Devoted to Drew Read online

  Griff put his feet on the floor and leaned both forearms on his desk. “Can I tell you how I feel?”

  He sat up straighter. “Suppose I say no.”

  Griff shrugged. “Then I ignore you, as usual.” He aimed a crooked forefinger—the one he’d broken twenty years earlier while playing HORSE in Logan’s driveway—and said, “Read my lips: Mind. Your. Own. Business.”

  Logan winced at the stinging truth of it because he wanted her to be his business.

  “Chances are, the only thing she has in common with Sandra is an autistic kid. But if there are more parallels?” Griff shook his head. “Then you need to back off. Right now. Or you’ll open yourself for a world of hurt. Again.”

  The not-so-subtle reference to Logan’s last disastrous relationship didn’t go unnoticed. Everyone had told him to steer clear of Willow. His parents’ main objection had been the eight-year age gap. She’s a lifetime ahead of you! they’d said. But Griff had been present to witness a few of her outbursts. Despite his friend’s objections—and because he’d been young, stubborn and determined to become her protector—Logan had convinced himself that once they got to know her, they’d love her, too. Griff, included.

  “Took you a year to recover from what that batty broad did to you.”

  “You’d think a guy with a hundred degrees on his wall would know broad isn’t PC.”

  “And you’d think a guy with a hundred Tinseltown starlets listed in his little black book would know better than to get tangled up with another emotional basket case. Besides, the only way Wacky Willow deserves PC is if it stands for Permanent Confinement in the nearest loony bin.”

  They’d been down this road enough times that Logan knew it was futile to argue the “Willow was certifiable” point. “So maybe Bianca has some issues. Who doesn’t? Doesn’t mean she’s crazy.”

  “Or that she was abused.”

  Logan waited for Griff to repeat the warning he’d issued during those early months with Willow: Better steer clear of that one….

  Thankfully, Griff grabbed Logan’s file. “So when are you planning to see this Bianca person again?”

  It had been almost a week since she’d sat across from him, sipping cappuccino and talking about her son, but it might as well have been an hour ago. He remembered thinking how the shaft of early-March sunlight, spilling in from the window behind her, gave a halolike quality to her short blond curls. But then he’d said, “I know a gal who works at Kennedy Krieger, so I know it isn’t easy to get an appointment. If you need help getting in, say the word.” Instead of saying “Drew is fine where he is,” or “We’ll see,” she’d got to her feet, ice-blue eyes scanning his face as she’d thanked him for the coffee and left.

  “Yo. Dude.” Griff snapped his fingers. “Earth to Logan, Earth to Logan….”

  He met Griff’s concerned stare.

  “We have work to do, so how ’bout you nap on your own time.”

  “This is my time,” Logan kidded, “bought and paid for to the tune of one seventy-five an hour.”

  “Consider yourself lucky. If you weren’t a pal, you’d pay double,” Griff shot back. He tossed a wad of paper into the trash can. “So as I was saying when you veered off into Bianca-land, when will you see her again?”

  “Next time I’m on The Morning Show, I guess. Hadn’t really thought about it.”

  “If you say so.”

  The paperback-sized clock on Griff’s desk chimed eleven times. Using the cap of his ballpoint, he tapped Logan’s file. “Back to business. If you’re serious about this autism project, you’ll need a clear-cut mission statement.” Griff leafed through the will. “What did you do, swallow a leprechaun or something? How does one guy get so lucky in life?”

  He’d said pretty much the same thing when Logan had brought him the document naming him sole inheritor of David Richards’s assets. A devout Knights fan, the mega-millionaire had often sought Logan’s help in raising funds for his pet charities, and as had time passed, he’d begun introducing Logan as “the son I never had.” When a team of Hopkins specialists diagnosed Stage 4 esophageal cancer, David—recently divorced from his third wife—sent for Logan. In what turned out to be his last self-deprecating joke, David made Logan promise to distribute his wealth “with my big philanthropic heart in mind.”

  And Logan aimed to do just that.

