“Mom. What’s that TV guy doing here?”

Bianca pulled the boy into a sideways hug, attempting to finger-comb his sleep-tousled hair. A loving, motherly gesture, but her furrowed brow made it clear that the kid’s sudden appearance had caught her off guard.

So he answered for her. “I’m Logan Murray, and I just dropped by to thank your mom for helping me at the station the other day.”

“Logan Murray, Logan Murray. From the commercial about tires. And the bank with the big green M.” The boy held up a forefinger. “And Dogs for Kids, where they match kids like me with helper dogs.”

Kids like him. So Drew was aware that his brain functioned differently from other kids’.

Drew quoted the commercial almost verbatim, explaining how the agency spent many months training dogs to open doors and pick up dropped items for kids in wheelchairs, act as the eyes and ears of children who couldn’t see or hear … “and keep autistic kids from wandering off or engaging in dangerous activities.”

Bianca shrugged one shoulder. “He only needs to hear a thing once, and he can recite it word for word.”

“Took me four takes to get it right,” Logan said. “And I was reading from a teleprompter.”

Bianca hugged Drew tighter and sent Logan a silent message with her eyes: Thank you.

Dear Reader,

As you may know, autism affects one child in 88 (one in 54 are boys…including my ten-year-old grandson), and it’s the fastest-growing serious developmental disability in the U.S., Canada and Europe today. There is no known cause or cure, and studies conclude that more children will be diagnosed with the disorder than cancer, diabetes and AIDs combined, at an average annual cost per family of $60,000…yet autism receives less than five percent of the research funding of many less prevalent childhood diseases.

According to a recent article in Psychology Today, more than 50 percent of parents surveyed believed autism was a contributing factor in their divorce. More often than not, it’s the mom who continues to care for her autistic child and, in most cases, other children, as well.

With statistics like that affecting literally thousands of children—and their families—around the world, I couldn’t help but wonder if it’s possible for the single mom of an autistic child to ever find love again.

In Devoted to Drew, I attempted to show a realistic—sometimes stressful, and always challenging—picture of the life of such a mom. If you enjoy the story, I hope you’ll be moved to find ways to help an Autism Society in your area.

Until then, here’s to happy endings!

All my best to you and yours,

Loree

Devoted to Drew

~ A Child to Love ~

Loree Lough

www.millsandboon.co.uk

LOREE LOUGH

With more than four million books in circulation, bestselling author Loree Lough’s titles have earned hundreds of 4- and 5-star reviews and industry awards. She splits her time between her home in Baltimore and a cabin in the Alleghenies, where she loves to show off her “Identify the Animal Tracks” skills. Loree has 100 books in print, including reader-favorite series such as the First Responders, Lone Star Legends, Accidental, Suddenly and Turning Points. She loves to hear from readers and answers every letter, personally. Visit her at Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest and www.loreelough.com!

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my daughter, the best mom any on-the-spectrum kid could possibly have, and to all the kids and families struggling to find their path to normal.

Acknowledgments

My sincere thanks to B.J. Surhoff, who during his 18-year baseball career, played every position except pitcher, earning just about every award a major leaguer can win. After retiring from the Orioles, he and wife Polly cofounded Pathfinders for Autism. Now a special training assistant for the team, he agreed to a “walk-on” part in this story, so that he could explain what Pathfinders is, and what it does. Thanks, too, to Shelly McLaughlin at Pathfinders, for some great “what it’s like to parent a kid on the spectrum” information (www.pathfindersforautism.org/).

To Rosemary and Burton from National Capitol Therapy Dogs (www.nctdinc.org/new/index.php), to Karen with 4Paws for Ability (4pawsforability.org/), and to Kati and Lauren with Autism Service Dogs of America (autismservicedogsofamerica.com/) for invaluable input that allowed me to provide accurate info about service and therapy dogs.

Thanks to the National Autism Society (www.autism-society.org/) and Judy at the Howard County Autism Society (www.howard-autism.org/). To Kelly Case and Kelly Higgins-Lund, for sharing personal experiences with their own on-the-spectrum sons. And last, but certainly not least, a hearty thank-you to Marty Bass, weatherman at Baltimore’s WJZ-TV (baltimore.cbslocal.com/personality/marty-bass/), for insights that helped me write the opening scene. (A rabid Ravens fan and stellar newsman, he knows a few team secrets!)

You’re all amazing, and I couldn’t have written this novel without you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER ONE

LOGAN’S STOMACH HAD been in knots since the day before yesterday, when the general manager’s executive assistant had called to schedule this appointment. Now, as he walked through the door, the receptionist’s smile—something between pity and dismay—told him contract addendums and codicils had nothing to do with the meeting.

“I know I’m early,” he said, “but any way Fletcher will see me now?”

Mandy’s I-feel-so-so-sorry-for-you expression intensified. “Sorry, Mr. Murray, but he left explicit instructions that they weren’t to be disturbed.”

“They?”

She shot a glance toward the door. “Just the coaches and the doctors.”

Just the coaches and doctors. Plural. His heart beat a little harder as he admitted that he had no one but himself to blame. If he hadn’t gone ballistic when that last concussion put him on the injured list, they might not feel it necessary to gang up on him this time.

“It shouldn’t be much longer,” she added. “Can I get you something to drink while you’re waiting?”

In other words, sit tight and keep your mouth shut, like a kid sent to the principal’s office for acting up in class.

“Thanks, but I’m fine.” In truth, he was anything but. He couldn’t remember a headache this bad. Couldn’t concentrate. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t hold down anything heavier than soup. Couldn’t admit any of it to the guys on the other side of that door.

The phone on Mandy’s desk beeped, startling him. Logan added “jumpy” to his list of complaints.

“Yessir, right away,” Mandy said. Then, “You can go in now, Mr. Murray.”

He was halfway to the door when she added, “Can I at least bring you a bottle of water?”

Logan wondered what sort of Logan Murray gossip had prompted her concerned tone. “Sure. Sounds good,” he said. “And please call me Logan.”

As he entered Stan Fletcher’s office, the five men who’d gathered to decide his fate stood: the general manager, head coach, doctor, team psychologist and offensive coordinator. Logan hoped, as he shook each extended hand, that they wouldn’t notice the tremors pulsing from his hard-beating heart to his fingertips. His agent was in New York, celebrating...wedding anniversary? Wife’s birthday? Logan only knew that he’d walked into this meeting alone and unprepared.

The GM pointed at the chair nearest his own. “Take a load off, son.”

Logan sat in a buttery leather wingback and did his best to look at ease, despite a strange new empathy for Daniel in the lions’ den. Three quick knocks cracked the prickly silence, and Mandy joined them, carrying a cobalt-blue water bottle.

“Here you go, Mr. Mur— Logan.”

“Thanks, Mandy,” he said, taking it. Once the door closed quietly behind her, Doc Dickerson broke the brittle silence.

“So. Logan. How’s the head?”

He nodded. Smiled. Pretended the team doctor’s bedside manner didn’t need fine-tuning.

“Good,” he lied, propping an ankle on a knee. “Fine. Never better.”

“I’m surprised to hear that, frankly.” He got up and handed Logan a large manila envelope.

He willed his hands not to shake as he removed CT scans and X-rays. “Might as well be reading hieroglyphics,” he admitted, holding the films up to the light. He’d seen enough of these things during the course of his career to know how to read and interpret them. But this time, his eyes refused to focus.

“This is your third Grade 3 concussion,” Gerard continued. And, as if to soften the blow he was about to deliver, the doctor added, “That hit you took when we played the Steelers? One of the worst I’ve seen in my career.”

No one, not the men on the field or fans in the stands that day, would deny it. Neither would anyone who’d seen replays on the news. The ensuing pressure had compelled the Knights’ high muckety-mucks to call in a neuropsychologist. Logan wondered why he wasn’t now present to reiterate the results of the California Verbal, Rey Auditory, Benton Visual Retention and the Stroop Cognitive tests. Clearly, the sole purpose of this summit was to use the test results to sideline him for a couple of games. Much as he hated the idea, it beat the heck out of the alternative. Logan decided to take it on the chin, without complaint.

Gerard returned to his seat as Fletcher said, “I know it seems coldhearted, dumping the decision on you this way, but I’m afraid that Steelers game was your last.”

Logan’s heart pounded harder. He sat up straighter. Surely he didn’t mean...

“Last game of the season, right?”

The GM slowly shook his head.

His mouth went dry. What’s with the dramatic pause? Logan wondered, uncapping the water bottle. Giving me time to let the inevitable sink in?

“You’re welcome to take the films and test results to outside specialists for confirmation,” Fletcher said, “but you should know, we’ve already consulted with the best in the area...”

Logan took a sip of water as Gerard put in, “...and they all concur.”

Logan swallowed. Hard. His powers of concentration had been off since the hit. Had he missed a sentence or two? Because surely they weren’t trying to tell him that his days as an NFL quarterback were over. He had two more years on his contract. And he’d bounced back from Grade 3 concussions before. Twice before, to be precise.

He faced the head coach, a man he’d come to think of as a friend. “Are they saying what I think they’re saying?”

Hildebrand exhaled a shaky sigh. “’Fraid so, pal.”

Now the offensive coordinator chimed in with, “Believe me, Logan, this isn’t something we want to do.” A furrow formed on his brow. “You’re the best QB in the league, and it’s gonna kill us to lose you.”

He’d gone toe to toe with Richards nearly every play of every game, all three of his years as the Knights’ first-string quarterback. The man was stubborn, but his straightforward honesty had earned Logan’s respect. It was the only thing that kept him from lashing out, the way he had last time when they’d put him on the disabled list.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Logan told the team psychologist. “Waiting till I blow my stack before you put in your two cents?”

