Devoted to Drew Page 8

  “No,” he admitted, wrapping both hands around the mug. “What do you know about this latest secret they’re keeping?”

  “Unfortunately, they don’t share much. Unless, of course, I’ve done something they disapprove of, like using too much starch in Dad’s shirt collars or letting the kids take long showers.”

  He reached across the space between them and grabbed her free hand. “You always seem to get the short end of the stick, and I’m sorry about that.”

  She laughed, a coarse and bitter sound that made his heart ache.

  “What’s this, your rendition of the pot calling the kettle black?”

  “Huh?”

  “They made you work like a dog all through high school, never said how proud they were when you earned a scholarship…with no help from them. Never congratulated you when the Knights signed you. Never thanked you for bailing them out when they almost lost this falling-down eyesore of a house. Never offered a word of encouragement or a snippet of moral support when you were cut from the team.”

  She sipped her coffee and pulled her sweater tighter still. “I don’t remember them ever saying they loved us, do you?”

  A rhetorical question, evidently, because Sandra didn’t wait for a reply.

  “And they’re the same way with their grandkids. Why, even when they were babies…”

  Sandra got up so suddenly, Logan had to grab her chair to keep it from clattering to the pavement. She paced for a minute or two before stopping at the foot of the chair.

  “Don’t pay any attention to me,” she said, her voice soft and sweetly sad. “It’s not your fault that Mom has been particularly difficult today.”

  With Sarah the pediatrician all the way out in Colorado, most of their mother’s care had fallen on Sandra’s shoulders. He’d offered, dozens of times, to hire a nurse, but his sister had flat-out refused. Yeah, his schedule was crazy, but he found time for golf outings and fishing trips, so…

  “I need to help out more. I want to help more.” He patted the footrest of the chaise lounge. When she sat, he added, “But you know what an idiot I am. You’re gonna need to spell it out, tell me what to do and when.”

  She got up again. “I know you do what you can.” And perching on the patio’s wrought-iron railing, she met his eyes. “We’ve been down this road, so pardon my repetitiveness as I say that I don’t want your help. And don’t give me that ‘duh’ look. It would take me longer to teach you what to do than it would to do things myself. Besides, it does my heart good knowing one of us is living a normal life.” She snickered. “So don’t be selfish, okay?”

  “Selfish?”

  “I’m living vicariously through you, you big goof. So don’t spoil my fun.”

  Sandra stared into her mug, ran a fingertip around its rim. “So,” she said after a while, “what’s her name?”

  Again, Bianca came instantly to mind. And again, he had no idea why. “What’s whose name?”

  “The gold-digging little shrew who has your heart all tied up in knots and turned your brain into a sappy muddle.”

  Logan snorted. “I’m in no position to link up with anyone.” Least of all a widowed mom. With a kid like Sam. “My life is a mess. Wouldn’t be fair to saddle some poor woman with—”

  “You, brother dear, are the least messed-up person I know, despite what that crazy Willow did to you. You beat alcoholism!”

  “I think that fall you took from the shed roof when we were kids knocked a couple of screws loose. Either that, or you need to update the prescription for your rose-colored glasses.” She was only two years older, and the top of her head barely reached his shoulder, yet Logan had always looked up to Sandra. She’d married the wrong guy. Young, naive women had been making that mistake for centuries, and so had stupid, immature guys. Sandra had gone to great lengths to correct her mistake and had continued making enormous sacrifices for Sally and Sam. If he was ever lucky enough to have kids of his own, they’d be lucky if he loved them half as much as Sandra loved hers.

  She was one of the strongest people he knew, and the admission reminded him of what he’d told Bianca: “Sandra isn’t like you. She’s fragile.” Nothing could be further from the truth, and he didn’t know why he hadn’t acknowledged it before now.

  “Get down from there,” he said, patting the lounge chair’s footrest again. “I have a favor to ask you.” The idea sparked, like rock against flint, and he didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it before.

