God … help me, here. This can't be happening.
“Mr. Evans?” The attorney sounded tentative, as though he understood the dilemma even before it was spelled out to him. “I'm sorry all of this comes as a surprise to you.”
“Yes.” Connor squeezed his eyes and tried to think of what to do next.
“Daddy … can we go out and play?” The girls ran into the house, with Max on their heels. “Please, can we? The car's cleaned out.”
“Sure” He forced himself to smile. “I'll be out there in a bit.”
When the blur of noise and motion was out in the backyard, Connor felt a lump choking his throat, cutting off every important thing he wanted to say. He massaged his neck for a moment, then did two short coughs. “Mr. Ogle, my wife and I never discussed this.”
“So there's a chance you might want to adopt the boy after the two weeks are up?”
“Yes, there's a big chance.” Connor didn't need even a moment to think about his answer. “The girls and I, we've connected very … very strongly to Max.”
“And Mrs. Evans?”
“She didn't go with us on the camping trip.” He gritted his teeth. “I'm expecting her home anytime, though. After that, I'm sure she'll feel the same way.”
The attorney paused. “And if she doesn't?”
If she doesn't?
If Michele didn't fall in love with Max the way he had, was that what the man meant? For the past week he'd convinced himself that such a possibility didn't exist, that of course his wife would go along with the most obvious, most loving solution for Max. But now the attorney's question caused his heart to beat faster and harder than he could ever remember.
If Michele didn't love Max, if she didn't want him to stay, then he would have to choose, wouldn't he? The very idea made his head spin, and dropped his heart to his knees. God wouldn't let that happen, would He? Michele would come to her senses, surely she would.
But what if she didn't …
“Mr. Evans, I need to know what to do. The couple is very interested in Max. They want me to give them pictures and move ahead with the process.” Kindness filled his tone, but clearly he needed an answer. “What should I tell them?”
Connor drew in a long, slow breath and straightened himself. “Could you hold off for a few days, Mr. Ogle?” He moved to the patio door and stared at the children—his children—playing together on the backyard swing set. “You told us we had two weeks before we had to make a decision. Give us that at least. Please.”
The attorney considered that for a beat. “Okay. I can put off moving ahead with their application until Thursday afternoon. I'll need to know by then.”
Relief like a drug flooded Connor's veins and made his knees weak. He hadn't lost the boy yet. “Thank you, Mr. Ogle. I'll be in touch.”
He was just hanging up the phone when he heard the patio door behind him. A quick look over his shoulder and he saw Max, a tired grin stretched across his face. The resemblance to himself, to his father, was striking. “I think I'm tuckered out.”
Connor set the receiver down and tried to ignore the heaviness in his heart. He turned and gave Max his full attention. “Are the girls tuckered, too?”
“No, they're playing house.”
“And they let you get away?” He raised his eyebrows.
“They wanted me to be the little brother, but I told them little brothers sometimes take rests.”
“I see.” Connor grinned but contained a chuckle. He motioned for Max to come closer. “Good call.”
“Yeah.” Max stretched his arms over his head and yawned.
“You really are tired.” Connor put his hand on Max's shoulder and gave it a soft squeeze. “Wanna rest with me for a minute?”
“Okay.” Max looked straight up and smiled with his eyes.
They walked side by side into the family room. Connor sat in the oversized leather recliner and patted his knee. As if he'd done so all his life, Connor watched Max crawl up into his lap and snuggle against his chest. “Is it okay if I fall sleep?”
Connor pictured Michele coming home to the scene of Max and him in the chair. He looked down at his son and the thought vanished. “Of course.” He wrapped his arm around Max and stroked his back. “Fishing can tire out a man real good.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
It was all Max got out before his breathing changed and became slower, more even. His body went limp against Connor's, and the feeling was exhilarating. All week he'd fought against this very feeling, the sense that he and his son had bonded beyond anything time or distance could tear apart.
Gentle snoring sounds came from Max's nose, and Connor tightened his hold on him. The poor kid must've been more tired than he thought. Not only the fishing and camping and unloading the car, but the mental exhaustion of wondering about his future.
How could Michele send him away? How could she have made the phone call to the attorney without even talking to him? It was completely unlike her. Michele—of the two of them—had always had the bigger heart, the kinder spirit. She was the fun parent, the one always suggesting a picnic at the beach or a walk through the park.
Couldn't she set aside the past long enough to imagine what Max might be going through this week? Couldn't she have asked, before making the call?
He hesitated. She did ask; she asked Elizabeth when the two of them were on the phone early in her midweek call. He hadn't heard Michele's part of the conversation, but he heard Elizabeth's. The child was effusive, going on about what a good time they were having and how he'd taught the boy how to fish, and how well Max was fitting in.
So she knew, after all.
She knew how he felt, how Max felt, and she'd called the attorney anyway. He looked down and gave the boy a light kiss on the top of his head. Then something caught his eye and he looked up.