O’Riley quirked an eyebrow. “Are you feeling the need to blow your stack?”

Groaning inwardly, Logan ran a hand through his hair. “Save the shrink-speak for one of your other nutcases, and give it to me straight.”

“Dr. Gerard already gave it to you straight. you’ve played your last game.”

They took turns spouting excuses and rationalizations, but Gerard’s was the only explanation that stuck in his dizzy, throbbing head: “The next Grade 3 could cause significant, irreversible brain damage. Worse, it could kill you.”

In the demoralizing hush that followed, Logan heard Gerard’s wristwatch counting out the seconds, each tick hammering home the inevitable. But his career didn’t have to be over. He was young. Physically fit. He could rebound, as he had before, if they’d give him one more chance.

“I’ll sign a waiver,” he blurted, leaning forward in the chair, “absolving the Knights from any responsibility if—”

“It’s not just the liability,” Fletcher injected. “We’re talking about your life here. The team’s reputation. Fan expectation.” He exhaled a heavy sigh. “Bottom line, the decision is best for everyone. You, primarily.”

Their monotone voices and deadpan expressions underscored O’Riley’s hard words: You’ve played your last game.

He stared at the toes of his Crockett & Jones loafers. Without football, what did he have? A big house in exclusive The Preserve development, filled with designer clothes, a three-car garage where his 1955 Corvette and James Bond–like Aston Martin flanked a Harley-Davidson V-Rod. And without football, what would he do? During the season, he gave 100 percent on the field; in the off-season, he trained, studied opposing teams and basked in the media spotlight—attention that inspired half a dozen national magazines to name him Bachelor of the Year. These past three and a half years, the game hadn’t just provided for him, it had defined him.

If he sat for one more second, he’d lose it. For a moment, Logan wished he was that troublemaking student, waiting outside the principal’s office. A boy could cry when he heard his punishment, but a big tough football player?

He stood, then walked out of the office without a word...because he couldn’t talk around the aching sob in his throat. Stunned, he stood swaying just beyond the door’s threshold.

“Hey, son,” the GM called after him. “You okay?”

And then he heard the shrink say, “Let him go.”

“It’s a lot for a kid his age to absorb,” Richards put in.

He was twenty-five. How old would he have to be before they stopped calling him a kid?

“Give him time,” Gerard added. “He’ll come around.”

Logan wasn’t at all sure that was possible. As he passed Mandy’s desk, she pressed a hand to her chest and whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

Was it really possible that in a matter of minutes he’d gone from being a celebrity athlete to an object of pity? Judging by the receptionist’s concerned expression, he had. Nodding, Logan sent her a feeble, shaky smile and hurried to the parking lot, where he sat, silent, and stared through the windshield of his prized sports car.

He thought about calling Willow to let her know what had happened. No...he needed to get his head on straight first. The news would shatter his soon-to-be wife, and he’d need his wits about him to put her back together again. A spiteful thought flitted through his head: if she really loved him, shouldn’t it be the other way around?

Movement to his right stunned him back to the here and now. After the SUV’s driver backed out of his slot, Logan fired up his engine and peeled out of the lot, swerving in and out of traffic as he raced up Russell Street.

Until flashing lights and a siren stopped him.

And a policewoman stepped up beside the car.

“License and registration, please.”

He rummaged through the glove box and his wallet, found what he needed and handed them to her. Before she looked at either, she grinned.

“Logan Murray?” She read the identification while he read her name tag: Mullins.

“The Logan Murray?”

And so the pendulum swings back to celebrity athlete, he thought.

“Are you aware that you were doing sixty-five in a forty-mile-per-hour zone?”

“Really?”

“Really.”

He tapped the steering wheel. “Sometimes this baby has a mind of its own.”

She returned the documents, put one hand on top of his car and said, “You’d better learn to control her, or people might get the impression that all that stuff in the papers is true.”

Which stuff? he wondered. The “Murray Moves Fast, Even Off the Field” headline? Or maybe even the “Magic Murray Has a New Lady” nonsense online?

He slid the license into his wallet and put the registration back into the glove box, figuring he had a 50-50 shot of getting a ticket.

Logan turned on what the entertainment reporters called “The Murray Charm.”

“You’re right, Officer Mullins,” he said, flashing his flirtiest smile. “I’ll be more careful from now on.”

“See that you do.” Winking, she tapped the car’s roof. “The city expects a Super Bowl win from you this year.” And with that, she strolled back to her squad car, hiking her gun belt as she went.

Logan eased into traffic and drove until he ended up in Fells Point, where he parked across from The Horse You Came In On Saloon, Baltimore’s oldest bar. Would his agent, or Knights’ management, leak the story? he wondered, stepping off the curb to cross the street. How many days before reporters started dogging his heels?

A horn blared, startling him so badly he almost dropped his car keys.

“Hey, idiot! Find someplace else to commit suicide!” the driver bellowed.

“Yeah, whatever,” he muttered and continued across Thames Street.

Inside, he took the stool nearest the singing guitarist.

“What’ll you have?” the barmaid asked.

“Whiskey, neat.”

Either she hadn’t recognized him, or she wasn’t a Knights fan. A relief either way because it meant he could feel good and sorry for himself while he got good and drunk. As he waited for her to pour a jigger, Logan wondered if self-pity had driven Edgar Allan Poe to this saloon on the last night of his life. Wondered, too, if Poe had decided against calling a woman who wouldn’t be there for him.

Self-pity, Logan thought as the barmaid delivered the drink, was a dangerous thing. He lifted the glass, said a silent toast to the sad, sickly author, then tossed back the shot. Maybe I’ll take up writing and drinking, just like you, Eddie, he thought, signaling the barmaid.

His college roommate, who’d sold a novel loosely based on their campus shenanigans, explained his success this way—“Gotta write what you know, man. Only way to make it in this wacky biz.” And since the only thing Logan knew was football, he crossed “author” off his Now What? list.

He put the glass to his lips and laughed to himself. Drinking...now, there’s something you know about.

CHAPTER TWO

Ten years later...

“GREAT INTERVIEW,” Marty said. “Hundreds of emails and Facebook posts came in while we were on-air, same as last time. Come on back any time, dude. You’re good for ratings!”

Logan shook the newsman’s hand. “I’ll have my people call your people.”

Grinning, Marty checked his watch. “If I didn’t have to do the weather in a minute, I’d offer you a cup of coffee.”

The assistant producer breezed past them. “There’s a fresh pot in the production office....”

Point made and taken: Bianca Wright didn’t believe in rolling out the red carpet for the show’s guests. At least not once the cameras stopped rolling.

They’d met briefly six months ago, during his first visit to The Morning Show. That day she’d been so preoccupied corralling the gaggle of octogenarian belly dancers whose performance followed his segment that she barely had time to escort him to the studio. She was cute. Smart. Not famous. Everybody was after him to find a stable woman...someone who didn’t jump at every opportunity to draw attention to herself. So, despite the fact that he had a radio interview on the other side of town in an hour, Logan fell into step beside her.

“Marty’s right. That was a great interview,” she said, scribbling something onto her clipboard. “The kind that will have me answering tons of fan emails for the next couple of days.”

Her tone of voice told him she wasn’t looking forward to the task. “Next time I’m on the show,” he joked, “I’ll try not to be so personable.”

She made a noise—something between a snort and a grunt. A moment ago she’d been friendly and outgoing. But now? He crossed “sense of humor” off his Good Things About Her list. Women, Logan thought, should come with warning labels. And instruction manuals.

She sat at her desk and adjusted the tilt of a silver-framed photo of a young boy. Must be Bianca’s son; he had the same eyes as her. And if the boy’s mischievous smirk was any indicator, he was a handful. No photo of a husband, he noticed, but then, there wasn’t much room for one on her work-cluttered desk. Maybe a thorny divorce explained her sudden mood shift, or juggling family and career was more than she could handle today. And maybe, he thought, stifling a grunt of his own, she was like every other woman he’d met: impossible.

“Help yourself,” Bianca said. “Mugs are in the cabinet above the coffeemaker.” She put her back to him and began tapping numbers into her cell phone.

“Hey, sweetie,” she said as he filled a station-logoed mug. “It’s so good to hear your voice!”

Word for word what his ex used to say...before rehab. Funny how she’d liked him better all boozed up. The reminder was enough to crush all desire to get to know Bianca better. Well, that, and the possibility that she was married.

Logan glanced at his watch. If he left right now, he might just make it to his next interview on time. He waved, hoping to get Bianca’s attention so he could mouth a silent thank-you for the coffee before hitting the road.

“I know, I know,” she was saying, “but you still have to do what Grandmom tells you to. Rules are rules. We’ve talked about that, remember?” She covered the mouthpiece and exhaled a frustrated sigh before continuing. “Tell you what. If you do all your chores and don’t misbehave today, we’ll go out for ice cream after supper. Okay?

“I love you, sweetie. See you in a few hours.” Eyes closed, she held the phone to her chest for a split second, then spun the chair to face Logan. “How’s the coffee?”

“Better than Starbucks.”

Bianca gave him a quick once-over. “If you say so.”

“No. Seriously. It’s really good.”

“Well, I’m two cups over my daily quota, so you’re welcome to what’s left.”

He put the mug on the counter. “So that was your son on the phone?”

“Mmm-hmm.” A tiny smile played at the corners of her mouth as she glanced at the picture. “Drew. He’s seven.”

“I have two sisters. The youngest has a boy about his age. Maybe they go to school together.”

“Baltimore is a big city, surrounded by dozens of suburbs.”

“You don’t buy into the ‘it’s a small world’ philosophy?”

“It isn’t that so much as...” And like before, Bianca’s smile disappeared as quickly as it appeared. “Drew is autistic.”

