One Perfect Spring

by Irene Hannon

  This was going to require some phone time.

  Unfortunately, after being routed through several departments—none of which were able to offer any help with historical data—he was forced to conclude the hospital was a dead end. As one harried-sounding woman in human resources told him, hundreds of doctors were associated with the hospital, and the list was in constant flux.

  Meaning identifying doctors who were on staff twenty-one years ago on a particular day would be hugely time-consuming—and the list would be overwhelming even if he did.

  No wonder the PI hadn’t bothered to pursue this angle. HIPPA laws aside, trying to find the right pediatrician would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.

  On to the priest.

  An older-sounding woman answered the phone at St. Columba rectory, but after he introduced himself and explained that he was trying to find some information about Father Kevin Ryan for a friend, she tut-tutted.

  “You have the right church, Mr. Watson. I’ve been the housekeeper here for thirty years, and I remember Father Ryan well. He was a fine man and an outstanding priest. But he died five years ago.”

  She’d been at St. Columba for three decades?

  Maybe his luck was turning.

  But how best to play this? Clandestine stuff wasn’t his forte—yet telling the woman about Maureen wasn’t an option. He couldn’t betray the professor’s confidence.

  “Yes, we knew he had passed away.” He’d be as truthful as possible, but discreet. “According to my friend, he was living at . . .” Keith consulted his notes and gave the woman the name of the retirement center.

  “That’s right. I used to visit him every few months. He only had one sister, and with her arthritis she couldn’t get out to see him too often after her husband died.”

  Keith’s pulse took an uptick. “Is his sister still living?”

  “Last I heard. In fact, up until a few years ago, she volunteered at a children’s agency not far from here.”

  “Would that have been . . .” Again, he checked his notes and read off the name of the adoption firm Maureen had used.

  “Oh no. That burned down long ago, more’s the pity. They did fine work. She used to be active there too, though.”

  He did his best to sound cool and composed despite the sudden spike in his adrenaline. “Was St. Columba involved with that agency?”

  “Not officially. But Father Kevin knew the director through his sister, and on occasion he sent people there who were in need of such services. Several of the priests after him did the same, until the place burned down. Not that any of them ever shared details with me, you understand. Being priests, they kept that kind of information in the strictest confidence.”

  “Of course.”

  Still . . . if Father Ryan’s sister had volunteered at the agency and was close to her brother, might there be a chance she’d have a piece of information that would help him in his search?

  He needed to get her name—or convince this woman to pass his name on to her with a request that she give him a call.

  “Young man . . . you aren’t a reporter, are you?” The woman suddenly sounded nervous.

  “No. I work for McMillan Construction in St. Louis. I’m happy to give you the name and phone number of the company president if you’d like to confirm that. As I said, I’m just making inquiries on behalf of an older friend who admired Father Ryan very much.”

  “Hmm. Well, if you’re willing to give a reference, I suppose you’re legit. But a person can’t be too careful these days, with all the scandals. And I wouldn’t want anyone to be trying to dig up dirt on a fine priest like Father Kevin.”

  “I assure you, that’s not my intent. But I have a feeling my friend would enjoy talking with his sister.” He dismissed the notion of asking for her name, given the woman’s sudden wariness. “If I left my phone number, would you be willing to pass it on and ask her to call me?”

  “We haven’t been in touch since Father Kevin died . . . but I might be able to track her down. I’d be happy to give it a try.”

  “That would be great.” Keith gave her his name again, as well as his office and cell numbers. “Thank you again for helping me with this.”

  “I won’t make any promises, but I’ll see what I can do. Have a blessed day.”

  After they said their good-byes, Keith tapped his notes into a neat stack and slid them back into his briefcase. The odds weren’t great the priest’s sister would have pertinent information, but it was worth pursuing. Because if this lead didn’t pan out, they’d be back to square one.

  And he didn’t like leaving things unfinished.

  Then why are you dragging your feet about sorting out your own background?

  At the prod from his conscience, he swiveled slowly toward his computer and stared at the screen saver of symmetrical geometric shapes. But instead of soothing him, as usual, the predictable pattern simply reinforced the disparity between his work life and his personal life.

  His conscience was right. After Maureen’s story yesterday, and after more or less promising Claire he’d share information about his adoption at some future date, he ought to check out the Missouri Adoption Registry site.

  Even if he did decide to follow up, though, the odds his birth mother would be on it were minuscule. From the little he knew about her, the last thing she’d wanted in her life was a kid. Yet might the mere act of trying to make a connection be enough to close out that chapter in his life once and for all?

  Perhaps it was worth a try.

  Without second-guessing, he entered the name of the registry in his browser. In a couple of clicks, he was on the site.

  There was only one page, and he gave it a quick scan. The process was simple—but not fast. Mail in a hard copy of the form and wait up to three months to find out whether there was a match?

  Archaic.

  Then again, what was another few months after waiting decades?

  At least the form was simple. Two pages, asking for basic data. It would take all of five minutes to complete.

  He printed it out. Glanced through it again. Started to slide it into his briefcase.

