Devoted to Drew

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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.”