Logan didn’t know why, but his thoughts went immediately to Poe, the service dog he’d adopted when a friend’s autistic daughter had died of meningitis complications three years ago. Poe—and dogs like her—were responsible for the pro bono commercials he’d made for the local service dog training facility. Logan pocketed both hands. “I, ah, I don’t know what to say.” He could have told her that his nephew was autistic, but this didn’t seem the time or place.

She searched his face for what seemed like a full minute. It was almost as intimidating as facing a row of scowling linebackers on the football field, which, considering her size, made no sense at all.

“What? I have spinach in my teeth or something?”

One side of her mouth lifted in a faint smile. “You’re the first person, ever, to have an honest reaction to the news, that’s what.”

For the next five minutes, she provided him with a rundown of Drew’s situation: at age two, when he wasn’t forming sentences, gesturing or responding normally to physical or verbal interactions, Drew’s pediatrician put Bianca in touch with a colleague who specialized in childhood developmental disorders. Test results put the boy in the “mild-to-moderate” level on the autism spectrum. After three years of speech, physical and occupational therapy—partnered with sensory and behavioral integration—he was mainstreamed into public school.

Logan then listed similarities between Drew’s situation and his friend’s daughter, but he didn’t share the fact that she had died.

Bianca nodded. “It takes a lot of time, effort and commitment to raise a child with autism and ensure they are happy and comfortable.”

At least now Logan understood why she’d chosen a job usually filled by interns and college grads starting out in the industry; the work kept her in the job pool, yet afforded flexibility in case her boy needed her.

“I take it you have good days and bad days?” he asked.

Bianca cast a pensive glance toward Drew’s photo. “Mostly good, thanks to some very dedicated, loving people.”

“Your husband deserves some credit, then. I know a guy whose kid has cerebral palsy. Couldn’t handle the day-to-day stress, and it cost him his marriage. I’m glad your husband stuck around...that he’s doing right by you and your son.”

She looked surprised. Hurt. Angry. Which rattled him, until she said, “Jason died three years ago. Pancreatic cancer.”

“Oh. Wow. Sorry to hear it,” he said, meaning every word.

She lifted one shoulder and one eyebrow. “It is what it is.”

Logan had no idea how to respond to that, so he looked at his watch, then blew a silent whistle through his teeth. “Well, I’d better head out. Radio interview in an hour. All the way over on Boston Street.”

Bianca looked at her desk clock, then stood and slid his file into a drawer marked ATHLETES. “Hope you have a helicopter.”

Proof that she had a sense of humor after all?

“Just in case,” he said, unpocketing his cell phone. “It’s not an official guest spot. Just another of those ‘we’ll put you on air if you’re ever in the neighborhood’ things. I figured it was a good time to hawk the fund-raiser on the radio, since not everybody watches The Morning Show.”

“I won’t tell Marty you said that.”

Logan grinned, wondering why he’d told her all of that. And why he wasn’t going outside to make his call. And who the dedicated, loving people in her life might be. Not likely a boyfriend because very few guys had the capacity to commit to a woman with a kid with special needs. His sister’s ex was living proof of that.

“Do you have time for a real coffee break?” he asked Bianca as he waited for someone to answer his call.

She looked surprised by the invitation. Not as surprised as Logan was to have extended it. Thankfully, the receptionist spared him the need to say something that would explain why.

“I’d like to leave a message in Jack White’s voice mail, please.”

The woman put him on hold, and while a familiar Eagles tune wafted into his ear, Logan said to Bianca, “You know that great little coffee shop around the corner? It’s never busy at this time of day, so—”

“This is Jack,” said the recording. “You know what to do.”

“Hey, Jack. It’s Logan. Can’t stop by today after all, so don’t count on me to fill air time between Twinkies commercials.” Laughing, he added, “See you at the meeting tonight.”

He hung up, took a breath, then told Bianca, “My sister’s son, Sam, is autistic, and he has a birthday coming up.” He swallowed, nervous at sharing this personal information. “I thought maybe you could suggest a toy or a book or something that he’d enjoy.”

Logan could almost read her mind, thinking, “Why not ask his mother?”

“And while you’re at it,” he tacked on, “maybe you can offer a different viewpoint on this idea I have of building a school for kids like Sam. And Drew.” He paused long enough to add, “If you’re not free, I can wait. Or come back in an hour or two. If you have things to wrap up, that is.”

Did his rambling make him sound like an idiot to her, too?

She pointed at her desk. “As a matter of fact, I do have a lot to do before I pick up Drew.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure. Maybe some other time, then.”

Silence.

Too truthful to schedule a rain date she wouldn’t keep? He might have admired her honesty...if it hadn’t made him feel like a babbling buffoon. Much as he hated to admit it, Bianca hadn’t given him any reason to think her invitation to grab a cup of coffee from the production office had been anything but. He tried to cover his discomfort by stepping into the hall and looking both ways.

“This place is like a maze. Which way to the lobby again?”

“Are you parked out back or in the garage across the street?”

“Out back.”

“Then you don’t need to go all the way back to the lobby.” She faced the computer. “Turn right and follow the hall to the end,” she said, typing, typing, typing. “The double doors will lead you to the rear lot.”

“Thanks. And thanks for the coffee, too. It really was as good as Starbucks.”

The keys click-clacked as she said, “Glad you liked it. Drive safely now.”

Logan left Bianca to her work, exited the building and got into his car. He’d already acknowledged her intelligence, but based on the smooth, thoughtful way she’d dismissed him, he had to admit that he’d seriously underestimated her people skills.

Movement to the left caught his attention, and as the driver of an SUV backed out of the space beside his, he was reminded of that day, ten years earlier, when he’d heard the words that changed his life.

His mouth went dry, thinking of the way he’d handled the bad news. How almost four years had gone by before he’d quit treating it with booze. The all too familiar itch started in the back of his throat and his mouth went dry. Logan swallowed. Hard. In the past he would have scratched it with scotch, but AA—and his sponsor—had taught him how to divert the cravings. Logan made a mental note to tell Jack about it at tonight’s meeting. Confessing these weak moments had kept him sober for six years, two weeks and five days.

He jammed the key into the ignition and decided to stop by his folks’ house on the way home, see how his sister, Sandra, was holding up in taking care of their mom.

The engine emitted a guttural groan that echoed his mood. “Great,” he muttered as a series of clicks punctuated the groan, “that’s just great.” Last thing he needed was a dead battery.

Logan grabbed his phone to call a tow truck.

Nothing. No ring tone. No bars. What were the odds of one guy having two dead batteries in the space of a minute? Slim to none, he thought, slamming the driver’s door.

He could follow the sidewalk around to the front of the building and ask to use the phone in the studio’s waiting room. Or he could go into the station the way he’d come out and borrow Bianca’s instead.

CHAPTER THREE

RESEARCHING THE GUESTS’ business and professional backgrounds was part of her job as assistant producer. Digging into their personal lives was not. Mild curiosity had prompted her to find out for herself if the media’s assessment of Logan Murray was fact or fiction. She hadn’t been surprised at—and quickly dismissed—the juicy tidbits about his romantic escapades. For one thing, her college minor had been PR. For another, common sense told her that if he’d dated as much as the entertainment mags claimed, he’d need forty-eight hours in every day.

Something about his message for the radio DJ echoed in her memory. “See you tonight at the meeting,” he’d said. She thumbed through his file, looking for articles that might validate her suspicions. When nothing turned up, she ran a Google search.

Nothing.

Bianca sighed, staring at the list of links. Page after page of photos, bios and academic and athletic awards, but not a word about alcoholism, drug addiction or rehab. If only she could find the article she’d read, months ago, about the time he’d spent in rehab. Well, she thought, they didn’t call it Alcoholics Anonymous for nothing.

Or she’d been dead wrong about him.

But why was it so important to find black-and-white evidence that he had skeletons in his closet? Because she needed reasons not to like him. Yeah, he’d said yes to her coffee offer, and yes, he’d invited her to talk autism at the café around the corner. That didn’t mean he was interested in her. His file was filled with full-color photographic evidence that he liked his women footloose and flashy, not exhausted and widowed. She tossed the file aside and caught sight of her reflection in the mirrorlike window of the microwave. “You look old enough to be your own mother,” she muttered, frowning.

“Talking to yourself again, eh?”

Bianca clapped a hand over her chest. “Good grief, Marty. You scared me half to death!”

“Sorry,” he said. “I whistled all the way down the hall so I wouldn’t startle you.” Then he nodded at Drew’s photograph. “How does he like the new school?”

“He’s holding his own, I suppose.”

“What’s that mean...you suppose?”

“Well, he’s talking a whole lot more and making eye contact most of the time. Best of all, he lets me hug him, and once in a while, he even hugs me back.” Bianca thought of all the years when Drew had turned his face and stiffened when she showed affection in any way. She held her breath to forestall tears. “I just...hoped he’d be further along by now.”

He gave her shoulder a friendly squeeze. “I don’t need to remind you, of all people, that these things take time, do I?”

She returned his smile. “No, guess not. And I don’t need to tell you that I’m not exactly the most patient mom on the planet, do I?”

“No, guess not,” Marty echoed.

“So what brings you all the way down the hall to my minuscule cubicle?”

“Would you believe I misplaced Logan Murray’s contact info? I forgot to thank him for inviting me to that golf outing last week.”

Bianca reopened the file, grabbed a Post-it and wrote Logan’s name and phone number on it.

Marty folded it in two and tucked it into the pocket of his crisp white shirt. “Want me to tell him anything for you?”

“Such as...?”

“Such as...you’re sorry you turned down his coffee invitation?”

“You were eavesdropping?” Bianca feigned surprise. “I can’t believe it!” Then, in a quieter, more serious tone, she added, “That is the last thing I want you to tell him.”

