One Perfect Spring

by Irene Hannon

  The professor’s expression was curious—and receptive. “A worthy objective. But how do I fit in?”

  “Several months ago, I put Keith in charge of reviewing solicitations we receive for the company’s charitable foundation. I thought it might give him a new perspective on life. Sad to say, that hasn’t happened. Then I got Haley’s letter, and I saw it as an opportunity to get him personally involved in a project.”

  “Put a face to a cause.”

  “Exactly.”

  She tapped her index finger against the desk. “I wouldn’t think Haley’s request would fit the parameters of a charitable foundation.”

  “It doesn’t. But neither does it involve a donation. This will require more legwork than dollars. Keith is sharp, tenacious, and results-oriented—and he doesn’t like to fail—so assuming you’re still interested in locating the child you gave up, he might be your man.”

  Settling back in her chair again, she rested her elbows on the arms and steepled her fingers. “I’m very interested—but I’ve already exhausted every search avenue I could find, beginning with the private adoption agency I used. It went out of business many years ago, after a fire destroyed their offices . . . and their records. Then I listed myself with the state reunion registry in Massachusetts, where the adoption was finalized, in case my son was looking for me as well. I never heard anything. I also signed up with several online adoption database registers. Not so much as a query. I even hired a PI to dig deeper. He got nowhere. I’m not sure what else your assistant can do.”

  David frowned. Neither was he. Based on what little knowledge he had about adoption, it sounded as if the professor had conducted a thorough search.

  But from his perspective, finding her son wasn’t the only goal.

  “I’m not certain Keith will succeed, either, but I still think he could profit from the journey—if you’re willing to let him take a shot at it. Knowing his doggedness, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he comes up with a lead or two even your PI missed.”

  Brow furrowed, Maureen swiveled away to look out the window to her right. The late afternoon sunlight was merciless, highlighting the fine grooves at the corners of her eyes that spoke of both age and strain. Yet with her svelte figure and auburn hair—not to mention her limber, youthful grace—it was hard to believe she was fifty-nine.

  At last she turned back to him. “I’ve kept the secret about my child for twenty-two years, Mr. McMillan. Only two very good friends knew about it, and both are dead. I shared it with my neighbor in a moment of weakness, the night I got the discouraging report from the PI. I’m not certain I want to risk anyone else finding out about this.”

  “We’d handle this with absolute discretion. I can assure you I won’t say a word to anyone, and Keith is accustomed to dealing with sensitive and proprietary information. I trust him implicitly and feel confident you could do the same.”

  She let a few beats pass, then sighed. “I’m inclined to believe you. But I’m wondering if dredging up the past is a good idea after all.”

  “You must have felt differently when you began your quest.”

  A sad smile whispered at the corners of her mouth. “Going through surgery and chemotherapy and radiation tends to remind one life is fragile and that it’s not wise to put off unfinished business until tomorrow.”

  “I understand. Losing someone you love can have the same effect.”

  “I’m sure it can.” Her voice softened in sympathy. “And regrets can weigh on a person’s soul. The truth is, while I’ve kept my son a secret for all these years, I’ve never made peace with my decision to give him up. I guess I hoped connecting with him might give me some closure. But perhaps that’s selfish. Perhaps he’s seen my listings and doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

  He caught a sudden sheen in her eyes, but she blinked it away and leaned sideways to straighten an already aligned stack of papers on her desk.

  “That may be true.” He took his time responding, giving her a chance to regain her composure. “But I think your initial thought process was sound. Seeking closure—and making amends—is important. Perhaps for both parties.”

  She flicked him a questioning glance. “That sounds like the voice of experience.”

  “I have some fences to mend with my daughter for all the years I wasn’t there for her while she was growing up. It’s slow going, but I think it’s worth the effort.”

  “Life is full of mistakes, I suppose—although some are far bigger than others.” She sent him a direct look. “You must be curious about my background.”

  Yes, he was. A lauded professor at a respected Christian college who’d given up a baby no one knew about for adoption? There had to be an interesting story there.

  However, it wasn’t any of his business.

  “I am. But what happened twenty-two years ago isn’t relevant to my offer. One thing I’ve learned since my wife died is that it’s important to focus less on the past and future and more on making certain today counts.”

  “A nice philosophy—though not easy to implement.”

  “I agree . . . and I’m not there yet. But I’m working on it.”

  She let out a slow breath. “I do appreciate what you’re trying to do for your assistant. And selfish or not, I’d still like to find my son. Let me give our conversation some thought—and prayer.”

  “That’s fair.” David slid his card across her desk. “I have my cell with me at all times. Use that number—and don’t hesitate to call as soon as you reach a decision. I’ll keep the content of our conversation confidential and would ask you to do the same. I wouldn’t want my assistant to think I’m meddling in his life . . . even if I am.”

  She flashed that dimple again. “All with the best intentions, though. And I won’t say a word.”

  “Thank you. Now I’ll let you get back to work.”

  As he rose, she came around the desk and extended her hand. “If nothing else, I enjoyed meeting you.”

