Don't Let Go

by Marliss Melton

  He tried to dismiss himself. “The meal was delicious,” he began, “and I’d love to stay for a second serving, but I have an early flight in the morning.”

  “Oh,” said Jillian, sounding disappointed. “Where are you going?”

  “Just to D.C. I’ll be back on Tuesday.”

  “Please say you’ll have some dessert,” she begged him, looking crestfallen.

  “It’s Grandma’s apple pie!” Agatha piped up. “I helped Mommy bake it and it took all day!”

  The agent looked from mother to child, his mouth quirking ruefully. “Well, in that case, I’ll stay,” he decided.

  Jillian’s smile lifted Jordan’s spirits. “You sit,” she said to her sister. “I’ll get it.” More than anything, she longed to see Jillian happy again. It seemed a miracle that Rafe Valentino did just that.

  Chapter Five

  Solomon drove toward Anniston, Alabama, in a daze. As the miles rolled beneath his tires, he cast sidelong glances at his son, drinking in every feature of the boy he’d lost and found again.

  The pale, silent child huddled on the far side of the truck’s cab was as familiar as he was alien. Solomon didn’t know what to say to him. They were, for all intents and purposes, strangers. Solomon loved his son; but it didn’t follow that the boy felt the same way about him. If anything, he seemed terrified.

  When a rivulet appeared on the upholstery, creeping out from under Silas’s legs, Silas’s fear was undeniable. The boy had just wet his pants.

  Solomon groped behind the seat for a roll of paper towels. “Why didn’t you say you had to go?” he asked.

  Silas didn’t answer.

  Flexing his jaw, Solomon veered off the highway onto an exit ramp. Thank God, Ellie had sent a bag of clothes with them.

  As he stood outside the stall in the men’s room at a roadside McDonald’s, Solomon felt uncomfortably out of his element.

  He’d known what to do with an infant. Feed him; change him; croon lullabies. Silas was a little person, now, independent in some ways, helpless in others. Solomon didn’t know the first thing about caring for him.

  His son pushed out of the stall in dry clothing. Solomon inspected him quickly, then scooped up the sodden pants lying on the floor and found a plastic sack in the garbage to stuff them in. Wouldn’t this add an interesting dimension to laundry day?

  “Wash your hands,” he instructed. “You hungry?”

  Together they washed their hands in the same sink, Silas’s fingers small and sturdy beneath Solomon’s touch.

  Solomon tried again. “Look here, son,” he said, handing Silas a paper towel. “You’ve got to talk to me,” he urged. “I can’t read your mind to know what you need.”

  To his dismay, Silas’s little chin trembled. His big eyes filled with tears.

  Undone by the sight, Solomon hit his knees right there on the bathroom floor. He pulled the stiff little figure into his arms and held him tight. “I’m scared, too,” he rasped in his ear, grateful that his humiliation wasn’t being witnessed by anyone else. “The last time I saw you, you were just a baby,” he continued roughly, “and I could hold you in my arms and rock you.”

  To his relief, he felt Silas lean into him.

  “Look,” he added, picking up the boy as he stood. “Look into the mirror and tell me what you see.” He put his face cheek to cheek with Silas’s.

  Silas didn’t say a word, but he took in their reflections—the identical dark hair, the light, silvery eyes fringed with dark lashes. “We’re the same,” Solomon answered for him. “You came from me, see? We belong together.”

  The little boy’s gaze searched his own. “Did you sing to me when I was a baby?” he asked suddenly.

  With a skip of his heart, Solomon realized he’d just heard his son speak, for the very first time—in the thickest Southern drawl imaginable, with a lisp that was a result of his missing front teeth.

  Emotion clogged his voice box, making it impossible to answer right away. “Aye, I did,” he rasped, at last, displaying his own Maine dialect.

  “What did you sing?” asked Silas.

  “I’ll show you later,” Solomon promised, “when we get to Virginia.” It would take them another twelve hours to get there. Solomon didn’t want to stop this time. He couldn’t wait to bring his son home.