“So if saying no to his clumsy invite is the last thing, what’s the first?”

“I don’t want you to tell him anything. Except, maybe, thanks for appearing on the show.”

“Uh-huh. Are you forgetting how long we’ve known one another? I can see straight through you.”

Nearly six years. He and Jason had belonged to the same athletic club and often had played doubles tennis. Marty had been at her kitchen table sipping iced tea, waiting for Jason to get home from work, when she took the call from Kennedy Krieger, confirming that Drew indeed had autism. And prior to Jason’s cancer diagnosis, they’d been regular guests at Marty’s house.

“I’m lucky to call you a friend,” she admitted.

“Ditto, kiddo.” The note crinkled when he patted his pocket. “Well, I’d better call the guy before I lose this.” He rounded the corner, then ducked back in. “You’re sure you don’t want me to put in a good word for you?”

“Give it a rest, Marty. Even if I had time for a man in my life, you don’t seriously think it would be someone like Logan Murray.” As if to prove it, she clucked her tongue.

“I happen to know that he has a nephew just like Drew. So he knows all about autism.”

“I know. We talked about him. His name’s Sam.”

Marty paused and said with a frown, “Will you let an old friend give you some advice?”

“Something tells me I couldn’t stop you if I tried.” Grinning, she crossed both arms over her chest. “Lemme have it, old friend.”

“Logan and I have been pals for quite a while now, and—”

“Really. Then why did you need his contact information?”

“Because, Detective Wright, he got tired of the prank calls from crazy broads who want to become Mrs. Murray, so he changed his number. Again.” He bobbed his head. “Trust me...I’ve known him long enough to be able to tell when he’s interested in a gal, and when he’s really interested, if you get my drift.”

“Sorry to be so obtuse, but I don’t. Get your drift, that is.”

“The way he was lookin’ at you?” Marty whistled. “He’s into you, kid.”

“Marty...”

He held up both hands. “Okay, never let it be said I can’t take a hint.” He gave her a quick hug. “See ya!”

Bianca shook her head. Logan Murray. Interested in her? Ridiculous enough to be comical, she thought as she grabbed her To Do list and read the remaining tasks: call Michael Phelps to remind him what time to arrive for his segment on The Morning Show next week; write as much of the teleprompter script as possible for tomorrow’s show; order new business cards for herself and her boss; schedule an in-person meeting with Drew’s teacher; write Logan Murray a thank-you note for appearing on today’s show.

Bianca riffled through her greeting-cards file and found a blank-inside card with a sporty red convertible on the front. Might as well get the most pressing task out of the way first, she thought, picking up her favorite ballpoint.

“Dear Mr. Murray, the staff of WPOK thanks you for sharing your time and talents on The Morning Show.” That pretty much covered it, but Bianca didn’t like the look of all that leftover white space. How would she fill it? she wondered, tapping the pen on her bottom teeth.

Then, remembering that Marty had invited him to come back soon, she added, “We look forward to your next appearance and will contact your agent soon to schedule a mutually convenient time.” She signed it, “Cordially, Bianca P. Wright.” If he took the time to read it himself, he’d realize she’d sent two messages for the price of one postage stamp: the station really did appreciate his time and talents, and in the remote possibility Marty was right about him, the signature line would make it clear she didn’t share Logan’s interest.

She picked up the phone to call Michael Phelps and waited while it rang, thinking.

Taking care of Drew barely left time for sleep, let alone a relationship. Not that she was complaining. Right from the start she and her little boy had connected on a level that no one else had seemed able to reach. Not even his own father. Bianca worked hard to repress memories of Jason’s detached attitude toward Drew, but at times like this, it was difficult to forget the cold, sometimes cruel things he said about his little boy.

A beep sounded in her ear, and it took a second to collect her thoughts. After leaving a voice mail message for Phelps, she sent the swimmer a follow-up text. Experience taught her that, from time to time, even the most organized celebrities let things fall through the cracks. “But not on my watch,” she muttered, also sending him an email, just to be safe.

After putting in the order for updated business cards, Bianca dialed Mrs. Peterson’s personal extension at the school. The note Mrs. Peterson had tucked into Drew’s book bag had kept her up half the night, trying to figure out why the boy who seemed content and confident at home had reverted to old behaviors at school. Talking out of turn, getting up without permission, stemming...

“I’d like to discuss Drew’s recent, ah, setback,” she said after the beep, “so please call me at your earliest convenience.” If the recorder picked up the exasperation in her voice, so be it. Neither the staff nor the administration had gone out of their way to hide bias toward kids like Drew. Their misunderstanding of the disorder frustrated her, which inspired her decision to chaperone every field trip and volunteer weekly in the classroom. The hope was twofold: explain the causes of disruptive behavior, and show them how to diffuse volatile situations by watching how she interacted with Drew and kids like him. Sadly, neither mission had met with much success.

But Bianca had never been a quitter. Not when her college friends told her that double-majoring was a waste of time and money. Not when Jason got sick. And certainly not when Drew was diagnosed with autism. Her son was counting on her now more than ever, and she wouldn’t allow anything—or anyone—to keep her from doing what was in his best interests.

She picked up his picture and traced a fingertip over the sweet, crooked smile. “Don’t worry, il mio tesoro, I’ll make things right if it takes—”

A quiet knock interrupted her promise. She was surprised to see Logan, looking rumpled and lost, in her doorway.

“Uh-oh. Couldn’t find your way to the exit?”

“Oh, I found it, all right,” he said, rubbing grimy hands on a crisp white handkerchief, “but my car won’t start. From the sound of things, I’m guessing it’s the battery.” He held up his cell phone. “Believe it or not, it’s dead, too.”

He seemed younger, and he looked vulnerable with that lock of near-black hair falling over one eye.

“I have jumper cables in my trunk,” she offered. “If that doesn’t do the job, I can drive you to my favorite mechanic’s shop.”

“No, no...don’t want to put you out. Just came in to borrow your phone.”

She grabbed her purse. “It’s no bother. I’m pretty well finished for the day anyway.”

For the second time that day, he fell into step beside her. Why did he seem taller than the six-foot-three claimed by his bio? Well-toned thighs flexed with every step. So much for the accuracy of the Post article claiming he’d let himself go since retiring from the game.

He held open the door, and as she stepped outside, Logan pointed. “That’s my car over there.”

She pointed, too. “And that’s mine. Be right with you.”

In one article about him, she recalled, a reporter had called Logan flamboyant, conceited, a braggart. Yet he was wearing an ordinary navy suit and driving a sedate black sedan. Had he changed a lot since his football days, or were the reports flawed?

Bianca got into her car, started the engine, then parked nose to nose with Logan’s Camry, leaving just enough space to stand between the vehicles. How strange, she thought, climbing out of her Jeep, that even her mom drove a flashier vehicle than his. Bianca fastened her keys to the clip inside her purse and popped open the hood.

“So,” Logan said, aiming a thumb over his shoulder, “was that Italian I heard when I walked into your office just now?”

“Italian?” It took a moment to figure out what he meant. “Oh, you mean il mio tesoro....”

Nodding, Logan pried open his hood, too.

“It’s just a little term of endearment. Something I’ve called Drew since before he was born.”

“‘My treasure,’” he translated. “I think that’s...sweet.”

Why the hesitation? She’d met far too many people who considered kids like Drew nothing more than badly behaved nuisances. Some made half-baked attempts at tolerance. Others didn’t even try. Which was Logan?

“My mom is Italian,” they said at the same time.

Laughing quietly, Logan looked at the sky. “Takes me back.... My mom used to call me poco terrore.” He met her eyes to add, “Totally different mothering style, evidently.”

“Little terror?” Bianca couldn’t resist a smile. According to her research, Logan was the youngest of three and the only boy. “So you were a handful even as a kid, huh?”

His expression said, “Even then”? But Logan held out a hand. “If you’ll give me your keys, I’ll get the jumper cables out of the back of your car.”

“Thanks, but it’ll be faster if I get them.”

Bianca knew where the cables were. She had to know exactly where everything was—in the house, in her purse, here in the car—because she never knew when a noise, a crowd, a scent might set Drew off and she’d need to put her hands on something else that would quiet him quickly.

She moved both backpacks aside—one holding an assortment of toys, the other stuffed with healthy nonperishable snacks—and unearthed the duffel she’d filled with two outfits for Drew and a change of clothes for herself. Behind it sat the “Just in Case” bin, where she’d stacked blankets, a portable DVD and movies, earplugs and an odd assortment of miscellaneous paraphernalia. Finally, under that, she grabbed the red-zippered pouch labeled Car Kit.

“What’s all that?” he asked. “Your bug-out gear?”

She’d seen a cable TV show featuring people who claimed to be prepared for any emergency, including grab-and-go bags.

“I guess you could call it that.”

“Drew is one lucky kid.”

“Oh?” Bianca grabbed the cables, then slammed the hatch.

“Looks like you’re ready for just about any eventuality, which probably gives him a lot of security if things get crazy.”

A lucky guess? Or had Logan learned a thing or two from his nephew? Might be nice, she thought, interacting with someone who understood what her life was like. How odd that all those articles and news clips showed an entirely different side of him. The negative reports told her Logan had bowed and scraped to garner media attention. What would those correspondents say if they could see him now, tie loosened and shirtsleeves cuffed, ready for—how had he put it?—any eventuality. Still, there was no escaping the fact that he hadn’t just been a top-notch quarterback. He’d costarred in a few box-office hits and earned the moniker “TV’s Commercial King” by making every product he advertised on TV seem too good to be true. Maybe what she was witnessing boiled down to two words: good actor.

A gust of March wind took her breath away. If she’d trusted Marty’s forecast, Bianca would have worn a coat over her blazer.

“Cold?”

