The Mommy Plan

by Susan Gable

  “Did you see that? He was going to kiss her.”

  Molly pushed her friend Cherish back into the bushes across from Miss Rachel’s cabin. She covered her mouth with her hand and held her breath till her dad walked past. Then she exhaled softly.

  “Do you think he really was?” Molly stood and danced in place, causing the shrub’s leaves to rustle. “That’s great. My plan is working! We need to keep them together somehow. Maybe if they go on a date, I’ll get to sleep over in your cabin. Wouldn’t that be neat. I’ve never been on a sleepover.”

  Cherish brushed dirt from her knees, then stared at Molly. “Never?”

  “Grandma’s house doesn’t count. And that’s the only other place he lets me sleep.”

  “That’s terrible.” Cherish grinned at her friend. “We’ll just have to make sure they keep seeing each other. And soon all your dad will be thinking of is Miss Rachel.”

  “Cool. And then maybe he’ll forget about stopping me from having fun.”

  Dear Reader,

  On my seventeenth birthday I got my first driver’s license— and my first organ donor card. I considered it carefully, spoke to my parents and decided that if something happened to me and I didn’t need those organs anymore, well, maybe someone else did. I signed the card.

  Fast forward twenty years. I was watching television and came across a show about children having organ transplants. Bing. A “what if” popped into my mind. What if a divorced mom who’d lost her only child and donated his organs fell in love with a single dad whose kid had had an organ transplant? Rachel, James and Molly were born out of that “what if.”

  I spent a lot of time researching. I wept in front of my computer as I surfed sites that honored child organ donors. I cried over the kids who needed new hearts but didn’t get them in time. I rejoiced over the kids who did, including some whose moms “talked” to me about parenting transplant kids.

  But this story isn’t just about organ transplant kids. It’s about the power of love to heal and overcome, about the strength of the human heart in more ways than one. It’s about summer camp and fireflies and rambunctious kids getting into mischief. It’s about a little girl who wants a new mom to love her.

  As always, I’d love to hear from you. Visit my Web site at www.susangable.com, e-mail me at Susan@susangable.com or snail mail at P.O. Box 9313, Erie, PA 16505-8313.

  May all your firefly wishes come true!

  Susan Gable

  The Mommy Plan

  Susan Gable

  In loving memory of those who left my life

  long before I was ready to let them go, and all the

  organ donors who have given others a second chance.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, thanks to my girls, Kimmy, Lisa and Jen,

  who believed in this book so very much.

  To Sus, for her proofing skills and support.

  To Mona Barmash and CHIN

  (Children’s Health Information Network—www.tchin.org)

  for educating me about congenital heart defects and

  hooking me up with other information sources.

  To Pat Kornick, from CORE

  (Center for Organ Recovery and Education) for answering

  my questions about organ donation procedures.

  To my “transplant” moms and their inspirational kids,

  Mary Rose and Melissa, Dani and Katie,

  Shelley and Bryan. I would especially like to thank

  Barbara Hochstein and her son, Jon, for giving me

  insight into the parenting of a heart transplant child

  (James’s hang-ups are totally his own)

  and answering my million questions

  about medications, routines and so on.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  TWO WEEKS.

  A two-week stay in this place was supposed to heal the gaping hole in her heart and save her career?

  Sure.

  If she was lucky, maybe she’d get a Band-Aid out of the deal.

  Gravel crunched and popped beneath the tires as Rachel Thompson eased the convertible to a stop. Just ahead, a bright, multicolored sign arced over the dirt road. Camp Firefly Wishes. A place full of miracles, she’d been told.

  She could certainly use one of those. But she wouldn’t hold her breath.

  Her hands trembled, and Rachel gripped the steering wheel harder, turning her knuckles white. If her boss—in cahoots with her father—hadn’t insisted, she wouldn’t be here, facing something she wasn’t certain she’d ever be ready to face.

  The hot, mid-July sun made her glad she’d put the top down. The humid air carried the sounds of chirping birds and rustling leaves. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, catching the scent of freshly mowed grass.

  The smells and sounds of summer vacation. If she tried hard enough, she could make believe that this summer vacation would be the way it always had been: a time of joy and peace, of fireflies, bare feet and children’s laughter, of no lesson plans, and time with her family, with her son.

  But summer would never be like that again.

  A blaring horn jolted her from her reverie. Rachel glanced in the rearview mirror to see a silver SUV practically on her bumper.

  The driver offered her a friendly wave, then leaned out his window. “Is anything wrong?”

  Rachel shook her head. Anything wrong? More like everything. But somehow she’d get through this.

  She eased the GTO into gear and slowly traveled the dirt lane, steering carefully around the potholes still filled with rainwater. On her left, she saw the stables. Several chestnut horses stamped their hooves and nickered as she passed.

  A large field—the source of the grassy smell— appeared next. It had the markings of a baseball diamond and a soccer field. All in all, the place looked remarkably like the brochure her principal had forced on her, remarkably like any other summer camp she’d ever attended or seen pictures of— except for the helipad at the far end of the field.

