Devoted to Drew Page 3

“Such as…you’re sorry you turned down his coffee invitation?”

  “You were eavesdropping?” Bianca feigned surprise. “I can’t believe it!” Then, in a quieter, more serious tone, she added, “That is the last thing I want you to tell him.”

  “So if saying no to his clumsy invite is the last thing, what’s the first?”

  “I don’t want you to tell him anything. Except, maybe, thanks for appearing on the show.”

  “Uh-huh. Are you forgetting how long we’ve known one another? I can see straight through you.”

  Nearly six years. He and Jason had belonged to the same athletic club and often had played doubles tennis. Marty had been at her kitchen table sipping iced tea, waiting for Jason to get home from work, when she took the call from Kennedy Krieger, confirming that Drew indeed had autism. And prior to Jason’s cancer diagnosis, they’d been regular guests at Marty’s house.

  “I’m lucky to call you a friend,” she admitted.

  “Ditto, kiddo.” The note crinkled when he patted his pocket. “Well, I’d better call the guy before I lose this.” He rounded the corner, then ducked back in. “You’re sure you don’t want me to put in a good word for you?”

  “Give it a rest, Marty. Even if I had time for a man in my life, you don’t seriously think it would be someone like Logan Murray.” As if to prove it, she clucked her tongue.

  “I happen to know that he has a nephew just like Drew. So he knows all about autism.”

  “I know. We talked about him. His name’s Sam.”

  Marty paused and said with a frown, “Will you let an old friend give you some advice?”

  “Something tells me I couldn’t stop you if I tried.” Grinning, she crossed both arms over her chest. “Lemme have it, old friend.”

  “Logan and I have been pals for quite a while now, and—”

  “Really. Then why did you need his contact information?”

  “Because, Detective Wright, he got tired of the prank calls from crazy broads who want to become Mrs. Murray, so he changed his number. Again.” He bobbed his head. “Trust me…I’ve known him long enough to be able to tell when he’s interested in a gal, and when he’s really interested, if you get my drift.”

  “Sorry to be so obtuse, but I don’t. Get your drift, that is.”

  “The way he was lookin’ at you?” Marty whistled. “He’s into you, kid.”

  “Marty…”

  He held up both hands. “Okay, never let it be said I can’t take a hint.” He gave her a quick hug. “See ya!”

  Bianca shook her head. Logan Murray. Interested in her? Ridiculous enough to be comical, she thought as she grabbed her To Do list and read the remaining tasks: call Michael Phelps to remind him what time to arrive for his segment on The Morning Show next week; write as much of the teleprompter script as possible for tomorrow’s show; order new business cards for herself and her boss; schedule an in-person meeting with Drew’s teacher; write Logan Murray a thank-you note for appearing on today’s show.

  Bianca riffled through her greeting-cards file and found a blank-inside card with a sporty red convertible on the front. Might as well get the most pressing task out of the way first, she thought, picking up her favorite ballpoint.

  “Dear Mr. Murray, the staff of WPOK thanks you for sharing your time and talents on The Morning Show.” That pretty much covered it, but Bianca didn’t like the look of all that leftover white space. How would she fill it? she wondered, tapping the pen on her bottom teeth.

  Then, remembering that Marty had invited him to come back soon, she added, “We look forward to your next appearance and will contact your agent soon to schedule a mutually convenient time.” She signed it, “Cordially, Bianca P. Wright.” If he took the time to read it himself, he’d realize she’d sent two messages for the price of one postage stamp: the station really did appreciate his time and talents, and in the remote possibility Marty was right about him, the signature line would make it clear she didn’t share Logan’s interest.

  She picked up the phone to call Michael Phelps and waited while it rang, thinking.

  Taking care of Drew barely left time for sleep, let alone a relationship. Not that she was complaining. Right from the start she and her little boy had connected on a level that no one else had seemed able to reach. Not even his own father. Bianca worked hard to repress memories of Jason’s detached attitude toward Drew, but at times like this, it was difficult to forget the cold, sometimes cruel things he said about his little boy.