“I’ll be fine.” Shoulders up to fend off the chill, she said, “I’ll get started while—”

He reached into his front seat and grabbed his suit coat. “First put this on.”

Tempting as it was to accept it, Bianca said, “No, thanks.” If she got dirt or grease on it, she couldn’t afford to have it cleaned.

But he draped it over her shoulders anyway. Using his chin as a pointer, Logan added, “You sure you know how to use those things?”

“These,” she said, “and every other tool in the shed. Except for the chainsaw.” Bianca cringed. “That thing gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

“Okay, then....” He got into his car and left the driver’s door ajar.

“Everything turned off?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Emergency brake on?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Bianca connected one red clamp to her battery’s positive terminal, attached the other to the positive terminal on Logan’s battery, then clipped the black clamp to the negative terminal of her battery and connected the second black clamp to an unpainted bolt on his engine block.

“Okay,” she said, “I’m going to start the Jeep.”

She stuck the key into the ignition and hesitated. He probably knew to let her car’s engine idle a minute or two before starting his. Bianca didn’t want to insult him, but she couldn’t afford the time or money to replace their batteries if he didn’t.

“You know not to start your car right way, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She couldn’t see him, thanks to the raised hoods, but if his agreeable tone of voice matched his expression, he hadn’t taken the question the wrong way.

Bianca fired up the Jeep, then hurried to the driver’s side of his car.

Sunshine lit his face, making him squint as he looked up at her. Bianca stepped aside so that her shadow would block it...but not before noticing the pale dots peppering his nose and cheeks. Freckles? At thirty-five?

“Think it’s safe to rev ’er up now?”

She nodded. “Just don’t give it too much gas, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

When his car started right up, she fist-pumped the air the way she did every time Drew reached a goal...and Logan’s jacket slipped from her shoulders and onto the dirty parking lot.

Retrieving it, she dusted it off. “See? I had a feeling something like that would happen.”

Out of the car now, he took it from her and gave it a once-over. “Clean as a whistle.”

But she could see the grit and grime that had stained the front pocket. Bianca felt duty-bound to do something about it.

“Just so happens there’s a stack of dry cleaning on my closet floor,” she said, reaching for it. “I’ll drop it off with the rest of my—”

He held tight. “I told you that it’s fine. But even if it wasn’t, I have an account with the best dry cleaner in town.” He shrugged. “Besides, you already have enough on your shoulders.”

Before she could ask what he meant, Logan said, “Can I get you to do me another favor?”

She caught herself staring. “A favor?”

“I don’t trust this old beast to fire up again when I need it to, so I was wondering if maybe you’ll let me buy you that cup of coffee now to thank you for the jump-start. And to keep you around awhile. For backup. In case this old clunker decides to play dead again when I get ready to hit the road.”

The mention of his dead battery reminded her that she hadn’t detached the cables. “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she muttered. Silently, she ran down the step-by-step process: remove black clamp from his engine bolt, then black clamp from my battery. Now red clamp from my car and red clamp from his.

Once finished, she said, “It’s been so long since I did this that I wasn’t sure I’d remember the right order to do things.”

“Now she tells me,” he said to the cloudy sky.

In her rush to put everything back where it belonged in the Jeep, Bianca nearly dropped the cables.

Logan caught them. Caught her hands, too.

“You’re freezing,” he said. “Now you have to let me buy you a nice hot cup of coffee. The least I can do is warm you up after making you stand out here in the cold wind all this time. If you have time, that is, before picking Drew up at school.”

Bianca checked her watch. By her calculations she had hours and hours!

Logan’s lips slanted in a charming, boyish grin. “So you have time, then?”

She was freezing. It would feel good to discuss Drew’s condition with someone who really understood it. And she was curious to hear more about this school he wanted to build, for no other reason than to get him on the show to tell the viewers all about it.

“Sure. Why not?”

“Try not to overexcite yourself,” he teased, tossing the jacket onto the passenger seat, then climbing into his car. While parallel parking across from the café, Bianca remembered the last time she’d jumped a car battery; it had been three and a half years ago, driving home from Jason’s funeral. Drew had gone completely ballistic, drawing the attention of every driver who had passed them on Frederick Road. And the last man she’d shared coffee with? The funeral director, who’d served it in a tiny disposable cup.

Memory of his solemn, monotonous voice prompted a grin because something told her this impromptu coffee date with Logan would be anything but boring.

CHAPTER FOUR

“SO LET me get this straight,” Griff said, “you spent an hour—”

“Hour and twenty minutes.”

“Pardon me. I stand corrected.” Griff leaned back in his oversized desk chair and propped both pointy-toed cowboy boots on the glass and stainless-steel desk. “You spent slightly less than an hour and a half with this gal, and already you’re feeling...protective.”

“She reminds me of Sandra.” He shrugged. “So sue me.”

Not surprisingly, Griff didn’t violate the attorney–client rule, divulging details of his sister’s case, even though he and Logan had been as tight as brothers since high school. Logan had seen Griff through a brutal divorce, and Griff had helped Logan survive the first grueling year after the team dropped him.

“But she’s a widow?”

“Yeah....”

“Then I don’t get it. Your sister divorced her thug of a husband. Do you suspect this Bianca woman was abused, too?”

“No.” She hadn’t said or done anything to leave that impression. “I can’t explain it,” Logan admitted. “It’s just...” He didn’t dare say It’s just something I feel. Because of the autism connection, and because he was in no mood to fend off his friend’s razzing.

Griff put his feet on the floor and leaned both forearms on his desk. “Can I tell you how I feel?”

He sat up straighter. “Suppose I say no.”

Griff shrugged. “Then I ignore you, as usual.” He aimed a crooked forefinger—the one he’d broken twenty years earlier while playing HORSE in Logan’s driveway—and said, “Read my lips: Mind. Your. Own. Business.”

Logan winced at the stinging truth of it because he wanted her to be his business.

“Chances are, the only thing she has in common with Sandra is an autistic kid. But if there are more parallels?” Griff shook his head. “Then you need to back off. Right now. Or you’ll open yourself for a world of hurt. Again.”

The not-so-subtle reference to Logan’s last disastrous relationship didn’t go unnoticed. Everyone had told him to steer clear of Willow. His parents’ main objection had been the eight-year age gap. She’s a lifetime ahead of you! they’d said. But Griff had been present to witness a few of her outbursts. Despite his friend’s objections—and because he’d been young, stubborn and determined to become her protector—Logan had convinced himself that once they got to know her, they’d love her, too. Griff, included.

“Took you a year to recover from what that batty broad did to you.”

“You’d think a guy with a hundred degrees on his wall would know broad isn’t PC.”

“And you’d think a guy with a hundred Tinseltown starlets listed in his little black book would know better than to get tangled up with another emotional basket case. Besides, the only way Wacky Willow deserves PC is if it stands for Permanent Confinement in the nearest loony bin.”

They’d been down this road enough times that Logan knew it was futile to argue the “Willow was certifiable” point. “So maybe Bianca has some issues. Who doesn’t? Doesn’t mean she’s crazy.”

“Or that she was abused.”

Logan waited for Griff to repeat the warning he’d issued during those early months with Willow: Better steer clear of that one....

Thankfully, Griff grabbed Logan’s file. “So when are you planning to see this Bianca person again?”

It had been almost a week since she’d sat across from him, sipping cappuccino and talking about her son, but it might as well have been an hour ago. He remembered thinking how the shaft of early-March sunlight, spilling in from the window behind her, gave a halolike quality to her short blond curls. But then he’d said, “I know a gal who works at Kennedy Krieger, so I know it isn’t easy to get an appointment. If you need help getting in, say the word.” Instead of saying “Drew is fine where he is,” or “We’ll see,” she’d got to her feet, ice-blue eyes scanning his face as she’d thanked him for the coffee and left.

“Yo. Dude.” Griff snapped his fingers. “Earth to Logan, Earth to Logan....”

He met Griff’s concerned stare.

“We have work to do, so how ’bout you nap on your own time.”

“This is my time,” Logan kidded, “bought and paid for to the tune of one seventy-five an hour.”

“Consider yourself lucky. If you weren’t a pal, you’d pay double,” Griff shot back. He tossed a wad of paper into the trash can. “So as I was saying when you veered off into Bianca-land, when will you see her again?”

“Next time I’m on The Morning Show, I guess. Hadn’t really thought about it.”

“If you say so.”

The paperback-sized clock on Griff’s desk chimed eleven times. Using the cap of his ballpoint, he tapped Logan’s file. “Back to business. If you’re serious about this autism project, you’ll need a clear-cut mission statement.” Griff leafed through the will. “What did you do, swallow a leprechaun or something? How does one guy get so lucky in life?”

He’d said pretty much the same thing when Logan had brought him the document naming him sole inheritor of David Richards’s assets. A devout Knights fan, the mega-millionaire had often sought Logan’s help in raising funds for his pet charities, and as had time passed, he’d begun introducing Logan as “the son I never had.” When a team of Hopkins specialists diagnosed Stage 4 esophageal cancer, David—recently divorced from his third wife—sent for Logan. In what turned out to be his last self-deprecating joke, David made Logan promise to distribute his wealth “with my big philanthropic heart in mind.”

And Logan aimed to do just that.

“The mission statement doesn’t have to be fancy,” Griff continued. “Just a few short paragraphs describing the purpose of the charity. Who’ll run it. Who’ll benefit. Once I have it, I can write your Articles of Incorporation, file for your tax ID number—all that legal stuff you pay me the big bucks to do on your behalf.” He scribbled something on the inside front cover of the folder, then met Logan’s eyes. “Have you decided if this is to be a board-only organization?”

“Unless things have changed since our last meeting, that’s the best way to keep greedy stockholders out of the equation.”