  “The mission statement doesn’t have to be fancy,” Griff continued. “Just a few short paragraphs describing the purpose of the charity. Who’ll run it. Who’ll benefit. Once I have it, I can write your Articles of Incorporation, file for your tax ID number—all that legal stuff you pay me the big bucks to do on your behalf.” He scribbled something on the inside front cover of the folder, then met Logan’s eyes. “Have you decided if this is to be a board-only organization?”

  “Unless things have changed since our last meeting, that’s the best way to keep greedy stockholders out of the equation.”

  Griff made another note in the file. “Given any thought to who’ll help draft the bylaws?”

  Logan rested his elbows on the wingback’s arms, then steepled his fingers under his chin. He groaned again, wondering if he’d made a mistake. Funneling the remaining dollars into David’s existing charities would be way easier than building one from the ground up. But his old friend had been very specific, saying, “Your heart has never been in any of these projects of mine. Find one of your own, something that will make you feel like you’re making a difference, the way mine made me feel.” Helping his nephew and kids like him… If Logan could accomplish something like that, maybe he wouldn’t feel as if he was just taking up space and wasting the air he breathed.

  Griff was still scribbling when Logan added, “I know a couple people with warehouse space for sale that could work as a school. But I don’t know if that’s the way to go.” He paused as another question popped into his head. “How many board members do you recommend?”

  “I think the two of us can handle it.”

  “Can’t think of anyone else who’ll keep their eyes on the prize and leave their egos—and self-indulgence—at the door.”

  “Yeah. They broke the good-guy mold when they made us, didn’t they?”

  The friends shared a quiet laugh as Griff closed the file. “Well, the money is safe in the bank, so you have plenty of time to think about it.”

  Logan got to his feet. “Free for lunch?”

  “I wish. I’m due in court at one.” He extended his hand, and as Logan grasped it, Griff added, “Be careful, pal.”

  “Hey. I’ll sleep easy knowing you’re handling the official stuff.”

  “I’m not talking about this school project,” he said, pointing at the file. “I mean this Bianca woman. You barely know her and already you have that gleam in your eye. Last thing you need is to go head over heels for a woman just because she has a kid like Sam.”

  Bianca’s son was largely responsible for the hours he’d spent this week boning up on specific disorders within the autism spectrum. When he’d deepened the research by interviewing a few experts, he was surprised to learn that more than half of the markers could just as easily describe him and other athletes who’d suffered head injuries. The similarities between him and Sam made Logan more determined than ever to build a facility that would help normalize their lives. “Just be careful, okay?” Griff said, walking with him to the door. “I don’t have time to put you back together again, Humpty.” Then, “Do me a favor?”

  “No, I will not give you J-Lo’s number.”

  Griff’s eyebrows rose. “Whoa. You mean to say you actually have Jennifer Lopez’s—”

  Logan only laughed.

  “Oh, you’re a regular comedian, aren’t you?” But he wasn’t laughing when he added, “Don’t let this one lead you down the primrose path, okay?”

  Logan had recently earned his six-years-sober chip, but because he’d seen him hit rock bottom—and stay there for years—Griff had a right to wonder what might shove him off
the wagon. And time was the only cure for that.

  “Break a leg in court,” Logan said, walking backward toward the elevators.

  “Chesapeake fishing trip next week. Call me if you’re interested.”

  “Will do,” he said, stepping into the elevator. As it dropped toward the basement garage, Logan remembered how, after the Willow debacle, Griff had suggested counseling, “to find out why you’re attracted to women with more baggage than an airport luggage carousel.” Griff hadn’t been the only one who felt that way, which sent Logan on a quest to prove his friend and family wrong. Unfortunately, what he’d learned confirmed their beliefs; according to articles and the results of dozens of university studies he’d read, Logan suffered from what experts called Prince Charming Syndrome. To this day, it remained one of his most embarrassing secrets. Because he’d self-diagnosed the problem, it made sense to prescribe a cure: abstinence.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “MOMMY?”

  Bianca turned down the volume on the tiny kitchen TV. It had been Drew’s idea to leave it on while he did homework. “I have to learn to work with distractions around me,” he’d said on the first day of school. Amazingly, he’d been right.