  Sandra hesitated but only for a moment. He told her about his dream to build a school for kids on the spectrum. He ran down the same list he’d recited for Bianca, adding that with a little help, he might just succeed at opening a facility that would provide kids like Sam…and Drew…the best instructors, the best teaching materials and the best environment, tuition-free.

  “Admirable,” Sandra said, “but I barely have time to sleep. What makes you think I could help you?”

  “I need someone trustworthy,” he said, “to chase down some facts and interview a few experts so I’ll know what’s required to make a go of a facility like that.”

  She only shook her head.

  “Stop looking at me as if I suddenly grew a unibrow. You’re smart. You’re resourceful. I’d pay you. And provide you with a computer. A printer. A fax machine. Everything you’d need to get the job done. It could be a job-share kind of deal if I can talk a friend into it.”

  “Ah-ha. A friend, huh?”

  He ignored her implication. “I know it sounds crass, but somebody has to say it: Mom isn’t long for this world. You’ll have plenty of time after she’s gone. Knowing you, you’ll stay afterward to take care of Dad. But you can’t live here forever. The kids need a home of their own. And so do you. This job won’t always be part-time. Once I get things up and running, I’ll need someone to manage the office.”

  She nodded slowly. “It’s tempting. But what makes you think I can handle that much responsibility?”

  “You handle all of this,” he said, gesturing toward the yard and the house. “I know how much effort and energy goes into maintaining all of this without neglecting Dad or the kids. Will there be a learning curve?” He shrugged. “’Course there will. But you can handle it.”

  She grinned. “Because I handle all of this,” she echoed.

  “I’d pay you well.”

  “I know that.” She paused, as if considering her options. “How soon would I need to start?”

  “Tomorrow.” He hoped he could talk Bianca into sharing the job. It would require introducing her to his sister, but he had a feeling they’d get along great. “Kidding,” he said. “It’ll take me a couple of days to line things up, buy some office equipment.” For here and for Bianca’s house—if she’d stop being stubborn and just say yes.

  “Better drag my tight-shirt, short-pants self home,” he said, standing. He bent down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Promise me something?”

  “Maybe.” She got to her feet.

  “Don’t think this to death, okay? You’ll scare yourself and talk yourself out of it.”

  “Okay. I promise. No thinking.” Then she poked a fingertip into his chest. “So you never answered my question.”

  “Which question?” As if he didn’t know.

  “What’s her name? And don’t feed me any of your ‘I’m not interested, I’m not worthy’ baloney, or I’ll think of ways to nag it out of you instead.”

  She’d do it, too, he thought, grinning. “It isn’t what you think. Strictly professional. Not even a ‘friend’ thing. Single mom, like you. And like you, she has an autistic kid. I’m hoping she’ll share this job with you because in my opinion, you’re both perfect for it.”

  “If you say so.” She crossed both arms over her chest. “What’s her name!”

  “Stubborn, thy name is Sandra.”

  “I’m pooped but not so pooped that you can sidetrack me with botched Shakespeare quotes.”

  He waved an imaginary white flag. “Bia
nca Wright.”

  “Well, now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  Actually, it was. He’d probably be up half the night wondering why his heartbeat doubled when he said her name.

  “Go home, Logan. I’m going to bed.” She stepped into the family room. “Lock up on your way out, will you?”

  “You lock up, lazybones,” he said, starting toward the driveway. “I’m parked over there.”

  She flicked the patio light on and off as he said, “Sweet dreams, sis.”

  “I’d say ‘you, too,’ but that would just be redundant, wouldn’t it?”

  Sandra closed the door before he could rebut the comment.

  In one tick of his wristwatch, she locked the door. In the next, the vertical blinds snapped shut. Then the lights went out and he found himself alone in the dark…

  …in more ways than one.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ACCORDING TO MRS. Peterson, it had not been a good day for Drew.

  “I’m so sorry to bother you at work,” the teacher said, “but I’m wondering…did Drew take his medicine today?”