Griff made another note in the file. “Given any thought to who’ll help draft the bylaws?”

Logan rested his elbows on the wingback’s arms, then steepled his fingers under his chin. He groaned again, wondering if he’d made a mistake. Funneling the remaining dollars into David’s existing charities would be way easier than building one from the ground up. But his old friend had been very specific, saying, “Your heart has never been in any of these projects of mine. Find one of your own, something that will make you feel like you’re making a difference, the way mine made me feel.” Helping his nephew and kids like him... If Logan could accomplish something like that, maybe he wouldn’t feel as if he was just taking up space and wasting the air he breathed.

Griff was still scribbling when Logan added, “I know a couple people with warehouse space for sale that could work as a school. But I don’t know if that’s the way to go.” He paused as another question popped into his head. “How many board members do you recommend?”

“I think the two of us can handle it.”

“Can’t think of anyone else who’ll keep their eyes on the prize and leave their egos—and self-indulgence—at the door.”

“Yeah. They broke the good-guy mold when they made us, didn’t they?”

The friends shared a quiet laugh as Griff closed the file. “Well, the money is safe in the bank, so you have plenty of time to think about it.”

Logan got to his feet. “Free for lunch?”

“I wish. I’m due in court at one.” He extended his hand, and as Logan grasped it, Griff added, “Be careful, pal.”

“Hey. I’ll sleep easy knowing you’re handling the official stuff.”

“I’m not talking about this school project,” he said, pointing at the file. “I mean this Bianca woman. You barely know her and already you have that gleam in your eye. Last thing you need is to go head over heels for a woman just because she has a kid like Sam.”

Bianca’s son was largely responsible for the hours he’d spent this week boning up on specific disorders within the autism spectrum. When he’d deepened the research by interviewing a few experts, he was surprised to learn that more than half of the markers could just as easily describe him and other athletes who’d suffered head injuries. The similarities between him and Sam made Logan more determined than ever to build a facility that would help normalize their lives. “Just be careful, okay?” Griff said, walking with him to the door. “I don’t have time to put you back together again, Humpty.” Then, “Do me a favor?”

“No, I will not give you J-Lo’s number.”

Griff’s eyebrows rose. “Whoa. You mean to say you actually have Jennifer Lopez’s—”

Logan only laughed.

“Oh, you’re a regular comedian, aren’t you?” But he wasn’t laughing when he added, “Don’t let this one lead you down the primrose path, okay?”

Logan had recently earned his six-years-sober chip, but because he’d seen him hit rock bottom—and stay there for years—Griff had a right to wonder what might shove him off the wagon. And time was the only cure for that.

“Break a leg in court,” Logan said, walking backward toward the elevators.

“Chesapeake fishing trip next week. Call me if you’re interested.”

“Will do,” he said, stepping into the elevator. As it dropped toward the basement garage, Logan remembered how, after the Willow debacle, Griff had suggested counseling, “to find out why you’re attracted to women with more baggage than an airport luggage carousel.” Griff hadn’t been the only one who felt that way, which sent Logan on a quest to prove his friend and family wrong. Unfortunately, what he’d learned confirmed their beliefs; according to articles and the results of dozens of university studies he’d read, Logan suffered from what experts called Prince Charming Syndrome. To this day, it remained one of his most embarrassing secrets. Because he’d self-diagnosed the problem, it made sense to prescribe a cure: abstinence.

CHAPTER FIVE

“MOMMY?”

Bianca turned down the volume on the tiny kitchen TV. It had been Drew’s idea to leave it on while he did homework. “I have to learn to work with distractions around me,” he’d said on the first day of school. Amazingly, he’d been right.

She tucked her pen into the checkbook register and traded it for the math assignment he held.

“Finished my homework page,” he said.

Not an easy feat, she thought, tears in her eyes. “You answered every question correctly, and it’s so nice and neat. I’m so proud of you!”

A slight furrow appeared between his brows as he studied her face. “Then...then why are you sad?”

“Oh, honey, I’m not sad. These are happy tears. I’m happy because...” Because you’re looking at me. Straight into my eyes and seeing me! She got up, walked to his side of the table and wrapped her arms around him. “Because I love you so, so much!”

Drew groaned good-naturedly. “I know. Love you, too.”

Her three favorite words. He’d been reciting them since before he could walk. They had always sounded hollow, robotic, anything but sincere...until about six months ago, when his facial expressions and voice proved he meant them. How far he’d come since September!

“Can I have a snack break before I do my spelling homework?”

“What would you rather have—string cheese or apple slices?”

“Ice cream! Ice cream! Ice cream!” he bellowed.

Bianca laughed. “Okay, how about a healthy snack now and ice cream when your homework is finished?”

He thought about it for a minute, then said, “Do I have a choice?”

“Of course you do—string cheese or apple slices.”

“Apple slices will get my pencil sticky,” he said, hopping toward the fridge.

She went back to balancing the checkbook, and he went back to his assignment. His willingness to cooperate made it hard to believe he’d been misbehaving in class. Bianca thought about her recent conversation with Mrs. Peterson. “Is something going on at home, Mrs. Wright,” the teacher wanted to know, “that will help me understand why he’s acting out?”

Months before his first day of school, Bianca had hand-delivered Drew’s file and spent hours defining every test, explaining every result, listing every specialist who’d evaluated Drew and their every conclusion. There were photos. Charts. CDs and DVDs of sessions with occupational, speech and behavioral therapists. She’d been deliberately thorough, for the very reason Mrs. Peterson had mentioned during the meeting: so his teacher would better understand Drew. “He isn’t acting out at home,” she’d wanted to shout, “so maybe the problem is at school!”

Instead, she’d said, “You’re too busy teaching and monitoring the other children to keep an eye on Drew every single minute.” Bianca promised to spend a lot more time in the classroom so that hopefully, she’d notice something—anything—that would explain Drew’s behavior. Because when all was said and done, only one thing mattered: Drew.

She took her son’s hands in hers. “So how’s school these days, sweetie?”

His pupils dilated before he looked quickly away. And when he started bobbing his head and chanting “school, school, school,” Bianca had all the proof she needed that home was not the source of the problem.

She adopted a deliberately sing-song tone to break the cycle. “Drew. Honey. Tell Mommy what’s going on at school.”

An article in Autism Advocate explained that kids could sidetrack themselves from stemming, that distracting tendency of autistics to flap their hands, bob their heads and any one of a dozen other repetitive actions. When she explained how the process worked, Drew came up with his own distraction tactics. Dancing, not spinning; jumping instead of running; watching a video to stop himself from staring at lights. It had been months since he’d learned that sitting on his hands put a stop to hand flapping. Longer still since he’d bobbed his head once he figured out that touching his chin to his chest controlled the urge. Yet there he sat, doing both, and it seemed he’d forgotten how to stop himself. Her heart ached, knowing she’d caused it with her ill-timed question.

Then an idea sparked, and she went with it. “What is the boy’s name?”

When Drew looked up, his expression said, How did you know it was a boy?

“It’s okay,” she said, scooting her chair closer. “What’s the boy’s name?”

“His name is Joseph. Joseph is his name. Joseph is the new kid.”

Proceed with caution, Bianca thought. Putting ideas in his head to get the information she needed wouldn’t help Drew in the long run.

“What can you tell me about Joseph the new kid?”

“I don’t like Joseph.” Drew sat on his hands but continued shaking his head.

“Why not?”

“Because,” he said, sitting taller, “he butts in line and pushes people down and takes other kids’ stuff.” Drew paused, then pursed his lips. “Joseph kicks. And hits. And uses potty words all the time.” Frowning, he rested his chin on his chest. “Mrs. Peterson never sees Joseph do any of that. She only sees me get mad when he does it.”

Her maternal instinct was strong, and she wanted nothing more than to hold him tight and promise she’d put a stop to Joseph’s bullying. But her desire to help Drew was stronger.

“And you know what else?”

“What else, sweetie?”

“Joseph calls me Flappity Weirdster Weirdo,” Drew grumbled. Eyes narrowed, his little hands formed tight fists. “And you know what else?”

“What...”

“He bites. Hard.”

Bianca gently rolled up his shirt sleeves and stifled a gasp as she saw half a dozen crescent-shaped bruises on each slender forearm.

She wanted to slap Joseph silly. Slap the teacher, too, for allowing this to happen to her sweet boy. Heart pounding, she grit her teeth. Oh, you are going to get such a piece of my mind, Mrs. Peterson!

The poignant music of a Save the Animals commercial wafted from the television, drawing Drew’s attention, and it seemed to Bianca that the abused dogs’ and cats’ forlorn expressions mirrored her son’s mood. She tried to comfort him with a hug, but he stiffened and pulled away.

“Wish I had a daddy who loved me,” he said.

Did he yearn for a superhero-type dad who’d storm the school, demanding protection for his little boy? Or simply someone to tell him that he hadn’t invited—and certainly didn’t deserve—Joseph’s malicious treatment?

Drew stared at the TV as a new commercial appeared on the screen, and in this one, Logan Murray’s friendly face smiled out at them.

“Autism Service Dogs of America,” he said, “was founded to improve the lives of kids who need a little help....”

She’d heard of the organization and had looked in to getting a dog for Drew. When she had learned that it could cost in the neighborhood of twenty thousand dollars, she’d closed the book on that area of autism research. Not that the dogs weren’t worth the price—for the right families—but Bianca wasn’t the type to organize a fund-raiser, appealing to friends, family, neighbors and coworkers to help defray the cost.

She’d read Logan’s bio cover to cover and knew that it contained a long and varied list of charities. When had he become affiliated with ASDA?

Drew pointed. “Why couldn’t I have a dad like that?”

