The Red Gloves Collection

by Karen Kingsbury

  She slid out of the car and went to him, pulling him into her arms and ignoring the surprise in his eyes. Her answer was quiet, whispered against the top of his head. “Promise.” For the briefest moment she savored the way he smelled, the way he felt in her arms—like a like boy again. “Have a good day, okay?”

  His arms tightened some, and he pressed his face against her. “I’m sorry I’m so much trouble.”

  Megan shot a quick look at the cabbie. “You’re not so much trouble, honey. We’ll figure everything out some-how.” She glanced at her watch. “Okay, buddy. Mom can’t be late. Love you.”

  “Love you.” Jordan gave her one last look, then darted up the sidewalk to St. Andrews. Megan climbed back into the cab and watched until he was safely through the front door, then she turned to the driver and raised her voice a notch. “Supreme Court on Centre.” She straightened her notes and slipped them back in the folder. “Fast.”

  It was nightfall before Megan had a chance to grab a cup of coffee, sit down, and go over the cases she’d worked on that day. The hearing had gone brilliantly. The jury— made up of married women and retired men—was bound to be more conservative than most in Manhattan, and her opening remarks had been right on. By the time she sat down, half the jurors were nodding in agreement. The trial would take two weeks of formalities, and she’d have her conviction.

  She liked to call Jordan after school, but the morning hearing had blended into an afternoon briefing and two late depositions. Now it was seven o’clock, and she still hadn’t gone over her files, five of them spread out across her desk. One at a time she worked her way through each document, checking the facts, going over witness lists, looking for loopholes. Trying to think like a defense attorney in case some small detail had slipped her mind. By seven-thirty she was convinced none had.

  She was loading the files into a cabinet when the phone on her desk rang. Megan grabbed the receiver and kept filing. “Hello?”

  “Megan, I can’t take it. The boy made a racetrack in the bathroom and flushed a Mustang down the toilet. We have an inch of water on the floor, and the supe’s on his way up because Mrs. Paisley in 204 has a wet ceiling.” Her mother paused only long enough to refuel. “I fixed chicken for dinner, but by then he didn’t want to eat, so I sent him to his room to read. He’s been crying for the past half hour.”

  Megan shut the file drawer and fell back into her chair. “A wet ceiling? Mom … how long was it flooded?”

  “Not long, and don’t have that tone with me.”

  “You were watching your soap, weren’t you? No wonder he was playing in the toilet.”

  “Megan, the boy’s crying. Come home. We’ll talk about it here.”

  Traffic was a nightmare, and Megan used the time to think about her life. Tears were nothing new for Jordan, not lately. She thought about her options, but none of them brought her peace. Her mother was right, the boy needed a friend—someone to take walks with and play sports with. But where would she find someone like that?

  A fragment of a conversation played in Megan’s mind. A couple had been talking in the halls outside Megan’s office.

  “Child support is fine, but he needs more than that.” The woman kept her voice to a low hiss.

  “It’s not my problem. I’m writing the checks; that’s all the court asked me to do.”

  “We wouldn’t be here if you spent even a few days a month with him, can’t you see that? Kids need more than food and a roof over their heads.”

  Megan stared out the window of the cab at the dark, wet streets of New York City. More than food and a roof over their heads … The words echoed in the most solitary part of her heart, the part she’d closed off the spring of her thirteenth year.

  That was the problem with Jordan, of course. He was lonely, left with only a tired old woman far too often. The truth made Megan’s eyes sting and it roughed up the surface of her perfect plans. She’d have time for Jordan later, when she made a name for herself as a prosecutor, when she was making big money and able to choose her hours. Wasn’t that what she always told herself? For now, Jordan had to know she loved him. She told him all the time.

  It took Megan half an hour to get home. She rarely felt tired after a full day in court; exhilarated but not tired. Today, though, she wanted only to bypass the situation with Jordan and go straight to bed. The three flights of stairs felt like five, and Jordan met her at the door.

  “Did you do it?”

  Megan locked eyes with him as she walked in and closed the door behind her. “Do what?”

