They were successful, no question. He was an international businessman making more money a year than Wendy would ever see in ten. His smile had Rip’s charm, but this man had obviously found a way to turn the charm into more than cheap one-night stands. Their house was a three-story on the edge of a lake in southwest Florida. They had a boat and nice cars and all the stuff rich people like to own. But it wasn’t their looks or their success or even their stuff that sold Wendy on them. It was what they’d written about themselves. She moved her eyes halfway down the page and began to read.
Hi. This is Jack. I work for Reylco, Inc., as manager of international corporate accounts, overseeing sales of pharmaceuticals. Reylco is the world’s largest supplier of cancer drugs. Okay, that’s the boring stuff. Here’s the rest. My work schedule’s flexible. Sure, I travel a lot, but I take my wife with me half the time, and when we have children I’ll take them, too.
Travel’s great, but home’s better. I love Saturday bike rides and Sunday afternoon football games and the smell of my wife’s spaghetti sometime mid-week. Yes, she makes a lot of spaghetti and sometimes she burns the French bread, but I love her anyway. If I wanted gourmet dinners I wouldn’t have married her.
Everyone thinks I’m safe and conservative, and I guess I am. I’m a stickler for seatbelts and helmets and life jackets. But here’s a secret. Sometimes at night Molly and I take our speedboat out and open up the engine. Just open it up all the way, blazing through the darkness, wind in our hair, stars in our eyes. I know, I know. It’s a little dangerous. But out there the corporate world falls away and it’s just us, loving life, loving each other, living in the moment.
The guys at work know the other me. The boating thing would surprise them.
Anyway, I guess I should tell you I’m a romantic. I write music and play the guitar, and if I’m sure no one else is in the house, I sing at the top of my lungs. Sometimes I dream about walking away from the whole corporate game, the long hours and heavy demands, and taking my family far, far away. We’d set up on some deserted beach on an island out in the middle of the ocean and I’d drink raspberry iced tea and write songs all day.
But I’ll probably save that for our vacations.
See? That’s the romantic in me. One time I tricked my wife into coming out onto the porch when she thought I was in Berlin on business. I had a CD player ready, and when she walked out the door I held up a sign that read, “Wanna dance?” We laughed and looked into each other’s eyes and waltzed on the porch that night. Fifteen minutes later I handed her the CD, gave her a kiss, and caught a late flight out to Germany.
That’s how I like to live.
We stay fit, because it feels better to be healthy. But I have a confession. I hate exercise. I used the stair-step machine at the gym for a while, but now my wife and I wake up early and jog together, six days out of seven. I still hate it, but with her there, I laugh a lot. They say laughing burns calories and it’s good for your liver. So I guess we’ll keep jogging.
I almost forgot. We have a yellow Labrador retriever named Gus. He’s part of the family, but he’s willing to give up the crib when the baby comes.
That’s about it. Oh, one more thing. I want children more than I want my next breath. And somewhere out there, I believe with everything I am, that you’ll find this and know—absolutely know—that we’re the couple you’re looking for. Life is short and time is a thief. We would make every day something magical and marvelous for your baby. The place in our hearts and homes has been ready for years. I already wrote a song for our firstborn. Maybe I’ll sing it for your baby one day.
Thanks for your time.
Wendy had goose bumps on her arms the first time she read the man’s letter. She felt dreamy when he talked about taking his wife on their boat late at night and flying like the wind across the water, and she got tears in her eyes when she pictured him dancing with his wife on the front porch and catching a later flight for his business trip.
She giggled when he talked about hating exercise and she burst out laughing when he mentioned that Gus, the dog, would be willing to give up the crib when the baby came. The couple had the sort of marriage everyone wanted. Between their laughter and loving, they would give her son a dream life—the sort he could never have with her.