  By lunchtime the following day, Solomon had started a mental list of things that needed change in his life in order to accommodate a six-year-old. The fact that his home was a houseboat and Silas couldn’t swim didn’t help matters.

  “Auntie said we’d be bait for ’gators if we swam in the creek,” Silas had said this morning as Solomon led him for the first time down the pier toward home. The rising sun had turned the marsh that fringed the inlet into stalks of gold.

  “There aren’t any alligators this far north,” Solomon had explained. He’d made his first note to self: Teach Silas to swim.

  Exhausted and emotionally spent, all Solomon had wanted to do was to fall into his captain’s bed and sleep. But Silas was wide-awake, having slept all night in the truck. Some of his shyness had worn off, making him a fount of unending questions.

  “What’s this? How’s it work?”

  The interior of Solomon’s houseboat was crammed with curiosities that captivated Silas’s imagination. Solomon didn’t dare retreat into his bedroom.

  Every nook, every cabinet, every drawer and cupboard—and there were dozens, all handmade and hung by Harley, a master craftsman—drew Silas’s scrutiny. He discovered the trapdoor that led to the engine room. “No, no. You don’t belong down there. It’s dangerous.” Solomon made another note: Buy a lock.

  “Come find me!” came Silas’s muffled voice as Solomon stood in the galley-style kitchen putting together sandwiches.

  Solomon sucked jelly off his fingers and went seeking.

  But the living area from which the challenge had been issued stood empty. With rising concern, Solomon cast his gaze about, praying Silas hadn’t slipped through the door to traipse along the deck, above the deadly water. “Where are you?” he demanded, as the nightmare played itself out in his head.

  “In here!” came the muffled voice.

  Solomon’s horrified gaze flew to the storage space under the built-in bookcases where he kept his SEAL gear, including a loaded, .5mm handgun.

  “Silas!” he thundered, then immediately reined himself in. The boy didn’t know any better. He was just doing what any healthy child would do; he was playing.

  With a forced smile, Solomon lifted the lid of the smooth, wooden chest. “Found you,” he said, a cold sweat filming his forehead. “Come out now and eat.”

  As he pulled the boy out, he stashed his gun out of sight, under the pile of gear, making yet another note: Buy hardware for a second lock.

  They sat in the dining nook by a pentagonal window that overlooked Lynnhaven Inlet and consumed their sandwiches. Solomon’s thoughts scrambled to address his new circumstances.

  His routine necessitated a 4:00 A.M. wake-up, in order to arrive at the Spec Ops facility by zero five hundred hours to oversee physical training. Who would watch Silas when he went to work? The Navy’s Family Services Center offered before-and-after-school programs, but what about when he was called away, for weeks and months at a time? Perhaps he could request special permission to remain stateside, but then he’d ruin any prospect of making master chief.

  “What grade are you going into, Silas?” he asked his son.

  Silas just looked at him.

  “You’re six now, right? Did you go to kindergarten last year?”

  Silas shook his head. “Christopher and Caleb went to school.”

  A terrible thought skewered Solomon. “You know how to read, though, don’t you?” He, himself, had taught himself to read when he was four.

  Silas lowered his chin and darted him an anxious look. “No, sir,” he whispered.

  The thought of Silas not having such a great source of entertainment at his fingertips dismayed
Solomon. Surely the boy ought to be reading by now, at least short little words. He added to his growing list: Teach Silas to read.

  How in God’s name was he supposed to do that, plus all the other sundry tasks, with only four days of leave time left and just a few weeks of summer remaining? Feeling overwhelmed, he scratched his head. He needed help. A nanny. A tutor. Someone who was good with children.

  A vision that seemed to hover at the periphery of his thoughts jumped front and center: Jordan Bliss. The peanut butter he’d swallowed moved thickly down his throat. She would know what to do with a six-year-old boy. He’d made inquiries—she was a first-grade teacher, and she lived near enough to assist him.

  His breath came faster. Yes, and having been separated from one little boy, she might have an interest in helping another.