  “Mail the letter.” Hope shone in his expression. “Did you?”

  Her heart skipped a beat, and she resisted the urge to blink. “Of course.”

  “Really? You found the address?”

  The lie came easier the second time. She brushed at a wisp of his hair and kissed his forehead. “Definitely.”

  Jordan flung his arms around her. “Thanks, Mom … you’re the best.”

  Guilt found its way to her throat and put down roots. “Enough about that.” She swallowed hard and pulled back. “What happened in the bathroom?”

  It was an hour later before they got through the story and she tucked him into bed. By then her mother was asleep, and finally Megan took her bag and retreated to her bedroom. The letter was still tucked inside. As she pulled it out her heart stumbled. Jordan had scribbled just one word across the front of the envelope:

  God.

  Suddenly she remembered. Jordan had asked her to address it before dropping it in the mail. Megan closed her eyes, clutched the letter to her heart, and exhaled hard. Then, afraid of what she’d find, she dropped to her bed and opened it. Inside was a single page, filled with Jordan’s neatest handwriting.

  Megan narrowed her eyes and began to read.

  Dear God, my name is Jordan Wright and I am 8years old. I hav somthing to ask you. I tride to ask you befor but I think you wer bizy. So I am riting you a letter insted.

  A sad, aching sort of pain ignited in the basement of Megan’s soul, the place where she had assigned all feelings about God and prayers and miracles. Jordan had said it perfectly. God had always been too busy to hear the prayers of a lonely, forgotten woman, and now He was too busy for her son. She gritted her teeth and kept reading.

  I hav a wish to ask you abot, and here it is: Plese God, send me a Daddy. My daddy died wen his heart stopped pumping, and now its just my mom and gramma and me.

  Tears filled Megan’s eyes and made the words blurry. She blinked and forced herself to continue.

  My frend Keith has a daddy who plays baseball with him and takes him on Saterday trips to the park and helps him with his plusses and minuses evry day after scool. Mommy is too bizy to do that stuff, so plese God, plese send me a Daddy like that. Chrismas would be a good time. Thank you very much. Love, Jordan.

  Megan wiped her tears. She read the letter again and again, and finally a fourth time as the sobs welled within her. Deep, gut-wrenching sobs of the type she hadn’t allowed herself since she was a little girl. She could give Jordan everything he needed, but never the one thing he wanted. A daddy—a man to play with him and love him and call him his own.

  And the fact grieved her as it hadn’t since George died.

  Megan slipped the letter back inside the envelope and eased it under her pillow. Then, with her work clothes still on, she lay down, slid beneath the comforter, and covered her face with her hands. Suddenly she was thirteen again, alone on the sandy shores of Lake Tahoe, devastated by her own losses and desperate for answers.

  The boy had been fifteen, tall and wiry with sun-drenched hair and freckles, and they met each other near the water every day for a week. What was his name? Kade something? The memory was dimmer than it had once been, and she could barely picture his face. But Maggie had never forgotten something the boy told her that summer.

  Hold out for real love, Maggie, because real love never fails.

  Megan had gazed out across the chilly lake and shook h
er head. It would take a miracle for that kind of love, she’d told him. Nothing short of a miracle.

  “Then that,” the boy had said as he grinned at her, “is what I’ll pray for. A miracle for Maggie.”

  Megan rolled onto her side and let the full brunt of the sobs come. For years she’d held on to the boy’s definition of love—a love that would never fail. But the boy on the beach had been wrong. Love—whatever love was—certainly failed. And miracles? Well, they didn’t happen for her, and they certainly weren’t about to happen for Jordan.

  The sooner he understood that, the better off he’d be.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Year-round, Saturday mornings were busy at Casey’s Corner in Midtown Manhattan. The smell of hot blueberry pancakes and sizzling bacon drenched the air, while the clamor of clattering trays and a dozen conversations served as a backdrop for customers lined up at the door. The café was a hot spot for tourists from Texas to Tokyo and extremely popular among Midtown’s business elite. With a menu that was “healthy eclectic,” ripe avocado and alfalfa sprout sandwiches were served up alongside a half dozen styles of homemade cheesecake. The food was fresh and fast, and the atmosphere as diverse and dynamic as New York City itself. In the six years since Casey Cummins opened the café, it had practically become a local landmark.

