“Me, too.”
“I’m … well, I’m gonna miss you.”
She nodded, and her eyes glistened, hinting at tears. “I have to go. The counselors want us in bed by twelve.”
“I know.” He smiled so she wouldn’t see how hard it was to say good-bye. They’d be gone in the morning before sunup, and chances were he’d never see her again. “Be safe.”
“And get that café going.” Her chin quivered, and she hesitated just long enough to draw another breath. Then she reached into the pocket of her jean shorts and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Here.” She tucked it into his hand. “I’ve been practicing my Creole.”
He started to open it, but she closed his fingers around the paper before he had a chance. “After I go.” She took a few steps back and then turned and ran lightly up the steps. When the door closed behind her, Casey opened the piece of paper and saw that she’d written only three words.
Me reme ou…. I love you.
CHAPTER SIX
Casey had already run four miles—more than his usual route. But today the memories were crisp and vivid. He would’ve run to California if it meant giving them a reason to continue.
And so he kept running, his strides long and even, eyes straight ahead.
Me reme ou.
He could still see the words, the way she’d scrawled them on that piece of paper. The truth of what she’d written had dropped his heart to his knees and made him certain that somehow, someway, he would see her again. They wrote to each other for the next six months, and by the following summer Casey had enrolled at Oregon State University and made plans to move to Corvallis.
He’d visited the campus just once and met with the track-and-field coaches. Running the hills of Port-au-Prince had paid off, and he was offered a full scholarship. Casey was thrilled, but by then he was convinced of one thing. His future wasn’t in running or jumping or throwing a javelin.
It was in business.
And OSU had exactly what he was looking for. An excellent business school and a full-ride scholarship. And something else.
A twenty-minute drive to Amy Bedford’s house.
His parents knew nothing about Casey’s attraction to Amy because Casey wasn’t sure about it himself. In some ways, even with their letter-writing—the week he’d shared with Amy in Haiti felt like a wonderful dream, as surreal as nearly everything about his time there.
After he enrolled at OSU, he returned home to his parents, sat them down one night after dinner, and broke the news.
“I… I thought you’d go to a Christian college, Casey.” His mother’s lips drew together. “You’ve been gone so long, and now, well, you’ll be gone again.”
His father crossed his arms. “Your mother’s right, son. You can’t learn much about God at a place like OSU.”
It was a moment of truth, and Casey gripped his knees. “Dad… ” He met his father’s gaze. “I already know about God.” Silence stood between them for a moment. “Maybe it’s time I learn something about people.”
In the end, his parents agreed. Where better to practice his faith than out in the real world? Despite their reservations, they sent Casey off with their full support.
“Be careful,” his mother warned him the night before he left. “The Northwest is a liberal place, and the girls … well … they don’t have the same standards you’re used to.”
Casey had to stifle a smile. “Okay, Mom.”
He had only one girl in mind, and they met up again that September, a couple of hours after his first day of classes, at a coffee shop just off campus. Amy was seventeen by then, a high school senior. The moment she walked through the door of the shop, Casey knew his feelings for her weren’t some sort of strange dream.
She moved across the room, past the other tables. Even from ten yards away Casey could see how her eyes danced. When she sat down, he took her hands in his and struggled to find his voice. “There’s something I have to tell you, something I couldn’t say in a letter.”
Curiosity mingled with hesitation and took some of the sparkle from her eyes. “Okay.” She studied him. “Tell me.”
He waited until he could find his voice. “Me reme ou. “
Turning back wasn’t an option for either one of them. The next fall, Amy joined him at OSU, and four years later they married and left the Northwest for a small apartment in Manhattan and the chance for Casey to open the café he’d always dreamed about.
“It’s perfect, Casey.” Her eyes would light up every time they talked about it. “Let’s make it happen.”
Casey’s Corner was still a crazy idea to his parents, but never to Amy. She took a job at a local preschool and stood by Casey as he got the loans he needed to open his shop. On the weekends, they worked side by side decorating and collecting memorabilia for the walls. At the grand opening, no one was prouder than Amy.
