A Kid to the Rescue Read online

  The table clamored with good-byes and best wishes for his sister. He made his way around to everyone, butting fists with each of the kids, admonishing them all to “fight the good fight.”

  Fight the good fight.

  Another reference to violence. And while it might be appropriate for sick kids struggling to survive, Shannon didn’t think it was appropriate for Ryan.

  Maybe there was another art therapist in Erie. One that didn’t come with Greg Hawkins’s other “specialties.”

  GREG FORCED HIMSELF to stand still on the platform while the woman from the tux shop ran a tape measure up the inside of his thigh. It wasn’t so much her actions that were making him uncomfortable, or that two of his brothers, Finn and Hayden, were snickering at his obvious unease. No, he was uncomfortable and on his way to being pissed off because his sister Elke, who insisted on supervising every last detail of this wedding right down to the tux measurements, had brought her best friend and maid of honor with her.

  His ex-girlfriend, Denise.

  The one he’d broken up with a month ago.

  Hayden came behind him and leaned in. “She’s eyeing you like a Doberman eyes a T-bone. She’s hungry, and you’re the main course.”

  “What are you whispering about, Hayden?” Elke demanded. “Is there a problem?”

  Her groom, Jeremy Kristoff, who’d been doing his best Invisible Man act over in the corner since his measurements had been completed, looked heavenward. Something told Greg the man regretted not whisking Elke off to Vegas or anywhere else for an elopement. Not that any of his sisters would ever agree to anything less than the traditional church wedding. In his family, tradition ran deep.

  “Absolutely not, Elke,” Hayden assured her. “Nothing to sweat. Everything’s cool. Don’t go all Bridezilla on us, okay?” He walked over to prop himself against the counter, raising his eyebrows at Greg, gesturing with small jerks of his head at Denise.

  Greg ignored him. And her.

  When the attendant pronounced him finished, jotting down the final measurements on a slip of paper, he stepped off the platform, pulling on his mocs, and headed for the door. “Hate to measure and run, but—”

  “Wait. You can’t leave yet. We haven’t decided what you’re going to wear.” Elke grabbed him by the arm.

  “Whatever you decide is fine with me. It’s your wedding, I’ll wear what you want.” He planted a kiss on her cheek.

  Beaming, Elke glanced around at the rest of the men in the wedding party. “Thank you, Greg. That’s very refreshing.”

  “Traitor,” Finn hissed.

  “You can’t go by him. He draws guys in tights all day long. He doesn’t have any fashion sense at all,” Hayden said, now taking his own place up on the platform. “Have you seen the Captain Chemo costume he had made?”

  “Come on, Greg,” chimed in the best man, Jeremy’s brother. “You can’t actually mean that. So, if she decides we’re wearing purple cummerbunds and frilly shirts—and pink bow ties—you’re cool with that?”

  “You’re not going to pick something like that, are you, Elke?”

  “Of course not. I want this wedding to be amazing, not tacky.”

  Greg shrugged. “See? No problem.”

  “You still have to put down a deposit,” Denise piped up.

  “I can come back next week. Or even take care of it by phone now that they have my measurements. It’s not like they’re going to run out of order forms.” Greg untangled the grip his sister had on his bicep and headed for the door again, shrugging into his denim jacket. “Sorry, but duty calls.”

  On the sidewalk of the strip mall that hosted Erie Bridals and Tuxedos, the April sunshine glinted off cars’ windshields and into his eyes. Greg heaved a sigh of relief, a feeling that was short-lived as a voice called from behind him, “Greg, please. Give me a minute.”

  Great.

  He turned to face her. “What is it, Denise? Really, I’ve got a lot to do. Deadline next Friday.” Not to mention he had to figure out a way to convince Shannon Vanderhoff that he should work with her nephew. Ryan was just the kid to get his program some media attention and make Dean Auld sit up and take notice. Reconsider keeping him at the university.

  Besides, he really could help the boy, despite what Ryan’s skeptical aunt thought. It was a win-win situation.

  “We’re going to be able to get through this wedding okay, right?”

