bouquet on the coffee table and went upstairs to change clothes. In a few minutes, dressed in his best suit, he came down, collected the basket, and climbed into the Coyote. Driving to the cemetery in Santa Monica, he hoped that he was doing the right thing. As he arrived at the burial grounds, he asked a caretaker to point out the Hardcastle plots. Climbing up the rock stair path, he found himself at the top of a hill. A large live oak shaded the graves, and the view showed beautiful mountains with the ocean waters sparkling far in the distance. Placing the flowers at Nancy's headstone, he sat down on a nearby bench and began to hesitantly speak.

"Hi, Mrs. Hardcastle. In case you don't know me, I'm Mark McCormick. I sorta work with Milt...I mean the Judge. He's been hurt, but he'll be out of the hospital at the end of the week. He'll be fine. Well, maybe you know that already. Are you watching from up there? Well, then, you know he misses you a lot. He tends to get lonely...I'm trying to keep him company, as well as I can. I hope you don't mind." He fidgeted with his shirt cuffs absently. "I sometimes get a feeling you and Tommy may not like me 'butting in'. Believe me, I'm not trying to take over anybody's place in his heart. I'm just glad he has a little space left in it for me."

McCormick stood up and walked over to Tommy's stone. "Hey, Tommy. I want you to know that the Judge loves you—he always has. He was very proud of you—serving your country like that. You're a hero. Heck, if I hadn't screwed up my life back then, I probably would have gone to Viet Nam as well. Wouldn't have done as well as you—saving those guys in the battle—giving your life for others. You sure learned that lesson from your Dad. My Dad couldn't handle being a father, He left my Mom and me on my fifth birthday. Great present, huh? He had places to go...things to do. Never even sent a card or made a phone call. Then my Mom died when I was ten. I was taken in by her family. Loving grandparents? Ha! Closed-minded, holier-than-thou, hateful people. Never accepted me from the day I was born. Told me I ruined my Mom's life by being an illegitimate kid. Never helped us out with debts or needs—said we got what we deserved from our sins. Always on my case for doing stuff wrong or being too dumb. Finally, they "relinquished custody" to the foster care system when they got too tired of having me around.

"Where was my Dad all those years of growing up? Where were the games of catch in the backyard?...the fishing trips?...the "man to man" talks? He was having a career. Big-time singer. I saw him again on my thirtieth birthday. Twenty-five years apart and all he could do was act embarrassed at my presence like it was a plot to mess up his job. Guess he was ashamed of me—the mistake he had helped create all those years ago. Well, I decided I didn't need him in my life as much as I thought I did when I was a kid. I got to see what I had been missing---and it wasn't anything! You know what, Tommy? Your dad cares more for me than my real family ever did—even without being any kin to me at all! Sarah told me when I first moved to Gulls' Way that the Judge was a "wonderful man"...that he "cared". I blew that off then—a smart-ass kid who couldn't see past the memory of him sending me to jail; who resented him for being a stubborn, hard-line, "by the book" old donkey. Well, he still is that—you probably know what I'm talking about! But, you know something—she was absolutely right! I know he's helped me and loved me like a dad, even though there was no realistic reason to.

"Don't you see, Tommy, what you had? Boy, you were a lucky guy. Great Mom and Dad who cared about you. Family and friends supporting you. Laughing...having fun. Yeah...you were sure lucky."

Mark sat back down on the bench, loosening his tie, which seemed to be strangling him---although that could have been from the lump in his throat. "You know, Tommy, the Judge feels really guilty about "driving you away" into the military. You know how he is when he gets mad—blind to others' feelings, sure in his "rightness" and not wanting to hear other points of view. I know that he later regrets a lot of things he says in anger, and I'm learning to be patient with his moods and speak softly when he gets that way. The one thing he regrets the most is not knowing if you ever forgave him for the anger he showed you then; if you know of the love he really had in his heart for you no matter what. I hope you forgave him...or can now. And Mrs. Hardcastle..., he loves you deeper than the ocean---as high as the sky. He needs to be at peace with his memories. He's hiding a lot now---packing all the pictures in boxes, locking the rooms up. He can't face your ghosts. So...if you are haunting him at the house, please grant him some peace and happiness while he still is here on earth. Let him know you care."

McCormick rose. "I better go. The flowers are for your 40th wedding anniversary, Mrs. Hardcastle. They're from your garden—which he keeps me busy with. It seems I'm always weeding or watering or fertilizing. I complain a lot to the Judge, but I really like working there. The flowers bring color to my life different from what I've known before, and as long as they grow, I feel hopeful in tomorrow. I want to thank you for letting me share them with you. And thanks for letting me share the Judge with you, too. I know I'm not family, but

I hope I will be his friend until he joins you one day. It scared me so badly when he got shot--he nearly ended up here. I need him to stick around a little longer to help me out. I don't want to seem selfish, but can you wait a little longer for him, please?" He turned and walked slowly down the hill, back to the parking lot.