The years that followed blurred together like a kind of larger-than-life tapestry of brilliant reds and oranges and thoughtful shades of blue. She had been everything to him—his closest friend, his confidante, his greatest support. Losing her had been like losing his right arm, and the pain of it made every breath an effort.
Even after two years.
Casey slowed his pace to a walk. He had worked his way through five miles of trails—two more than usual— and he was only a few blocks from the café. The memories had been stronger than usual, more vivid, and he fought the urge to keep running.
What was wrong with him anyway? If he could feel like this after two years, maybe he’d never move on, never find a way to get through life without her. Maybe this hazy underwater feeling of going through the motions was how life would always be. His breathing settled back to a normal rate, and he locked his eyes on a narrow stretch of sky as he walked. She was up there somewhere, probably elbowing God in the ribs, bugging Him to give Casey a reason to live again.
His café was a diversion, for sure. He spent most of the week there—talking to customers, helping Billy-G behind the counter, fixing up the place so it never lost the look Amy had given it way back when. But nothing about it made him feel alive, the way Amy had made him feel.
He reached the café and stared at the front door. Someone had hung a fall wreath on it, plastic leaves of orange and red and yellow and a nervous-looking turkey at the center, poking his pinecone head out at everyone who walked by. Thanksgiving was in a month and after that, Christmas.
Amy’s favorite time of the year.
Casey gritted his teeth and pushed the door open. He zigzagged his way past a dozen tables, chatting with the regulars and saying hello to a few newcomers. It wasn’t until the morning rush was gone that he sauntered over to the counter and dropped onto one of the barstools.
“Hey, Billy-G.”
His friend wiped his hands on his apron, reached beneath the counter, and pulled out a section of newspaper. “Saved this for you.” Billy-G took a few steps closer and spread the paper out in front of Casey. “Something you need to think about.”
Casey kept his eyes on the old man. “Not another one.” He was always telling Casey about a support group here or a Bible study there. “I’m fine, Billy-G, I don’t need your help.”
“Yeah, okay.” The man tapped at the paper. “Everything’s great.” He began to walk away. “Just read it.”
Billy-G was back in the kitchen again when Casey released a long, slow breath and let his eyes fall to the newspaper. It was a small, two-column story, buried deep in the Times’ Metro Section. The headline read “New Program Pairs Willing Adults with Grieving Children.”
Casey blinked and thought about that for a moment.
Grieving children? People were hurting all over the place, people who’d lost sisters or uncles or husbands or friends. But grieving children? It was something Casey hadn’t considered.
The article was only five paragraphs, and he gave himself permission to read it. When he finished, he picked it up, held it closer, and read it again. After the th
ird time, the idea began to sink in. It was both simple and profound, really. A children’s group in Chelsea had designed a program called Healing Hearts, a way to pair up grieving children with single adults. Children who had suffered the death of one or more parents would be linked with single adults. The article provided a phone number for people to call if they were interested.
Casey imagined for a minute Amy sitting beside him, breathing the same air, sharing his every thought and knowing the things in his soul before they even came into focus.
“It’s a perfect idea, Casey,” he could almost hear her saying. “Let’s make it happen.”
There was a problem, of course.
He wasn’t any other single adult; he’d suffered his own loss and maybe the program director would hold that against him, maybe his own grief would minimize his ability to help a hurting child. But he doubted the program organizers would turn him away. Somewhere out there in the big, vast city was a child who needed a mentor, someone to help bridge the gap between his old life and the life he’d been forced to live these past two years. A child who needed love and direction and a reason to live the same way Casey, himself, needed it.
He could make the call and go through the screening, let the organization set him up with a child, and find a way to bring a little light back into both their lives. There were a hundred places where he could take a child in Manhattan, places where the two of them could find an on-ramp back to the highway of the living. Yes, he could make the call, and in maybe only a month or so he could—
“Interesting, huh?”
Billy-G’s gruff voice interrupted Casey’s thoughts, and he dropped the paper to the counter. “Yeah.”
“So?”
Casey folded the paper in half and slid it a few inches from him. “So what?”