  Just do it, Watson. Putting it off isn’t going to make it any easier.

  As he slowly reached for a pen, his palms began to sweat.

  He frowned at them.

  This was crazy.

  Completing the form wasn’t a commitment. He could fill it out and hold onto it until he was ready to drop it in a mailbox. It was nothing to get nervous about.

  Gripping the pen tighter, he went to work.

  In less than the five minutes he’d estimated, the thing was done. He signed it, addressed an envelope, and slipped it inside. He even put a stamp on it. Then he slid it into his briefcase.

  One of these days soon, he’d mail it.

  But not today.

  At the sudden jingle of the phone on the kitchen counter, Claire’s pulse took a leap. Her hand jerked, sending a long red squiggle across Susie Ward’s spelling test.

  Oh, for goodness sake.

  Huffing out a breath, she rose to answer it. All week, she’d been jumpy as the skittish deer who nibbled on Maureen’s hostas, hoping Keith would call to say he’d decided to join them on Saturday for skating.

  How pathetic was that?

  She was way too old for that kind of teenage stuff—especially four days’ worth of it.

  Still, she couldn’t control the sudden hitch in her respiration as she checked caller ID.

  But it wasn’t Keith.

  Curbing her disappointment, she pressed the talk button. “Hi, Dad.”

  “Hi, sweetie. Did I catch you at a bad time? You sound out of breath.”

  “I’m fine. I was correcting papers.”

  “Hmm. I was hoping that nice young man might have dropped by for a visit.”

  “No. I haven’t spoken to him since last weekend.”

  “Too bad. How was your week otherwise?”

  “Good.”


  Liar, liar. All you did was mope around wishing Keith would call.

  This had to stop.

  “How about you? Did those charters you told us about last weekend work out well?”

  “Perfect. Sunny weather, pleasant people, and the fish were biting. Not to mention the extra cash I have in my pocket. What’s not to like? So, about Keith . . .”

  She rolled her eyes. Her father had a one-track mind when something piqued his interest.

  “There’s no reason you can’t initiate an invitation, you know. I understand that’s done all the time these days by women.”

  No way was she going to tell him she’d already tried that and been rebuffed.

  “I’ll give it some thought. Would you like to talk to your granddaughter?”

  “You’re evading the subject. I’ll take that as a positive sign.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up, Dad. Keith appeared in my life out of the blue. He could disappear just as fast.”

  “He might too, if you don’t take some initiative.”

  “So do you want to talk to Haley?”

  “Fine. I get the hint. Yes, of course I want to talk to Haley—especially if you don’t have anything else to say.”

  “Not on that subject, anyway. Hold on while I get her.”

  Phone in hand, she stuck her head into the hall. The music booming from her daughter’s refurbished bedroom was as loud as when they’d all been painting. Shaking her head, she walked toward the room and pushed open the half-shut door.

  Haley was gyrating to the tune, reading a science book as she moved to the beat.

  From the doorway, Claire flagged her down. Once she had her attention, she pointed to the phone and mouthed the word “Cap.”

  Instantly Haley shut off the music and bounded for the door.

  “Here she is, Dad. Talk to you soon.” Without waiting for a response, she handed the phone over and marched back to the kitchen. She wasn’t going to waste one more minute tonight thinking about a certain handsome young executive. She would focus on correcting papers. Period.

  Through sheer force of will, she succeeded—more or less. By the time Haley returned to the kitchen with the phone ten minutes later, she’d finished the papers and was preparing to review her lesson plan for tomorrow.

  “Did you have a nice talk with Cap?” Claire lifted her glass of iced tea to her lips and pushed the spelling papers aside.

  “Uh-huh.” Instead of returning the portable to its cradle, however, Haley walked over to the table and held it out. “The phone rang as soon as I hung up. Keith wants to talk to you.”

  The iced tea went down the wrong way.

  Gasping for breath, she began to cough.

  “Are you okay, Mom?” Alarm flashing across her face, Haley touched her shoulder. “Should I hit you on the back?”

  “No.” Somehow she managed to choke out the word between hacks. Holding up a finger to communicate she needed a minute, she gestured to the phone, then pantomimed that her daughter should talk to Keith.

  Keeping an anxious eye on her, Haley spoke into the receiver. “Hey, Keith, Mom’s coughing, so she can’t talk to you for a minute . . . Yeah, I think so . . . Uh-huh, but her face is red and her eyes are dripping.”

  Claire tuned out the conversation and rose to retrieve a paper towel. As she swiped at the tears running down her cheeks and blew her nose, the coughing subsided in increments until at last she could breathe again.

  “Haley.” The word came out ragged. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Tell him I’ll be with him in a minute.” Still raspy.

  While her daughter complied, she shoved a glass under the faucet, filled it a quarter of the way, and took several small, careful sips.

  With a last swipe of her nose, she reached for the phone.

  “Are you okay?” Haley relinquished her grip.

  “Yes. Go finish your homework.”

  Haley leaned close and whispered in her ear. “He’s going to come skating with us on Saturday! I already asked.”

