Devoted to Drew Page 2

  He slid the license into his wallet and put the registration back into the glove box, figuring he had a 50-50 shot of getting a ticket.

  Logan turned on what the entertainment reporters called “The Murray Charm.”

  “You’re right, Officer Mullins,” he said, flashing his flirtiest smile. “I’ll be more careful from now on.”

  “See that you do.” Winking, she tapped the car’s roof. “The city expects a Super Bowl win from you this year.” And with that, she strolled back to her squad car, hiking her gun belt as she went.

  Logan eased into traffic and drove until he ended up in Fells Point, where he parked across from The Horse You Came In On Saloon, Baltimore’s oldest bar. Would his agent, or Knights’ management, leak the story? he wondered, stepping off the curb to cross the street. How many days before reporters started dogging his heels?

  A horn blared, startling him so badly he almost dropped his car keys.

  “Hey, idiot! Find someplace else to commit suicide!” the driver bellowed.

  “Yeah, whatever,” he muttered and continued across Thames Street.

  Inside, he took the stool nearest the singing guitarist.

  “What’ll you have?” the barmaid asked.

  “Whiskey, neat.”

  Either she hadn’t recognized him, or she wasn’t a Knights fan. A relief either way because it meant he could feel good and sorry for himself while he got good and drunk. As he waited for her to pour a jigger, Logan wondered if self-pity had driven Edgar Allan Poe to this saloon on the last night of his life. Wondered, too, if Poe had decided against calling a woman who wouldn’t be there for him.

  Self-pity, Logan thought as the barmaid delivered the drink, was a dangerous thing. He lifted the glass, said a silent toast to the sad, sickly author, then tossed back the shot. Maybe I’ll take up writing and drinking, just like you, Eddie, he thought, signaling the barmaid.

  His college roommate, who’d sold a novel loosely based on their campus shenanigans, explained his success this way—“Gotta write what you know, man. Only way to make it in this wacky biz.” And since the only thing Logan knew was football, he crossed “author” off his Now What? list.

  He put the glass to his lips and laughed to himself. Drinking…now, there’s something you know about.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ten years later…

  “GREAT INTERVIEW,” Marty said. “Hundreds of emails and Facebook posts came in while we were on-air, same as last time. Come on back any time, dude. You’re good for ratings!”

  Logan shook the newsman’s hand. “I’ll have my people call your people.”

  Grinning, Marty checked his watch. “If I didn’t have to do the weather in a minute, I’d offer you a cup of coffee.”

  The assistant producer breezed past them. “There’s a fresh pot in the production office….”

  Point made and taken: Bianca Wright didn’t believe in rolling out the red carpet for the show’s guests. At least not once the cameras stopped rolling.

  They’d met briefly six months ago, during his first visit to The Morning Show. That day she’d been so preoccupied corralling the gaggle of octogenarian belly dancers whose performance followed his segment that she barely had time to escort him to the studio. She was cute. Smart. Not famous. Everybody was after him to find a stable woman…someone who didn’t jump at every opportunity to draw attention to herself. So, despite the fact that he had a radio interview on the other side of town in an hour, Logan fell into step beside her.

  “Marty’s right. That was a great interview,” she said, scribbling something onto her clipboard. “The kind that will have me answering tons of fan emails for the next couple of days.”

  Her tone of voice told him she wasn’t looking forward to the task. “Next time I’m on the show,” he joked, “I’ll try not to be so personable.”

  She made a noise—something between a snort and a grunt. A moment ago she’d been friendly and outgoing. But now? He crossed “sense of humor” off his Good Things About Her list. Women, Logan thought, should come with warning labels. And instruction manuals.

  She sat at her desk and adjusted the tilt of a silver-framed photo of a young boy. Must be Bianca’s son; he had the same eyes as her. And if the boy’s mischievous smirk was any indicator, he was a handful. No photo of a husband, he noticed, but then, there wasn’t much room for one on her work-cluttered desk. Maybe a thorny divorce explained her sudden mood shift, or juggling family and career was more than she could handle today. And maybe, he thought, stifling a grunt of his own, she was like every other woman he’d met: impossible.

