by Mary Manners
“Don’t delay any longer.” Stan’s voice broke into his thoughts. “The director of Moments for Miracles is expecting a call from you. She wants you for a spokesperson, Jake. And with the way things are going, you’re lucky they’ll have you.”
Jake’s temper spiked. One minor slip-up—okay, two not-so-minor slip-ups—and suddenly he was a pariah. Great, just great.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Jake turned on the kitchen faucet and filled the glass carafe with cold water. He dumped the water into the coffeemaker reservoir before adding four giant scoops of Brazilian blend to an unbleached cone filter.
“Of course I’m sure—positive.” Stan paused, and through the phone line, Jake heard the wheels of Stan’s rolling desk chair squeak under his ample weight as he leaned back and sighed. “You know, Jake, maybe there was a reason you dropped that pass.”
“This week’s fodder for the press?” Jake grunted and jabbed the power button on the coffeemaker. It sputtered and spat before hot water began to filter into the carafe. Steam wafted as the aroma of rich, dark coffee filled the air, chasing the cobwebs from Jake’s head. “They’ve had a field day.”
“It’s more than that.”
“I don’t get your meaning.” Jake reached into the cabinet for a mug. He checked for dust, rinsing it beneath the faucet before adding a heaping teaspoon of powdered creamer.
“Just read what I sent you, okay?”
“Sure.”
“And call the director today—by lunch.”
“Stan—”
“By lunch, Jake.”
He groaned, dumping a second spoonful of creamer into the coffee mug. “Okay. I’m on it.”
“Good. I’ll check back with you later.”
When they disconnected, Jake filled his mug with the first round of brew and settled in at the table as snowflakes drifted outside the window. He eyed the oversized envelope the courier had brought…a gaping beast smack-dab in the center of the polished wood. He could just toss it in the trash and call it a day; Stan would get over it, and Jake’s bruised career would heal itself—eventually.
Who was he kidding? Jake snatched the envelope and turned it over in his hands before ripping open the flap. A photo slipped out and skidded across the table, and he grabbed it before it fluttered to the floor. The kid was cute, no doubt about it. Jake pegged him for seven years old. Freckles smattered his cheeks and hair the color of a new penny spilled across his forehead, framing mischievous golden eyes. His grin exposed a double gap—both of his top front teeth were missing. He wore a Titan’s jersey, about a million sizes too big, bearing the number thirty-two—Jake’s number. It drooped across his shoulders as he hugged a football. Jake wondered what the kid’s deal was…he certainly didn’t look sick. Jake set the photo aside and upturned the envelope so the rest of its contents spilled out. A piece of yellow stationary was folded into thirds. He flicked it open and scanned the handwritten print.
Dear Mr. Taylor,
The volunteer at Moments for Miracles said I didn’t need to write to you, but I wanted to express to you personally the importance of this request.
My son, Tate, is a huge Titan’s fan, and you are his all-time favorite player. It’s his wish to meet you. Tate may not have much time. You see, he’s battling leukemia and needs a bone marrow transplant. We’re waiting for a donor.
I know you’re busy, and I don’t expect you to see him because he’s sick. But I’d like you to grant his wish because you are my son’s hero. So, please prayerfully consider Tate’s request.
Thank you,
Delaney Coleman
Jake drew a gulp of coffee as he scanned the letter once more. A few of the words were blurred, the blue ink smudged. Was Delaney crying when she wrote it?
Jake rolled a kink from his neck and rubbed a hand across one beard-stubbled cheek. He wasn’t sure why the thought of this stranger—a woman he didn’t even know—so engrossed in a crying jag bothered him.
Please, prayerfully consider Tate’s request…
The words echoed through Jake’s mind like a rolling wave. He glanced at the devotional Stan had given him yesterday. He really should shake off the dust and open it. Maybe later…
He set Delaney’s note aside and peeked into the envelope once more. He found a form letter from the director of Moments for Miracles, as well as a contract that Stan had drawn up. Jake scanned the contract, expecting Stan’s trademark, loquacious verbiage. But the agreement was short and sweet for once. Thankful, Jake set both the letter and the contract aside. His gaze drifted to the photo of Tate once again.