  “Of course. We’re both adults. We both care about Elke. This wedding means a lot to her, and I’ll be damned if I’ll do anything to mess it up.”

  “Of course not. I don’t know why I even asked that.” She waited a beat. “So, how’s everything going?”

  “Fine.” He could see in her face idle chitchat wasn’t what Denise had in mind. “Spill it. What is it you really want?”

  “I—I just miss you, that’s all.” She stepped in, grabbed the edge of his jacket with one hand and used the other to smooth his tie against his chest. “Don’t you miss me?”

  No. Greg swallowed a groan. If he told her the truth, she’d end up back in the store in tears, upsetting Elke. “Denise, sweetie.” He took her hand and eased it off his body. “It’s over. It didn’t work. We gave it a good shot. We had some fun. But now you have to let it go. Let me go.”

  “Let go? Excuse me, aren’t you the guy who advocates fighting for what you want? Isn’t that what you told me about getting that promotion? Isn’t that what you tell those kids you work with?”

  “Uh…” Nothing like having his own words, his own philosophy, bite him in the ass. “Well, you’ve got me there.” Sweat beaded on the back of his neck. “But this is different.”

  “Why? Because you say so?”

  “Yes. Because we’re just not right together. And somewhere out there is a terrific guy for you.”

  Her lower lip quivered, taking on that little pout he’d once found cute, but that had quickly grown old. The persistence he’d admired so much was also wearing thin.

  “But, Greg, you’re a terrific guy. I love you.”

  The L word. In his opinion, it was a word women—particularly this woman—tossed around altogether too easily. He’d seen real love in action. His parents had been married for forty-six years and survived raising twelve kids and losing one of them. The love they’d shared had seen them through all sorts of trials.

  And so far, he hadn’t found a woman he could love like that. Or one who could love him that way, either.

  Just as he opened his mouth to wiggle his way out of this jam, a car screeched to halt behind his Tracker. The passenger’s door opened, and a man burst out. The driver aimed a camera out his window over the vehicle as his companion raced toward Greg.

  “I am Trash Man, evil polluter of the earth!” The guy’s costume consisted of a black garbage bag with a slot for his head and arms. Stuck all over his body was a wide variety of junk—Starbucks coffee cups, Oreo packages, a pizza box, an open diaper that Greg hoped was unused. The bitter scent of stale coffee competed with the overwhelming smell of apple and cinnamon emanating from the round air freshener stuck to the center of the man’s chest. He wore a black Zorro-like mask across his face. “I am the world’s next supervillain. Draw me or suffer the wrath of trash!”

  Greg struggled to contain his laughter but couldn’t. “Forget it. Even supervillains shouldn’t smell quite like that.”

  “All right, then will you at least sign my comic book?” Trash Man reached into a brown paper bag stapled at his hip and pulled out a comic book in a plastic sleeve.

  Greg recognized it immediately. Y-Men, issue 23. “Hey, that’s my virgin issue.”

  “I know.” The young man’s hands trembled as he passed it and a pen over.

  “You sure you want me to do this?” Greg asked. “I mean, this is in great condition.”

  “Yes, sign it.”

  “To Trash Man?”

  The kid flushed around the edges of his mask. “And devalue it? Are you kidding? Just sign it, please.”
>
  “You’re putting this on eBay tomorrow, aren’t you?”

  His mouth dropped open and he gawked at Greg. “No way, dude.”

  “Okay. Just checking.” Greg scrawled his name on the cover and handed it back. “Now, do me a favor. How the hell did you know I’d be here?” This was the third “ambush” by overzealous comic-book fans in the same number of weeks.

  Trash Man grinned as he tucked his treasure away. “Bwa-ha-ha! A supervillain never reveals his secrets.” He turned and ran back to the car, leaping inside. The driver, who’d caught the entire episode on his small video camera, slid back into place. No doubt the scene would be on YouTube before the end of the day. Tires squealing, the car peeled out of the parking lot, leaving a black patch of tread on the pavement.

  Beside him, Denise stared. “You live the oddest life, Greg.”

