Inheritance Tax by InitialLuv

Chapter Twenty-Seven (In which Mark and Sandra discuss their past, finding both commonalities and differences, and Olivia witnesses an osculation.)

When Sandra paused in her recollection, a heavy silence fell. In the stillness, she could hear the unintelligible prayers of the other worshippers, sometimes punctuated by coughs or body movement. There was the loud thump of a kneeler being hinged back into place.

Mark was staring straight ahead, also conscious of what the quiet made noticeable. His tinnitus soared to the forefront almost out of nowhere. The fact that he only became perceptibly aware of it in sudden silences led him to wonder just when he'd grown accustomed to the annoyingly relentless background buzz.

"Mark?"

McCormick shook his head slightly, as if he could banish the ringing in his ears. He turned to Sandra.

"You lied to her."

Sandra was shaking her own head, a furrow between her beseeching eyes. "Mark – "

"You figured it didn't matter, right? You just had to humor her. She'd never know you lied." Mark directed his gaze ahead again, so Sandra couldn't see the barely restrained tears. "She was dead, what, two weeks later?"

"I didn't lie to her."

Mark let out a strained, humorless laugh. "Then you're lying to me, now." He glanced back sharply. "Did Hardcastle know this was what you were going to talk to me about?"

Sandra lifted a hand, tilting it back and forth. "Basically. I gave him the broad strokes."

"Yeah, you saved all the warm and fuzzy details for me." McCormick raised his hands to massage his temples. "Man, when I see him, he and I are gonna have a talk. I don't know what he was thinking, setting me up like this."

"He thought it was time I told you my side of things."

Mark leaned his head back to rest it against the hard edge of the pew, still rubbing his forehead. "I think I liked things the way they were."

"Us fighting constantly, unable to be in the same room together?"

"And how is you telling me all of this supposed to change that?" McCormick demanded. "So far all it's done is get me ticked at Hardcastle, and more ticked at you!"

"I haven't finished, Mark – "

"I don't want to hear any more!" Mark's voice shook, and he dropped his head, his hands moving to cover his face.

Sandra watched uneasily as the young man tried to compose himself. She reached out to tentatively touch his shoulder. He flinched at the contact.

"Are you all right?"

"No." The answer was muffled and bleak, and even though it was a single word, it made Sandra's heart hurt. How can I get through the rest of this? How can he?

Mark dug the heels of his palms into his eyes, rubbing desperately at the tears that had been threatening since the beginning of Sandra's story. He choked back a sob, then moved one hand to rub his nose with a sniffle. "Just give me a minute," he said.

"All right." Suddenly understanding how hard it was for Mark to look vulnerable in front of her, Sandra turned away to study the altar at the front of the church. She didn't want to leave the pew and the intimate feeling it gave to their normally antagonistic relationship, but she shifted aside, trying to give him as much space and privacy as was possible.

There were a few more stifled sobs, some loud sniffs, and a final shuddering sigh. It was roughly a minute before McCormick cleared his throat and lifted his head, saying, "I'm okay now." His voice was hoarse, but strong.

"Are you sure?" Sandra looked unconvinced as she regarded Mark's bloodshot, puffy eyes.

Mark made a face. "I want to get this over with. We should have been at the house by now. They're probably wondering what the he – heck happened to us." He looked around the church apologetically. "Boy, that's ingrained. Not supposed to swear in church."

"I think you broke that rule earlier."

McCormick threw his hands up impatiently. "I was provoked. Can we just get on with it?"

Sandra nodded, but then was silent. She clenched her hands again, rubbing them together as if for warmth. Her gaze settled on something, or someplace, far away.

"Sandra."

The woman looked up from her hands, but still seemed preoccupied. "Hmm?"

"It's okay. I can handle it."

Sandra drew an uneven breath. "What you said the other day, about how you thought I never gave you a chance?" Mark nodded. "You were on the right track, but it was a group effort.

"And you were part of the group."

Mark wiped absentmindedly at a stray tear. "What? What's that supposed to mean?"

Sandra looked candidly at the man. "From the moment your mother died, everything you did made it impossible for me to help you." Mark took a breath, but Sandra was on a roll now, and spoke over his truncated response. "You weren't in school. The hospital tried to call, the social worker came to find you, and you weren't there. Apparently you had been truant, but the school had been lenient with your absences because of the situation."