Guilt washed over Wendy as she finished reading it now. How could she even consider taking the boy away from a couple like that? But then . . . they’d been fine before adopting. They’d be fine if things didn’t work out, wouldn’t they? They’d still have the nice house and the fast boat, the laughter and love, right? They’d still have Gus.
Wendy sat back against the hallway wall and read the woman’s bio. It was shorter, but it had been the icing on the cake.
I’m Molly, Jack’s wife. I love theater and law and sunsets over the lake behind our house. I have a degree in political science and once, a long time ago, I wanted to spend my life putting away bad guys. That or work as a Broadway actress. Being a lawyer would’ve been a little of both, I guess.
Jack and I met at Florida State University the fall of my sophomore year. We were both cast in “You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown.” He was Charlie and I was The Little Red-Haired Girl —the one Charlie has a crush on. I guess the rest was history. Well, not really. But after a few bends in the road and broken hearts, it was history. He’s always been the only man for me.
Our social worker told us to write about things that were important to us. Top of the list is high morals and strong character. Both our families believe in God, and even though we’re not big church-goers, we believe in living right—doing unto others as you would have them do to you. That sort of thing.
Jack and I always wanted a bunch of kids, but things didn’t work out that way. We’re hoping for a baby through adoption, the child we will love and raise and cherish all the days of our lives. We look forward to hearing from you.
Wendy pulled her legs up and rested the file on her knees. Again Rip’s words shouted at her. I want him back . . . the sooner the better. If that was true, she couldn’t spend another minute thinking about the nice couple in Florida.
She flipped the page, and there it was. The place at the bottom where she’d signed Rip’s name. How could she and Rip explain the forgeries any other way? A handwriting expert could tell, right? They could check and figure out that her signature and his were written by the same person. But if they had the right story, maybe no one would ever check.
She stared at the signatures. What had the social worker asked her to do? Take the papers to the prison and have Rip sign them, right? Her mind began to turn, creating lies, sorting through possibilities. What if she’d taken the paperwork to the prison and left it with a guard? And what if the guard gave them to the wrong prisoner? Maybe someone who didn’t really care for Rip? Then that prisoner might’ve read the documents and thought, why not? Why not sign someone’s papers?
By the time the paperwork was returned to the guard, the damage would’ve been done, right? And she would’ve dropped by the prison, picked up the documents, and never looked back. She hadn’t talked to Rip much the whole time he was in, so it was possible the issue of the boy might never have come up.
The longer she played the story over in her mind, the more sure she became. The lie might just work. All they had to do was convince the social worker Rip was a victim, that he had no idea he was a father until he was released from prison, and that someone else—another inmate—had signed his papers.
She was perfecting the story when she heard the door open.
“Wendy . . . baby, I’m sorry.” There was the sound of his footsteps, and then he found her, sitting in the hallway, the file on her lap. His face was dark with sorrow and remorse. He dropped to his knees beside her and framed her face with his hands. “I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you.” He had never sounded more genuine, more loving. “I just want our boy back.” He hesitated. “Help me find him, okay?”
And with that, the only real reason she’d
given her son up faded entirely from the picture. Rip was a changed man, completely changed. He was kind and compassionate, and even when he was angry he wouldn’t hit her. The hole in the wall was proof. The Florida couple would be all right one day. They could adopt another kid. What mattered was the boy, and the fact that he belonged with his real parents.
Suddenly she could almost see their lives laid out before her. Their son would come home, and whatever loss he felt, she and Rip would make up for it. He would be happy and well-cared-for, playing ball with his daddy on spring days and fishing all summer long. With Rip back to work at the movie theater or the local garage, they might move into a bigger house, in a nicer neighborhood. Their son would have other siblings one day, and the Porter family would live happily ever after.
She searched Rip’s eyes. “I’ll help you.” The first bit of a smile lifted her lips. She handed him the file. “You need to read this.”
He took it, his movements slower, gentler than before. After he looked at the cover he lowered himself the rest of the way to the floor and sat beside her. “The adoption file.”
