Page 16 of Wounded Dance
“What else?” Blitz asks.
“Can someone reason with him? Can you keep this out of the public record?” Jeff asks.
Blitz looks over at me.
“He is the outlaw type,” I say shakily. “I think he feels like he doesn’t have much to lose.”
“What’s he after?” Jeff asks. “Is he trying to get Livia to see him?”
Blitz frowns and raises his eyebrows at me. “Should we tell him?”
“I’m sitting down,” Jeff says. “And Livia, confidentiality is what we are all about here. Nothing we discuss here is ever shared.”
I look down at my tightly laced fingers. This is where my shame has brought me. Except, it’s not shame anymore. It’s just my history.
“I had a baby,” I say. “This man’s baby. I gave it up for adoption. He never knew about it.” I hesitate. “But now he does.”
I expect Jeff to be surprised by all this, but his voice is the same steady baritone as he asks, “Is he named on the birth certificate?”
“I don’t think so,” I say. “I’m pretty sure my father made up the name.”
The key taps are fast now. “How old were you?”
I don’t want to say it, but I have to. “Fifteen.”
“Do you have a copy of the adoption contract?” he asks.
“No, but there is one up at my church.”
“Who handled the adoption?” Jeff asks.
“The church. It’s Catholic. There is some organization that does the legal stuff.”
“Have Blitz send me all the information on the church, and we’ll start digging for that contract.”
I’m terrified to ask this question, but I do. “Can he get the baby?”
“Not easily,” Jeff says. “He has to be able to fight, find a lawyer, get a judge to order a DNA test. That’s lots of hoops to jump through and lots of expense. Is the baby in a good home?”
“Yes,” I say quickly. “And it would be terrible for her to be taken away. She has no idea who her birth family is.”
“I understand,” Jeff says. “We’ll protect her as best we can. Blitz, while I have you, let’s chat about the court date coming up with the production company.”
They start talking about something businesslike, as if this life-shattering event for me is just another case in his files.
I stare out the windshield at the green truck, petrified Denham’s going to see us and come out. I picture him with a bat, bashing the Ferrari. Why did he have to see me on the show? Why did he have to come?
I want to undo so many things now. The calendar pages in my mind start to flip, hurtling back in time. If only I’d resisted him.
But there had been no way to do that then.
After the sunbathing moment, I was very aware of Denham watching me. Paula and my friends might have been giggly and silly around him, but when his eyes clashed with mine, I didn’t feel like laughing. Something unfurled in me, something dark and intense. I wanted to feel more of it and see where it led.
Even Denham had to give in to the weather at times. Dad insisted he help out a little around the house, and one day the two of them set out in the backyard to replace some rotted fence posts.
Denham began the work in his jeans and boots, but as the day wore on, and the digging and hacking to get the old posts out got to him, he gave in and put on shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt, then eventually got down to just the shorts.
Andy was three and wanted to go watch, but I had to keep him away or he’d get in the path of their swinging axe and shovel. So I sat in the shade with Andy on my lap, getting a front and center view of each rivulet of sweat that flowed down Denham’s back and into the waistband of his shorts.