“I can’t do this, Stan,” he murmured, smoothing a finger over the image. “Someone else will have to carry the kid this time.”
Jake drained his mug and leaned back in the chair, his gaze drifting to the sprawling field beyond the window. Miracle Cove was home—the place where he’d grown and explored as a child. The warmth of memories pervaded despite the kiss of snow. He could almost hear Josh’s squeals of delight as he tugged his younger brother, nestled carefully on a sled, across the ice-capped pasture. Bright eyes peeked from his scarf-swaddled face and the scent of pine, crisp and clean, clung to the air like a promise.
Born with a disease the doctors struggled to define, Josh’s immune system was easily compromised. His frailty altered the structure of their family. Not long after Josh was born, their dad took off, and Jake hadn’t seen him in years. But his mom was always there, even if Josh’s needs consumed the majority of her time.
As Josh loped toward adolescence, Jake stepped into the role of protector. Kids around town learned early on that a jab at Josh was a jab at him. When it came to protecting Josh, no one was tougher than Jake Taylor. He conquered everything—except the illness that systematically and heartlessly stole Josh’s life.
The loss left a gaping hole that Jake’s mom struggled to fill. But she was consumed by her own grief, and it didn’t take long for Jake to get mixed up with the wrong crowd. If Harry hadn’t stepped into his life, who knows what might have happened? Jake owed his love of football—his career and his faith in God—to the man he thought of as his dad. Harry had made their lives whole again.
The furnace kicked on, sending a blast of warmth through the room. The envelope was swept into the air. It sailed a bit before skittering across the floor to disappear beneath the table. Jake set down his mug. Chair legs scraped as he dropped to his knees and scooted across the polished tile. Pinned beneath a table leg, a square of shiny paper peeked at him—a photo.
Jake gathered the picture and leaned back against wall, folding his legs as he drank in the images. He did a double-take as the kid—Tate—stared back at him once again with a hint of the same mischievous gleam. Only now, his golden eyes had lost their shine and his scalp was covered by thin wisps of burnished curls. He was pale and scrawny, enfolded in the sheets of a hospital bed and hugging a small teddy bear wearing a Titan’s jersey. A woman had climbed into the bed beside him, and she had one arm draped protectively across his shoulders. His mom—Delaney?
Her mahogany hair and dark-chocolate eyes haloed by flecks of gold were a stark contrast to Tate’s pale complexion. Yet, he saw an undeniable resemblance in the Mona Lisa grin, punctuated by a dimple at each corner of her upturned mouth. A spatter of freckles danced across the bridge of her nose, and her gaze held his. Jake imagined her voice would match the smooth, warm glow of her complexion. For a moment he stared, captivated as he imagined her thoughts at the very moment the photo was snapped…a mixture of worry, love, and fierce protectiveness.
For a reason he couldn’t explain, Jake was drawn to her. Guilt whispered to him, beckoning him to take action.
Please, prayerfully consider Tate’s request…
Jake shook his head, rebuffing the feeling. But the imploring words clung to his heart like a burr. He sighed and reached for his cell phone.
Delaney set the paperback aside and rubbed her eyes. Weariness gripped her shoulders and snaked down in
to the muscles of her lower back. She checked the digital clock above Tate’s hospital bed—already lunchtime and she hadn’t even managed to down breakfast yet. She reached for her coffee cup, sipped, and then gagged. The brew was cold and bitter. Maybe she could sneak down to the cafeteria long enough to refuel before the nurse bustled in to wake Tate for his vitals.
Tate…such a trusting child. She’d made the mistake of mentioning her letter to Jake Taylor, and he’d asked her again this morning when she thought the football star might stop by for a visit.
“I asked God to send him, Mama, so I just know he’ll come soon.”
“Maybe.” Delaney nodded as she stroked his hair, forcing back the lump in her throat. “But, you know he’s very busy, honey.”
“I know, but that’s okay.” Tate yawned against the drugs coursing through his system. “But he’ll be here, you’ll see.”
