One Perfect Spring

by Irene Hannon

  What a cute kid.

  He brushed his finger over the stain. That impromptu dinner had been fun. A lot more fun than spending the evening at his desk. And he wouldn’t mind doing it again. Even a pizza shared with Claire and Haley on her ramshackle deck would be better than sitting at the office.

  But better still? A candlelight dinner at some romantic restaurant with Claire alone. And he knew just the place he’d . . .

  Frowning, he cut off that wayward line of thought.

  This was nuts.

  How could a woman he’d met less than two weeks ago be dominating his thoughts like this? Where was his willpower? If he didn’t start focusing on Maureen’s files pronto, he really would be here until midnight.

  Mustering every ounce of his self-discipline, he managed to keep his mind on the job at hand for the next hour.

  Unfortunately, a second pass of the professor’s medical file didn’t yield any obvious clues, unless her physician in Boston had perhaps recommended her adoption agency and might have a connection to someone who’d worked there—assuming the man was even still alive. Had the private investigator pursued that?

  Something to check out when he got to the PI file.

  The adoption agency paperwork contained a lot of information about Maureen but nothing about the adoptive parents. No doubt the PI had tried to locate the caseworker who’d signed the forms, but he’d verify that too.

  The third file, detailing Maureen’s own search, offered nothing new.

  That left him with the PI’s report.

  As far as he could tell, the man hadn’t spoken with Maureen’s doctor in Boston. He had verified, however, that the agency caseworker who’d handled the adoption had died. The PI had followed up on the few leads he’d uncovered, but all had been dead ends.

  After closing the file, Keith drew a lined legal pad toward him. He had no idea what questions the investigator had asked Maureen, but he had a few more of his own, now that he knew her a little better. Maybe none of them would lead anywhere, but they were worth exploring.

  As he jotted down his thoughts, he glanced at the phone on his desk. The most efficient way to handle his follow-up questions would be to give her a call. He didn’t need an in-person meeting.

  But if he did pay her another visit, there was a chance he might cross paths with Claire again.

  The temptation to play those odds was strong—even though his life would be a lot simpler if he walked a wide circle around the lovely single mom. Why mess with a routine that had suited him fine until now? Work long hours, visit the gym, eat when and where he chose, visit his mom every Sunday. It was comfortable, predictable, and painless.

  Yet all at once, it also felt boring, dull—and lonely.

  Muttering under his breath, he threw his pen in the drawer. Slammed it shut.

  How could a man go from satisfied and content to restless and unsettled in such a short time? And what was he supposed to do about it?

  He didn’t have a clue.

  But hanging around the office wasn’t going to give him any answers—nor quiet the rumbling of his stomach. The latter he could fix with a quick stop at one of the many fast-food drive-throughs on his route home. The former . . . not so easy to find.

  With a sigh, he shut down his computer, stuffed a few reports into his briefcase, and turned off the lights in his office. Then he headed toward the exit through the quiet, deserted building.

  Maybe he should go visit the professor in a day or two and put the outcome in God’s hands. If he ran into Claire, fine. If he didn’t, he’d consign their previous encounters to the two-ships-that-pass-in-the-night category.

  Even if he had a sinking feeling that would be easier said than done.

  Two days later, as Keith pulled up in front of Maureen’s house, he scanned Claire’s property. No sign of her or Haley. Given the weather, however, that wasn’t a surprise.

  He cringed as a streak of lightning slashed through the angry, dark-gray sky, followed seconds later by a loud crack of thunder. Could he have picked a worse night for this meeting?

  But he’d made the appointment yesterday morning, when the meteorologists were predicting partly cloudy skies with a slight chance of showers. Ha. Considering their dismal record this spring, he should have figured that forecast wouldn’t hold.

  Too late to back out now, though.

  Drops of rain began to spatter his windshield, and he grabbed his briefcase, slid out of the car, and took off at a jog for the door. As he stepped onto the porch, the heavens opened, disgorging sheets of rain.

  That had been close.

  He pressed Maureen’s bell and inspected the whipping branches of the maple tree above his car. Not the smartest place to park. But if he ventured out in this gale, he’d be drenched before he got halfway down the walk.

  Resigned, he turned his back. All he could do was hope for the best.

  As usual, Maureen answered quickly and ushered him inside. “I can’t believe the turn in the weather. We could have rescheduled, you know.”

  “It wasn’t that bad when I left the office. And it might let up before we’re through.” Another boom of thunder shook the house.

  “I like your optimism.” She gestured to the living room. “Why don’t we talk here? I love the kitchen and sunroom in nice weather, but with all those windows and skylights, it feels a bit too open to the elements in a storm like this.”

  Apparently there’d be no home-cooked treats tonight.

  He ignored the pang of disappointment. “Sure. That’s fine.”

  “What can I offer you to drink?”

  “A Sprite, if you have it.”

  “I’m well supplied with a variety of soda. My younger neighbor likes it, and Claire lets me spoil her now and then. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  She disappeared through the door that led to the kitchen while he claimed the same seat he’d occupied on his first visit. As he pulled her files and his notebook from his briefcase, another flash of lightning strobed through the room, followed almost at once by a bone-jarring boom of thunder. The lights flickered, then steadied.