“Yes. And, Rip . . .” She drew a slow breath, “I think I have a story that’ll work.”
With that they set their plans in motion. Now it was only a matter of carrying them out and waiting for the day Wendy never thought she’d see.
The day her son would come home to stay.
Chapter Six
By the time Molly picked Joey up at Cricket Preschool that Wednesday, she’d finished half her to-do list: an early workout with Jack in the weight room upstairs, an hour of unofficial secretarial duties—typing a letter and organizing his files on the Birmingham Remming account, the one that always drove him crazy. He had a secretary at the office, but Jack was ambitious. With his pace, he needed extra help, and she was happy to give it. Besides the work for Jack, she had her monthly phone meeting with their property manager to make sure all was well with their rental houses.
She still needed groceries and a phone call with Beth. Just to clear the air after their barbecue. The few times they’d talked since the weekend, Beth had seemed short, the way she always acted when her feelings were hurt.
Molly lined up with the other mothers outside Room 4, Mrs. Erickson’s room. When Joey spotted her, his face came alive. He held up a small white teddy bear. “I won, Mommy. I did my best and I won!”
“Thatta boy!” She stooped down and held out her hands the way she always did when she picked him up from school.
He was only fifteen feet away, but he ran with all his might and jumped into her arms. He was getting bigger, and the lift up was harder all the time. But she was still able to swing him up into her arms. He wrapped his little legs around her waist, and they touched foreheads.
“Eskimo noses first, okay?” He hid his stuffed bear behind his back and waited for her response.
“Eskimo noses it is!” She brushed the tip of her nose against his.
“Butterfly kisses, too.” He brushed his eyelashes against hers.
“Butterfly kisses.” Her heart melted. She loved everything about being Joey’s mother. “Okay.” She drew back and grinned at him. “How’d you win the bear?”
“I knew my ABCs.” He pulled out the stuffed toy and held it inches from her face. “He’s the bestest bear ever, Mommy. Softy and furry and growly on the inside.” Joey’s brow lowered and he tried to make himself look mean. “I named him Mr. Growls. ’Cause bears aren’t really that friendly with little boys and girls. That’s what teacher said.” He cocked his head. “But he’ll get along with Mr. Monkey, right? ’Cause Mr. Monkey is my bestest animal friend.”
“Right. They’ll be pals, I’m sure.” She hid her laugh and eased him back to the ground beside her. They walked outside and stopped on the sidewalk. “Okay, let’s see this softy, furry, growly bear.” She held out her hand.
Joey giggled and plopped the bear into her fingers. “See? Isn’t he perfect?”
“Oh, my.” Molly studied the toy, turning him sideways and upside down. She jumped back and held him out to Joey again. “He is growly. He scares me.”
“Mommy!” He drew out her name the way he did when he thought she was being silly. Again Joey laughed, and the sound bathed the cloudy morning in warmth and sunshine. She took hold of his hand and they crossed the parking lot toward their SUV. “I have a surprise!” She looked down at him, at his bouncy way of tagging along beside her. She could feel her eyes dancing.
“What?” He stopped and faced her. He had Mr. Growls by the ear as he did a few jumps.
“Costco!” She raised her fists in the air as if this were the best possible surprise a mother could give her son.
He lowered his chin and gave her a pointed look that was all Jack’s. “Ah, Mommy. You still have errands, you mean? I want to play give-and-go today. Me and you and Gus.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Yeah.” She clicked the locks open on the door and helped him into the back. He hopped up into his booster seat, and she buckled him in. “We’ll play when we get home, okay, buddy?”
“Okay.” He wasn’t disappointed. His eyes shone with the same sweetness they’d had when he walked through the classroom door a few moments earlier.
“One more thing . . .” She kissed his cheek. “Don’t forget about the samples.”
A smile brought his dimples to life again. “Oh, yeah. They have the bestest samples, Mommy. Remember?”