Mark was able to interrupt. "School had barely started. It's not like I missed much."

"That wasn't the point, Mark. It was the start of a pattern. When you finally got to the hospital, and hit the poor man, and then disappeared. . . There wasn't much I could do. I was just relieved you eventually made it to our house; at least I knew you were safe. But the police officer wasn't my idea. You can't fault the man for wanting backup, not knowing your emotional state. He was worried you might hit him again."

"I don't understand." McCormick tried to reconcile his dark memories of that day with Sandra's narrative.

"You do remember that, don't you?" Sandra realized Mark's recollection of the day's events might be vague, or even nonexistent. "You hit the social worker."

"I – No, I didn't. I hit some hospital employee. Like an orderly or someone."

"Someone like the social worker."

Mark stared at Sandra in shock. "No. Really?" When she simply nodded, he let out a quick breath. "You gotta be kidding me. No wonder the guy always acted like he was afraid of me."

"I tried to wait for you at the hospital, but I needed to be in the maternity ward, to attend to a patient. By the time I was able to talk to the social worker, you'd already been missing for at least two hours. I called Martina at home and told her what had happened, and she called me back around eight that night, letting me know you were all right. I had to tell the social worker where you were. It would have been unethical for me not to, Mark – I wasn't any relation to you, I had no custodial rights. . . And the hospital had already gotten in touch with your uncle. The social worker had everything arranged before Martina even called. With no one able to find you, decisions were made that were supposed to be 'in your best interest,' but now I know they were probably anything but."

"So, you're telling me," McCormick said slowly, "because I skipped school, slugged the social worker, and then wandered around the city for hours, that was the reason why I got sent to my uncle's? Was it supposed to be some kind of punishment, or something?"

Sandra reached out again, gently touching Mark's arm.

"We didn't know. You never told your mother. She would never have mentioned your uncle as a possible guardian if she knew."

"Marty knew. I told her that night."

Sandra sighed grimly. "I'm not sure what you told her, Mark. When she called me at the hospital she said you weren't making any sense. She said you told her you ran out of the hospital because you were afraid of someone, someone who wanted to hurt you. It was all she could do to make you stay at our house until I could get home. She said you really scared her. She thought if you were alone, you might hurt yourself."

Mark was frowning in confusion. "That's not what I remember . . . I mean, I don't remember saying that."

"You were probably in shock. You'd been running yourself ragged, barely sleeping, and then when your mother died, I think you had a minor breakdown. I know at the funeral you were still barely functioning."

"You came to her funeral? Was Marty there, too?"

Sandra gave the young man a sad smile. "Of course we were there." She could remember carefully watching Mark as he stood awkwardly by himself, away from what was left of his family. He'd been clad in a dark jacket that hung loosely on his slim frame, and he had been regarding the small group of mourners with a nervous suspicion. When she and Martina had approached him to pay their respects, Mark's returned embrace had been unsteady, and he had seemed incapable of maintaining eye contact. He had appeared lost, almost dazed, and his slack face had shown little recognition of the mother and daughter. He'd murmured "Thanksfercomin'" in a numb monotone, and then had wandered away. Sandra and Martina had been on their way home before the nurse had finally recognized a reason for Mark's unusual behavior: he'd reminded her of someone who had been medicated. The teenager's obvious grief had distracted her from thoughtfully considering his confusion, odd speech, and clumsiness. It all spoke of someone with a dose of Valium on board. The possibility had bothered Sandra, who personally could not see any good reason to drug a fifteen-year-old, outside of a hospital setting.

Mark's face paled as his frown deepened. "Those first few days after she died . . . they're just really a blur." If he thought back to that time period – which he tried not to do – he recalled existing in a cloud of uncontrollable anger and overwhelming depression. "I don't remember the funeral much at all. I know it was warm out. I was wearing an old suit coat of my uncle's, and I was really hot." One clear memory McCormick did have of that day was from after the funeral. Mark had returned the borrowed coat to his uncle, only to have the man shove it back at him, questioning the presence of a "new" tear in the liner. When Mark had said he thought that the liner had already been torn, his dear Uncle Douglas had slammed him against the wall, holding a strong arm across his nephew's neck, and had asked him to "think again." As he had valued breathing more than defending his innocence, Mark had quickly wheezed out a fabricated apology and confession.

And yet later that night he had decided maybe breathing was just too hard.

