A Kid to the Rescue Read online

  Shannon closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. Breathe in, take what life hands you; hold it, accept it; breathe out, let it go.

  The mantra had worked well for her up until almost two and a half months ago, in early February, when six-year-old Ryan had come to live with her. Neither one of them quite knew how to deal with what life had handed them this time.

  His mother, her sister, dead.

  His father, her brother-in-law, sitting in jail, awaiting trial.

  Ryan, the nephew she’d only had personal contact with twice in his six years, living in Shannon’s computer room, both of them struggling to come to grips with it all.

  The social worker gently laid her hand on Shannon’s shoulder. “You look completely exhausted.”

  Exhausted didn’t begin to cover it. Shannon worked nights as a hotel auditor, doing bookkeeping. Finding a reliable babysitter hadn’t been easy. And she wasn’t getting much sleep during the day, since she had to take care of the boy. Single parenthood wasn’t for the weak of body or spirit.

  “I’m worried about you as well as Ryan. Please, speak to Greg. I think he can help. What have you got to lose by talking to him?”

  Lose? “Absolutely nothing.” Shannon straightened up, moving from beneath the woman’s palm and returning her attention to the scene in the art room. Parents who had come to claim their children had joined in the celebration and were exchanging hugs and high fives.

  “Great. I’ll go tell Greg you want to speak with him.” The door to the observation room closed before Shannon could get another word out.

  She took the opportunity to get a better look at Greg Hawkins, who’d spent most of the time in the classroom with his profile to her. Now he faced the window full on, talking animatedly to one of the parents.

  She’d expected a geek—scrawny, thick glasses, pants hiked halfway to his armpits. What else would a comic-book artist look like?

  Not like this. He was gorgeous, with features that could accurately be described as chiseled, high cheekbones that gave his face an angular appearance, a strong chin and a wide smile that put an extra spark in his—blue? green?—hard to say with the distance and window between them—eyes. Dark brown hair. He looked fit, too, in a blue striped shirt with its sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a pair of khakis.

  He probably made superheroes jealous. And geeky alter-ego personas would sell out their identities for half the charm and confidence this guy oozed.

  The social worker had reached his side, and after a few murmured words, Greg looked up at the window. Shannon almost took a step back, convinced he was gazing through the mirrored glass and actually seeing her. He nodded, to her or the young woman standing next to him? After a quick glance at his watch, he made his way through the throng, offering more nods and comments as he went. Several of the children were tugging on his arms, looking up at him with pleading expressions on their faces. The positive response—“Yes” was easy enough to lip-read—made the kids jump up and down, then he disentangled himself and headed out of the room.

  Only a few moments later, he entered the narrow observation room. “Hi,” he said, hand outthrust. “I’m Greg Hawkins. I understand you wanted to speak to me about…?”

  “Shannon Vanderhoff. About my nephew.” She briefly shook his hand, then gestured in Ryan’s direction. “Miss Anderson seems convinced you can help him.”

  “But you’re not so sure?”

  She sighed, looking over at Ryan, who once again sat in a chair at the table, face propped in his palms so that only his sandy-blond hair showed. “Mr. Hawkins, no offense to you, but your specialty—”

  “Comic books?”

  “Yes, comic books. Superheroes. Big-busted women in tight clothes, weird creatures and people fighting. I don’t think that’s what my nephew needs. He’s seen enough violence, thank you.”

  “Abused?” he asked. “Because I’ve worked with a number of abused kids. My program, which doesn’t focus exclusively on using comic-book formats, gives kids back some sense of control in their lives.”

  “I don’t know if I’d classify Ryan as abused. No one ever hit him, at least, not that we know of. I don’t think his father meant him to see what he saw.”

  “Which is?”

  “No one knows exactly what happened, except maybe Ryan. But in the end, my sister was dead. The police believe Ryan saw his father beat and strangle his mother.”

  Greg whistled softly. “Poor kid. That’s hard to swallow. Watching your mom die, and not being able to do anything about it, that’s got to make you feel kinda helpless.”

