by Irene Hannon
Hefting two plastic sacks of groceries in one hand and her overstuffed tote bag in the other, Claire Summers limped from the driveway toward her front door.
What a day.
The odds had to be astronomical that two of her second graders would throw up, the class’s pet gerbil would die, and she’d slip and twist her ankle in the grocery store parking lot—all in the space of eight hours.
Then again, when had the odds ever been in her favor?
“This smells really good, Mom.”
She looked down at Haley prancing along beside her, the sack with golden arches cradled in her arms—and her spirits lifted.
Thank you, Lord, for a daughter whose sunny disposition and kind heart are a constant reminder that not all of my luck has been bad.
“Don’t get used to it. You know how I feel about fast food.” That last-resort meal option was reserved for only the toughest days—and today certainly qualified.
“I know, I know. Home cooked is healthier and more nutritious.” Haley parroted her standard words back to her. “But I love French fries!”
Of course she did. What eleven-year-old didn’t?
Claire stepped onto the porch of their bungalow, set her tote bag down, and rummaged in her pocket for her key. As soon as they finished dinner, she was going to have to check out the garage door that had refused to budge this morning. “I like them too—in moderation. A little bit goes a long way . . . like with Hershey kisses.”
Haley scrunched up her face as she followed her through the door. “Yeah. I’ll never eat a whole bag at once again. Throwing up all night was no fun.”
“For me, either.” Claire plunked the grocery bags on the kitchen counter and dropped her tote on the floor next to the small island. “Why don’t you pour yourself a glass of milk while I get a—”
The phone rang, and she huffed out a breath. A survey or solicitation, most likely. Those calls always seemed to come at dinnertime.
She crossed to the counter. When an unfamiliar name blinked back at her from the digital display, she let the call roll to the answering machine.
While she filled a glass with ice and water from the fridge, the answering machine kicked in. “Please leave a message.” A beep sounded.
Silence.
The corners of her lips tipped up. Her pithy greeting surprised a lot of people . . . but why say more? Everyone knew the drill by now. If a phone went unanswered, either no one was home or the machine was being used to screen calls. As for the ubiquitous beep—there wasn’t a soul in the developed world who needed instructions for that.
In this case, either the person on the other end was still too taken aback to speak, or it had been an automated call that had disconnected when the machine answered.
As Claire slid into her chair at the table and picked up a fry, a male voice finally spoke.
“Good afternoon. This is Keith Watson with McMillan Construction. David McMillan received a letter from a Haley Summers at this address, and I’m trying to reach one of her parents. I’d appreciate a call at your earliest convenience.”
As the man recited his number, Claire looked at her daughter.
The little girl’s eyes were wide, her fries forgotten. “Wow! I wasn’t even sure the letter would get to him.”
“What letter?”
“The one I sent about Dr. Chandler.” Her face lit up. “I bet he’s going to help me!”
Claire pushed aside her burger and folded her hands on the table. “Haley . . . let’s start at the beginning. Why did you write a letter to this company—and what does it have to do with Dr. Chandler?”
At her serious tone, the little girl’s smile faded. “Am I in trouble?”
“I have no idea until you tell me what you did.”
“I was just trying to give Dr. Chandler a really awesome birthday present.”
“Her birthday isn’t until May.”
“I know, but it could take awhile to find her little boy.”
Claire’s heart stumbled. How in the world did her daughter know about Maureen’s son? She’d only found out herself three weeks ago. Unless . . .
“Were you eavesdropping on our conversation?”
“No.” Haley gave a vehement shake of her head. “But I heard you talking about it when I got up to get a drink of water that night after we had pizza for dinner. Remember how pepperoni always makes me thirsty?”
“Yes. But you aren’t supposed to listen in on private conversations.”
“I didn’t mean to. I was coming down the stairs, but I stopped when I heard Dr. Chandler crying. I’ve never heard her cry before.” She poked a French fry into the ketchup but didn’t eat it. “She sounded so sad about her lost baby. I went back upstairs without my water, but I couldn’t go to sleep for a long time. I thought it might cheer her up if I could find him for her. Was that wrong?”
At the anxious question, Claire took a deep breath. Since the day she’d found an abandoned baby bird as a toddler, Haley had shown remarkable compassion for anyone—or anything—in need. It was a trait to be encouraged, not criticized . . . even if Claire still had no idea what the phone call from a construction company was all about. “It’s never wrong to want to help people. But why did you send a letter to this David McMillan?”
“Remember that picture of him in the paper, at the children’s hospital? You said he was giving them money because he liked to help people. I thought maybe he’d help me too. I wanted it to be a surprise, so I looked up the address of the company on your computer and asked Dr. Chandler for a stamp and sent him a letter.”
Claire could conjure up only a vague recollection of their exchange about the newspaper photo. No surprise there, since her inquisitive daughter asked dozens of questions every day.
“Did I do a bad thing?”