"I met your uncle. He. . . seemed fine. A little rough, not exactly mourning his sister, but there was nothing to imply that he was an abuser."

"No, he had to keep up his public image," McCormick said acidly. "Normal guy out in the community, son of a bitch at home." The curse was out and there was no remorse. Sandra didn't mention it either.

"I am so sorry, Mark."

"It was a long time ago." Mark waved off the woman's repentant words.

"But I convinced myself you were better off with him. Because he was family. And because I was scared. Scared of you, of what could happen. I didn't want to be responsible if you hurt someone, or hurt yourself. And I had Martina. I had to keep my daughter safe."

"You didn't want me around Marty because I was unstable."

"Yes."

"Okay." Mark swallowed. "I get that. I guess I kinda was." He'd also been angry, sad, scared, reckless, and lost.

The night after his mother's funeral, Mark had been awakened by aches in his heart and his head, the latter a byproduct of his uncle's preferred form of punishment. The Valium that his aunt had given him earlier had mostly worn off, but Mark had still been a little woozy and lethargic when he'd stumbled to the bathroom. Searching in the medicine cabinet for some aspirin, his fumbling hands had chanced upon his aunt's reserve supply of her little blue pills. The bottle had been nearly empty, containing just six tablets. With only a fleeting hesitation, Mark had heedlessly swallowed all six, theorizing that if ten milligrams of Valium had made him not care, 60 would make him not breathe. He'd often wondered – when enough time had passed and he was able to view the hopeless act as an aberration – what would have happened if the bottle had held more tablets, say twenty-five or thirty. And worse still, what would have happened if the pills he did take had been washed down with his uncle's beverage of choice, instead of with water from the bathroom tap.

His aunt had hovered over him for days following his failed suicide attempt. Mark had been eminently grateful for her unexpected vigilance, even as he understood that she did it out of guilt; not only was it her medication he'd attempted to overdose on, but she had also given him the initial behavior-altering dose. His aunt had scoured the house, finding two more of her "backup" bottles, and had placed them and her current prescription in a location unknown by Mark. She had even temporarily hidden away the sharpest objects in her kitchen. It wasn't until much later – when he came up from Florida for his uncle's funeral – that Mark had finally learned exactly how much he had terrified the woman.

The atmosphere in the funeral home had brought back Mark's scattered memories of his mother's funeral, and his almost tangible memories of his attempted overdose. His recollection of his suicide attempt had left him shaken and full of remorse, and when he'd gone to hug his aunt, he'd done so with true grief. Not for his uncle, but for what had been, and what could have been. She'd clung to him, sobbing, and had pulled him aside into a small refreshment lounge. It was then that his aunt had taken his face in her shaking hands, and had struggled through her long-held regret. "I thank God that you are standing here, Mark. Every day I thank Him that you're alive. That night was the worst of my life, worse than anything that ever happened with Douglas. When I found you, I was sure you were dead. I am so, so sorry you felt you had to make that choice, that we did that to you. That I did that to you, me and those damn pills. If you had died, I would never have forgiven myself."

He'd avoided her after that, unable to handle the raw emotion. He'd also kept a distance from his cousin, who had noticed that every time her mother looked at Mark, she did so with fresh tears in her eyes.

McCormick could hear Sandra's voice in the background, sounding distant and echo-y. "And then you stole the car."

Mark was unable to respond, and he fought internally to get a grip. This is why I can't tell Hardcase about this. The memories that he had shunted aside when talking to the judge now refused to leave without a fight. His thoughts whirled back and forth around his mother's funeral, his uncle's visitation, his aunt's grief-stricken face, his own pain-filled eyes. He'd stared into the bathroom mirror that horrible night, studying his haunted reflection as he'd waited for the pills to kick in. He could still feel the cold porcelain of the sink, as he'd grasped on to the smooth surface in an effort to still his trembling hands. He could still remember sinking passively to the floor, feeling slightly giddy as the room tilted and spun. He could still recall his last coherent thought, considered with indifferent calm: Shoulda left a note. Told 'em to bury me by mom. Then his eyes had slid shut, in what he'd truly believed would be the last time.