  A beep sounded in her ear, and it took a second to collect her thoughts. After leaving a voice mail message for Phelps, she sent the swimmer a follow-up text. Experience taught her that, from time to time, even the most organized celebrities let things fall through the cracks. “But not on my watch,” she muttered, also sending him an email, just to be safe.

  After putting in the order for updated business cards, Bianca dialed Mrs. Peterson’s personal extension at the school. The note Mrs. Peterson had tucked into Drew’s book bag had kept her up half the night, trying to figure out why the boy who seemed content and confident at home had reverted to old behaviors at school. Talking out of turn, getting up without permission, stemming…

  “I’d like to discuss Drew’s recent, ah, setback,” she said after the beep, “so please call me at your earliest convenience.” If the recorder picked up the exasperation in her voice, so be it. Neither the staff nor the administration had gone out of their way to hide bias toward kids like Drew. Their misunderstanding of the disorder frustrated her, which inspired her decision to chaperone every field trip and volunteer weekly in the classroom. The hope was twofold: explain the causes of disruptive behavior, and show them how to diffuse volatile situations by watching how she interacted with Drew and kids like him. Sadly, neither mission had met with much success.

  But Bianca had never been a quitter. Not when her college friends told her that double-majoring was a waste of time and money. Not when Jason got sick. And certainly not when Drew was diagnosed with autism. Her son was counting on her now more than ever, and she wouldn’t allow anything—or anyone—to keep her from doing what was in his best interests.

  She picked up his picture and traced a fingertip over the sweet, crooked smile. “Don’t worry, il mio tesoro, I’ll make things right if it takes—”

  A quiet knock interrupted her promise. She was surprised to see Logan, looking rumpled and lost, in her doorway.

  “Uh-oh. Couldn’t find your way to the exit?”

  “Oh, I found it, all right,” he said, rubbing grimy hands on a crisp white handkerchief, “but my car won’t start. From the sound of things, I’m guessing it’s the battery.” He held up his cell phone. “Believe it or not, it’s dead, too.”

  He seemed younger, and he looked vulnerable with that lock of near-black hair falling over one eye.

  “I have jumper cables in my trunk,” she offered. “If that doesn’t do the job, I can drive you to my favorite mechanic’s shop.”

  “No, no…don’t want to put you out. Just came in to borrow your phone.”

  She grabbed her purse. “It’s no bother. I’m pretty well finished for the day anyway.”

  For the second time that day, he fell into step beside her. Why did he seem taller than the six-foot-three claimed by his bio? Well-toned thighs flexed with every step. So much for the accuracy of the Post article claiming he’d let himself go since retiring from the game.

  He held open the door, and as she stepped outside, Logan pointed. “That’s my car over there.”

  She pointed, too. “And that’s mine. Be right with you.”

  In one article about him, she recalled, a reporter had called Logan flamboyant, conceited, a braggart. Yet he was wearing an ordinary navy suit and driving a sedate black sedan. Had he changed a lot since his football days, or were the reports flawed?

  Bianca got into her car, started the engine, then parked nose to nose with Logan’s Camry, leaving just enough space to stand between the vehicles.
How strange, she thought, climbing out of her Jeep, that even her mom drove a flashier vehicle than his. Bianca fastened her keys to the clip inside her purse and popped open the hood.

  “So,” Logan said, aiming a thumb over his shoulder, “was that Italian I heard when I walked into your office just now?”

  “Italian?” It took a moment to figure out what he meant. “Oh, you mean il mio tesoro….”

  Nodding, Logan pried open his hood, too.

  “It’s just a little term of endearment. Something I’ve called Drew since before he was born.”

  “‘My treasure,’” he translated. “I think that’s…sweet.”

  Why the hesitation? She’d met far too many people who considered kids like Drew nothing more than badly behaved nuisances. Some made half-baked attempts at tolerance. Others didn’t even try. Which was Logan?

  “My mom is Italian,” they said at the same time.