It was their wedding portrait, a canvas oil painting of Michele and him on the day they married. He narrowed his eyes, studying the look on her face, the openhearted love that shone for anyone to see. Her beauty had been breathtaking back then, and not only because of her dark looks. There was that certain intangible quality of her heart, her ability to soar within him, even when he was in the air and she was on the ground.
Had his affair caused her such grief that she'd lost that look, lost her ability to love, in so short a time?
He breathed in the fragrance that was Max, warm and dirty from the camping trip, and let the question simmer in his heart. The answer, of course, was obvious. Michele couldn't possibly have lost her ability to love. No, she was only anxious and afraid and paralyzed with anger.
And in that instant something the old pastor had said to him a week earlier, the day he'd gone in for some quick advice, came back. He had asked the man how he could get Michele to forgive. The pastor had given him a hint.
It'll start with you.
Suddenly, for the first time, he understood what that meant.
The affair hadn't simply happened. It hadn't been a mistake or an accident or the result of a terribly tempting set of circumstances. He couldn't blame the FAA or his father or the distance he'd felt with Michele. No, fault couldn't be placed there or on Kiahna. She was only a girl, an idealistic faith-driven girl, who had trusted him one stormy night.
The affair didn't happen because of any of them.
It happened because he made a choice to break the most important promise he'd ever given Michele and his family. The promise of faithfulness. Because of that, this mess—the one that involved Kiahna and Max and Michele and Elizabeth and Susan, the one that even involved some Hawaiian couple with a bed-and-breakfast and a hole in their hearts where a little boy used to live—all of it was his fault.
His fault alone.
The truth came at him like a battering ram and planted a mountain of sorrow squarely on his chest. How come he hadn't seen that before, hadn't owned the fact that he didn't merely play a role in what had happened? He caused it. Pure and simple. It was his fault Kiahna had gotten pregnant,
his fault she'd been forced to give up her dream of becoming a doctor, his fault she was on Western Flight 45 that fateful morning.
The truth grew heavier still.
It was his fault that, after leaving Kiahna, he hadn't found the courage to tell Michele, the courage to go home, look her in the eye, and tell her the truth so they could start rebuilding their lives. It was his fault the boy was without a father, and his fault Michele was on the other side of the country, sinking in the quicksand of anger and unforgiveness.
The sorrow—thick and oppressive—came then, and he let his head rest against Max. At the same instant another thought made its way into his conscience.
He hadn't even apologized.
Not to Kiahna, or to Mr. Ogle, and especially not to Michele.
Every time he talked about the affair, all he did was try to excuse it, rationalize it, explain it somehow. But he'd never looked Michele in the eyes and told her he was sorry.
This was the truth he couldn't stomach, couldn't figure out no matter how long he sat there. Why hadn't he taken the blame?
Max stirred and made a slight shift of his position. Again, Connor soothed his hand along the boy's back. His voice came in the gentlest whisper. “Max … what have I done?”
He closed his eyes and thought of where his choices had left him. God, what sort of hypocrite am I? I've been running from all of it … from Michele, from the truth. Most of all from You.
Connor tried to imagine God Almighty—how would such a holy God view him, Connor Evans, after all the mistakes he'd made? I wouldn't blame You if You walked away from me for good, God.
Son, I will never leave you nor forsake you … Return to Me.
Return to Me? The call blew across his soul like a whispery summer breeze. The response to his misery hadn't been his imagination. After all this time, after all he'd done wrong, God still cared. He was still just a prayer away, waiting to make peace with Connor the moment Connor asked. A flashlight of joy shone into the moment's dark despair. He blinked his eyes open and looked at Max. God, he's my own son; I love him. But if I lose him, it's my fault.
He had a choice to make now, one that would mean keeping Max or keeping Michele. And even that choice could be blamed on no one but him. The quiet sobs simmering deep in his soul tried to get the better of him, but he pushed them back.
On the surface, the choice wasn't difficult. He opened his eyes and looked at their wedding portrait once more. No, he'd made his choice a long time ago in a central California church before a hundred of their friends and families.
He would do whatever Michele wanted him to do, because he owed her that much. Without meaning to, he held Max a little tighter. He owed something to the son on his lap. But he owed Michele first. First and always.
He and Michele shared something rare and wonderful, something few couples ever know. It had been that way most of their lives together, even after his affair. It was the reason he never considered telling her the truth. Because after he was stationed in Florida again, after he came home from Los Angeles for good, things between Michele and him became better than they'd ever been.
He couldn't imagine jeopardizing that by telling her what had happened. Besides, back then it had been easy to justify his actions, easy to tell himself he'd had no control over the situation, no other way to handle his frustrations than to give in to the temptation that stormy night.
Now he knew he'd been wrong. The bond between them would've been stronger if he'd told the truth. Of course, they still would've faced the dilemma with Max, and his sudden arrival in their lives.
He kissed the boy's head again, felt the soft dark hair against his cheek. No question he could keep the boy, love him and raise him, and revel the rest of his days in the fact that he had not only two wonderful daughters but a son. A boy to carry on his name.
But if losing Michele was the price he would pay, then he'd been right when he first sat down with Max. The decision was already made. He loved Michele with all his heart, all his being. His life was with her, and when she came home he would tell her how sorry he was, tell her he'd been wrong about everything involving that awful summer.