  “That’s how I feel right now, too.” Shannon splayed her hand across the glass. “I haven’t been able to help him so far. I’m taking him to a therapist twice a week, but it doesn’t matter because he won’t speak. He won’t play for play therapy. He barely sleeps, barely eats.”

  “And what about you?”

  She turned to him, moved by the compassion in his eyes. Which she could now see were blue. “Me?”

  “Yes. Have you talked to anyone? Are you eating? Sleeping?”

  “As much as can be expected, I suppose.”

  Greg snapped his fingers. “I remember now. I saw this on the news. Philadelphia, right?”

  “Yes. The media turned my sister’s death into a circus. I was glad to get Ryan away from there. Here in Erie he’s not so much a news story. I detest the idea of hauling him back there when the trial starts.”

  The man appeared pensive for a moment. “Listen, the parents and kids from my group are all going out for lunch to celebrate Julie’s remission. Why don’t you and Ryan come with us? Maybe you can both eat, we can talk, and you can check out some of my references. Let them tell you if they think I’ve made their kids more prone to violence or if they suddenly want to wear skin-tight outfits and try to fly off the garage roof.” He smiled at her. “I’ll even spring for the pizza and pop. So what have you got to lose?”

  What was it with these people and their asking her what she had to lose? Most of the time she stood to lose nothing. Because Shannon didn’t believe in keeping things, holding on to things. You couldn’t lose what you didn’t try to keep.

  But Ryan…

  Ryan was different. If she didn’t do something, it was Ryan who stood to lose himself. Someone had to reach him.

  “Pizza, huh?” She shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

  “Your enthusiasm underwhelms me.”

  “Try not to take it personally, Mr. Hawkins. Look, I never had much use for superheroes. I don’t believe in heroes or white knights of any sort. I believe in not expecting too much out of life, and being content with what you have.” She pointed to Ryan, waited for the art therapist’s gaze to follow. “But for that little boy in there, for him, I want more. So I’m willing to entertain the notion that superheroes and comic-book artists might just offer him some hope. Convince me.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  PAULA’S PARLORS was actually two restaurants connected by an open archway between the pizza parlor and the ice-cream parlor. It was a big hit with Erie-area kids, as Greg knew quite well. They’d bumped three tables together, which though they now held sixteen people, still weren’t as large as the dining-room table at his parents’ house. That could accommodate twenty.

  Greg watched the boy seated next to him. The kid wrinkled his nose at the slice of pizza on his plate.

  “Looks weird, doesn’t it?”

  Ryan darted a glance at his aunt, who’d ordered the small artichoke hearts and goat cheese pie. She was currently at the far end of the table with her own food, talking to Cheryl’s mother.

  Julie, on Greg’s other side, piped up, mouth full of half-chewed pepperoni pizza. “What the heck is an artichoke heart? Eeewww. Sounds gross.”

  “I’ll bet you’d rather have this, huh?” Greg leaned across the table and grabbed another slice from the closest “normal” pie.

  At a slight nod from the boy, Greg slipped the pizza on his plate, exchanging it for the
gourmet slice that no six-year-old in his right mind would eat. Hell, Greg wouldn’t eat it, either. Not even if it was served by his brother Finn, who was an accomplished chef. Come to think of it, it sounded exactly like something Finn would concoct.

  “Aunt” Shannon certainly had odd taste in pizza.

  If you discounted the puffy bags beneath her eyes that she’d tried, in vain, to cover with some kind of makeup, she was attractive enough. Not in the superheroine sense, but more the girl next door. The kind the superheroes always fell for. Shoulder-length burnt-sienna hair. Milk-chocolate eyes. If he had to guess he’d estimate her to be around his own age, somewhere in the early to mid-thirties.

  She carried herself with quiet, easygoing grace, someone comfortable with herself and her life.

  Except when it came to her nephew.

  She glanced up and caught Greg studying her. With a nod to Cheryl’s mother, she picked up her plate and headed back to their end of the table. She did a double take as she slid into her chair. “Ryan, you ate that whole slice of pizza already? Wonderful. Do you want anther one?”

  The kid ducked his head, pleading with Greg from beneath his lowered eyes.