  His rational thoughts disintegrated into what was recognizably a primal urge. The desire to mate with her had ambushed him back in Caracas when he’d written her that poem. It hadn’t eased, either, in the intervening days as the memory of her feisty spirit and passionate devotion resurfaced again and again. And now he had the perfect excuse to see her.

  Jordan reread the e-mail from Father Benedict with tears in her eyes and her heart in her throat. At last, she had word of Miguel, though the news wasn’t terribly good:

  Dearest Jordan, he wrote, I’m writing this from within the British consulate in Ayacucho, which is being evacuated at this precise moment as a Populist Army has seized most of the Amazonas region by force and is expected to march upon the city today. I hope to find refuge for myself and three of the children in La Catredral Maria Auxiliadora. I regret to say that Fatima fell ill with fever yesterday. I felt it best to leave her with a family of my acquaintance, who I pray will love and keep her as their own. Miguel is faring well enough with the others, though he has yet to utter a word since your parting, and he rarely strays from my side.

  You may not write me back at this e-mail. Simply forward news of Miguel’s location to the agency handling his adoption so they know where to find him. Perhaps they can negotiate some means to send him to you. I must strongly warn you that it is unsafe for you to fetch him in person.

  I hope this note finds you well and whole in spirit, considering these unfortunate circumstances.

  Yours Respectfully,

  Timothy Benedict

  With a cry of urgency, Jordan leapt up and riffled through her address book for the number of the agency in Venezuela handling her adoption. She dialed the international number with fingers that trembled with both relief and anxiety.

  “Corazones Internacional,” answered a woman in Spanish.

  “Señora Nuñez, this is Jordan Bliss. I’ve pinpointed Miguel’s location,” she breathlessly announced.

  “Ah, Señora Bliss,” said the woman carefully. “I’m glad you called again. Miguel’s dossier was approved and returned to us today.”

  Jordan’s heart gave a leap of joy. How long had she been waiting to hear those words? It couldn’t have happened at a better time. “That’s wonderful! I just received word that he’s in Puerto Ayacucho at La Catredral Maria Auxiliadora.”

  A silence followed her revelation, so lengthy that Jordan thought perhaps the line had gone dead. “Señora Nuñez?” she queried.

  “Yes,” said the woman, faintly.

  “The priest caring for him is Father Benedict,” Jordan continued, sensing reluctance on the other end. “He says he’ll be expecting one of your agents to collect Miguel.”

  The woman cut her off. “I’m sorry, señora,” she said with lament. “I am truly sorry, but we cannot send any agents into Ayacucho. Rebels have stormed the city; there is fighting in the streets.”

  “No,” said Jordan forcefully. “I know it’s dangerous, but we have to get him out. He needs me. He isn’t talking anymore.” Her own voice cracked in distress. “Please don’t back out on me now,” she begged, her eyes stinging sharply. “It took a year to get his dossier approved.”

  “You need to be patient, señora. Wait a few weeks or months for the unrest to die down.”

  “In a few weeks or months, the Populists might run the government again,” Jordan countered fiercely. “They had outlawed foreign adoptions before; what makes you think they’d even let Miguel leave the country? I have to get him now before the laws change!”

  “I’m sorry, señora. I truly am. There’s nothing we can do but keep his information here on file.”

  “Wait!” Jordan begged, gripping the phone so hard it bruised her palm. “What if I were to fetch him out myself? You could mail me his dossier with explicit directions. I’ll take them to all the right people, and you wouldn’t have to do a thing.”

  A compassionate sigh sounded in Jordan’s ear. “It would be dangerous for you, señora. Very dangerous.”

  “I understand that,” Jordan insisted. It was more dangerous to her emotional and mental health not to fight for Miguel. “But it can be done, right?”

  Thoughtful silence followed. “I suppose it could be done,” the woman carefully admitted, “if you found a lawyer to sign the papers and left him a money order for the final payoff of ten thousand American dollars, payable to us. You would then need to take Miguel to Caracas to the American embassy for the rest of the papers to be processed.”

  Jordan envisioned the monumental task ahead of her. She would need to free up funds, not just the money for Miguel’s adoption but enough money for a flight, for both of them. “I can do it,” she promised, the perspiration on her brow cooling swiftly in her air-conditioned study. “Just mail the dossier and your instructions to my home address.”