  “Help yourself,” Bianca said. “Mugs are in the cabinet above the coffeemaker.” She put her back to him and began tapping numbers into her cell phone.

  “Hey, sweetie,” she said as he filled a station-logoed mug. “It’s so good to hear your voice!”

  Word for word what his ex used to say…before rehab. Funny how she’d liked him better all boozed up. The reminder was enough to crush all desire to get to know Bianca better. Well, that, and the possibility that she was married.

  Logan glanced at his watch. If he left right now, he might just make it to his next interview on time. He waved, hoping to get Bianca’s attention so he could mouth a silent thank-you for the coffee before hitting the road.

  “I know, I know,” she was saying, “but you still have to do what Grandmom tells you to. Rules are rules. We’ve talked about that, remember?” She covered the mouthpiece and exhaled a frustrated sigh before continuing. “Tell you what. If you do all your chores and don’t misbehave today, we’ll go out for ice cream after supper. Okay?

  “I love you, sweetie. See you in a few hours.” Eyes closed, she held the phone to her chest for a split second, then spun the chair to face Logan. “How’s the coffee?”

  “Better than Starbucks.”

  Bianca gave him a quick once-over. “If you say so.”

  “No. Seriously. It’s really good.”

  “Well, I’m two cups over my daily quota, so you’re welcome to what’s left.”

  He put the mug on the counter. “So that was your son on the phone?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” A tiny smile played at the corners of her mouth as she glanced at the picture. “Drew. He’s seven.”

  “I have two sisters. The youngest has a boy about his age. Maybe they go to school together.”

  “Baltimore is a big city, surrounded by dozens of suburbs.”

  “You don’t buy into the ‘it’s a small world’ philosophy?”

  “It isn’t that so much as…” And like before, Bianca’s smile disappeared as quickly as it appeared. “Drew is autistic.”

  Logan didn’t know why, but his thoughts went immediately to Poe, the service dog he’d adopted when a friend’s autistic daughter had died of meningitis complications three years ago. Poe—and dogs like her—were responsible for the pro bono commercials he’d made for the local service dog training facility. Logan pocketed both hands. “I, ah, I don’t know what to say.” He could have told her that his nephew was autistic, but this didn’t seem the time or place.

  She searched his face for what seemed like a full minute. It was almost as intimidating as facing a row of scowling linebackers on the football field, which, considering her size, made no sense at all.

  “What? I have spinach in my teeth or something?”

  One side of her mouth lifted in a faint smile. “You’re the first person, ever, to have an honest reaction to the news, that’s what.”

  For the next five minutes, she provided him with a rundown of Drew’s situation: at age two, when he wasn’t forming sentences, gesturing or responding normally to physical or verbal interactions, Drew’s pediatrician put Bianca in touch with a colleague who specialized in childhood developmental disorders. Test results put the boy in the “mild-to-moderate” level on the autism spectrum. After three years of speech, physical and occupational therapy—partnered with sensory and behavioral integration—he was main
streamed into public school.

  Logan then listed similarities between Drew’s situation and his friend’s daughter, but he didn’t share the fact that she had died.

  Bianca nodded. “It takes a lot of time, effort and commitment to raise a child with autism and ensure they are happy and comfortable.”

  At least now Logan understood why she’d chosen a job usually filled by interns and college grads starting out in the industry; the work kept her in the job pool, yet afforded flexibility in case her boy needed her.

  “I take it you have good days and bad days?” he asked.

  Bianca cast a pensive glance toward Drew’s photo. “Mostly good, thanks to some very dedicated, loving people.”

  “Your husband deserves some credit, then. I know a guy whose kid has cerebral palsy. Couldn’t handle the day-to-day stress, and it cost him his marriage. I’m glad your husband stuck around…that he’s doing right by you and your son.”