  “Wait a minute,” Shannon said, hand hovering over the artichoke pie. “There were only two slices of this left. How come there are three here?”

  Ryan’s expression turned beseeching.

  “He, uh, decided he wanted the pepperoni instead. We traded it in,” Greg explained. “Artichoke’s sort of an acquired taste.”

  “And how will he acquire the taste if he never tries it?”

  Greg shrugged. “You’ve got a point.”

  “There are so many wonderful, interesting foods. It’s a pity more people don’t try to expand their horizons.” With a sly grin that animated her face for the first time since they’d met, she lifted the metal pan and offered it to him. “How about you, Mr. Hawkins? Ever tried artichoke pizza before?”

  “N-oo. Can’t say that I have.”

  “Well, I think you should set a good example for the children. Try it. Just a taste. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to eat it.”

  Julie giggled, then covered her mouth with her hands. Her mom also chuckled. Ryan’s eyes widened. The challenge was passed from kid to kid around the table, like a lightning-fire version of the telephone game, until all conversation stopped and everyone turned to look at him.

  She’d thrown down the gauntlet.

  With a wink at Ryan, Greg took a slice. He slowly lifted it to his mouth, pausing to dart a quick glance with raised eyebrows at each of the kids, who all shook their heads, several of them calling out, “Don’t do it!”

  Like a connoisseur checking a fine wine, he inhaled deeply. “Smells okay,” he reported. Not as tasty as pepperoni, or sausage. But he wasn’t about to admit that.

  He chomped a third of the piece, chewing with an exaggerated motion, rocking his head back and forth as if considering the flavor. He swallowed. It was edible, better than some things he’d had—Finn’s frog leg gumbo experiment, for example—but not something he’d go out of his way to order in the future. “Not baaarrg!” He clutched his throat, gurgling, thrashing in his chair, the wooden frame creaking as he sagged back.

  Julie giggled.

  “It’s like kryptonite,” he gasped. “I’m getting weak. Weak.” His shoulders dropped, his head lolled to the side and he let his tongue hang out.

  As laughter rang in all directions, he heard a cluck of disapproval. Opening his eyes, he found Shannon shaking her head. “Great example. Thanks. Very helpful.”

  He would have laughed himself if he hadn’t noticed Ryan covering his face. Stupid move, Hawkins. The kid had watched his mother die. He hurriedly straightened up. “Okay, okay, I’m just kidding. You knew that, right, Ryan? Really. It’s not bad.” To prove his point, when the boy lowered his hands and warily peeked at him again, he took another bite.

  Shannon leaned closer, bringing with her a scent of flowers that should have clashed with the smell of garlic sauce and Parmesan in the air, but strangely didn’t. “To quote you,” she whispered, “your enthusiasm underwhelms me, Mr. Hawkins. How about it, Ryan?” she asked louder, moving away from Greg. “You want to try this?”

  The child clamped his palm over his mouth.

  She pursed her lips and shot Greg a dirty look.

  He just shrugged, finishing up his slice.

  You could lead a kid to an artichoke pizza, but you couldn’t make him eat it.

  Shannon Vanderhoff appeared to have a lot to learn about six-year-old boys.

  LATER THAT AFTERNOON, on the other side of Paula’s, the Old-Fashioned Ice-Cream Parlor part, Shannon watched as Greg, in true Pied Piper fashion, led a parade of kids around the black-flecked Formica tables to the make-it-yourself sundae bar along the far wall. No wonder he got along so well with children.

  He was one. Only taller.

  Still, Ryan eagerly held a bowl aloft, letting the man scoop ice cream into it. Her nephew had eaten more in one afternoon than he usually did three days put together. That scored points for Greg Hawkins.

  One of the moms at the table sighed, prompting Shannon to look at her. “If only I weren’t married,” the woman mused, watching Greg with the children. “That is one yummy man.”

  Nods of agreement went around the table, then all eyes turned to Shannon. The silence stretched uncomfortably, a quiet bubble in the clamor around them. She shrugged. “He’s not the comic-book geek I expected, that’s for sure. But he’s not what I’m interested in. I want to know how you feel about him as a therapist working with your kids. Do you think the whole superhero thing is too much? Does it make your children more prone to fighting with other kids, or jumping on the furniture? Stuff like that?”

