Page 2 of Big Santa

“You picked her out of a catalog?”

“Of course not.”

“Website?”

“No.”

“App?”

“No!”

“Christ, Maverick, did you find her on Craigslist?”

“What year do you think it is?”

“I don’t know. Apparently 1850 because mail-order brides are making a comeback.”

I lean back in the client chair, which sits about two inches too low and was clearly chosen on purpose. My knees are nearly level with the edge of his desk. “Do I have to pay extra for all of your judgment? I used a legitimate company.”

“I bet their website says that,” he quips.

“They conduct background checks.”

“Oh, well, then.” He folds his hands over his stomach. “Nothing says happily ever after like a criminal background check.”

“This has nothing to do with happily ever after.”

That gets his attention. The amusement drains out of his face slowly. He knows me well enough to know what this is about.

“I’m not looking for love. I tried that and it failed spectacularly.”

He merely nods.

“I’m looking for a wife.”

“Yes, Maverick. I believe we’ve established that.”

“But only because Shiloh needs a mother.”

That does it. He leans forward, forearms on the desk, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow. “Mav.”

“He needs one.”

“No. He just needs you.”

“He has me. But studies show that children do far better in two-parent homes.”

“Maybe so. But you’re a damn good dad. Everyone can see that.”

I look away.

There’s a framed photograph on the credenza behind Bryant’s desk, wedged between a half-dead pothos and a stack of case files. Him with his three brothers, all four of them sunburned and squinting on somebody’s dock, the lake behind them so bright it’s almost white. The oldest Callahan, Brody, has his daughter, Clementine, on his shoulders, her small fists buried in his hair. Everyone is laughing about something. Not smiling for the camera. Laughing—mouths open, heads thrown back—the kind of laughter that happens before anyone remembers to pose.

Shiloh laughs like that sometimes. Not enough, though. The doctors have said that there’s nothing wrong with him. He talks fine with me and Dottie, our housekeeper. And that he’ll become more verbal and expressive with the world around him when he’s ready.

They’ve been saying that for two years. In the pocket of my jacket, my fingers find the stub of a green crayon. I roll it between my thumb and forefinger.

“He needs more than me.”