  She looked surprised. Hurt. Angry. Which rattled him, until she said, “Jason died three years ago. Pancreatic cancer.”

  “Oh. Wow. Sorry to hear it,” he said, meaning every word.

  She lifted one shoulder and one eyebrow. “It is what it is.”

  Logan had no idea how to respond to that, so he looked at his watch, then blew a silent whistle through his teeth. “Well, I’d better head out. Radio interview in an hour. All the way over on Boston Street.”

  Bianca looked at her desk clock, then stood and slid his file into a drawer marked ATHLETES. “Hope you have a helicopter.”

  Proof that she had a sense of humor after all?

  “Just in case,” he said, unpocketing his cell phone. “It’s not an official guest spot. Just another of those ‘we’ll put you on air if you’re ever in the neighborhood’ things. I figured it was a good time to hawk the fundraiser on the radio, since not everybody watches The Morning Show.”

  “I won’t tell Marty you said that.”

  Logan grinned, wondering why he’d told her all of that. And why he wasn’t going outside to make his call. And who the dedicated, loving people in her life might be. Not likely a boyfriend because very few guys had the capacity to commit to a woman with a kid with special needs. His sister’s ex was living proof of that.

  “Do you have time for a real coffee break?” he asked Bianca as he waited for someone to answer his call.

  She looked surprised by the invitation. Not as surprised as Logan was to have extended it. Thankfully, the receptionist spared him the need to say something that would explain why.

  “I’d like to leave a message in Jack White’s voice mail, please.”

  The woman put him on hold, and while a familiar Eagles tune wafted into his ear, Logan said to Bianca, “You know that great little coffee shop around the corner? It’s never busy at this time of day, so—”

  “This is Jack,” said the recording. “You know what to do.”

  “Hey, Jack. It’s Logan. Can’t stop by today after all, so don’t count on me to fill air time between Twinkies commercials.” Laughing, he added, “See you at the meeting tonight.”

  He hung up, took a breath, then told Bianca, “My sister’s son, Sam, is autistic, and he has a birthday coming up.” He swallowed, nervous at sharing this personal information. “I thought maybe you could suggest a toy or a book or something that he’d enjoy.”

  Logan could almost read her mind, thinking, “Why not ask his mother?”

  “And while you’re at it,” he tacked on, “maybe you can offer a different viewpoint on this idea I have of building a school for kids like Sam. And Drew.” He paused long enough to add, “If you’re not free, I can wait. Or come back in an hour or two. If you have things to wrap up, that is.”

  Did his rambling make him sound like an idiot to her, too?

  She pointed at her desk. “As a matter of fact, I do have a lot to do before I pick up Drew.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Sure. Maybe some other time, then.”

  Silence.

  Too truthful to schedule a rain date she wouldn’t keep? He might have admired her honesty…if it hadn’t made him feel like a babbling buffoon. Much as he hated to admit it, Bianca hadn’t given him any reason to think her invitation to grab a cup of coffee from the production office had been anything but. He tried to cover his discomfort by stepping into the hall and looking both ways.

  “This place is like a maze. Which way to the lobby again?”

  “Are you parked out back or in the garage across the street?”

  “Out back.”

  “Then you don’t need to go all the way back to the lobby.” She faced the computer. “Turn right and follow the hall to the end,” she said, typing, typing, typing. “The double doors will lead you to the rear lot.”

  “Thanks. And thanks for the coffee, too. It really was as good as Starbucks.”

  The keys click-clacked as she said, “Glad you liked it. Drive safely now.”

  Logan left Bianca to her work, exited the building and got into his car. He’d already acknowledged her intelligence, but based on the smooth, thoughtful way she’d dismissed him, he had to admit that he’d seriously underestimated her people skills.

  Movement to the left caught his attention, and as the driver of an SUV backed out of the space beside his, he was reminded of that day, ten years earlier, when he’d heard the words that changed his life.