The next thing he'd been aware of was a distant repetitive cracking sound, which had turned out to be his aunt frantically – and painfully – slapping his face. Her hysterics had eventually dragged him out of his stupor-like sleep, enough so that he'd been dimly aware of his uncle, watching from the bathroom doorway. When Mark had begun to vomit, needing to rely on his aunt to support his head over the toilet, his uncle had turned away with a disgusted curse. Then the man had said, in a voice loud enough to be heard over Mark's panting heaves, "If he pulls this shit again . . . let him."

Mark had spent the next day in a detached fog, fighting against the return of full consciousness. Because when the fog did clear, he had alternated between the humiliating shame of having attempted suicide, and the despairing grief of having failed.

"Mark, did you hear me?"

Mark was pulled into the present by Sandra's persistent call, and he thankfully surfaced from the swirling eddy of the past. "You said something about a car," he said, a little shakily.

"Yes." Sandra looked at him doubtfully, confused by his distraction and unsteady voice. "You stole a car."

"Yeah. Uh, 'borrowed'."

Sandra pierced the young man with a "don't pull that with me" look that was so similar to Hardcastle's glare that it prompted McCormick to instantly amend his pithy comment. "But I wasn't really planning on bringing it back." Mark was able to grin, although he was fairly sure it had a rictus quality. He didn't maintain it, letting his face relax. "How much did you know about that?" he asked apprehensively.

"I know you spent three months in juvenile hall, and then you were sent to a foster home."

"But I mean before the cops picked me up. Did you know I was at your place, that I tried to get Marty to go with me?"

The woman studied him seriously without speaking.

"Guess you didn't know everything, huh?" Mark shrugged. "But it wasn't anything you needed to be worried about. She turned me down flat. I didn't really think about it then, I was too hurt, but maybe she was scared. I mean, if she saw how bad I was after my mom died. . . It's one thing to hang out with me around town, but another thing to go on the run with me." He sighed, then muttered darkly, "I thought running was a heck of a lot better than the alternatives."

"Why didn't you tell anyone about your uncle?"

"I couldn't tell my mom. It was her brother." Mark said flatly. "And I didn't tell anyone else, because. . ." He looked at the floor, fighting the ache in his gut, the still-familiar pain of shame and worthlessness. "I didn't think anyone would care. I wasn't the only kid in school who got beat, and I didn't see anyone coming to rescue us." He snorted lightly. "And the idiot social worker sent me there. Though I didn't even stick around for a month – he never got a chance to visit and see how my new 'living situation' was going."

"If I had known you were being abused, I could have helped. I could have said something to the authorities, tried to keep you out of the juvenile center."

Mark lifted his head. "Wait. How do you know now? If I didn't tell my mom, and apparently I didn't really tell Marty. . . "

Sandra was just staring at Mark with misty eyes. McCormick was momentarily distracted by the change, unable to recognize this sympathetic, regretful person in front of him as the woman he had hated for nearly two decades.

Yeah, and you hated Hardcastle, too. Look what happened there. The man's probably the best friend you've ever had.

Hardcastle.

"Hardcastle told you."

Sandra's silence told him all he needed to know. "Boy, my past must've sure made some interesting after-dinner conversation," he grumbled.

"Don't get too angry with him. I'm glad he told me," Sandra admitted. "It helped explain some things, made me understand a little more about the choices you made. You were a victim of your environment. You didn't have a good example to follow."

"That's bull," McCormick answered, a little louder than he had planned. He looked guiltily toward the other people in the church. He lowered his voice. "I wasn't forced into the bad choices I made."

"So you don't think what happened with your uncle influenced you getting kicked out of the second foster home?"

When Mark's first foray into foster care had ended after barely two months, he'd been thrown back into the system. His second term with a foster family had been surprisingly tolerable, and three uneventful months had passed before his foster parents took in two other children, brothers who had been removed from an abusive father. The older of the new wards, a boy one year younger but twenty pounds heavier than Mark, had declared his dominance and superiority from the day he'd arrived. After enduring three weeks of random verbal and physical abuse – all out of the sight of any adults – Mark had finally cracked, attacking the bully with such explosive fury that the boy had ended up in the hospital. Mark had ended up back in juvie. It was only by the eventual, reluctant account from the younger brother – who had witnessed his sibling's unwarranted violence toward Mark – that Mark's second stay in juvenile detention was six months, rather than a year. After that, he was sent to a group home that was so chaotic and stressful, he'd almost missed the harsh structure of juvie.