  He turned, and discovered the entire bridal party, along with the employees, clustered around the store’s front door, watching through the glass. “Yeah. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  SHANNON HEARD the gurgle of water leaving the tub in the bathroom. A few minutes later, the boy came out, cotton pajamas plastered to the spots on his chest he’d forgotten to dry, and his sandy-blond hair sticking out in twenty different directions. “Hey, buddy, you forgot to comb your hair.”

  He smoothed it down with his hands.

  “That’s not enough.” Shannon went into the bathroom, tossing Ryan’s discarded clothes in the hamper before grabbing the comb. The boy was nowhere to be seen when she came back out. “Ryan? Come on, I’m just going to comb your hair. I’ll be careful, I promise.”

  A rustling noise from his bedroom gave him away.

  Shannon walked into the room that had formerly been her home office, and actually, still was. She’d put a futon against the far wall, and that served as Ryan’s bed. He had a two-drawer unit inside the closet for his dresser.

  Ryan had tucked himself into the corner of the futon, arms tight across his dawn-up knees. A couple of the books they’d borrowed from the library lay beside him. He shook his head as she approached with the plastic comb.

  “I’ll make you a deal. You tell me not to comb your hair, and I won’t do it tonight.”

  The boy’s counselors had assured Shannon that Ryan would most likely speak again, in his own time. They’d urged her to be patient. Still, she couldn’t resist coaxing him on occasion.

  He turned his head toward the wall.

  “Okay. Your choice.” Shannon moved the books out of the way and sat beside him, then very gently began to tame his wavy hair.

  The doorbell rang.

  “That’s weird. Did you order takeout?”

  The boy rolled his eyes at her attempt at humor.

  “Well, I’m not expecting anyone.” Shannon handed Ryan the comb. “Why don’t you finish it yourself. Maybe it won’t bother you so much that way.”

  Shannon descended the stairs, brushing against the jackets hung on a rack in the entryway. She peered through the peephole—and drew back as if the door was on fire.

  Hell’s bells and Lucifer’s toenails.

  Patty Schaffer. Which meant Lloyd had to be out there, too.

  Ryan’s paternal grandparents. The ones whose calls Shannon had been avoiding.

  Patty pounded on the door, and the voice that reminded Shannon of a canary on steroids called, “Shannon? Open up. We’re here to see Ryan, and we’re not leaving until we do. Even if we have to camp out on this doorstep until you run out of groceries.”

  She left the safety chain on the door, but cracked it open. “Ryan’s just getting ready for bed. He’s in the process of settling down. I don’t think seeing you right now is a good idea. He has trouble sleeping, and—”

  “And that’s why he needs to see us. We’re his family. We can help him. We’ve been driving for hours from Philly. The least you can do is allow us a few minutes with our grandson before we have to find a hotel.” Patty sniffed. “Hopefully we’ll find someplace better than the last hotel. It’s been over a month, Shannon. You have no right to keep that boy from us.”

  “The last time you visited, Ryan shut down for almost a week. Since I’m trying to get him to come out of his shell, I’d like to avoid a repeat performance. And technically, as his legal guardian, I do have the right.” But morally, ethically, how could she? Shannon eased the door shut and slipped off the safety chain, opening the door wide.

  “Don’t get too used to it.” Patty, a huge wrapped box in her arms, pushed past Shannon and began up the stairs. “I don’t think you’re going to be guardian much longer. You should be hearing from our lawyers soon.”

  A tiny dart of pain pierced Shannon’s chest. They were going to apply for Ryan’s custody? She heard the familiar whisper of emptiness and struggled to draw a deep breath as Lloyd followed his wife without a word.

  Breathe in, take what life hands you; hold it, accept it; breathe out, let it go.

  Was she going to have to let Ryan go? Already?

  Another voice clamored in her head, drowning out her mantra. Greg Hawkins. And he was exhorting her, fight the good fight.

  She’d never fought for anything, always doing as her daddy taught her and not holding on to things. Or people.

  But Ryan was just a fragile little boy. He needed her right now.