Delaney stood and paced the room. On the wall opposite the foot of the bed, a picture flashed across the muted TV. Delaney grabbed the remote and flipped through the channels. She needed a distraction— something to take her mind off the fact that Jake Taylor was too heartless and busy to even acknowledge the note she’d written. Nearly two weeks had passed, and Tate was getting restless. The press was right; in the football world, Jake might be a legend. But in real life, he was a loser.
She’d been a fool to open her heart to him in her letter. What kind of man would break a little boy’s heart? Tate was going to be crushed when he realized Jake wasn’t coming. What effect would it have on his condition?
Delaney forced the thought away and reached into her purse for a pack of peanut butter crackers. They’d have to tide her over. She heard the nurse’s rubber-soled shoes along the tile floor and the squeak of the med-cart wheels. It was show time, and Tate needed her at his side. As she slipped a cracker square into her mouth, she closed her eyes and bowed her head.
Lord, please fill me with a mighty faith to match that of my son’s. I want to trust You in all of this, Lord. Please show me Your way and help me to stay strong for Tate’s sake. Give him time, Lord, and bring him a donor to chase away this awful illness.
Chapter 3
STEPPING INTO MIRACLE COVE CHILDREN’S Hospital brought back memories that Jake had fought hard to keep at bay. The color of the walls hadn’t changed—still the neutral, pale shade of green that reminded him of the split-pea soup his grandmother used to simmer in a stock pot. And the smells were the same—stale air mingled with sweat and strong disinfectant. He scrunched his nose and sucked in short, shallow breaths.
“This way, Jake.” The perky Moments for Miracles volunteer turned a corner, and the camera crew double-timed it to keep up—one guy for lights and the other to hold the camera. Then, of course, the TV station sent their News at Noon reporter and her sidekick to round out the crowd. They were a mini-circus, and Jake was glad no one had mentioned his current legal troubles. None of them seemed to care. They had film to catch; the segment was slated to air tomorrow.
“Tate’s in room 214 of the oncology wing. We have to go through the tunnel, and then ride the blue elevators to the second floor.”
“I know where it is.” Jake had his doubts about all the people with him. If the kid was so sick, weren’t visitors restricted due to germs? He was about to ask, when a woman turned away from the information desk and caught a glimpse of him. Her mouth pursed into a surprised little oh as she rushed over to him, squealing like a tipped cow.
“Jake Taylor—the Jake Taylor?”
“That’s right.” Jake slammed on the brakes before he stumbled into her. “May I help you?”
Both hands flew to her mouth, and the squealing subsided as she spoke. “Oh, I’m so sorry about your fumble. If they gave you another chance, I know you’d catch that pass. It was awful, just awful!” She shook her perky blonde head. “I’m still your favorite fan, even if my boyfriend did burn his Titan’s jersey after that game. Can I have your autograph?”
“Sure.” Jake smiled, though inside he was groaning. So much for forgetting about his blunder. He waited while she searched through her oversized purse for a pen and a scrap of paper.
“Oh, my boyfriend will never believe this!” Her green eyes were huge and round as she handed him the pen and paper. “He’s a lab tech here, and I’m going to meet him for dinner.”
“I see.” Jake held the slip of paper up to the wall for a firm surface. “What’s your name?”
“Jillian.” She giggled. “Oh, this is just too much!”
“Here you go, Jillian.” Jake scribbled a quick sentiment, and then signed his name before returning the paper and pen to her.
“Oh my, thank you!” she gushed as she scanned the words and then hugged the paper to her chest. “You’ve made my day.”
“You’re welcome.” Jake plastered on a grin as he sidestepped her to catch up with the rest of the group. He glanced back over his shoulder as he headed into the tunnel. “Tell your boyfriend hello and to get himself a new jersey, because next year the Titans are going to the Super Bowl.”
“Oh, I sure will!” She turned to rush down the hall toward the elevators, waving the autographed paper in the air. Her voice floated back. “Wow…Jake Taylor. I just met Jake Taylor!”
“Mama, do you hear that?” Tate lifted his head from the pillow and gazed toward the doorway of his hospital room. “He’s coming.”
“Who’s coming, honey?” Delaney leaned forward in her chair to smooth hair from his clammy forehead. Was that the beginnings of a fever she felt? Maybe she should summon a nurse.