"How do you know about that?" Mark demanded now, his voice rising again. "How do you know all of this?"

"I told your mother I'd watch out for you. Just because I wasn't in your life, it didn't mean I couldn't keep track of you. I used every connection I had, as far as I could without crossing any lines that would impact my job."

McCormick wondered with muted horror just how far Sandra's reach had extended. After just two weeks among the unpredictable and temperamental occupants of the group home, Mark's desperation had come to a head. His resulting behavior – intense mood-swings, agitated insomnia, and a tendency to pick fights – had been labeled as suicidal. He'd been forced to attend group therapy with other similarly-labeled teens, most of whom had either threatened or attempted suicide. One thing he'd indirectly learned from the sessions was that, outside of therapy, the other teens viewed their respective suicide attempts as competition, rewarding each other with "points" for the best story or the biggest scar. Mark's account of his failed overdose had been branded tame by his peers, and his attempt was treated with derision. Amelia Strang, a fourteen-year-old who had nearly died after ingesting a combination of Darvon and vodka, had reacted with disbelief after hearing his now year-old story. "What, you didn't even need to get your stomach pumped?" she'd said in scorn, apparently not impressed with his intent. "Yeah, knocked on his ass by a few benzos!" Jerome Benitti had chimed in. "What a loser!" Jerome, in deference to the still-healing wounds on his wrists, had been the current points leader. McCormick recalled staring at the unsightly marks, quietly thankful that his OD attempt had left no physical scars.

Mark closed his mind's eye on the disturbing image, and redirected his attention to Sandra.

The woman continued. "I even tried to help where I could. I talked to the new social worker, when you were about to get out of detention for the car theft, and I suggested a foster family for you. I thought it best that it be someone in a close enough neighborhood so you wouldn't have to change schools. . . plus, I knew the Wenzeks personally." She paused, then in a dry tone, added, "And apparently you got to know their daughter personally."

McCormick grinned before he caught himself, thinking of the "personal" relationship he'd had with Cyndy Wenzek. The girl, over a year older than him and a much better student, had already been focusing on college, considering a double major of political science and psychology. "Cyndy kind of saw me as a psychological study," he said, forcing a more serious expression. "The more screwed-up I was, the more she was interested. When I got kicked out of her house for dating her, and ended up in the second home, she went out of her way to keep seeing me. She wasn't even put off when I got sent to juvie the second time." Mark smiled again, but this time it was in self-deprecating amusement. "Man, I had no clue. I was just amazed someone was paying attention to me like Marty had, I didn't really care why. But it wasn't all bad. We had some good times."

"I'm sure," Sandra murmured.

McCormick shot her a side-long glance. "I thought we weren't gonna do that. The digs and the sarcasm."

Sandra nodded soberly. "You're right. Please forgive me," she deadpanned.

Mark laughed shortly, but then he looked at Sandra with a bemused expression. "Hold on. I can understand you not wanting me around Marty after my mom died, because I was such a mess. Fine. But what about keeping us apart when she found out she was pregnant? What was your problem with me then?"

Sandra stood unexpectedly. "You're right, they must be wondering where we are." She lightly grasped Mark's right arm, bending to read his watch. "It's almost two-thirty. We really should get going."

"Oh, no you don't." Mark reached his left hand over and placed it on Sandra's hand, effectively trapping it between his hand and his right arm. "You sit back down and tell me what the heck is going on."

Sandra wrenched her hand out of McCormick's grip. "I'm going to the car." She stepped away from the pew before Mark could react, and was walking briskly down the aisle to the back exit by the time he had risen to his feet. He stared at her retreating back in quizzical astonishment.

"What the hell?" he murmured to himself. "Oh, damn it. Oh, darn it!"

Mark bowed penitently toward the crucifix in the front of the church. "Sorry," he whispered.

ooOoo

When McCormick slid into the passenger seat of the car, Sandra was sitting quietly behind the wheel, her hands in her lap. She had lowered her window to let some of the built-up heat escape from the car, but that seemed to be the total of her activity since exiting the church. She had yet to put the keys in the ignition.

Mark cranked his window down as well, propping his right arm on the sill. He felt a sudden fierce longing for the Coyote, and counted back in his head to the last time he'd driven his car, eventually deciding it had been Tuesday morning, when he'd gone to the bakery.