  That one detail reminded her this was unlike those other camps. This one catered to kids who’d had organ transplants and their families. Since the camp was more than an hour’s drive north of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, the helipad probably reassured parents that competent medical help was only a short flight away. Just in case…

  Rachel’s throat tightened and she blinked a few times.

  A fleeting glance in the mirror showed the SUV still following closely. Which meant a U-turn and quick getaway were out of the question. But escaping wasn’t an option, anyway. Rachel had to consider her career. It was all she had left.

  The camp’s main building—a large, rambling, wood-sided structure—came into view. She chose a parking space near the front doors. The SUV slipped into the slot beside her.

  Childish laughter—one of her summer fantasy components—floated to her ears as a family exited the building.

  I thought the families weren’t arriving until tomorrow? Maybe they weren’t campers. Both children appeared robust and energetic as they cavorted along the sidewalk, not at all like what she imagined a transplant child would look like.

  Rachel grabbed the leather satchel from the passenger seat and rummaged through its conte
nts. Yanking out the appropriate file, she searched for the letter of confirmation from the camp’s owners. The wind swirled down and lifted the papers into the air.

  “Sugar cookies!” She launched herself across the seat after them, managing to land on all but one before they flew away.

  A throaty, masculine chuckle made her glance up.

  “Such language,” the SUV driver gently chided, “yet tempered with grace. I’d give that dive a nine.” He offered her the errant sheet of paper. “Here’s the one you missed.”

  Rachel’s cheeks warmed, and she straightened up, then ran a hand over her hair as she studied him. A dimple cleaved his angular chin. Short brown hair, the color of rich coffee. Eyes the color of melted caramel. Broad shoulders that tapered down to a narrow waist. He shook the page. “Do you want this back, or should I let the breeze have it, after all?”

  Her cheeks flamed hotter as she accepted the paper. “Thanks.” She scanned the sheet. “Oh, no.” She glanced back at the man who was caressing the top of her passenger door. “What’s today?”

  “Sunday.” He looked down at her. “Nice car.”

  “Oh no, Sunday? Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” He extended his hand to her. “I’m James.”

  “And I’m late!” Rachel stuffed the papers back into the folder. “This isn’t happening.”

  How could she have messed up so badly? Granted, once school let out for the year, one day seemed the same as the next. But to actually show up on the wrong day?

  She really didn’t want to be here. Maybe this was her subconscious way of avoiding it. If your subconscious gets you fired, what then?

  Panic tightened her throat. She shifted across the seat and jumped from the car. “Nice to meet you.”

  James McClain found himself staring as the woman dashed up the sidewalk. She was thin—almost too thin—but that didn’t negate a gently curved and perfectly proportioned rear. Her determined march displayed purpose and a little bit of panic; there was no seductive sashaying, or slinking, and yet he couldn’t pull his attention from the seat of her well-fitting white shorts.

  “Daddy?”

  If ever there was a word designed to burst the bubble of erotic visions, that was it. But then, his girl was worth the sacrifices he made, a normal love life being one of them. Fantasy was about all he could manage. Caring for her and running his psychology practice took all his time.

  James turned to face the open window of the SUV and his daughter. “Yeah, tiger?”

  “Who was that lady?” Molly, awake from her short nap, leaned out, craning her neck to look around him.

  He glanced over his shoulder for a final peek as the front door swung shut behind the delightful rear. “I don’t know.”

  “She has pretty hair.”

  James stifled a chuckle. Therein lay the difference between a thirty-seven-year-old male and an eight-year-old little girl. Although sometimes his daughter seemed far older than he was. “Yes, she does, sweetie. Now, are you ready to camp?”

  “I was born ready.”

  “Whatever you say, Unsinkable.”

  “Da-a-ad.” Molly’s eyes narrowed. “You promised not to call me that while we were here. I’m not a baby anymore.”

  He stopped himself from telling her she’d always be his baby. Running a fingertip across her cheek, he marveled at the healthy pink flush in her skin. “No, you’re not.” He pressed gently on her freckle-covered nose. “But you’ll always be the Unsinkable Molly McClain.”

  “If I’m so unsinkable, then why don’t you let me do all the things I want to? Like go to camp by myself?”

  Like a normal kid. James heard the qualifier his daughter left unvoiced. “Molly, you know the reason.”

  “They do have camps that will take a transplant kid by themselves, you know. Not like this one, where the family comes along. Camps that aren’t just about in our own backyard, too.”

  A thirty-five-minute ride from home wasn’t enough to provide the adventure she craved. “I know. But you’re not old enough. Maybe next year.” He ignored the prickling sensation at the back of his neck. Planning for next summer seemed incredible, a far cry from last summer—most of which he and Molly had spent at Children’s Hospital. With good luck and good management, she’d have a next year. He’d spent a lot of her life praying. And he’d damn near lost her. Her new heart had come just in time. That had been last September—almost a year ago. Her surgeon had worried that she wasn’t going to be strong enough to survive the transplant. Now, if he could just keep her new heart healthy…

  A dazzling smile brightened Molly’s face, but a tiny trace of skepticism showed in her hazel eyes. “Really, Dad? Next year I can camp by myself?”