Milton C. Hardcastle found himself thinking about his young friend with concern. Mark had been hit hard emotionally by both the sudden violence in the courtroom and the Judge's brush with death as well as having to pull the trigger on Weed Randall. Even though Randall was a scum-bag who thought nothing of killing someone himself, McCormick had had to weigh his anger and urge for revenge against the principles of law, order, and justice. He had been forced to shoot—against his will but to save the life of another. And look what Sandy had done. Vigilante violence. Smashed the police rulebook to pieces. He said he did it for Hardcastle, but the jurist wanted no part of the credit. He didn't teach the kid to act that way. Sandy hadn't even thanked Mark for saving his life. In fact, come to think of it, all those times he had invited the young cop over for dinner, the tension between him and McCormick had been like static electricity—each with a tight grin and "polite" conversation laced with undertones of antagonism. Hardcastle had been impressed with something he had sworn before to never judge by—expensive clothes, neat hair, and a flashy smile. He grimaced in remembrance—he actually had wanted Mark to copy Sandy in the beginning. Now he saw it should have been the other way around. It was funny--the young ex-con with long curly hair, worn jeans and T-shirt, old sneakers, and a cocky grin with an attitude to match had proved the better man. He had justified the Judge's faith in him to do the right thing. But now, Mark's inherent belief that he was unworthy--his poor self-esteem--was not only riddling him with guilt and shame over the shooting but leading him to find companionship with girls who didn't care a flip about him but were only out to have a good time. Once the cash was gone, they would drop him like a shot in order to latch onto another young sucker. Mark didn't deserve that. He deserved a good woman—a nice woman who would love him for himself and not his wallet or flashy sports car. Someone like his Nancy had been.

He smiled. He thought of her every day, although he never would admit it to McCormick. He missed her love—the energy she had brought into a room; the light in her face as she laughed. He had told Mark the truth—there were lots of memories...lots of wonderful times. He frowned suddenly. His prolonged stay in the hospital had pushed his time sense off-kilter. What day was it? He pulled his legs slowly over the edge of the bed and sat up. Walking over to the small table by the window, he picked up the newspaper that the nurse had brought in with breakfast. The date read March 24th. He sat in the bedside chair, thinking. Yesterday. It would have been forty years. A lump knotted in his throat as tears stung his eyes. Forty years ago he had married Nancy. Thirteen years ago he had lost her. Thirteen years of only remembering the pain and sorrow—Tommy's death, her illness, hospital tests and bedside vigils. Watching her being laid to rest under the oak. Locking up the photo albums, her clothes and possessions, her memory. The house quiet as a tomb—no laughter...no fun. His tomb. But no RIP for him. For God's sake, he thought, why did I do that? I treated her like she never had been.

He felt a wave of guilt wash over him. He couldn't face the pain of being left alive when his son and wife were taken away, so he had erased their presence in the house to avoid remembering. That wasn't fair to them. They deserved better—deserved to know that he had cared—he had loved them and they still meant the world to him. He needed to tell them....

He reached over and grabbed the phone. Dialing a local taxi service, he asked for a cab to pick him up in an hour. Charley Friedman had cleared him for discharge already, although the Judge had told Mark he would spend one more night in the ward. He didn't see any real reason to stay, though—he had his prescriptions filled and instructions for physical therapy appointments. And he had a small stop to make before he got home that he wanted to keep private. Why bother McCormick from his "chores"? Hopefully he would be able to find a speck of dust somewhere in the house or a weed in the yard to rag the kid about.

An orderly helped the Judge pack the last of his clothes and personal belongings in the suitcase, then lifted the bag to carry it downstairs. A nurse pushed Hardcastle to the hospital entrance in a wheelchair, the jurist complaining all the way down the seven flights of the elevator about being "babied."

"Glad to be going home, Milt?" asked Dr. Friedman, meeting him in the lobby. "Bet they are too"—winking at the nurse and desk clerk. "Now you take it easy lifting things, Milt. Do your exercises twice a day. Take your pills. And NO basketball games with McCormick--or anyone else! I want to see you back here in two weeks. Call me and come in if anything important happens—chest pain, trouble breathing, numbness in your arm, pain, fever...."

"Would you like to come home with me, Charley?" grumped the Judge. "I got a lot of empty rooms."

"Okay...okay, Milt. It's just not every day my favorite patient goes to work and ends up in the CCU."

"Favorite patient...bah!" Hardcastle grinned, then sobered up. "Hey...thanks, Charley."

"My pleasure." Charley closed the taxi door as the driver packed the Judge's bag in the trunk. The taxi took off out of the parking lot and turned onto the main road.