  One of the regulars was telling him a joke, and Casey had to remind himself to laugh. His mind was a million miles away, stranded on an island of memories and secrets he would share with no one.

  Especially today.

  Most days, Casey jogged to work. He wore his trademark blue nylon sweats and white Nikes, same as always, so that when the morning was behind him he could run the twenty blocks through Central Park back to his apartment. His routine was the same as it had always been, but these days Casey logged more miles and rarely ran the straight path to his front door. Not because he needed the exercise, but because he wanted to be anywhere but back at the lonely set of walls he called home.

  It was the third Saturday in October, and Casey easily drifted from one conversation to another as he made the rounds. “Joey … how’s the new job at the bank?” or “Hey, Mrs. Jackson, another Saturday closer to Christmas,” or “Marvin, my man, how ‘bout those Nets? Jason Kidd’ll tear ‘em up this season.”

  Hours passed, and Casey kept himself in the moment. Never mind that his thoughts were somewhere else, the café routine was as familiar as putting one foot in front of the other. Even on a day like this.

  The crowd began thinning around noon, and Casey found a seat at the counter. “Long morning, Billy-G.”

  The old black chef peered out from his position in front of the kitchen stove. “Okay … ” He studied Casey for a moment. “Give it up.”

  Casey blinked and kept his gaze on the man’s face. Billy Gaynor was a quiet family man from Nigeria who’d worked for Casey since the café opened. Billy’s culinary magic was as much a part of the success of Casey’s Corner as the quirky New York street signs and Broadway memorabilia that hung on the hand-painted walls. Casey and Billy-G were colleagues and friends—even more so since Amy died. They were both widowers now, and despite the thirty years between them, there was no one Casey would rather spend an hour with.

  Billy-G was waiting, and Casey grabbed a nearby pitcher, poured himself a cup of coffee, and took a slow drink.

  “Yes, sir.” Casey peered over the top of his steaming mug. “Another great Saturday morning in the Big Apple, eh Billy-G.”

  His friend’s eyebrows forged a slow path through the thick skin that made up his forehead. “Ya ain’t fooling me, Casey.” He lumbered around the corner and leaned against the counter opposite Casey. “Ya gotta talk about it.” Customers still filled most of the seats, so Billy-G kept his voice low. “You can’t fake it with me, Casey. I already know.”

  Casey set down his coffee and lowered his chin. He thought about smiling again, but changed his mind. “What ya know, Billy-G?”

  “It’s your anniversary.” The man leaned closer. “One month after mine, remember?”

  A brief burning nipped at Casey’s eyes. “That.” He sniffed hard and sat up straighter on the stool. “No big deal, Billy-G. Life moves on.”

  “Yes.” The old man leaned against the counter, his eyes still locked on Casey’s. “But only a fool would forget a girl like Amy.” He hesitated and took a step back toward the kitchen. “And you ain’t no fool.”

  “Yeah, well … ” Casey narrowed his eyes some and sucked in a quick breath. He set down his cup and gave the counter a light slap. “Time for my jog.”

  Billy-G stopped and leveled his gaze at Casey once more. “I’m here. Anytime you wanna talk, I’m here.”

  “Thanks.” Casey glanced over his shoulder and mentally mapped out a course for the door. His throat was thick, and memories were drawing close to the surface. Some days he could talk about Amy for hours and never feel the tears. Times like those he liked nothing more than to hang out with Billy-G after closing time and talk about a thousand yesterdays. But not today.

  He flashed a smile at Billy-G. “See ya tomorrow.”

  The pavement felt like ice beneath his feet, and Casey ran faster than usual. Some of the regulars had waved him down, hoping for a conversation or a laugh, but he couldn’t pretend for another minute. Billy-G was right.