Five days ago? Was that all? In that small space of time, it seemed he'd experienced a lifetime. In between sharing his past with Hardcastle and now this awkward reminiscing with Sandra, McCormick had the bizarre sensation of existing somewhere in between the grieving teenage hellion he'd been, and the ex-con law student (– and father –) he now was. It was like he was watching the two halves of his personality from some kind of altered state, while still self-aware. The mature, intellectual Mark wanted to stay put in the vehicle, reasonably deducing that since he'd come this far, he might as well finish the race. As for the young, troubled Mark. . . he was ready to bolt. Especially if Sandra had any more disturbing stories in her repertoire. McCormick was worried he wouldn't be able to hold back the teenage Mark's wild emotions. At this time and in this place, he didn't feel strong enough to combat them.

He wasn't just homesick for the Coyote. He was homesick, period. He craved the privacy and the freedom of the gatehouse. He longed to hear the distant sound of the waves at night, lulling him to sleep. He missed the dichotomy of the quiet green estate and the bustling sprawl of the nearby city. He missed sitting on the patio in the evenings with Hardcase, drinking beer and discussing the day's events, whether they included rounding up bad guys or attending a lecture on tax law. He missed walking the long expanse of the nearby beach, with gulls circling over his head and beach-lounging neighbors nodding hello as he passed.

He missed trimming the damn hedges.

And he was suddenly very tired.

"Mark. Are you all right?"

He turned slowly to his left. "Huh? Yeah. Why?"

"I was calling your name." Sandra was looking at him steadily. "I think we should take a break. I know I need to, and you look done in. You just got out of the hospital, you shouldn't be tiring yourself."

"I don't think talking takes a lot of energy." McCormick rolled his eyes, but his heart wasn't in the debate. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he exhaled. "I don't know. I guess I am kinda beat. But I need to know, Sandra. I'm not dropping this."

"That's fine. But Martina is a part of this. You might understand it better if she explains it."

"Okay, I guess I can wait. It's not like I'm leaving tomorrow. I promised Livvie I'd stick around until Father's Day." Mark quirked a grin.

Sandra's steady gaze became a riveted stare. Feeling the eyes boring into him, McCormick rewound his words in his head. "What's wrong with that?" he asked, offense creeping into his voice. "It's only another week. And I am her father, I think I'm entitled to actually celebrate the fact."

"No, that's fine, that's not what. . ." The woman gave her head a quick shake. "'Livvie'?"

Mark's face was momentarily blank, and then he reddened in obvious embarrassment. "Did I say that out loud? I'm sorry, I know how you are with nicknames."

"I like it."

McCormick's face was still flushed, but the wide grin that appeared on it showed that he was well on his way to accepting this new, cordial relationship with the woman he had once despised.

Sandra started the vehicle, pulling away from the church. As the car picked up speed, Mark rested his head back against the head rest, feeling the wind rush through his hair. He closed his eyes and imagined he was in the Coyote.

Twenty minutes later, Sandra was jostling his shoulder. "Mark? Mark, wake up. We're home."

ooOoo

McCormick stepped out of the car stiffly, stretching and twisting to work the kinks out of his back. He reached in the back for his duffel bag, quickly unzipping it to shove the prescription bag inside, then followed Sandra to the back door. The two of them were barely inside the house when three individuals began to pepper them with questions.

Hardcastle: "What the hell took you so long?"

Martina: "Mom, we were starting to get worried!"

Olivia: "Grandma, you didn't get lost again, did you?"

Sandra swiveled her head between her two family members, attempting to answer both at the same time. Meanwhile, McCormick cocked his head at the judge, moving into the hallway and then waiting for the other man to join him. Once they were in a semi-private space, McCormick lit into his friend.

"You want to know what took so long? You know damn well what! It's one thing to tell me I need to hear Sandra's side, but you sure as hell didn't have to set me up to be ambushed!"

Mark had expected the judge to be contrite, or at least sympathetic to the younger man's dilemma. But if anything, Hardcastle defended his actions.

"Would you have talked to her, or listened to her, if you hadn't been forced to?"

"That's not the point, Judge!"

"That's exactly the point, McCormick!"

"Oh, stop it." Olivia stepped between the two men as if their heated argument was just so much hot air. She took Mark's arm, tugging him toward the family room. "Come here, I want to show you something."

McCormick took one last glance back at Hardcastle, and was exasperated to see the older man grinning at him. Then he turned his full attention to his daughter, and to where she was leading him.