  “As you wish, Señora Bliss,” said the woman with heavy reluctance. “You should receive it within five to ten days.”

  “Thank you,” Jordan breathed. She hung up the phone slowly, feeling stunned, shocked by the commitment she’d just shouldered. It was one thing to adopt a child through an agency; it was something else to wrest him from a war-torn country and battle the legal system practically alone.

  A forceful knock at Jordan’s front door jarred her from her troubled thoughts. The sound conjured an image of a man whose memory was driven deep in her consciousness, like a splinter. It’s not him, she reassured herself, heading to answer the door.

  Through the narrow pane that edged one side of the door, Jordan spied a little boy, about the age of her students.

  Who on earth? She pulled the door open, admitting a puff of warm, summer air, and her quizzical smile fled.

  “You!” she blurted, startled that her sixth sense had been so accurate. Solomon McGuire’s silver gaze hit her like a punch in the gut. She could scarcely draw a full breath.

  “Hello, again,” he said, the sound of his voice causing the fine hairs on her body to prickle.

  “What do you want?” she asked, feeling weak and shaken, especially on the heels of that phone call.

  “Well, Jordan, to get right down to the point, this is my son, Silas,” he said, confirming her thoughts. “It’s a long story, but he’s been missing for five years.”

  The son he’d lost in his poem? It was impossible to tell from the SEAL’s expression. “Hello, Silas,” she said, her gaze sliding to the boy.

  Wide, mercury-colored eyes stared up at her as he shrank behind his father.

  “Say hello back,” Solomon prompted, pushing Silas up beside him again.

  “Hello back,” the boy whispered.

  Jordan’s lips twitched. His two top baby teeth were missing. He was too cute, even given his resemblance to Solomon McGuire. “Congratulations,” she said to the man who’d ripped her from her own child. She glared at him, steeling herself from responding to his powerful torso, his muscle-corded neck, and especially those eyes that compelled—no, commanded her to do something.

  “I need help caring for him,” he added, snowing her with unexpected information. “His mother’s dead. I work from dawn to dusk, and even though he’ll go to school soon, he doesn’t know how to read.”
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  And this concerns me how? Jordan wanted to retort, only a glance at little Silas’s expectant and innocent face had her biting back the words. A feeling like jealousy snaked through her. “I’m sorry,” she said, gentling her words for Silas’s sake. “I can’t help you.” He had to know he was grinding salt into a wound.

  He narrowed his silvery gaze at her. “You’re a teacher, aren’t you?” he demanded.

  “Yes, I am. What’s that have to do with anything?”

  “So, you should have the summer off.”

  “I’m going back to Venezuela,” she retorted through her teeth. “To get my son.”

  His face reflected disbelief. “What, are you out of your mind? After everything my men and I did to get you out?” A V-shaped vein appeared on his forehead.

  “I never asked to be taken out,” she shot back. “But I did ask you to let me bring my son home.” Physically and emotionally exhausted, with very little food in her system, she was helpless to control the quaver in her voice.

  “And I’m sorry for that,” he answered, gentling his tone in response to her vehemence. “I had my orders,” he added, defending his actions.

  “I understand. But I’m still going back.”

  “It’s not safe,” he insisted, glowering at her. Silas had stepped away to cling to the porch rail.

  “You can’t stop me this time,” she couldn’t stop herself from pointing out.

  “Can’t I?” An expression that struck her as starkly sexual crossed his face as he ran an assessing gaze over her. Jordan endured the frank inspection, hating that her nipples peaked beneath his scalding look, and they were clearly apparent beneath her tight-fitting top.

  She flinched as Solomon lifted a hand. He merely reached into the breast pocket of his short-sleeved shirt and withdrew an expensive-looking pen and pad of Post-its. He scrawled his name and a series of directions in his old-fashioned cursive. “If you change your mind,” he said, tearing off the page and thrusting it at her, “here’s where you can find me. Silas, say good-bye to Miss Bliss.”