  Good thing he’d repaired Claire’s gutter or she’d have a waterfall outside her kitchen window and a river next to her foundation. Given the condition of her house, that was the last thing she needed. He’d lay odds either the basement or the roof leaked.

  Maybe both.

  “I don’t want to ruin your dinner, but since you seemed to enjoy the salsa the other night, I made a new batch.”

  He turned as Maureen entered with chips and salsa, plus their drinks.

  Rising, he reached for the tray. “Let me take that—and I won’t turn down the salsa. It was great.”

  Once they settled in and he’d taken the edge off his hunger with a couple of chips, he set her files on the coffee table. “I’m finished with these. Thanks again for letting me borrow them.”

  “Any new insights?”

  “Nothing dramatic. But they did raise a few questions. Your PI may have covered them, but I didn’t see any notes to that effect in his report.” He wiped his fingers on a paper napkin and opened his notebook. “It doesn’t appear he tried to contact the doctor you saw in Boston. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. My obstetrician had no connection to the adoption agency or the adoptive parents.”

  “What about the pediatrician who took care of your baby once he was born?”

  “He was chosen by the adoptive parents. I never met him.” She looked down at the ice melting in her glass. When she continued, a thread of regret wove through her words. “I never saw my son after he was born, except for a few minutes in the delivery room.”

  “Was that your choice?” As the words spilled out, Keith tightened his grip on the pen. That question wasn’t on his list.

  He was about to retract it for fear he’d overstepped when Maureen surprised him by responding.

  “Yes. I was afraid if I held him in my arms, I’d never be able to
let him go.”

  “So why did you?”

  Again, the question was out before he could stop it.

  Again, she responded.

  “I taught at a conservative Christian school, Keith.” Her voice was quiet, her eyes sad. “A college in those days, not a university. We were a small community, bound by a strict moral code—which I violated. I was afraid I’d lose the position I’d worked so hard to attain if the administration found out about my mistake. Our faith might preach forgiveness, but the faculty was also expected to set a high moral standard for students. What I did was hardly role-model material.”

  “So the school never knew?”

  “No. When I discovered I was pregnant in September, I asked for a six-month sabbatical beginning in the spring semester, ostensibly to work on a research paper about Italian manuscript illumination in the fifteenth century. It was rather short notice for such a request, but I was well liked, and they accommodated me. By the time I returned to campus, I’d completed my paper and given away my baby.” Her voice choked, and she took a sip of her soda.

  A gust of wind shook the shutters on the house, and the lights flickered again.

  Maureen rose and crossed to the front window. “I don’t like storms.” She drew the drapes closed, still facing the window as she continued. “But sometimes it’s better not to run away from them. Sometimes it’s better to hunker down and endure the lightning and thunder and rain. The storm might change the landscape—but who’s to say it wouldn’t be a better landscape?”

  “Does that mean you’d keep the baby if you had a second chance?”

  She returned to her chair, looking older and more weary than she had minutes ago. “I don’t know. Beyond the selfish and fear-driven reasons for my decision, I’ve always believed a child does best with two parents. I was already thirty-eight, and there wasn’t a husband anywhere on the horizon. So perhaps I made the right decision.” She grasped her glass with both hands. Swirled the clear liquid. “In any case, I’m sorry I didn’t find some way to follow his life—though adoption wasn’t as open back then.”

  Silence fell between them, broken only by the low rumble of thunder and the relentless beat of the rain against the windows.

  Keith shifted in his seat. Strange how a person’s perceptions could change. When he’d read Haley’s letter, he’d had no sympathy for the mother who’d walked away from her child. In some ways, he still didn’t. At thirty-eight, as a highly educated woman, Maureen could have provided for herself and a child. If she’d lost her job, there were other colleges and universities that would have welcomed someone with her experience and qualifications. And while a single-parent household might not be optimal, lots of children in that situation did fine. Like Haley.

  Bottom line, the primary reason Maureen had opted for adoption was selfish—she hadn’t wanted to face the humiliation of an unwed pregnancy.

  Yet her regret and remorse, her uncertainty over whether she’d made the right decision, were real. He still might not agree with what she’d done, but her choice to give up her child wasn’t nearly as black and white as he’d assumed in the beginning—and even after all these years, it was a source of anguish.

  Might the same be true with his own birth mother?

  “I don’t mind answering your questions about my past, Keith, but I’m not sure how any of this will help you find my son.”

  At her gentle comment, he picked up his notebook again and forced himself to refocus. “Those last few won’t. I was just trying to understand what happened from your point of view. But let me get back on track. Is there anyone you became friends with during your time in Boston who might, in any way, have had a connection to the adoption agency?”