  “Likewise.” He took her hand, gave it a squeeze—and held on just a fraction too long, based on the slight parting of her lips. When he released it, she slipped both hands into the pockets of her slim, knee-length black skirt. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Was it his imagination, or did a slight flush rise on her cheeks?

  “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

  She followed him to the door, and when she opened it, a college-age kid sitting in a chair in the hall looked up from the book he was reading.

  “Are you waiting for me, Jarrod?”

  “Yes.” He closed the book and stood. “I know you’re busy, but I’m having some trouble with a chapter in my thesis and I hoped you might have a minute to spare.”

  “Of course. Go on in.” David moved aside as the student edged past them, and Maureen gave him one last smile. “Proof of what I told you earlier about my schedule being flexible. Can you find your way out?”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  She retreated to her office, and after following her progress for a moment, David turned away and retraced his route through the building, toward the parking lot.

  All the while wishing he could have found some excuse to extend their conversation.

  But that was nuts. His life was already complicated. He had a business to run, a daughter to win over, grandchildren to spoil, and an executive assistant to set straight. There was plenty on his plate already. Letting his head be turned by an attractive professor with a life-threatening disease a mere two years after he’d lost the woman he loved to another fatal condition wasn’t the least bit smart.

  He was old enough to know better.

  So how come he suddenly felt like a besotted teenager?

  Shaking his head, he slid behind the wheel of his Lexus. He might not have an answer to that question, but he knew one thing for sure.

  The professor did, indeed, have great legs.

  As the doorbell pealed, Claire set aside the red pen she was using to correct her second
graders’ spelling tests and rose from the kitchen table.

  “Do you want me to get it, Mom?” Haley’s hopeful voice wafted down the hall from her room.

  Claire rolled her eyes. Any excuse to take a break from homework.

  “No, I’m on my way. Keep working on that math and let me know when you’re ready for me to check it.”

  A groan echoed from the recesses of Haley’s room.

  Lips twitching, Claire moved toward the peephole. She wasn’t in the mood to listen to a salesperson’s pitch or a Mormon missionary’s proselytizing—and who else would come calling unannounced on a Thursday night?

  But when she peered through the fish-eye lens, she found Maureen Chandler on the other side, a plate of cookies in hand.

  Much better than what she’d expected, despite the sudden niggle of guilt that prodded her conscience. She should have spoken with her neighbor earlier in the week about Haley’s letter, as a courtesy if nothing else.

  Oh, well. No harm had been done, near as she could tell. Still, the unexpected visit gave her the perfect opportunity to put the whole thing to rest.

  After sliding back the bolt and twisting the lock, she pulled the door open.

  Maureen lifted the plate of cookies. “I come bearing gifts.”

  “I noticed through the peephole. Come in.” She motioned her through. “But you didn’t have to do that.”

  “I like to bake—and I know a little girl who’s partial to these.”

  As if on cue, Haley poked her head into the tiny foyer. A grin split her face the instant she spied the plate of cookies. “Are those oatmeal?”

  “Excellent guess. I hope you’re not too full from dinner.”

  “I’m never too full for oatmeal cookies. Can I have some, Mom?”

  “Yes, you may.”

  Haley acknowledged the correction with a long-suffering sigh, but it didn’t dampen her enthusiasm as she reached for the plate. “Thank you, Dr. Chandler.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Why don’t you put a few on a plate and pour yourself a glass of milk? You can have your snack while you finish your homework.”

  Haley stared at her. “What about the no-food-in-my-bedroom rule?”

  “We’ll suspend it tonight.”

  “Awesome!”

  While her daughter hurried to the kitchen, Claire motioned toward the rear of the house. “Will you stay and chat for a few minutes?”

  “I’d enjoy that, thanks.”

  “Can I offer you some tea? Or there’s plenty of soda in the fridge.” Claire led the way. “We could have a drink and sample your cookies.”

  “I’ve done plenty of sampling already.” Maureen patted her flat stomach. “I acquired this figure the hard way, and I intend to keep it. But why don’t you have a few while I sip a cup of tea?”

  “Well . . . since you’re twisting my arm.” Claire grinned and, with a gentle tug on Haley’s braid, snagged one of the four cookies off her plate. “Let’s start with three, young lady.” Lifting the cookie to her nose, she closed her eyes and inhaled. “Mmm. I’d love to eat three myself, but this will have to suffice.”

  “You could afford to gain a few pounds.”

  Claire bit into the warm cookie before she responded to Maureen. “So could you.” As far as she could tell, her neighbor hadn’t regained much of the weight she’d lost during her chemotherapy treatments.

  “I like my current weight—but I must admit I am eating more these days.”

  Milk in one hand, plate of cookies in the other, Haley retreated down the hall.

  “Is your taste starting to come back?” Claire filled a mug with water, added a bag of Maureen’s favorite herbal tea, and slid it in the microwave.

  “Bit by bit, thank the Lord. That metallic flavor I had during treatment was not appetizing.”

  “I can only imagine.” Claire motioned toward the stools on one side of the island. “Have a seat. The tea will be ready in a minute.”

  They chatted about their day while they waited for the tea to warm, but once Claire retrieved it and claimed her own stool, she got down to business.

