Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86808 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86808 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
The appointments throughout the room are stately—opulent blue curtains trimmed with gold and traditional mahogany furniture, and a massive edifice carved from black walnut anchors the room with its presence. Upon it sits the judge’s bench and soon the man who can change the course of my life.
One of the double doors creaks open and my heart pounds. I don’t want to turn and look but I am not a coward. I’ll have to see the little girl at some point so I might as well face my fears now.
My mother, father and siblings are already swiveled forty-five degrees, their necks craning. Into the courtroom strides Lionel Mardraggon wearing a midnight-blue suit with a very subtle pinstripe complemented by a dark red tie with diagonal silver stripes. He is a tall man with a barrel chest, but he never has to intimidate with his size. That’s all done with the steely-gray eyes he can narrow upon you with such condescension, you’ll question your own existence.
Following behind Lionel, I catch the briefest glance of his wife, Rosemund. She’s wearing an emerald-green silk dress with a high collar, and I’d recognize her alone from that silver-blond hair that she’d passed down to her daughter, Alaine. These days she wears it in a short bob and although she’s in her early sixties, her complexion is flawless.
It only takes a second or two to garner those impressions of Rosemund because my attention is instantly riveted on the child who walks beside her.
Before giving myself permission to really look at my alleged daughter, I notice she walks alone. Nine years old and entering a courtroom where her future will be determined by a complete stranger. One would think such a child would be clinging to her grandmother, but instead, Sylvie is an island as she traverses the thick burgundy carpet that runs between the rows of wooden pews.
I hear a slight gasp and my sister, Kat, murmurs, “By God… look at her.”
And I do just that, my gaze locked on Sylvie’s face.
Eyes the color of sun-dappled ferns, same as mine.
Hair as black as the midnight, starless sky, same as mine.
Her nose, lips, even that stubborn lift of her chin… she looks pure Blackburn. I don’t see an ounce of Alaine, Lionel or Rosemund Mardraggon within her.
Every single doubt and hesitation I’ve held since this news was dropped on my doorstep evaporates. I no longer worry this is some ploy concocted by the Mardraggons to fuck with my family. I’m still not quite sure why Alaine trusts me with Sylvie over her family, I just know her motives aren’t important at this point.
Anybody who looks at that little girl knows I am her father.
I would have thought such a revelation would ease the tumult in my stomach but all it does is increase my apprehension.
Because now I have something to fight for.
“All rise,” the bailiff intones as he stands to the side of the judge’s bench. A door opens just behind him and a man in black robes walks through. He bears no resemblance to the stern men painted in oil on the walls but instead looks like Santa Claus. His hair is snow-white and longish. While his beard is just as pristine in its lack of color, it is a bit shorter and trimmer than the mythical man who slides down chimneys on Christmas Eve. He even wears wire-rimmed glasses over his brilliant blue eyes and his cheeks are a ruddy red.
“Guess we’re in the North Pole,” Trey mutters as we all stand from the benches.
The bailiff calls out, “The Honorable Harold F. Laudermilk is in attendance to this great court of Shelby County.”
Before even taking a step onto the raised dais, the judge motions to the gallery. “Sit, sit. Not big on pomp.”
Unsure whether the judge’s casual attitude makes me feel better or not, I settle back down onto the wooden bench along with my family. I glance over at the Mardraggons on the other side of the aisle. Their faces are all narrowed in on the Santa double—expressions filled with suspicion and defense. That includes Sylvie, who looks as displeased with the situation as her grandparents.
“Good morning, everyone,” Judge Laudermilk says as he clasps his hands on his desk and peers over the top of his glasses. “I understand we are here for a custody issue involving—”
“If it please the court.” The Mardraggons’ attorney stands from his table and buttons his suit jacket. Everyone in Shelby County knows Byron Rotenburg and that he has represented the Mardraggon business dealings in Kentucky for decades. His dark gray power suit and Rolex glinting on his wrist speak to the volume of money he’s paid to advocate for whatever they want.
“I’m here on behalf of Lionel and Rosemund Mardraggon who vehemently disagree that there’s a custody issue at all. Their daughter, Alaine, added Ethan Blackburn to the birth certificate of their granddaughter, Sylvie, shortly before Alaine succumbed to an aggressive form of brain cancer. It’s our contention that she was not mentally competent—”