  Laughing quietly, Logan looked at the sky. “Takes me back…. My mom used to call me poco terrore.” He met her eyes to add, “Totally different mothering style, evidently.”

  “Little terror?” Bianca couldn’t resist a smile. According to her research, Logan was the youngest of three and the only boy. “So you were a handful even as a kid, huh?”

  His expression said, “Even then”? But Logan held out a hand. “If you’ll give me your keys, I’ll get the jumper cables out of the back of your car.”

  “Thanks, but it’ll be faster if I get them.”

  Bianca knew where the cables were. She had to know exactly where everything was—in the house, in her purse, here in the car—because she never knew when a noise, a crowd, a scent might set Drew off and she’d need to put her hands on something else that would quiet him quickly.

  She moved both backpacks aside—one holding an assortment of toys, the other stuffed with healthy nonperishable snacks—and unearthed the duffel she’d filled with two outfits for Drew and a change of clothes for herself. Behind it sat the “Just in Case” bin, where she’d stacked blankets, a portable DVD and movies, earplugs and an odd assortment of miscellaneous paraphernalia. Finally, under that, she grabbed the red-zippered pouch labeled Car Kit.

  “What’s all that?” he asked. “Your bug-out gear?”

  She’d seen a cable TV show featuring people who claimed to be prepared for any emergency, including grab-and-go bags.

  “I guess you could call it that.”

  “Drew is one lucky kid.”

  “Oh?” Bianca grabbed the cables, then slammed the hatch.

  “Looks like you’re ready for just about any eventuality, which probably gives him a lot of security if things get crazy.”

  A lucky guess? Or had Logan learned a thing or two from his nephew? Might be nice, she thought, interacting with someone who understood what her life was like. How odd that all those articles and news clips showed an entirely different side of him. The negative reports told her Logan had bowed and scraped to garner media attention. What would those correspondents say if they could see him now, tie loosened and shirtsleeves cuffed, ready for—how had he put it?—any eventuality. Still, there was no escaping the fact that he hadn’t just been a top-notch quarterback. He’d costarred in a few box-office hits and earned the moniker “TV’s Commercial King” by making every product he advertised on TV seem too good to be true. Maybe what she was witnessing boiled down to two words: good actor.

  A gust of March wind took her breath away. If she’d trusted Marty’s forecast, Bianca would have worn a coat over her blazer.

  “Cold?”

  “I’ll be fine.” Shoulders up to fend off the chill, she said, “I’ll get started while—”

  He reached into his front seat and grabbed his suit coat. “First put this on.”

  Tempting as it was to accept it, Bianca said, “No, thanks.” If she got dirt or grease on it, she couldn’t afford to have it cleaned.

  But he draped it over her shoulders anyway. Using his chin as a pointer, Logan added, “You sure you know how to use those things?”

  “These,” she said, “and every other tool in the shed. Except for the chainsaw.” Bianca cringed. “That thing gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

  “Okay, then….” He got into his car and left the driver’s door ajar.

  “Everything turned off?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Emergency brake on?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Bianca connected one red clamp to her battery’s positive terminal, attached the other to the positive terminal on Logan’s battery, then clipped the black clamp to the negative terminal of her battery and connected the second black clamp to an unpainted bolt on his engine block.

  “Okay,” she said, “I’m going to start the Jeep.”

  She stuck the key into the ignition and hesitated. He probably knew to let her car’s engine idle a minute or two before starting his. Bianca didn’t want to insult him, but she couldn’t afford the time or money to replace their batteries if he didn’t.

  “You know not to start your car right way, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She couldn’t see him, thanks to the raised hoods, but if his agreeable tone of voice matched his expression, he hadn’t taken the question the wrong way.

  Bianca fired up the Jeep, then hurried to the driver’s side of his car.

  Sunshine lit his face, making him squint as he looked up at her. Bianca stepped aside so that her shadow would block it…but not before noticing the pale dots peppering his nose and cheeks. Freckles? At thirty-five?