  “Maureen . . . there’s something I need to tell you.”

  “This sounds serious.” The older woman took a sip of tea, eyeing her.

  “I hope you won’t think it’s too serious.” Taking a deep breath, she plunged into her tale about Haley overhearing their confidential conversation and sending a letter to David McMillan, plus the subsequent call from the man’s assistant. “I’ve been meaning to tell you about it since Monday, but the week got away from me. I explained to the assistant that it was a private matter and I believe he respected that, but I want to apologize for the breach in confidentiality.”

  Oddly enough, Maureen didn’t seem in the least surprised—or upset—by the news of Haley’s indiscretion. Nevertheless, Claire plowed ahead.

  “All I can say in defense is that Haley meant well and I don’t think the information she shared in her letter went any further.”

  “Actually . . . it did.”

  The bottom fell out of Claire’s stomach.

  Keith whatever-his-name-was had to be behind this. She should have known she couldn’t trust McMillan’s executive assistant. He’d answered the phone with a snotty attitude and hadn’t mellowed much even after she’d told him he didn’t have to bother with Haley’s letter.

  “I had a call—and a visit—from David McMillan.”

  Despite Maureen’s mild tone, Claire closed her eyes.

  It was even worse than she’d expected.

  “Hey . . . it’s okay.”

  At the touch on her arm, she peeked at her neighbor. Given how shattered the woman had been the night she’d tearfully shared the secret she’d guarded for more than two decades, why was she so calm and unruffled about strangers finding out such private information?

  “How come it’s okay?”

  Maureen rested an elbow on the island, her expression thoughtful. “I’m not certain—except that David McMillan struck me as an honorable and discreet man who has the best intentions.”

  “I’m glad to hear that—but I’m still sorry about this.”

  “Don’t be. Some good might come of it after all.”

  “How?”

  “I’m thinking about letting his assistant look into the matter for me.”

  Claire gaped at her. “Are you serious?”

  “Very. Mr. McMillan has high regard for this man’s stick-to-it-iveness—as well as his discretion. He said his assistant is quite a go-getter.”

  “I can believe that.” Her reply came out more terse than she intended.

  Maureen gave her an appraising look. “From your tone, can I assume you weren’t impressed with him?”

  Claire handpicked her words. “We only had a brief conversation. He was very businesslike.”

  “So David McMillan said.” There was an amused twinkle in Maureen’s eyes.

  What was with that?

  Since she hadn’t a clue about that answer, Claire asked another question.

  “From what you told me that night a couple of weeks ago, you’ve already tried every avenue you could think of to locate your son. Why do you think this guy will do any better?”

  “Maybe fresh eyes will see some important clue everyone else has missed.”

  “Even a PI?”

  “One never knows.”

  Claire studied her friend. There was something Maureen wasn’t telling her. Strange, considering how close they’d grown over the past few months, after she’d learned the older woman had no family to turn to for help during the roughest days of her treatment. How many stories and confidences had they shared over the bowls of homemade soup she’d carried next door when Maureen was too weak and sick to prepare—or care about—food? More than enough to cement a solid friendship.

  Yet her neighbor was holding back now.

  And Claire had a feeling no amount of digging was going to pry loose any more information.

&
nbsp; Footsteps sounded in the hall, and a moment later Haley stuck her head in the kitchen.

  “Can I have one more cookie, Mom?”

  “How’s the homework coming?”

  “I’m almost done.”

  “You may have another cookie after you finish.”

  Her daughter let out an exaggerated sigh and started to turn away.

  “Hey . . . how about one more thank-you?”

  “Thank you again, Dr. Chandler. Those are the best oatmeal cookies in the whole world.”

  “I’m glad you like them. Now that I’m feeling better, I have a recipe for ginger cookies I think you’ll like too.”

  “Epic! See you later.”

  As Haley retreated down the hall, Maureen rose. “I need to run along. I have a chapter of a thesis to review, and it appears you have a tableful of spelling tests to correct.”

  Claire trailed behind as her neighbor headed toward the front door. “So when are you going to decide whether to let this guy work on your project?”

  “When God gives me the guidance I need.”

  “I hope your prayers produce clearer direction than mine do.” A bitter thread wove through her words, and she pulled the front door open with more force than necessary.

  “Sometimes it’s hard to hear his voice and discern his direction—but that’s a human failing, not a divine one.”

  Of course Maureen would say that. She was a professor at a Christian college. A faithful believer, albeit one with human failings. Yet despite her past trauma and the challenges of the last year, her belief in God’s love and mercy had never wavered.

  Claire tightened her grip on the edge of the door. “I wish my faith was as strong as yours.”

  “It could be, if you give it a chance. Just believe—and trust.”

  She shoved her free hand in the pocket of her jeans and clenched her fist. “I’m not great at trust.”

  Maureen touched her arm. “I know—and for sound reasons. Your husband failed you. But God never will.”

  Deep inside, she still believed that. But somehow she’d lost her connection with the almighty.

  “Sometimes I wish I could talk to him, you know?” A touch of wistfulness crept into her voice.