She hoped he wouldn’t repeat his rendition of Daddy Didn’t Love Me. If she hadn’t figured out why some parents—fathers, mostly—couldn’t cope with autism, how could she explain it to her little boy?

Now Logan squatted and draped an arm around a happy-faced labradoodle. “Isn’t that right, Poe?”

When the dog answered with a breathy woof, Drew’s entire demeanor changed.

“Look, Mom! That dog is smiling!”

The only smile Bianca noticed was Drew’s.

“Can I have a dog, Mom? That man said it would be good for a kid like me.”

A kid like him. She grinned at his ability to make the connection. “We’ve talked about this before, remember? We can’t have a dog because Grandmom is allergic to them.”

His shoulders slumped. “I forgot.” But he perked up when the curly-haired mutt walked off-screen. “But—but—but—but Mrs. Peterson has a dog like that. I saw the picture on her desk.” He paused. “And she’s allergic.”

His grandmother’s sensitivity to fur and dander had almost been a blessing in disguise, giving Bianca a good excuse to avoid housebreaking and training a dog and cleaning up after it. Still, if she could find one like the curly-haired mutt grinning into the camera now, she might think about it.

She didn’t dare admit such a thing, of course, because in Drew’s mind, anything but a flat-out no was a bona fide commitment, one he’d obsess about until something else came along to take the place of his desire for a dog. Bianca decided to divert his attention before mild curiosity turned into fixation.

“Did Mrs. Peterson give you any other homework?”

“She said ‘Study for a spelling quiz tomorrow, boys and girls!’” He started reading his list of words as Logan recited the charity’s contact information. The camera zoomed in on his face. “The kids need you. Tell ’em, Poe.” And right on cue, the tail-wagging dog barked.

“Mom, can we at least think about getting a dog?”

She picked up the spelling list. “How about you finish your homework, and maybe then we can talk about thinking about it.”

“Great. More ‘Grandmom is allergic’ talk.” Drew sighed heavily. “Sometimes,” he said, “that mother of yours is so exasperating.”

“Exasperating,” she echoed, mussing his hair. “Do you know what it means?”

“Frustrating, annoying, maddening...”

No wonder every specialist called him The Little Professor, she thought as he assigned a new synonym to each of his fingertips.

Grinning, Bianca started Drew’s favorite supper. She grabbed mac and cheese and tomato soup from the pantry and thought about how, in nursery school and pre-K, the county had assigned him to class settings designed specifically for children on the autism spectrum. Almost immediately Drew had sensed that his learning deficiencies weren’t as severe as most of his classmates. In typical Drew fashion, he began gathering data, and one day, halfway through his kindergarten year, he put his self-assessment into words: “I can do lots of things those other kids can’t do, and I know stuff they don’t know.” He’d stopped flapping and crossed both arms over his chest to add, “And I control myself way, way better, too.” Chin up, he met her eyes. “I think it’s time for me to go to regular school.”

So Bianca met with his pediatrician, his teacher and the school principal and guidance counselor. Thanks to a school board member whose granddaughter was on the spectrum, the team decided to give Drew a chance. His academic performance and personal conduct would be closely monitored. If it was determined that his behavior distracted fellow students, or that he couldn’t keep up with curriculum, back to special sessions he’d go. She gave him a lot of credit because he’d held his own...until Joseph was introduced to the mix.

Bianca watched him, eyes squinted in concentration as he whispered “Mother. M-O-T-H-E-R.” He repeated the process with all twelve words on his list.

“Hey, Mom. Can you do two things at once?”

“Depends what the two things are,” she said, stirring elbow noodles into the boiling water.

“Can you mix noodles and test me?”

She turned down the heat under the pot and sat beside him. One by one, she read the words aloud, and one by one, he spelled them. “Great job, honey!” she said when he finished. “You got every single one right!”

“Does that mean I can turn the TV up now?”

Bianca winked. “Okay, but only until I get supper on the table.” She gave the macaroni a quick stir, then grabbed three plates and a handful of silverware as the exact same commercial came on, again.

Logan, looking all handsome and savvy in neatly creased black trousers and a pale blue shirt that brought out the green in his eyes.

“Ninny,” she grumbled. “Why would you notice something like that?”

Bianca blamed it on the tiny café table that had put them nearly nose to nose at the coffee shop. Or the sunshine streaming in through the windows that made his eyes glitter like sea glass. Or the long, dark lashes that—

“Look, Mom,” Drew said, tugging at her sleeve, “it’s him again.” He narrowed one eye. “Say...isn’t he the guy who played a cop in that DVD we watched with Grandmom the other night?”

Bianca’s mother walked into the room and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. “Why, Drew,” Maddy said, looking over his shoulder at the television, “you’re absolutely right. That’s Logan Murray, and he did play the part of the cop who helped Mr. Action save Grand City.” She kissed the top of his head. “Your mom is friends with him. Maybe she can get you his autograph.”

Drew’s eyebrows disappeared beneath thick blond bangs. “Whoa. Mom.” He shot her an admiring glance. “You know him? For real?”

“Easy, you two,” she said, laughing. “I booked him for The Morning Show a couple of times, that’s all.” She remembered the feel of his big warm hands as he draped his jacket over her shoulders.

“Well,” Maddy said, “maybe friend was too strong a word.”

“But you really, really know him?”

“Yes, Drew.” Her brain conjured the image of Logan nodding attentively as she rambled on and on about her only child. “But only in a professional capacity.”

“Professional capacity,” he echoed. “Does that mean you could ask him how we could get one of those dogs?” He grinned up at Maddy. “Don’t worry, Grandmom,” he said, “we’ll find one that won’t make your eyes swell shut.”

As Drew’s attention returned to the commercial, Bianca caught her mom’s gaze and mouthed, Let’s talk later, okay?

Maddy squatted beside Drew’s chair. “I have a bunch of shopping bags in my trunk,” she said, mussing his hair. “After supper, will you help me bring them in?”

His eyes never left the screen. “Mmm-hmm.”

Rising, Maddy faced her daughter. “So tell me...is he as charming and handsome in real life as he is on the big screen?” She glanced at the television. “And the small screen?”

As a matter of fact, she thought Logan was more attractive in person than on film, but admitting it would only invite a volley of requests for autographs for her friends...and a repeat performance of “Honey, Jason died three years ago!”

Bianca did her best to sound indifferent. “I wouldn’t say that.” She dished mac and cheese onto three plates. “Supper’s almost ready, Drew. Time to wash your hands.”

He rose slowly and walked toward the powder room. “A dog for Drew,” he said. “A dog for Drew. A dog for Drew!”

Maddy waited until he was out of earshot. “Good heavens, Bianca, how are you going to talk him out of this dog idea?”

“I may not have to,” she began. “I’ve heard good things about these canine companion/autism kid partnerships. Sometimes, if people volunteer to foster these dogs, the agencies bypass the fees. I’ll need to do more research before talking with Drew, of course, but if I can work it out...” She met her mother’s eyes. “But what about you?”

“What about me? If there’s really a breed out there that won’t make my eyes swell shut,” she said, quoting Drew, “I see no harm in it. Every boy needs a dog.”

“But everything will be different with a furry four-legged kid in the house.”

Maddy ladled tomato soup into bowls. “We’ll need to make some adjustments, of course. But you know, I think a pet will be good for all of us. It’ll give Drew something to focus on besides those ridiculous electronic gizmos of his.”

He did spend an inordinate amount of time with handheld games and such, Bianca admitted to herself as she filled Drew’s glass with milk.

“I’m not complaining, mind you,” Maddy continued, “but it gets lonely around here when you’re at work and Drew is in school. Might be nice to have a warm body around that enjoys affection.”

Bianca couldn’t argue. Drew participated in physical affection—if she was careful not to overdo it—but barely ever hugged his grandmother. All in good time, she thought. Hopefully.

“Bianca...since you need to find out more about these helper dogs anyway, have you considered asking Logan Murray to help?”

“He’s the organization’s commercial spokesperson, Mom. He might not know anything that might help us.”

“How will you know unless you ask?”

Drew hopped into the room, grabbed his napkin and rolled it into a tube. “Grandmom is right,” he said through it. “Like you’re always telling me...you won’t know unless you ask.”

Laughing, Bianca rolled her eyes. “Two against one isn’t fair!”

“Something else you keep saying and saying and saying... ‘Life isn’t always fair.’”

She picked up her napkin and waved it like a white flag. “I surrender. Now, can we eat before everything gets cold?”

If she’d known her son and her mom would spend the rest of the meal discussing Logan Murray, Bianca would have a popped a movie into the DVD player and served pizza for supper instead.

CHAPTER SIX

“FROM THE mouths of babes,” Deidre said. “And what did you tell him?”

“That he was right, of course, because life isn’t always fair.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I’ve known that Murray boy since he knocked on my door and offered to shovel my sidewalks and driveway...and you know how long and winding that is! He couldn’t have been more than twelve. Wouldn’t take a dime because my husband—do you remember him? Brooke’s grandfather?—was in the hospital at the time.”

Bianca pictured the regal-looking gentleman who’d helped Deidre raise Brooke and her sister, Beth, after their parents’ fatal car crash. The couple attended more events at the girls’ high school than most parents, so although she’d never officially met the man, Bianca remembered him well.

“Logan was a sweetheart then,” Deidre went on to say, “and he’s a sweetheart now. I’d bet the success of my theater that he’ll move heaven and earth to help you get a dog for that terrific kid of yours.” She paused but only long enough to take a breath. “So what I’m saying in a roundabout way is, don’t be an idiot, girl. Let him help you!”

Thanks to her mother’s appetite for the theater, Bianca had had numerous opportunities to interact with Deidre over the years. Almost from the start, the two had forged a strong bond—which perplexed everyone, Maddy in particular—because they had so little in common. But Deidre was everything Bianca wished she could be: energetic and glamorous with a fearless attitude toward life and love...and speaking her mind.