  Bianca hated taking calls like this at work; it was turning into a not-so-good day for her, too. She reminded the woman of their in-person meeting three months ago, when she’d explained that, at the urging of the behavioral therapist at Kennedy Krieger, she had reluctantly agreed to test a low dose of Ritalin in the hope it would help Drew focus on schoolwork. Almost immediately he had begun complaining about headaches, dizziness and an accelerated heartbeat, and the doctor had weaned him from the stimulant. Drew had been drug-free since.

  “Did you move his desk,” Bianca said, “as his doctor recommended?”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. No, I just haven’t had time.”

  The admission was disappointing but not surprising. The summer before Drew entered first grade, Bianca had attended three meetings with the principal and the school counselor to determine if mainstreaming was best for him. Both women assured her that the Hillsborough Elementary curriculum and staff were exactly what Drew needed, but two months into the school year, it became clear they’d exaggerated their knowledge of autism and their abilities to handle kids on the spectrum. And because Drew didn’t handle change well at all, Bianca had taken it upon herself to fill in the gaps rather than move him to another school.

  “Have you had time to put a stop to Joseph’s bullying?” She pictured the bite marks on Drew’s arms. “I’d hate to bring the matter to the attention of the school board….”

  “I’ve had a talk with him,” the teacher said, “and his parents.” She paused. “Has Drew said something? Because I haven’t seen any evidence that the bullying hasn’t stopped.”

  The woman’s voice was shaking. Not a good sign. Bianca needed the teacher’s cooperation, and alienating her with accusations wasn’t the way to get it.

  “I remember that we discussed how the constant flicker and buzz of fluorescent lighting is a problem for kids like Drew and how there’s nothing you can do about it. But sitting near the pencil sharpener and the open classroom door—where he can be sidetracked by the normal movements of students in the hall—is a problem we can solve.”

  She’d said it all before. Would Mrs. Peterson take her seriously this time?

  “Oh, yes, I know I promised to move him.” She sighed. “There just always seems to be something distracting me.” The teacher laughed quietly. “I’m really sorry, Mrs. Wright. I’ll do it now, before the children return from the cafeteria.”

  “You don’t know what a relief it is to hear you say that. Thank you! Now, I hate to be a pain…” But if that’s what it takes, that’s exactly what I’ll be. “…but you’ll need to meet him in the hall. Get him alone, and make sure you have his full attention before you tell him that his mother told you to move his desk to a quieter part of the classroom. He’s been expecting it to happen because he and I talk about distractions and how to avoid them, all the time. If he manages to slip inside before you see him and his desk isn’t where it was when he left for lunch? Well, I think you know what will happen. And an agitated Drew isn’t good for anyone.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” After a short pause, the woman added, “You have my word—I’ll take good care of him.”

  How many times have I heard that this year? “‘Thank you’ really seems like such a paltry thing to say, considering all the extra effort you’re putting in, teaching Drew. It’s such a relief to know he’s in capable, caring hands when he’s away from home.” And if I have to slather compliments a foot deep, I’ll do that, too, if it means Drew will get what he needs.

  “Most of the time he’s an easy boy to love. Why, he’s kept us all in stitches this week, talking about the ‘nonsneezy’ dog he’s going to get!”

  She’d been very careful not to mention anything about a dog. Why get his hopes up if Logan couldn’t find the right one?

  “Drew must have overheard my mother and I talking. We’re considering a companion dog, but nothing is set in stone.” She explained how service dogs benefited autistic kids if the breed and the boy were the right match.

  “Well, I’d better go,” Mrs. Peterson said, “if I hope to catch Drew before he reaches the classroom. Just one more thing, though….”

  That didn’t sound good, Bianca thought, holding her breath.

  “He started out green today, and I had to change him to red. But since I’m moving his desk just as soon as we hang up, I think I’ll move him back to green.”

  The Hillsborough method for encouraging good behavior—and disapproving of the bad—probably made sense to the staff and maybe even to other parents. She was pretty sure that after a few days of looking at the stoplight poster, it blended into the background, along with the card rack that hung beside it. Every day, all students started out with green cards in their slots. Cooperation and compliance allowed them to hold on to green. Talking out of turn or getting up without permission might demote them to yellow. Things like arguing and shouting resulted in orange cards. Blatant disobedience or disrespect earned red.