"Where to, Mister?"

"I live out in Malibu..." Hardcastle answered, "...but first, I want to make a small detour. Head out to Santa Monica. . I've got some 'family matters' to take care of "

They drove along the freeway until the Judge tapped the glass window behind the driver. "Take the next exit and turn right. Go down about a mile, then turn left on Adams."

The driver pulled the cab up to the cemetery and parked in the lot nearest the path. "Need any help, Sir?"

Hardcastle gave a small smile. "I think I can make it by myself. Wait here for me?"

"Sure."

The jurist slowly walked up the stone steps. As he neared the graves of his wife and son, he was startled to see flowers on the grass plot. In fact, they looked very familiar. How on earth did...? Damn. McCormick? His anger flashed, then suddenly it seemed as if the exasperation was dissolved by a feeling of affection. Crazy kid. He'd tried to shut him out of his personal life as if he were an intruder; lock him out of his heart like a house is barricaded against thieves. He reminded himself why he was there. He'd tried to lock away the ghosts of Nancy and Tommy for years---fighting the pain and anguish...the guilt and helplessness he felt with their deaths. Facing reality was too hard...you had to fake a smiling face for the public to view while your heart was tearing apart. Mark had admitted that same feeling in the hospital. Conning the world while searching for someone to care—for love.

Hardcastle sat on the bench. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Hi, honey. I got out of the hospital this morning. The doc says I'll be fine. Just a little stiffness in my shoulder still." He stretched the arm slowly. "I see you've met McCormick. Nice flowers. He works hard in the gardens, trims all the hedges—keeps the place looking great. I don't tell him that a lot...I guess I should. Yep, I think you'd love the way the estate looks. Got the greenhouse finally up last fall. I know I promised you I'd do it a while back, but...well...."

He sighed. "I let the place go to hell after you'd gone, if you want to know the truth. I couldn't face walking around the gardens—seeing the flowers blooming without you there to prune them. You always got your knees all muddy digging in the soil. Ruined a pair of my jeans one time, if I remember correctly! But you loved those plants. They seemed to grow faster because you smiled at them. I know I always felt a lot better when you smiled at me." He bowed his head as tears started to fall down his cheeks. "Nancy...God! I miss you so much! It would have been forty years this week. Maybe McCormick found out some way...I don't know. I won't ask him. I didn't ever think he would take it into his head to do something like this...but maybe I was wrong. I know I misjudged him at the first (he gave a small laugh at that), but he's proving me wrong about a lot of things. Changing my attitude about trusting and caring for people. How one crazy, curly-headed young kid can do that, I don't know. But I like it. You know, thinking about it...we are each other's second chance. I know you didn't want me to become a recluse after your death, but that's what I did. Got suspicious, defensive, closed-minded. "By the book" life. Not a hell of a lot of fun. I thought--maybe I didn't deserve happiness after all. McCormick still thinks that sometimes about himself. I want to try to help him."

He raised his head to gaze upon Tommy's grave. "Son...I love you also...more than I ever let myself show you. I was stupid, I guess, trying to be "macho" so hard---so tough and strict in order to protect you from dangers that I didn't let myself show you the feelings I had in my heart for you. It took your mother and I years to conceive a child---years of heartache—visiting doctors, trying tests and treatments—until the wonderful day when we got the news she was pregnant. The best day of my life until the day you were born. You were a great kid...smart, funny, interested in all of life. Brave, honest, loyal. I have never stopped being proud of you, even during the times we fought and disagreed. You are my son. I miss you, boy."

The tears fell faster down the aged cheeks, but the Judge's heart felt lighter than it had for many years. He stood up. "The cab's waiting for me. I'd better go." He reached down to straighten the pile of flowers shifted by the wind. "I love you both. I'll try to come back soon." He smiled. "I know you both are at Gulls' Way—I feel you there. Keep watching. And try to watch out for McCormick as well. Can't keep my eye on him every second. He's a great kid, Nancy. I know you would have loved him. And I wish, Tommy, that you could have had him as a friend...or a brother. Sometimes I wish that he...well, I know it can't really be, but.... Don't feel like he's taking your place. He has his own. Two terrific sons in one lifetime are more than I probably deserve, but I need him to be with me now until I can see you again. And he needs me. "

Hardcastle turned and walked back down the path. Climbing into the taxi, he fastened the seatbelt. "Okay, I'm ready to go home." He felt a warm glow of happiness and peace in his heart. He had the spirits of Nancy and Tommy to give him love and comfort from the beyond in treasured memories, and he had the reality of Mark's cocky attitude, youthful energy, and loyal support to brighten up what life he had left here on Earth. Blessings he didn't believe he would ever get, but was determined to take advantage of now. And the most important thing—the reminder that above all wealth, position, and honors, family mattered. All the family.

END