“Jake Taylor. I hear him, Mama. See…I told you he’d come.”
Delaney glanced at her watch, frowning. “Honey, that’s just the nurses making their rounds.”
“No, Mama. This sounds different.” Tate struggled to sit up in the bed. “I hear boots stomping the floor, and Jake likes to wear boots, Mama. I saw it on TV. Can you hear the stomps?”
Delaney craned an ear toward the hall. Tate was right. The commotion did sound different. It was thicker, like waves churning down the corridor. Someone was in a hurry to get where he was going. She rose from the chair, hesitant to leave Tate’s side. “I’ll take a peek, okay?”
“Yes.” Tate adjusted the Titan’s ball cap low over his anxious eyes. “Please, Mama, and tell me what you see.”
Delaney slipped from the bed, pausing long enough to hand Tate his stuffed bear before tiptoeing toward the door. She tucked a strand of dark hair over one ear and peeked around the corner.
“Mama, look!”
Tate’s warning came too late. One moment Delaney was on her feet, easing toward the doorway. The next found her falling hard to the cold tile floor. A rush of breath escaped her in one quick, painful gasp.
“Mama, are you okay?”
“No.” Delaney struggled for air, the room spinning. She was sure at least one of her ribs was bruised. “Ouch!”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” The deep voice chased away optical stars. “My bad. I didn’t see you. Are you hurt?”
“I’m…” Delaney shook her head as he reached for her elbow. His touch was warm, his fingers long enough to easily circle her arm. “Just give me a minute.”
“Here, let me help you.” Strong arms hauled her to her feet. The guy turned his head. “You didn’t film that, did you?”
“No, Jake.” A familiar female voice. Where had Delaney heard it before? She struggled to make sense of things. It took a moment for the name to register. Jake…Jake…
“Mama, it’s Jake Taylor!” Tate’s voice pierced the fog, and Delaney shook her head to chase away confusion. “See, Mama. I told you he was coming!”
In a flurry, the room was filled with half a dozen people, including Janet Iverson, the anchor for Channel Five’s noonday news. No wonder the voice was familiar—Delaney had spent days watching the news show while Tate rested in the hospital bed.
Delaney’s head swam as clear vision returned. Tate was sitting up in the bed, his cheeks
flushed with color for the first time in weeks. He dropped his bear and reached for the football on the bedside table.
“Hi, Jake.” Tate offered the ball to their surprise guest. “Look what I’ve got.”
“Hey, buddy. I see…it’s cool.”
Delaney’s gaze was drawn to the man who spoke to Tate as if they were lifelong friends. What she found stole her breath again. The guy was tall, broad—huge. She’d seen his face before, on TV and in the posters Tate begged to hang on his bedroom wall at home. Except in those, the guy wore a Titan’s uniform instead of jeans and cowboy boots. And in the posters his expression was fierce, focused…not at all soft like it was now.
“I’m really sorry about running into you.” He leaned down, and dark hair spilled over the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. His nose was slightly crooked, with a subtle bump across the bridge—probably broken in a play gone awry. But even that seemed to enhance his good looks. The scent of pine clung to his snug black T-shirt. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m…I’m fine.” Delaney took a step back, smoothing the wrinkles from her cotton blouse. She’d slept in the bedside chair again last night and hadn’t wanted to leave Tate long enough to run home for clean clothes. So, the shirt had seen better days. “But I didn’t think you were going to come.”
“I got your letter, Mrs. Coleman—”
“Delaney.”
“Right. I got your letter, and I just had to come see Tate.”
“See, Mama…I told you.” Tate’s eager voice cut in. “He came for me, Mama.”
“I see that.” Delaney smiled and nodded to her son before turning back to Jake. “But the counselor promised she’d warn us before you came.”
“I’m so sorry, Delaney.” Laura Evans stepped forward, blushing. “Jake wanted this to be a surprise.”
“But, I thought…” Delaney caught her lower lip between her teeth and tried not to scowl. This was Tate’s wish, and who was she to ruin it? “I suppose Mr. Taylor gets his way all the time, despite the effect on those around him.”