  Exhaling, Bianca said, “Thank you. I know he’ll appreciate that.”

  Mrs. Peterson laughed softly, but clearly her heart wasn’t in it. “Well, let’s just hope he doesn’t lose it again before he gets home!”

  Bianca stifled a sigh. “He hates red days, so I’m sure he’ll do his best to hold on to his green sticker.” Not exactly the truth, but Mrs. Peterson didn’t need to know that. Drew had shared his assessment of the system over supper several weeks earlier: All the teachers and aides really need to do, he’d said, is listen to what a kid wants and explain if the answer is no.

  Bianca promised to have a talk with Drew about today’s behavior, and Mrs. Peterson would try to get his desk moved.

  Try, she thought, frowning as she hung up the phone. Jason had used the word with regularity: I’ll try to get home in time to go with you to Drew’s doctor. I’ll try not to say things that hurt his feelings. I’ll try to spend more time with him…. But he never followed through, and it made her question the veracity of everything else he’d said, from why he arrived home late to why he didn’t call while out of town on business.

  Though Bianca knew it wasn’t fair to measure all men by Jason’s behavior, the word made her suspicious of Logan, too. He hadn’t promised to get back to her with information about companion dogs, but he’d certainly made her believe he’d try.

  That had been a week ago.

  “Didn’t try very hard,” she groused. Grabbing her pen, she picked up the phone again and prepared to call tomorrow’s The Morning Show guests to see if they had any last-minute questions. “Could have walked to Mt. Airy,” she grumped, mashing the phone’s buttons, “and met with the woman myself in the time it’s taking him to—”

  “This talking to yourself is becoming a habit.”

  Startled, Bianca nearly dropped her pen and the handset. “Marty, one of these days you’re going to be the death of me!”

  “Oops.” H
e winced. “Sorry, kiddo.” Extending one brown-socked foot, he wiggled his toes. “Those new cowboy boots were bitin’ my dogs. Takes time to break in a new pair.” He loosened his tie and sat on the chair beside her desk.

  “Apology accepted. This time.” She added, “Thinking of becoming a signalman, are you?”

  “A signalman?”

  “You’re wearing the perfect neckwear for the job.”

  He waved the tie’s tail at her. “What kind of Baltimorean doesn’t recognize the Orioles’ colors!”

  “Of course. The season is in full swing, isn’t it?” And before Marty beat her to the punch, she said, “Pun intended.”

  Shaking his head, Marty clapped a hand over his eyes. “If you ever decide to give up producing, I can hook you up with a pal at the Comedy Factory down on Market Street. I can almost picture you doing stand-up.”

  Laughing, she said, “I don’t know about that, but I’d love to take Drew back to the Inner Harbor. Maybe in a few weeks when the tall ships are in port. If I can find those earplugs he likes.”

  She thought of their last trip downtown, when a friend who worked at the National Aquarium had escorted her and Drew through the exhibits hours before the doors opened. Bianca would have bet the house Drew would have a grand time in the hushed and dim interior. Good thing you’re not a gambler, she thought, remembering how one look into the ceiling-to-floor shark tank had been enough to send her son into a tailspin.

  Marty patted her knee. “Hey. Don’t get all down in the dumps. I know he can be a handful sometimes, but he’s making steady progress, thanks to you.”

  “Yeah.” She nodded. “You’re a good egg, Marty.”

  Chuckling, he ran a hand over his balding head. “Hey. I resemble that remark.” His expression sobered slightly. “So is Logan Murray the ‘he’ you were snarling about when I walked in?”

  Bianca hadn’t told Marty about helping Logan with his battery or how he’d treated her to coffee as a thank-you. Never mentioned that he’d stopped by the house, or that she’d asked for his help finding a companion dog. So how could Marty have guessed?