At Haley’s timid question, she reached across the table and patted her hand. “Your intentions were good, and I’m proud of you for wanting to help Dr. Chandler. But I’m sure Mr. McMillan won’t have time for a project like this. People in big companies are very busy, and usually they do things that help a whole lot of people, not just one. Like the hospital donation.”
“Then why would a man from that company call us?”
Because he had a soft heart? A nice thought—but she wasn’t going to hold her breath. Most of the businesspeople she’d met weren’t the softhearted type.
Especially one.
“Mom? Why would he call us?”
Forcing her taut lips to relax, she refocused on her daughter. “I don’t know, but no matter what, Dr. Chandler shared that information with me in private—like a secret. I don’t think she wants a lot of people to know about her son.”
“Why not? And why did she give her baby to someone else, anyway?”
There were days when motherhood was easy and fun and the best job in the world.
This wasn’t one of them.
How did you explain to an eleven-year-old who still went to bed with her Raggedy Ann doll that their single, fifty-nine-year-old art professor neighbor had had a one-night stand twenty-two years ago that resulted in a baby?
Claire smoothed out a paper napkin and chose her words with care. “She wasn’t married, honey, and she wanted her baby to have a mother and a father.”
Haley poked at another fry. “I don’t have a father, and you kept me.”
A steady ache began to throb in her temples. “I was married when you were born, and you were already five when we got divorced. So your dad was part of your life.”
“Then how come I don’t remember him?”
Because once the marriage ended, he hightailed it to the West Coast as fast as he could and never looked back. And he wasn’t home much before that, either.
But she couldn’t say that. Wouldn’t say that. She wasn’t going to demonize her ex-husband to their child—even if he deserved it.
“Like I’ve told you before, he had a busy job, and after he moved all the way across the country it was very hard f
or him to visit.” Lightening her tone, she slid the fries closer to her daughter. “Now we better eat up or our dinner is going to get cold.”
Haley opened her chicken nuggets. “So are you going to call that man back?”
“Yes. First thing tomorrow. But this is personal business for Dr. Chandler, so we have to let her handle it her own way and not interfere. Besides, her son is all grown up now. This happened a long time ago.”
Haley issued a protracted sigh. “Okay.” She popped a fry in her mouth and winced. “Eww! This is already cold.”
“I’ll put everything in the microwave for a minute.” Claire gathered up the cardboard boxes, dispersed the food to plates, and set about rewarming their dinner.
“I wish I could remember my daddy.”
Better that you don’t.
But again, her spoken words were different. “You have pictures.”
“That’s not the same. And you never talk about him.”
“We got divorced, honey. I don’t have very happy memories.”
“But you must have loved him in the beginning. You know, like in my storybooks.”
Had she? Those early days seemed long ago now. She’d been young and foolish and far too susceptible to flattery and a roguish eye. Only in hindsight had she recognized the truth of her parents’ assessment—her romance had been more about lust than love.
Another subject she wasn’t ready to discuss with her daughter.
Hoping to divert further questions, she pulled Haley’s dinner out of the microwave and set it in front of her. “Dive in.”
Haley picked up a fry and took a tentative bite. “This is much better.” The youngster began to eat with gusto.
A minute later, the microwave pinged again. Claire removed her own plate and joined Haley at the small table against the wall. In general, this one-on-one time with her daughter was a favorite part of her day.
Yet all at once, she found herself wishing things had worked out better for her in the romance department. That she’d had the kind of ending found in Haley’s storybooks, where a couple rode off into the sunset and lived happily ever after. That she could warm up her disillusioned heart as easily as she’d warmed up their dinner.
A microwave for the heart.
Now there was a fanciful thought.
Pushing aside such whimsy, she picked up a fry, took a bite—and let out a yelp.
“What’s wrong?” Haley sent her a startled look.
“Hot.” She waved her hand in front of her mouth, then took a long swallow of cold water.
“Ouch.” Haley gave her arm a commiserating pat. “I burned my tongue on one of those chocolate chip cookies you made last week, remember? You told me to let them cool, but they smelled so good I didn’t want to wait.”
“Uh-huh.” She took another drink of water, every thought about microwaves for the heart vanishing.
Because when food—or hearts—got too warm, people could get burned.
Been there, done that, never going down that road again.
Love was a gamble . . . and she’d had her fill of losing.
2
C. Summers.
As the name flashed on the digital display of his desk phone, Keith groaned. He’d half hoped Haley’s parents would ignore his call.
But no—that would have been too easy.
Angling away from the first-quarter report on his laptop screen, he reached for the receiver. Might as well get this over with.
“Watson.” The greeting came out more clipped than he intended.
“Mr. Watson, this is Claire Summers.” The woman on the other end of the line didn’t sound any too friendly, either. “You called last evening about the note my daughter sent to David McMillan.”
“Yes. According to her letter, she saw Mr. McMillan making a donation to—”
“Haley explained it all to me last night.”
At her interruption, he fell silent. Fine with him if she wanted to take charge of this conversation.