  She tucked her pen into the checkbook register and traded it for the math assignment he held.

  “Finished my homework page,” he said.

  Not an easy feat, she thought, tears in her eyes. “You answered every question correctly, and it’s so nice and neat. I’m so proud of you!”

  A slight furrow appeared between his brows as he studied her face. “Then…then why are you sad?”

  “Oh, honey, I’m not sad. These are happy tears. I’m happy because…” Because you’re looking at me. Straight into my eyes and seeing me! She got up, walked to his side of the table and wrapped her arms around him. “Because I love you so, so much!”

  Drew groaned good-naturedly. “I know. Love you, too.”

  Her three favorite words. He’d been reciting them since before he could walk. They had always sounded hollow, robotic, anything but sincere…until about six months ago, when his facial expressions and voice proved he meant them. How far he’d come since September!

  “Can I have a snack break before I do my spelling homework?”

  “What would you rather have—string cheese or apple slices?”

  “Ice cream! Ice cream! Ice cream!” he bellowed.

  Bianca laughed. “Okay, how about a healthy snack now and ice cream when your homework is finished?”

  He thought about it for a minute, then said, “Do I have a choice?”

  “Of course you do—string cheese or apple slices.”

  “Apple slices will get my pencil sticky,” he said, hopping toward the fridge.

  She went back to balancing the checkbook, and he went back to his assignment. His willingness to cooperate made it hard to believe he’d been misbehaving in class. Bianca thought about her recent conversation with Mrs. Peterson. “Is something going on at home, Mrs. Wright,” the teacher wanted to know, “that will help me understand why he’s acting out?”

  Months before his first day of school, Bianca had hand-delivered Drew’s file and spent hours defining every test, explaining every result, listing every specialist who’d evaluated Drew and their every conclusion. There were photos. Charts. CDs and DVDs of sessions with occupational, speech and behavioral therapists. She’d been deliberately thorough, for the very reason Mrs. Peterson had mentioned during the meeting: so his teacher would better understand Drew. “He isn’t acting out at home,” she’d wanted to shout, “so maybe the problem is at school!”

  Instead, she’d said, “You’re too busy teaching and monitoring the other children to keep an eye on Drew every single minute.” Bianca promised to spend a lot more time in the classroom so that hopefully, she’d notice something—anything—that would explain Drew’s behavior. Because when all was said and done, only one thing mattered: Drew.

  She took her son’s hands in hers. “So how’s school these days, sweetie?”

  His pupils dilated before he looked quickly away. And when he started bobbing his head and chanting “school, school, school,” Bianca had all the proof she needed that home was not the source of the problem.

  She adopted a deliberately sing-song tone to break the cycle. “Drew. Honey. Tell Mommy what’s going on at school.”

  An article in Autism Advocate explained that kids could sidetrack themselves from stemming, that distracting tendency of autistics to flap their hands, bob their heads and any one of a dozen other repetitive actions. When she explained how the process worked, Drew came up with his own distraction tactics. Dancing, not spinning; jumping instead of running; watching a video to stop himself from staring at lights. It had been months since he’d learned that sitting on his hands put a stop to hand flapping. Longer still since he’d bobbed his head once he figured out that touching his chin to his chest controlled the urge. Yet there he sat, doing both, and it seemed he’d forgotten how to stop himself. Her heart ached, knowing she’d caused it with her ill-timed question.

  Then an idea sparked, and she went with it. “What is the boy’s name?”

  When Drew looked up, his expression said, How did you know it was a boy?

  “It’s okay,” she said, scooting her chair closer. “What’s the boy’s name?”

  “His name is Joseph. Joseph is his name. Joseph is the new kid.”

  Proceed with caution, Bianca thought. Putting ideas in his head to get the information she needed wouldn’t help Drew in the long run.

  “What can you tell me about Joseph the new kid?”

  “I don’t like Joseph.” Drew sat on his hands but continued shaking his head.