  “Maybe. I’ll think about it. Let’s see how this year goes first, huh?”

  She leaned farther out and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I love you!”

  James pulled her the rest of the way out of the window. “I love you, too.” After a quick hug, he set her on her feet and took her by the hand. “Now, let’s go see about our cabin.”

  “I’M AFRAID I ASSIGNED your cabin to someone else, dear. Had to separate a pair of volunteer women who don’t seem to get along.” Trudy Luciano, the camp director, rose from her wooden swivel chair and perched on the front edge of the desk. A rotating fan hummed on the top of an oak filing cabinet, providing some relief from the summer heat. “Don and I figured you’d changed your mind. We both know Jerry pretty much forced you to come.”

  Rachel toyed with the handle of her bag. “Well, if you’ve been friends with Jerry for as many years as he says, then you know once he makes up his mind, there’s no changing it.” Her principal had taken extensive lessons from her father. And when the two men—best friends ever since her father had saved Jerry’s life by carrying him on broken ankles from a battlefield after their service chopper had crashed—banded together, people found themselves doing things they really didn’t want to. Like getting married. Or coming here.

  Trudy shook her head and made a sympathetic tsking noise. She had a warm but weathered face and a short, barrel-shaped body. But her orange hair and loud tie-dyed shirt, paired with faded bell-bottom jeans, made the woman resemble Aunt Bee from the old television show time-warped through Woodstock. “Jerry says you’re a wonderful teacher, and he’s very worried about you.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Are you sure you want to be here?” Something in the way she asked made Rachel wonder if the camp director was the one having second thoughts. And frankly, Rachel didn’t blame her. Who knew what Jerry had told her? Did he mention the confusion? Well, after showing up on the wrong day, that one ought to be clear. The misplaced plan books? The report cards not finished on time? The thousand little details that slipped her mind of late?

  She sighed. “I don’t have a choice, Mrs. Luciano.”

  “Trudy,” the woman admonished.

  “Trudy. Yes. Right.” Rachel shifted in the chair, the bare skin of her thighs unsticking from the wooden surface with an embarrassing sucking noise. “I’ve been a teacher for ten years, and loved every minute of it. Without my career to keep me occupied this past year, I’m sure I’d have been admitted to the funny farm by now.”

  She dropped her voice to a whisper and looked down at the faded tile floor. “Since I lost Daniel, it’s been my only reason to get out of bed each morning.”

  “But it’s hard to be an effective teacher, dear, if you don’t like being around children anymore.”

  Rachel whipped her head up and met Trudy’s frank gaze. “Is that what Jerry said? That’s not it at all. I love kids. It’s just…”

  “It’s just what?”

  “It’s just hard, that’s all.” Rachel rose from the chair to wander across the office. Sheets of paper with various schedules cluttered a bulletin board. Around the edges, photos of smiling children advertised the joys of summer camp. A little boy with sun-streaked brown hair and sparkling blue eyes caught her attention
. How Daniel would have loved camp, the horses and the swimming, the boating…

  A heaviness invaded her chest; icy fingers squeezed her heart like the Play-Doh Daniel had loved. Rachel closed her eyes and swallowed hard.

  “It’s okay to miss him,” Trudy said softly from near her shoulder.

  Eyes flashing open, Rachel stepped to the side and leaned against the windowsill. She didn’t want to discuss it with a strange woman, a woman whose report to Jerry at the end of the session would determine whether Rachel had a career or not. Hell, she didn’t want to talk about it with anyone.

  But she was going to have to play the game if she wanted to keep teaching second-graders. If the administration, particularly Jerry’s boss, the superintendent, didn’t think she could handle her job and her grief over losing Daniel, they’d insist she take a medical leave of absence. Which would leave her with nothing to distract her from the pain.

  Somehow, Rachel had to convince this woman that she could get close to kids, that she was still a good teacher. “Trudy, is there someplace else I could bunk, since you’ve reassigned my cabin?”

  “You’re sure you want to stay?” The woman’s green eyes expressed her reservation.

  “Yes. I want to stay.”

  “Good, I’m so glad!” There was genuine warmth in Trudy’s voice. “I’ve got an empty cabin over in the family loop. The parents here will treat you as a sort of hero—”

  “You’re not going to tell them?”

  Trudy studied her intently for a moment, then shook her head. “I hoped you would.”

  Rachel tried not to let her dismay show.

  The other woman continued, “You’re not just here to help us with the kids. You’re here because Jerry thinks—and Don and I agree—that seeing the kinds of miracles that can come from tragedy will help you. Don’s got a Ph.D. in counseling, and he runs support groups for the parents, and we’d love for you to sit in on some of them.”