“I appreciate your follow-up, but I’m sure you have more important business to take care of. Besides, while her intentions were admirable, Haley overstepped. This is a private matter for my neighbor, and the information Haley overheard was shared in confidence.”
Despite the sarcasm underscoring the words more important business, some of the tension evaporated from his shoulders.
He was off the hook.
No reason not to be cordial now. “I understand. We certainly wouldn’t want to invade anyone’s privacy. I’ll let Mr. McMillan know we touched base and that you thought it best to let the matter rest.”
A couple of beats of silence ticked by.
“Out of curiosity . . . you weren’t going to offer to help my daughter anyway, were you?”
He shifted, the leather creaking beneath his weight as he wrestled down the temptation to say no. “Mr. McMillan did ask me to look into the situation. He’s a very compassionate man, and your daughter’s letter touched him. If he could have helped with her request, I believe he would have.”
“Interesting.” Was that a hint of surprise in her inflection? “But I take it you would have had to do the grunt work.”
“I’m his assistant.”
“And this kind of task isn’t your forte.”
He frowned. Somehow the conversation had gotten off track—and he didn’t like her condescending tone.
Before he could respond, she spoke again. “Please thank your boss on behalf of my daughter. Now I’ll let you get back to your work.”
With that, the line went dead.
He removed the receiver from his ear and stared at it.
Sheesh.
Had the woman gotten up on the wrong side of the bed—or was she just naturally ornery?
Whatever.
At least the problem was off his desk.
He dropped the receiver into the cradle and swiveled back to his computer. After opening a blank email, he began to type.
David: I spoke with Haley Summers’s mother, who said her neighbor shared the information about the child she gave up for adoption in confidence. She prefers we not intrude on this personal matter. I’ve assured her that wasn’t our intent. When you get back to the office, I’m ready to discuss the agenda and the list of attendees for the bid meeting.
Keith spell-checked the document, tapped the send button, and blew out a relieved breath.
That was that.
As the kindergarten class took a bow, David joined the rest of the grandparents in a round of enthusiastic applause for the youngsters’ spring theatrical effort.
“I wish Mom could have been here for this.”
At Debbie’s melancholy comment, he turned. In profile, his daughter bore such a striking resemblance to Carol at the same age that it paralyzed his lungs for a moment.
He swallowed, giving the applause a chance to die down. “I like to think she is in spirit.”
“It’s not the same.” Debbie kept her focus on the small stage, watching the kindergarteners scramble down and head for their respective relatives.
“I’m here.”
She ignored that, bending to give Grace a hug instead. “You were wonderful, sweetie! The best butterfly in the whole show!”
His granddaughter extricated herself and tucked her small hand in his. “Did you like it, Grampa?”
He lowered himself to her level. “I loved it. You were a beautiful butterfly. The prettiest one I’ve ever seen.”
Glowing, she tilted up her chin to regard her mother. “Did Daddy come?”
“No, sweetie.” Debbie’s smile was strained around the edges. “Remember, he had to fly to New York this morning for a meeting. But I took a video with my phone, and we’ll send it to him later.”
The little girl’s face fell. “I was hoping he might wait until after my show to leave.”
“When you have a job, you have to go to meetings when the boss tells you to.” Her accusatory gaze locked with his, her unspoken words hanging in the a
ir between them.
But you were the boss while I was growing up. You made the schedules. You could have come to my special events.
There was no denying the truth—nor could he change the past. He could only do better in the future . . . if she’d let him.
Maybe someday she would, if he kept at it.
“Are you going to stay for our party, Grampa?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
“First I have to change out of my costume.”
“I’ll help you. We’ll meet Grampa back in your classroom. Can you find your way?” Debbie took Grace’s hand as she tossed the query to him.
“I remember from the party after the Christmas play.”
“We’ll see you there.” Debbie led Grace off, the little girl’s gossamer wings bobbing behind her.
As the rest of the grandparents began to stroll toward the hall, he pulled out his cell. It had vibrated half a dozen times since he’d arrived, but watching his granddaughter perform took precedence.
Joining the crowd moving toward the kindergarten classroom, he scrolled through the messages. There was nothing that couldn’t wait, based on the subject lines. But when he saw “Letter/Meeting” in the header of Keith’s email, he clicked it open.
Halfway through the message, he stopped walking while the crowd divided around him. The child’s letter had seemed like a providential opportunity to involve his assistant in a hands-on people project that might open his eyes to the fact that there was more to life than numbers. Eight months of dealing with the donation requests for the charitable foundation certainly hadn’t done the trick.
Now that appeared to be off the table.
Slipping the phone back on his belt, he ambled toward Grace’s classroom, tuning out the chatter around him. Of course he could understand how this might be a private matter. And it was possible his plan was dead in the water.
Then again, maybe it wasn’t—depending on what he discovered after he did a little investigating of his own.
“Does your ankle still hurt, Mom?”