  “No. I kept to myself for the most part. I was ashamed about what I’d done and didn’t want to have to explain my situation. I avoided the neighbors in my apartment building, and while I was acquainted with a few people at the Boston Public Library who helped me with data searches for my research, I didn’t confide in any of them. My doctor and the agency knew I was an unwed mother, but I didn’t offer details. There was only one person who knew my whole story. In fact, he referred me to the agency I used. He died several years ago, however.”

  “I didn’t see anything about that in the PI’s report.”

  “I doubt I mentioned it to him. As I said, my friend died, and everything we discussed was held in strictest confidence.”

  “Still . . . his connection to the adoption agency could be important. Do you mind sharing his name?”

  “Father Kevin Ryan.”

  Keith darted her a surprised look. “A priest?”

  “Peculiar how that worked out, isn’t it? Me, a professor at an evangelical college, confiding in a Roman Catholic priest.”

  “How did you even meet him?”

  “I didn’t want to attend services of my own denomination while I was in Boston, since I was trying to stay under the radar, but I missed being in church. So I began stopping in at this lovely old church in my neighborhood for quiet reflection. The doors were always open, and it was one of the few places where I felt at peace.

  “One day Father Ryan came in while I was there. He welcomed me and introduced himself. After several such encounters, we began to talk. He was a wonderful listener, with amazing empathy, and he never exhibited one iota of judgment. In the end, I told him my story and he referred me to the agency. We remained friends until he died.”

  Keith jotted down his name. “What was the name of his church?”

  “St. Columba, but he was transferred several times after that. He spent his final years in a retirement center for priests.”

  He jotted down the name of the facility when she offered it.

  “Would you mind if I . . .” His voice trailed off as the lights flickered again. This time they went out, leaving the room in shadows.

  “Oh dear. I was afraid of that. We often have outages in bad storms. Would you like me to light a few candles? I keep some on hand for emergencies.” Maureen started to rise.

  “I can see well enough for now, and I think we’re almost finished.”

  “All right.” She sat down again. “Where were we?”

  “I was about to ask whether it would be okay if I checked into the connection between St. Columba and the agency you used.”

  “I don’t believe there was a connection. I got the impression from Father Ryan that he was acquainted with the woman who was the director at the agency. And everything was handled very discreetly. He wouldn’t have shared more than the basics with her; everything we discussed was kept in confidence. Besides, he’s been gone for five years.”

  “Still . . . it might be worth some legwork. And I’ll see if I can find out anything about the pediatrician. Try to make a connection that way.”

  “My PI mentioned that too. But as he warned me, HIPAA laws being what they are, it would be difficult to justify the additional expense of such an attempt given the small chance of success. Besides, the hospital probably had many pediatricians on staff, and I expect it would be hard to track them down.”

  Keith helped himself to a few more chips. “Since I work for salsa—and lasagna—the expense won’t be an issue.”

  “Good to know. My PI’s hourly rates had me second-guessing my choice of profession.”

  Another boom of thunder shuddered through the house, and he tucked the notebook back in his briefcase. “I’ll get on this as soon as I can.”

  She followed him to the foyer. “There’s no hurry. After waiting this long, another few days or weeks won’t make that much difference.” She pulled open the door and eyed the steady rain. “Would you like to borrow an umbrella?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll make a run for it.”

  “I suppose that’s a viable option when you’re young and strong.” She touched his arm. “But be careful driving home.”

  “I will. And I’ll be in touch soon.”

  As he exited onto the porch, he cast a quick glance at
Claire’s house. Of course no one would be out in a storm like this. There’d be no chance meeting tonight.

  Quashing his disappointment, he aimed his automatic opener at the Infiniti, unlocked the car doors, and sprinted through the rain.

  He was fast—but not fast enough. As he slid behind the wheel, the damp cotton of his shirt was clinging to his skin.

  He needed to head home and change.

  But instead of starting the engine, he sat there looking at Claire’s dark house. How were they coping with the electrical outage? Was Haley afraid of storms? Was Claire? Would she even admit it if she was?

  Probably not. The lady had grit and determination and an independent streak a mile wide. Was it possible those traits had caused the problems in her marriage that led to divorce?

  Or were they the result of problems in her marriage?

  So many questions . . . so few answers.

  He ought to drive away. Forget about the duo inside the crumbling house.

  And he would too.

  Soon.

  But first, he’d jot down a few more notes from his meeting with Maureen—just in case God had a change of heart about arranging a chance meeting with the professor’s neighbor.

  11

  “Hey, Mom . . . Keith’s out in front!”

  At Haley’s announcement, Claire’s pulse shifted into high gear. Why in the world would David McMillan’s executive assistant be paying her an unannounced visit?

  After ascending the last few basement steps in double time, she dashed over to the kitchen table and deposited the oil lamp she’d dug out of a box of Christmas decorations. Then she joined her daughter at the front window. At least with the lights out, they could see the street without being seen.

  “He ran out of Dr. Chandler’s house and jumped in his car, but now he’s just sitting there with the dome light on.”

  Meaning he hadn’t come to visit her.

  Even as Claire’s spirits plummeted, logic kicked in. There was no reason for the man to stop by. He was probably afraid she’d hand him another chore if he stepped onto her property again.