  She shoved her hand in her back pocket and fingered the card the art therapist had given her, and which she’d carried like a talisman for some unfathomable reason.

  Maybe it was time to call in a superhero.

  CHAPTER THREE

  PATTY SCHAFFER entered into the jail’s visitation room, head held high enough to balance a book on it without mussing a strand of her recently dyed auburn hair. She strode to the space indicated by the guard, second from the end.

  She eased into the stiff chair and waited. Moments later her son, Trevor, in his bright orange inmate jumpsuit, appeared on the other side of the Plexiglas. He’d lost weight; she could see it in his face. He perched on the edge of his seat, then picked up the phone. “Mom.”

  “Trevor. You’re not eating enough. I’ve left you a check for the commissary. Don’t use it all on nasty cigarettes, okay?”

  “Thanks. Dad didn’t come?”

  The again was unspoken but plain in his eyes. Trevor, their only child, had always sought his daddy’s approval. The fact that Lloyd wouldn’t visit him while he awaited trial was a point of contention between Patty and her husband. Lloyd’s resumption of the duties he’d passed to Trevor several years ago at Schaffer Furniture, their regional furniture-store chain, added to his resentment toward their son. “You know how stubborn he can be.”

  Trevor nodded. “I do.”

  “Maybe if you’d tell him what happened that night—”

  “Mom, you know better than to even ask me about that. Especially here.” He jerked his head to indicate the confines of the space, then at the guard behind him.

  “But if he just knew you didn’t mean to—”

  “Did you see Ryan?”

  “We did.” Patty shook her head. “If you could only see that woman’s apartment. Cold. Practically empty if you ask me.”

  “Is he talking yet?”

  “No.” The child had barely looked at her. Though she hadn’t been highly involved as a grandmother to this point—she had a very full life of her own, what with all her volunteering for various charity groups, the traveling she and Lloyd did and all her friends—she’d expected more from her only grandson. Some sign of affection. She’d even bought him a remote-controlled car the salesclerk had assured her would be a hit with a six-year-old boy.

  Trevor leaned onto the table, slumping. With disappointment, Patty presumed. “I did what you asked me to.”

  “Oh?” He shifted closer to the glass. “Did he react when you reminded him about the promise he made me?”

  Patty waved the ruby fingernail of her free hand. “Not really. But don’t worry. I could see in his eyes he remembered. He’s
your son. Of course he wants to make his daddy happy. He misses you.”

  “I know all about sons wanting to make their fathers proud, Mom.”

  “Your father is sensitive, Trevor, but he hides it well. This isn’t easy on us, either. Some of your father’s golf buddies have snubbed him since your arrest.”

  “Maybe if he’d called in a few more favors from some of the golf buddies, I’d be out on bond and with my son.” Trevor leaned closer to the clear barrier, laid his palm against it. “Mom, I want Ryan back here. I want him with you. I still can’t believe Willow did this. Her damn sister saw Ryan even less than you and Dad did.” Censure flooded Trevor’s blue eyes, then they narrowed, turned demanding. “Get my son back.”

  Patty’s hand appeared delicate, tiny, against Trevor’s on the other side of the glass. Her baby might be full-grown and way bigger than she was, but he needed her. If she and Lloyd hadn’t been out of the country at the time of their daughter-in-law’s death and Trevor’s arrest, if only she’d been more of a hands-on grandparent, things might have happened differently. “We’re working on it,” she promised.

  GREG DIDN’T MIND being observed when he knew who was in the other room.

  He’d been thrilled to get the call from the woman who once again stood behind the mirror. He needed to work with her nephew, but there was also something about Shannon Vanderhoff…something about the small boy in her awkward care…that spoke to him.

  A thin layer of chocolate pudding now coated the yellow worktable. Ryan, wearing an old Y-Men T-shirt that had holes in the armpits and splotches of pudding where the child had leaned against the table, drew squiggly lines in it.

  “That’s great, Ryan.” Greg made the same design as the child had, dragging his finger through the sludge.

  The boy giggled.

  Greg heard a very faint sound from the other side of the window.