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” he said, sitting taller, “he butts in line and pushes people down and takes other kids’ stuff.” Drew paused, then pursed his lips. “Joseph kicks. And hits. And uses potty words all the time.” Frowning, he rested his chin on his chest. “Mrs. Peterson never sees Joseph do any of that. She only sees me get mad when he does it.”

  Her maternal instinct was strong, and she wanted nothing more than to hold him tight and promise she’d put a stop to Joseph’s bullying. But her desire to help Drew was stronger.

  “And you know what else?”

  “What else, sweetie?”

  “Joseph calls me Flappity Weirdster Weirdo,” Drew grumbled. Eyes narrowed, his little hands formed tight fists. “And you know what else?”

  “What…”

  “He bites. Hard.”

  Bianca gently rolled up his shirt sleeves and stifled a gasp as she saw half a dozen crescent-shaped bruises on each slender forearm.

  She wanted to slap Joseph silly. Slap the teacher, too, for allowing this to happen to her sweet boy. Heart pounding, she grit her teeth. Oh, you are going to get such a piece of my mind, Mrs. Peterson!

  The poignant music of a Save the Animals commercial wafted from the television, drawing Drew’s attention, and it seemed to Bianca that the abused dogs’ and cats’ forlorn expressions mirrored her son’s mood. She tried to comfort him with a hug, but he stiffened and pulled away.

  “Wish I had a daddy who loved me,” he said.

  Did he yearn for a superhero-type dad who’d storm the school, demanding protection for his little boy? Or simply someone to tell him that he hadn’t invited—and certainly didn’t deserve—Joseph’s malicious treatment?

  Drew stared at the TV as a new commercial appeared on the screen, and in this one, Logan Murray’s friendly face smiled out at them.

  “Autism Service Dogs of America,” he said, “was founded to improve the lives of kids who need a little help….”

  She’d heard of the organization and had looked in to getting a dog for Drew. When she had learned that it could cost in the neighborhood of twenty thousand dollars, she’d closed the book on that area of autism research. Not that the dogs weren’t worth the price—for the right families—but Bianca wasn’t the type to organize a
fundraiser, appealing to friends, family, neighbors and coworkers to help defray the cost.

  She’d read Logan’s bio cover to cover and knew that it contained a long and varied list of charities. When had he become affiliated with ASDA?

  Drew pointed. “Why couldn’t I have a dad like that?”

  She hoped he wouldn’t repeat his rendition of Daddy Didn’t Love Me. If she hadn’t figured out why some parents—fathers, mostly—couldn’t cope with autism, how could she explain it to her little boy?

  Now Logan squatted and draped an arm around a happy-faced labradoodle. “Isn’t that right, Poe?”

  When the dog answered with a breathy woof, Drew’s entire demeanor changed.

  “Look, Mom! That dog is smiling!”

  The only smile Bianca noticed was Drew’s.

  “Can I have a dog, Mom? That man said it would be good for a kid like me.”

  A kid like him. She grinned at his ability to make the connection. “We’ve talked about this before, remember? We can’t have a dog because Grandmom is allergic to them.”

  His shoulders slumped. “I forgot.” But he perked up when the curly-haired mutt walked off-screen. “But—but—but—but Mrs. Peterson has a dog like that. I saw the picture on her desk.” He paused. “And she’s allergic.”

  His grandmother’s sensitivity to fur and dander had almost been a blessing in disguise, giving Bianca a good excuse to avoid housebreaking and training a dog and cleaning up after it. Still, if she could find one like the curly-haired mutt grinning into the camera now, she might think about it.

  She didn’t dare admit such a thing, of course, because in Drew’s mind, anything but a flat-out no was a bona fide commitment, one he’d obsess about until something else came along to take the place of his desire for a dog. Bianca decided to divert his attention before mild curiosity turned into fixation.

  “Did Mrs. Peterson give you any other homework?”

  “She said ‘Study for a spelling quiz tomorrow, boys and girls!’” He started reading his list of words as Logan recited the charity’s contact information. The camera zoomed in on his face. “The kids need you. Tell ’em, Poe.” And right on cue, the tail-wagging dog barked.