  “I wish Cheryl had the energy right now to jump on the sofa.”

  “She had the energy to decorate Michael’s head,” the boy’s mother retorted, unsuccessfully trying to stifle a chuckle. “Honestly. I just never know what they’ll come up with next.”

  The women all chimed in with their opinions of Greg Hawkins. None of them had anything even slightly negative to say about him.

  “He really helped Julie fight. It’s hard to teach kids visualization. The comic-book drawings are a concrete first step. At the cancer center, they say visualization and positive attitude can make the difference in beating the disease. I think Greg has had just as much to do with Julie’s remission as the medical doctors.” The mother’s eyes got shiny as they welled with tears. “I’ve been so scared. Now I’m just really relieved.”

  One of the other women wrapped an arm around her, giving her a squeeze. When one of the kids shouted “Mom, look at my sundae,” they broke apart and Julie’s mom wiped the back of her hand across the corner of her eye.

  Ryan cradled his bowl, walking carefully back to the chair at Shannon’s side. Gobs of whipped cream and chocolate syrup topped the small mounds of vanilla ice cream. Rainbow sprinkles turned it into a party in a bowl.

  Shannon’s throat tightened. The whole thing seemed normal. Average. Which made it feel surreal, because nothing had been average or normal for Ryan—or her—in months.

  The boy dug into the creation, drizzling syrup from the end of his spoon before cramming it into his mouth. He licked dark smudges from his lips, then dipped back into the sundae.

  “It’s yummy, huh, sport?” Greg was busy with his own chocolate ice cream with…chocolate sprinkles, syrup, chips…and even chocolate whipped cream.

  “Like chocolate much, Mr. Hawkins?” Shannon asked. “I thought chocoholism was an exclusively female disorder.”

  His grin lit up his eyes and revealed tiny dimples at either end of his mouth. “There is no other flavor for ice cream. And when presented with such a spread of chocolate accoutrements, well, why not take advantage of them?” From beneath the pile of napkins he’d brought with him, he pulled out another spoon. “Want some? I’m excellent at sharing.”

  Shannon hesitated.
/>
  “They don’t have any artichoke ice cream. I checked. Please, don’t tell me you don’t like chocolate. I have a deeply held distrust of people who don’t like chocolate. Allergic, I can excuse. But to not like chocolate…” He shook his head. “Suspect behavior.”

  “I like chocolate.”

  “Phew. That’s a relief.”

  She accepted the spoon from him, then hesitated. There was something…intimate…about eating from the same dish, and it felt odd.

  He shoved the bowl closer to her. “Go on. Have some. Or else I won’t believe that you really like chocolate. After the artichoke pizza, that’s a second strike, so to speak.”

  “I thought I was interviewing you, Mr. Hawkins.”

  “Greg. And you are. You now know that I am a discriminating person when it comes to new clients.”

  “And you accept them based on their ice-cream preferences?”

  The smile faded from his face. “All kidding aside, Ms. Vanderhoff—”

  “Shannon.”

  “Shannon. I take art therapy very seriously. Even if, at moments, it appears I don’t. It’s not a game. It’s not frivolous, even if we use crayons or pudding finger paint.”

  Ryan made a gurgling noise, and Shannon glanced over at him. He had his spoon poised at his mouth but was staring at Greg with wide eyes.

  “You like the idea of finger painting on the tables with pudding, huh, sport?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Well, maybe we’ll have to try that sometime.” He returned his attention to Shannon. “So? Are we going to work together?”

  She dipped her spoon into his sundae, savoring the various textures against her tongue and the roof of her mouth. “Mmm. This is very good.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Because I don’t have an answer yet, Mr. Hawkins.”

  “Greg.”

  “I’m going to have to think about it.”

  “Fine.” He leaned forward in his chair, pulling a black leather wallet out of his back pocket. “Here’s my card. Call me when you decide.” He stole a peek at his watch, then snatched the bill from the table as he stood. “Sorry, everybody, but I have to leave. My sister’s wedding is this summer, and I have to get measured for a tux.”