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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?”