“I know.” She closed the door and climbed into the front seat. “That’s why I saved that errand ’til you were with me.”
“Okay.” In the rear-view mirror she could see him studying Mr. Growls again. He scrunched up his face as mean as he could and growled at the bear. The scowl faded when he saw her eyes in the mirror. “I love samples.”
Costco took longer than she wanted. Joey sampled enough teriyaki chicken and buttered bread to make up for lunch, so they decided to pass on the sandwiches. When they got home, Joey helped her carry in the groceries, managing the super-sized paper towels on one trip and the giant package of paper plates on another.
“That’s almost bigger than you, buddy.” Molly was trailing him. She wasn’t sure he could see over the top of the package. “Want some help?”
“Nope.” He heaved the plates a little higher, stumbled, and caught his balance. “Daddy says real men help out.”
She sucked her cheeks so she wouldn’t laugh out loud. He wasn’t trying to be cute, after all. When she had her composure, she steadied the box in her own arms and leaned over him to open the garage door. “Well, no question about it. You’re a real man, Joey. Definitely.”
He puffed his chest out and carried the plates the rest of the way to the kitchen without any further stumbling. When the groceries were put away, they went out to the basketball hoop in the driveway. The clouds had parted and the afternoon promised to be nothing but blue skies and warmth.
“I love give-and-go, Mommy.” Joey put one foot forward.
She bent over and tied his shoelaces. “I love it, too.”
Give-and-go was something Joey had picked up watching basketball with Jack. During warm-ups, a player would pass the ball to a teammate at the free throw line. That player would then pop the ball right back to the first player as he cut to the basket, just in time for him to make an easy layup.
Molly finished tying his shoes and took up her position. She still needed to call Beth, though something about the pending conversation made her feel unsettled. She held out her hands. “Okay, I’m ready.”
Joey dribbled the ball—a miniature replica of the kind used in the NBA—and pretended to pass it to a couple of invisible teammates. Then he did a sharp bounce pass to her and took off toward the basket.
In a single motion, she caught the ball and passed it back to him nice and easy. Jack had lowered the hoop so it was only nine feet high. Joey stopped as he reached it, and with impressive form, he sent the ball up and into the net. He pumped his fists into the air. “Yes! LeBron James scores ag
ain!”
“LeBron James?” Molly brushed a piece of hair back from her forehead. “I thought you were Shaq.”
He shook his head. “Shaq’s old, Mommy. Daddy says I shoot like LeBron James. He’s the most amazing player ever. Maybe more amazing than Michael Jordan!”
“Oh . . . I see.” She held out her hands. “Okay, LeBron. I’m ready for the next pass.”
His giggles filled the air and soothed her soul. They played for an hour before Joey started yawning. At four years old he still took a nap. He made a few more shots, and they went inside. She read him Yertle the Turtle, his favorite Dr. Seuss book. Then she bent down and kissed the tip of his nose. “Have a nice nap.”
The navy curtains were drawn, the baseballs and basketballs and footballs that decorated his wallpaper, cool and shadowy. She gave him Mr. Monkey, the well-loved stuffed animal he’d had since his first birthday, and then Mr. Growls. Joey tucked them in next to him. He looked at her longer than usual, straight to her heart. “Know what, Mommy?”
“What?” She studied him, her precious son.
“You’re pretty.” He grinned, his loose tooth hanging a little more crookedly.
Molly felt her heart light up. “Well, thank you, kind sir.”
“Know what else?”
She smiled. These were the fractions of minutes—before he fell asleep—when he said the things that mattered most. When all talk of growly bears and basketball players faded and the deeper places in his soul came to life. She messed her fingers through his hair and smiled. “What?”
“You’re my best friend.” He thought for a second. “You and Daddy, o’ course.”
“Thanks, buddy.” She felt a tug on her heart, the one that reminded her that he was her everything. “How come?”
He put his hand over hers and smiled. “’Cause you play with me. And that’s what best friends do.”
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