Then he would wait until Thursday, in case she had a change of mind. If not … he would call the attorney and tell him to contact the Hawaiian couple. Max would spend his days working in a bed-and-breakfast, keeping company with a couple he knew nothing about. And one day he'd be the operator of a bed-and-breakfast on the big island.
Pain sliced through Connor's chest at the thought, and he knew why. The idea of Max growing up that way, of his son never knowing of his love, ripped Connor's heart in half. Taking Max away from Connor now would be like cutting off his right arm. No, it would be worse.
But it would be nothing to losing Michele.
He thought about Max's future again. By then, by the time he was grown and running the bed-and-breakfast, the memory of his mother's friend in Florida, and the camping trip on the lake, and the fish, and the butterfly, would be but a distant fleeting thought.
And his desire to be part of the Evans family, his desire to call Connor his daddy, would have long since disappeared.
TWENTY-NINE
Michele flew home the next day, more because she missed the girls than because she'd figured out a solution for her life. Throughout two plane trips and the cab ride back home from the airport, she sorted out the details every way she knew how. By the time she walked through the front door, she was beyond drained.
The weather was more humid than when she'd left, and though she'd lost a few pounds at her sister's house, she felt hot and frumpy and more than a little grouchy. She should have stayed at Margie's until the boy was gone. That way she could come home with at least a good attitude, a sliver of hope that somehow she and Connor could find common ground again.
But of course she had to come home before the boy left. Because she had to see what had happened between him and Connor since she'd been gone. Not that it mattered; her decision was made, and if Connor wanted to make an attempt at their marriage, the boy would have to go home. But even after the child was gone, Connor would carry him in his heart. At least to the extent he carried him now.
And Michele had to see for herself just to what extent that was.
She set her bags down in the hallway and straightened out the wrinkles in her Capri pants. A quick glance in the mirror told her she'd picked the wrong shirt. This one showed the hint of a bulge on either side of her waist. She huffed and lifted the shirt enough to create a few bunches. Bunches hid bulges, any woman battling her weight knew that.
“Hello?” She called out and waited, but there was no response. Then as her ears adjusted to the quiet of the house, she heard the sound of distant voices coming from the backyard.
Dreading whatever she might see, she made her way to the glass door and stared outside. Connor was giving Susan a piggyback ride around the yard, while Elizabeth and the boy stood not far off, giggling and talking together. When Susan's ride was finished, she jumped off and Elizabeth climbed on. Susan gave Max a quick hug and held his hands as they jumped up and down.
“Go, Daddy!” she yelled as she turned back to her father and sister. “Go faster!”
Michele watched, hidden in the shadows of the china cabinet, as Connor picked up speed and went twice more around the yard. Then he dropped her off where the other two were standing and collapsed in a heap of laughter and weary legs. The kids piled onto him, poking him and tickling him, but after a few minutes, Elizabeth and Susan headed off toward the swings and seemed to forget about the piggyback rides.
Back with Connor, Max laid his head on the left side of Connor's heart. Then just as fast, he lifted it and made a rhythmic motion with his head, all the while grinning the same grin she'd seen a thousand times on Connor's face.
Michele felt her blood run cold. What was the boy doing? Listening to Connor's heartbeat? And what had happened to the formalities, the distance the boy had kept even from Connor before she left?
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Suddenly she realized the truth. She should've gone on the camping trip. She could've kept Connor busy, and Max would've had no choice but to spend his time with the girls. Instead, the girls must've spent much of their time playing together, and whenever that was the case, Max must've spent his time with Connor.
Of course they'd gotten close.
She kept her eyes trained on her husband and his son. Connor struggled to his feet, his motions exaggerated as though he was too weary to go another round. Max flung his arms around Connor's waist, looked up at him, and said something Michele couldn't make out.
Then Connor lifted the boy into the air and spun him around. When he set him back down, his arms came around Max's shoulders and held the boy in an embrace that was no different from one Connor would've given to Elizabeth or Susan. Or maybe it was different. Maybe Connor held on a little bit longer to Max, aware of the fact that their time together was short.
Connor stooped down and kissed the boy on the top of his head, and just at that moment he caught Michele watching them. He said something to Max, and the boy nodded and ran off to join the girls. Connor stood and faced her with a hopeful smile. His mouth opened and she could read the word “Hi” as he came closer.
She stepped back. Could she run away? The last thing she wanted was to talk to Connor now that she'd seen firsthand the love he felt for his son, the way the two of them—the way all of them—had connected. Anything she said was bound to sound cold and bitter and thoughtless.
But she had nowhere to run.
Connor slid the door opened, stepped inside, and closed it again. “Hey, when did you get home?”
“Just now.” She took another small step backward, tried a smile, and let it die on her lips. “I missed the girls.”
“Oh.” The excitement in Connor's eyes dimmed. He didn't try to close the gap between them. “What about me?”
She let her gaze fall to her feet for a moment before finding his eyes again. “Of course. I missed you, too.”
Oceans Apart Page 25