  His mouth went dry, thinking of the way he’d handled the bad news. How almost four years had gone by before he’d quit treating it with booze. The all too familiar itch started in the back of his throat and his mouth went dry. Logan swallowed. Hard. In the past he would have scratched it with scotch, but AA—and his sponsor—had taught him how to divert the cravings. Logan made a mental note to tell Jack about it at tonight’s meeting. Confessing these weak moments had kept him sober for six years, two weeks and five days.

  He jammed the key into the ignition and decided to stop by his folks’ house on the way home, see how his sister, Sandra, was holding up in taking care of their mom.

  The engine emitted a guttural groan that echoed his mood. “Great,” he muttered as a series of clicks punctuated the groan, “that’s just great.” Last thing he needed was a dead battery.

  Logan grabbed his phone to call a tow truck.

  Nothing. No ring tone. No bars. What were the odds of one guy having two dead batteries in the space of a minute? Slim to none, he thought, slamming the driver’s door.

  He could follow the sidewalk around to the front of the building and ask to use the phone in the studio’s waiting room. Or he could go into the station the way he’d come out and borrow Bianca’s instead.

  CHAPTER THREE

  RESEARCHING THE GUESTS’ business and professional backgrounds was part of her job as assistant producer. Digging into their personal lives was not. Mild curiosity had prompted her to find out for herself if the media’s assessment of Logan Murray was fact or fiction. She hadn’t been surprised at—and quickly dismissed—the juicy tidbits about his romantic escapades. For one thing, her college minor had been PR. For another, common sense told her that if he’d dated as much as the entertainment mags claimed, he’d need forty-eight hours in every day.

  Something about his message for the radio DJ echoed in her memory. “See you tonight at the meeting,” he’d said. She thumbed through his file, looking for articles that might validate her suspicions. When nothing turned up, she ran a Google search.

  Nothing.

  Bianca sighed, staring at the list of links. Page after page of photos, bios and academic and athletic awards, but not a word about alcoholism, drug addiction or rehab. If only she could find the article she’d read, months ago, about the time he’d spent in rehab. Well, she thought, they didn’t call it Alcoholics Anonymous for nothing.

  Or she’d been dead wrong about him.

  But why was it so important to find black-and-white evidence that he had skeletons in his closet? Because she needed reasons not to like him. Yeah, he’d said yes
to her coffee offer, and yes, he’d invited her to talk autism at the café around the corner. That didn’t mean he was interested in her. His file was filled with full-color photographic evidence that he liked his women footloose and flashy, not exhausted and widowed. She tossed the file aside and caught sight of her reflection in the mirrorlike window of the microwave. “You look old enough to be your own mother,” she muttered, frowning.

  “Talking to yourself again, eh?”

  Bianca clapped a hand over her chest. “Good grief, Marty. You scared me half to death!”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I whistled all the way down the hall so I wouldn’t startle you.” Then he nodded at Drew’s photograph. “How does he like the new school?”

  “He’s holding his own, I suppose.”

  “What’s that mean…you suppose?”

  “Well, he’s talking a whole lot more and making eye contact most of the time. Best of all, he lets me hug him, and once in a while, he even hugs me back.” Bianca thought of all the years when Drew had turned his face and stiffened when she showed affection in any way. She held her breath to forestall tears. “I just…hoped he’d be further along by now.”

  He gave her shoulder a friendly squeeze. “I don’t need to remind you, of all people, that these things take time, do I?”

  She returned his smile. “No, guess not. And I don’t need to tell you that I’m not exactly the most patient mom on the planet, do I?”

  “No, guess not,” Marty echoed.

  “So what brings you all the way down the hall to my minuscule cubicle?”

  “Would you believe I misplaced Logan Murray’s contact info? I forgot to thank him for inviting me to that golf outing last week.”

  Bianca reopened the file, grabbed a Post-it and wrote Logan’s name and phone number on it.

  Marty folded it in two and tucked it into the pocket of his crisp white shirt. “Want me to tell him anything for you?”

  “Such as…?”