  Casey Cummins was no fool, and today he could keep up the happy-guy act only for so long. It was his eighth wedding anniversary, and if Amy and the baby had lived, they would’ve spent the day together, celebrating life and love and cherishing that special something they’d had between them, the kind of love so few people shared.

  He headed north on Broadway and cut across the street toward Central Park. The thing of it was, no one wanted to hear about his loss. Not really. People had their own tragedies, lost jobs and children in the Armed Forces, broken relationships and bankruptcies. At Casey’s Corner everyone wanted a sympathetic ear, and he made it his job to listen.

  But rarely did he talk.

  Casey slowed his pace some and headed into the park on a paved path. He’d heard people question God after a tragedy, wondering how a loving Creator could allow a world filled with devastation and loss. Some of his customers were so angry with God after September 11, they’d stopped believing.

  Casey didn’t feel that way at all.

  Bad things happened in the world, it was that simple. A fifteen-year-old rape victim, the mother of a toddler killed by a drunk driver, the wife of a police officer shot in the line of duty—each of them had their own September 11, a day when they’d been forced to realize that without faith, life didn’t make sense.

  Not a single minute of it.

  Casey’s had happened a week after the terrorist attacks, on September 18. That was the day Amy went into labor and began bleeding. He rushed her to Mount Sinai Hospital, and even after the doctors ushered him into a private waiting room, Casey thought Amy and the baby were going to be fine. It wasn’t until almost an hour later, when a weary doctor shuffled up to Casey, that he realized something was wrong.

  “We lost them both, Mr. Cummins.” The doctor had tears in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  Amy had begun hemorrhaging when she went into labor. The blood loss was too much, and there’d been no way to save either of them.

  Casey was breathing harder now. He rounded a corner and saw the familiar green and tan plastic play equipment and the giant slide to the right. The East Meadow play area wasn’t the largest or most popular in Central Park, but it was the place where Casey and Amy had come after they’d moved to New York. Normally, he would run past the area with only a quick glance and a flash of memories. Past the worn-out bench anchored near the back by the big slide, past the place where he had given Amy a ring, the place where she’d told him she was going to have a baby. The quiet spot where they’d held each other and wept once the dust settled after the collapse of the Twin Towers.

  He slowed his steps and came to a stop, his sides heaving. The place, the b
ench, was a graveyard of memories, and most days he was better off not to stop.

  But today …

  Today, there was suddenly nowhere else he wanted to be.

  A chill hung in the air, and the bushes rustled with a strong fall breeze. Casey gripped his knees and bent over, waiting for his lungs to fill. After a few seconds, he straightened and linked his hands behind his head. For half a minute he moved his feet in small circles, until his breathing was normal again. A dozen children were scattered amid the swings and slides, and not far away their parents stood in clusters or sat on other benches, chatting and sometimes yelling out at the little ones, warning them not to walk in front of swings or promising to play with them in a few minutes.

  The voices faded, and Casey headed toward the back of the play area. Their bench was empty, like always. It was smaller, older than the others, and partially hidden by an overgrown bush. Only half the play equipment could be seen from that bench, so most of the parents didn’t bother with it.

  He sat down and stretched out his legs. The ground was damp, carpeted with a layer of month-old fallen leaves. Casey kicked at a dark, wet clump and crossed his feet.

  Eight years.

  If Amy had lived they would’ve been close to celebrating a decade together. He let his head fall back a few inches and stared into the gray. Come on, let me see her … just once. He narrowed his eyes, willing himself to look beyond the clouds to the place where Amy still lived, still loved him and waited for him.

  But all he could see was the swirl of late-autumn sky, and his heart settled deeper in his chest. He closed his eyes.

  The pain is worse now than ever. I— He held his breath, determined to keep his emotions at bay. I miss her so much.

  His eyes opened, and a robin caught his attention. It hopped along the sidewalk a few feet away, studying the ground, pecking at it. Then it stopped and tilted its head toward the trees, and in a rush of motion, flapped its wings and lifted into the air.