  Her heart began to bang against her rib cage, and she suddenly felt breathless again.

  At least Keith would assume she was winded because of her coughing spell.

  Moistening her lips, she tried for a casual tone. “Sorry about that. The iced tea went down the wrong way.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” The concern in his taut voice was unmistakable.

  “Yes. Fine.” She sank back into her chair. “Haley said you’re going to join us for skating.”

  “True—although I may live to regret it. I haven’t been on a rink in almost twenty years. You’re going to show me up big time, aren’t you?”

  “I’m not that good.”

  “That’s not what Haley just told me. According to her, you’re another Dorothy Hamill.”

  “Trust me, that’s a huge exaggeration.” She leaned back. “We could do something else if you’d rather, though.”

  “Or we could do two things. Like skate and eat. The eating will compensate for any negatives from the skating. Food has a way of putting a better light on almost anything. So what time should I pick you up and which rink have you designated for my public humiliation?”

  She gave him the details while she used her paper towel to wipe up some splatters of iced tea on the table.

  “Okay. I’ll be at your door at one-fifteen on Saturday. How’s everything else been going?”

  “No complaints.” Not anymore. Not since he’d called. “How about you? Are you making any progress with Maureen’s project?”

  “I’ve chased down my best lead and made the contact. Now it’s a waiting game. If this doesn’t pan out . . . well, much as I hate to admit defeat, I’m not certain what else I can do.”

  “I think Maureen understood the long odds from the beginning, given that her PI couldn’t turn up any information. I know she’s grateful for the attempt, though. And she’s benefited in . . . other ways.”

  “Yeah. It seems she and my boss have connected.”

  “So you know about that.”

  “I put two and two together. David’s dropped a couple of hints, and he told me they had plans together last Sunday afternoon.”

  “They went to his grandson’s birthday party.”

  “No kidding.” A beat of silence ticked by. “Taking someone to a family event is significant.”

  “That’s what I thought, though Maureen is downplaying it.”

  “I’m sure she’s cautious, given her bad experience in the romance department.”

  “Aren’t we all.” No harm reminding him she was a slow mover—even if her heart seemed to be gearing up for a sprint rather than a marathon.

  “Yeah. I get the caution thing. I’ve got some old stuff—not romance-related—I need to work through too.”

  Stuff he’d suggested he might share with her . . . but hadn’t.

  And until he did, until he trusted her enough to be as open about his past as she’d been about hers, she would keep her emotions in check.

  “Slow and easy isn’t a bad plan, given the circumstances.” She kept her tone neutral. “In the meantime, I’m looking forward to Saturday.”

  “Me too. See you then.”

  When the line went dead, Claire lowered the phone to the table, grateful Keith had called after she’d spoken with her father. Otherwise it would have been tougher to sidestep his suggestion about issuing the man an invitation. This way, she could see how things went before she mentioned their date.

  Date.

  She frowned.

  Was it a date, with Haley in tow?

  Yeah, it was. Not a candlelight and music and flowers kind of date, but a date nonetheless.

  And if it went well . . .

  Her lips tipped up as she rose to rinse out her glass and straighten up the table.

  Maybe down the road she just might find herself on that other kind of date.

  17

  Keith slid his laptop into its case, reached for his briefcase, an
d stood.

  “Are you leaving already?” Robin strolled in and dumped a stack of papers in his in-box.

  “It’s five o’clock.”

  “I know. I’m out of here too. It’s Friday—date night for me and my hubby, remember? What’s your excuse?”

  “Do I need one?” He picked up the laptop.

  “Normal people wouldn’t. Workaholics like you . . . yes.” She narrowed her eyes, then smirked. “So who is she?”

  “I don’t have a date.”

  Not tonight.

  Tomorrow . . . that was a different story.

  And Robin didn’t need to know about that.

  “Seriously?” Her face fell.

  “Seriously. I’ve got to pick up some stuff at the hardware store to fix a leaky faucet.”

  “Since when did you become Mr. Handyman?” She propped her hands on her hips. “I thought you paid people to do that kind of stuff at your condo.”

  “I do, but my mom’s on a fixed income.” That was true. But it was also a non sequitur—even if Robin would assume there was a connection.

  In fact, the leaky faucet was in Claire’s kitchen sink.

  “Oh. Well, at least for once you won’t be the last person out of here on a Friday. That’s a—”

  His phone began to ring, and he glanced at caller ID.

  It was a Boston area code.

  Pulse picking up, he set his computer case back on the desk. “I need to take this.”

  “The best laid plans, huh?” She rolled her eyes. “Don’t stay too long.”

  “I won’t. Would you shut the door on your way out?” He picked up the phone.

  “Sure. Have a good weekend.”

  He waited until the door clicked before speaking. “Keith Watson.”

  “Mr. Watson, this is Father Ryan’s sister, Delores Kohler. I understand you’d like to speak with me.”

  Yes!

  “That’s right. I have an acquaintance who was a close friend of your brother.” He sat back down. “Let me tell you her story.”