“Okay, lady,” she teased, “I can take a hint. Soon as I get home, I’ll try calling him.”

“‘Do or do not,’” Deidre said, quoting Yoda, “‘there is no try.’”

The back screen door slammed and heavy footfalls moved up the hall.

“Good grief,” Deidre said. “You look like something the cat dragged in.”

Bianca followed her gaze to the dark-haired man who stood in the parlor doorway.

“Remember when I said we’d make one heck of a couple,” he began, “if I were older?”

Deidre blushed. “How could I forget? You made the inane announcement in front of the entire cast of Guys and Dolls!”

“That’s right. Which is exactly why you owe me one.”

“Owe you? For what!”

“For giving the wannabe actors who follow you around a new way to butter you up in the hope of snagging a leading role.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, handsome. I’ve heard ’em all. Now, bring your ornery self in here so I can introduce you to my pretty young friend. Bianca Wright, meet Griffin Gerrard.”

He stopped several feet from Bianca’s chair and cocked his head to the side, as if trying to remember if they’d met before. “Call me Griff. I’d shake your hand, but as you can see,” he said, showing his grass-stained palms, “your old friend here is a real slave driver.”

“Careful who you’re calling old, dollface, or I might show up at your fancy-pants office and tell your fancy-pants clients that their high-priced lawyer didn’t read his lease before he signed it.”

“Didn’t think I needed to, friend.” Griff pretended to frown. “If I’d known you had added a Work for Cheap Rent clause...”

“You’re so full of stuff and nonsense, I’m amazed it doesn’t leak from your ears!” Deidre leaned closer to Bianca to add, “Only reason I tolerate this young rascal is because his father and my dear departed Percy were the best of friends.” Eyes on Griff again, she snorted. “You know as well as I do there’s no such clause in our lease. And wasn’t it just your good fortune when the Patapsco River overflowed its banks and flooded your entire first floor—and an exterminator said he’d need to tarp the house—that you could rent a room from me, instead of checking into a hotel for months?”

“A tarp?” Bianca echoed. The image of a house overrun with bugs sent a shiver down her spine. “Sounds serious.”

He sat on the arm of the sofa. “Could have been worse,” he began, “if I hadn’t caught it early. Kept hearing this tick-tick-ticking in the walls.” Griff clicked his thumbnail against the nail of his index finger. “All day. All night. One day it drove me crazy enough to tear down a sheet of paneling, and I found evidence of wood bores feasting on the studs.” He counted on his fingers. “So in the past month, I’ve hired one contractor to vacuum water out of the basement and seal the foundation, two more to replace the plumbing and wiring and another to waterproof the cellar walls. And when they’re finished, an exterminator will tarp the house and pump a truckload of insecticide inside. Unless he’s a con man, the stuff will kill the wood bores’ eggs, too.” He shrugged. “But nobody forced me to buy a hundred-year-old house.”

Deidre leaned closer to Bianca. “Do you believe in coincidence?”

“I suppose. Maybe. Sometimes.”

“Well, for your information—oh mistress of certitude—this handsome lawyer here is like this,” Deidre said, crossing her fingers, “with your Logan.”

What did she mean by her Logan?

“Ah, now I know why your name sounded so familiar,” Griff said.

His comment made even less sense than Deidre’s. Even after studying Logan’s press kit she knew very little about him, and he knew even less about her. What could he have shared with Griff?

She might have put the question to him if Deidre hadn’t chosen that moment to hop up from her chair.

“Goodness gracious sakes alive!” Bangle bracelets and the hodgepodge of beads and chains wrapped around her neck rattled and clinked as she jogged into the foyer. “I need to be at the theater in half an hour.” After pulling a tube of lipstick from her blue silk trousers pocket, she leaned into the big oval mirror and added a layer of bright red to her puckered mouth. “We’re doing Dial M for Murder,” she said, repocketing the tube. “If you two want to come on opening night, say the word and I’ll save you a couple of tickets.”

“Dee. Dahling,” Griff said, “you know as well as I do that Hitchcock plays aren’t my cup of tea.”

“The way you butcher a British accent, it’s a good thing you didn’t audition for the play!” She fluffed gleaming, chin-length white tresses. “How ’bout you, Bianca? Think Drew could sit through two hours of mystery and mayhem?”

Not without earplugs, a blindfold and a prescription for Ritalin, Bianca thought. “Maybe in a few years, when he’s a little more mature.” Someday, she hoped, the day would come when Drew could enjoy things like movies in a real theater or live performances onstage. “But thanks for the invitation.”

Deidre grabbed her cloak from the hall tree. “Tell your mom to call me, Bee-darling,” she said, whirling it around her shoulders. “Haven’t seen her in weeks. Bet she could use a night off, poor thing.”

Poor thing? Not once since her mom moved in had Bianca taken advantage of the situation. She dropped Drew off at school—where he stayed for seven hours every day—and picked him up again. Did the laundry, cooking, shopping and cleaning...most of it in the middle of the night to free up daytime hours for Drew. Poor thing, indeed! Evidently, Logan wasn’t the only one talking out of turn.

Deidre slung a huge hand-painted hobo bag over one shoulder and jangled her keys. “Well, I’m off! If I’m not back before you turn in tonight, Griff dahling, make sure the front door is locked, won’t you?” She bussed Bianca’s cheek. “Don’t forget to have your mom call me!”

Then she raced out the door with a dramatic flap of her satiny black cape.

A second, perhaps two, ticked by before Griff said, “She sure knows how to make an exit, doesn’t she?”

“The same can be said about her entrances.”

“What is she...sixty-five? Seventy?”

“She’ll be seventy-six on her next birthday.”

“The way she moves?” Griff shook his head. “That’s hard to believe, isn’t it?”

Bianca nodded, then shouldered her purse. Griff seemed pleasant enough, but she had no desire to discuss the lady of the manor—or anything else, for that matter—with this near stranger.

“Well, I’d better go,” she said. “It was nice meeting you.” She moved toward the door, but Griff got there first.

“Same here,” he said, opening it. “When you see Logan, tell him I said hey....”

He didn’t know it, but he’d just provided the perfect opening for her to call Logan and ask for help with the dog. “Met your friend today.... He asked me to say hi.”

“...and that his Articles of Incorporation are ready.”

Was it Griff’s stance or knowing he was a lawyer that reminded her of the way Jason had loved to bait her with ‘are you smart enough to know this?’ tests?

The memory roused a foul mood, but she shrugged it off.

“Nice meeting you,” she repeated and ran down the porch steps. Just how close was he to Logan? Because...birds of a feather and all that.

CHAPTER SEVEN

IT SHOULDN’T MATTER what Call-Me-Griff Gerrard thought of her. Jason had been gone more than three years; the things he’d said and done shouldn’t matter, either.

Then why did they?

The ten-minute drive between Deidre’s place and her own usually filled her with a sense of calm, especially once she’d turned onto Tongue Row, where centuries-old stone houses hugged the curb and the branches of ancient oaks canopied the road. Not so on this crisp March day.

Shake it off, she scolded. You don’t have time—or the right—to feel sorry for yourself.

The line of a favorite song filtered from the car’s speakers. “...your prison...is walkin’ through this world all alone....”

Any other day Bianca would have turned up the volume and belted out the lyrics. This time, the words cut a little too close to the bone. But it wasn’t Jason’s fault that she’d always been a hopeless romantic.

In the beginning, Jason was Atticus Finch, Sir Galahad and the woodsman who saved Peter from the wolf all rolled into one. She envisioned him as The One who’d turn her little-girl wishes into grown-woman realities: a loving husband, a cozy home, a child to fill its rooms with laughter. During their first few years together, it seemed he shared her dreams. Yes, he was a workaholic, and no, he hadn’t been particularly affectionate, but part of the dream was better than none of it. Sadly, Drew’s birth forced her to admit the ugly truth: autism hadn’t turned Jason into a cold, arrogant man; he’d always been that way.

Bianca turned into her driveway and stared at the front of the house—the only home Drew had ever known. The wreath on the door and the mat on the porch said WELCOME. Friends, neighbors and family all praised her for making them feel so much at home that they sometimes lost track of time. When had she last felt that way herself?

Long enough that she couldn’t remember.

Once inside her home, she looked around at the rooms she’d redecorated in the hope of filling the gap left by his death. She hadn’t been able to control his feelings toward Drew, nor could she control the disease that had taken him from her, but this...this she could control.

The first thing she noticed, walking into the now-sunny kitchen, was Drew’s colorful reminder taped to the refrigerator door: A DOG FOR DREW. He’d drawn accurate renditions of not one but seven dogs, one for every year he’d lived, “...so we’re not stuck lookin’ at just one kind.”

Smiling, she pressed a palm to a curled corner of the yellow construction paper. Oh, how she loved the boy who was slowly emerging from the lonely shell of autism. If adding a furry, four-legged member to the family would help open the crack of what remained of that shell, she’d beg, borrow or grovel...even to the likes of Logan Murray.

The weather had been glorious these past few days, so she opened the back door and took a deep breath of the sweet spring breeze, then grabbed a notepad and pen from the basket beside the phone and sat at the table. TALKING POINTS, she printed across the top of the pad’s first page, and wrote one through ten in the left margin. Her younger sister, Lily, a freelance writer for several local newspapers, had shared the method when Bianca complained about how difficult it was to dig for interview facts that went deeper than the limited information provided by guests’ press kits. With a bit of luck, the questions she’d written down for Logan would be answered by the man himself.

She scrolled to his number in her cell phone, took a deep breath and hit the call button. His line rang five times before the now-familiar voice said, “You’ve reached Logan Murray. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you soon.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.