Olivia entered the family room, released Mark's arm, and then went to stand near a small folding table. Upon the table were several photo albums and scrapbooks, as well as two overflowing shoe boxes and a number of legal-sized envelopes. There was also a small wooden storage crate that held at least eight VHS tapes.

Mark lowered his duffel bag to the floor, then moved toward the table. He stared down at the bounty with apprehension. He raised his head to see Olivia looking closely at him. When he didn't speak, she began to describe the jumble of items, pointing as she chattered.

"These are photo albums, from when I was a baby, up till this year. Um, scrapbooks from the same time, pretty much. Not as many scrapbooks. There's a lot of photo albums, Grandma's a real shutter-bug." The girl paused nervously, watching as Mark reached to touch the stack of photo albums.

"Um, the boxes and envelopes have things like report cards, programs from school plays, things that are too big to fit in a scrapbook, that kind of thing. And the tapes are home movies from like the past year or so. We got a camcorder the Christmas before last, and Mom sorta went nuts with it. She taped everything."

Mark still didn't speak. Suddenly overwhelmed, he looked for a place to sit and dropped down on the piano bench. Olivia moved around the table to stand near him, frowning dejectedly.

"It's too much, isn't it? Mom said it was too much, too fast."

Mark shrugged, then nodded. "Uh, maybe. I don't know. It's just. . . I can't do this for you. Even if I had anything comparable to this," he waved his hand at the table, "which I don't. But I can't be this open with you. Not yet, anyway." He looked sorrowfully at the girl. "I don't think I deserve all of this."

Olivia sat next to Mark on the piano bench. "You deserved to be able to see this in real life. Not just in pictures and video tapes. I wish I had more to share with you." She sighed sadly, then perked up slightly. "You know, we can go slow. You're gonna be here a while. We can do a year a day, maybe. If we start today, we'd finish up on Father's Day."

McCormick nodded with a smile. "That sounds like a plan."

"Good." Hardcastle had entered the room. "It'll give you something to do for a couple of hours." He jerked a hand in the direction of the driveway. "The ladies are taking me sight-seeing. We'll be back for dinner."

McCormick stood, disbelief wiping the smile from his face. "You're what? Where are you going? Isn't anyone gonna stay here?"

"Yeah, hotshot, you are."

Mark followed the judge out of the family room. "Wait, c'mon, you can't just all take off –" He watched hopelessly as Sandra waved while exiting the back door, then turned to Martina, who was reaching for her purse. "Marty, c'mon!"

Martina paused, taking Mark's hands and pulling him aside. "Milt, tell my mom I'll be right there," she directed at the judge. After sending a pointed look at McCormick, the older man also exited the back door.

Mark was clenching Martina's hands. "Marty, I don't know about this. I mean, I haven't actually been alone with her. You're never really alone in a hospital."

Martina pried her hands free, then lifted them to frame Mark's face. "Mark, calm down. This will be good for the two of you. You'll be fine. She's a nine-year-old girl – she doesn't bite."

McCormick cast his eyes in the direction of the family room, unable to move his head as Martina was still caressing his face. "I don't know. . . " he repeated. His voice trailed off as he became aware of Martina's tender touch. He turned his eyes back to look at her, and they widened at the open emotion on her face. She smiled warmly, moving her hands behind his head to twist her fingers in the curls at the nape of his neck.

This time there was no hesitation as Mark leaned in for the kiss. He raised his hands to rub Martina's shoulders, then felt his hands straying downward. He pulled her closer, simultaneously pushing her shirt up at the waist, to touch the bare skin on her back. She lowered her own hands, gently restraining his exploration, but did not break the kiss.

When Mark finally came up for air, he let his hands linger at Martina's waist, smiling slyly.

"Do you bite?" he asked huskily.

Martina pulled out of his embrace, slapping him on the shoulder in mock horror. "Mark!"

A horn beeped from the driveway. Martina quickly pulled her hands through her hair, adjusted her shirt, and grabbed her purse. She gave Mark one last, long, smoldering look, and then was gone. He stared at the space where she had been, still able to feel the soft lips on his mouth, the tantalizing fingers on his neck, the warm skin that had shivered under his hands.

A small cough came from behind him.

McCormick turned to see Olivia grinning at him in undisguised delight.