  “Think it’s safe to rev ’er up now?”

  She nodded. “Just don’t give it too much gas, okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  When his car started right up, she fist-pumped the air the way she did every time Drew reached a goal…and Logan’s jacket slipped from her shoulders and onto the dirty parking lot.

  Retrieving it, she dusted it off. “See? I had a feeling something like that would happen.”

  Out of the car now, he took it from her and gave it a once-over. “Clean as a whistle.”

  But she could see the grit and grime that had stained the front pocket. Bianca felt duty-bound to do something about it.

  “Just so happens there’s a stack of dry cleaning on my closet floor,” she said, reaching for it. “I’ll drop it off with the rest of my—”

  He held tight. “I told you that it’s fine. But even if it wasn’t, I have an account with the best dry cleaner in town.” He shrugged. “Besides, you already have enough on your shoulders.”

  Before she could ask what he meant, Logan said, “Can I get you to do me another favor?”

  She caught herself staring. “A favor?”

  “I don’t trust this old beast to fire up again when I need it to, so I was wondering if maybe you’ll let me buy you that cup of coffee now to thank you for the jump-start. And to keep you around awhile. For backup. In case this old clunker decides to play dead again when I get ready to hit the road.”

  The mention of his dead battery reminded her that she hadn’t detached the cables. “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she muttered. Silently, she ran down the step-by-step process: remove black clamp from his engine bolt, then black clamp from my battery. Now red clamp from my car and red clamp from his.

  Once finished, she said, “It’s been so long since I did this that I wasn’t sure I’d remember the right order to do things.”

  “Now she tells me,” he said to the cloudy sky.

  In her rush to put everything back where it belonged in the Jeep, Bianca nearly dropped the cables.

  Logan caught them. Caught her hands, too.

  “You’re freezing,” he said. “Now you have to let me buy you a nice hot cup of coffee. The least I can do is warm you up after making you stand out here in the cold wind all this time. If you have time, that is, before picking Drew up at school.”

  Bianca checked her watch. By her calculations she had hours and hours!

&nbs
p; Logan’s lips slanted in a charming, boyish grin. “So you have time, then?”

  She was freezing. It would feel good to discuss Drew’s condition with someone who really understood it. And she was curious to hear more about this school he wanted to build, for no other reason than to get him on the show to tell the viewers all about it.

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “Try not to overexcite yourself,” he teased, tossing the jacket onto the passenger seat, then climbing into his car. While parallel parking across from the café, Bianca remembered the last time she’d jumped a car battery; it had been three and a half years ago, driving home from Jason’s funeral. Drew had gone completely ballistic, drawing the attention of every driver who had passed them on Frederick Road. And the last man she’d shared coffee with? The funeral director, who’d served it in a tiny disposable cup.

  Memory of his solemn, monotonous voice prompted a grin because something told her this impromptu coffee date with Logan would be anything but boring.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “SO LET me get this straight,” Griff said, “you spent an hour—”

  “Hour and twenty minutes.”

  “Pardon me. I stand corrected.” Griff leaned back in his oversized desk chair and propped both pointy-toed cowboy boots on the glass and stainless-steel desk. “You spent slightly less than an hour and a half with this gal, and already you’re feeling…protective.”

  “She reminds me of Sandra.” He shrugged. “So sue me.”

  Not surprisingly, Griff didn’t violate the attorney–client rule, divulging details of his sister’s case, even though he and Logan had been as tight as brothers since high school. Logan had seen Griff through a brutal divorce, and Griff had helped Logan survive the first grueling year after the team dropped him.

  “But she’s a widow?”

  “Yeah….”

  “Then I don’t get it. Your sister divorced her thug of a husband. Do you suspect this Bianca woman was abused, too?”

  “No.” She hadn’t said or done anything to leave that impression. “I can’t explain it,” Logan admitted. “It’s just…” He didn’t dare say It’s just something I feel. Because of the autism connection, and because he was in no mood to fend off his friend’s razzing.