“Whadya think?”
“I think you ask too many questions, Billy-G.” Casey stood up and gave his friend a half smile. “I also think it’s time I get going. I’ll be back for a few hours around dinner.”
“I knew it.” Billy-G’s smile held a knowing.
“Knew what?”
“You’re gonna call.”
Casey shrugged. “I’ll think about it.”
“Okay.” Billy-G gave a few soft chuckles. ‘You do that.”
Casey turned to leave, desperate to appear noncommittal. The idea was too fragile, too new, to expose it to the light of open conversation—even with someone like Billy-G. He needed to play it out in his mind first. Important decisions were always that way for him, taking root and growing in the hidden places of his heart before making their way out into the open.
Casey turned around before he left. “Great job today, Billy-G.”
His friend peered at him over his shoulder through the small window that separated the kitchen from the front counter. “Make the call.”
“See ya.” Casey raised his hand and headed toward the front door.
Under his arm was a folded-up newspaper. And stirring across the barren plains of his heart was something he hadn’t felt in a little more than two years.
The early-morning winds of hope.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The bad guys were getting the upper hand.
The first part of November was always this way, and Megan was suddenly too busy to worry about real love or long-ago summers or even her own lonely son. Crime was up 11 percent from a month ago, and Megan had two murder-one cases spread across her desk. Months like this could make or break a prosecutor, and Megan wouldn’t be broken by anything.
Besides, things were okay at home. Jordan’s behavior had improved some, and she was making a point of lying down with him for a few minutes every night before he fell asleep. Maybe that was all her son had needed, after all. A little more one-on-one time.
The idea was as comfortable as a bed of nails.
Who was she kidding? It was like her mother kept saying. Jordan needed a man in his life, someone to wrestle with him and lift him onto his shoulders and take in a basketball game with him every now and then.
“You work too much,” her mother had told her the night before. “You’ll never find a father for Jordan with your schedule.”
The comment had made Megan’s cheeks hot, and Jordan’s letter to God came to mind as it had nearly every day since she’d read it. “I’m not looking for a father for Jordan. Life doesn’t work that way.”
“It could, Megan.” Her mother’s voice was softly persistent. “It could if you’d look for it.”
Megan huffed and planted her hands on her hips. “You didn’t exactly go looking for a father when I needed one.”
Her mother had been silent for a moment, and a handful of emotions flitted across her eyes. Shock and anger, shame and regret. “I was wrong, Megan.” She stood and took a step toward her bedroom. “You’re young. Don’t make my mistakes all over again. It’s not fair to Jordan … or yourself.”
The conversation had played again in Megan’s soul several times that day, even as she held conversations with judges and researched precedents for her current cases. Don’t make my mistakes all over again. It’s not fair to Jordan … or yourself.
Megan pushed back from her desk and drew in a sharp breath.
It was nearly six o’clock, and she had two more hours of going over briefs and depositions before she could go home. The office was quiet, most people gone except for a few evening clerks and an occasional assistant, finishing up whatever assignment had been passed down from one of the district attorneys.
She stood and headed down the hall to the break room. A cup of coffee would clear the cobwebs, stop her from thinking about her mother’s words and her son’s sad eyes and the letter he’d written to God. It wasn’t her fault things were such a mess. She and George hadn’t exactly been given a choice about how their lives had played out.
The break room was empty. Megan went to the coffeemaker, grabbed a tall Styrofoam cup, and poured herself some coffee. She opened the freezer door on the refrigerator, took two ice cubes, and dropped them into her cup. She liked her coffee black and lukewarm. Hot coffee took too much time to drink.
She was holding her cup, stirring the ice cubes with her little finger, when her eyes caught something on a folded section of the New York Times. Someone had placed the paper beneath the coffeemaker, and it had collected a circle of brown spots around the base of the pot. A headline showed near the top, and without meaning to, Megan read it.
“New Program Pairs Willing Adults with Grieving Children.”
She stopped stirring and set down her cup. A program for grieving children?
The newspaper was stuck to the bottom of the coffeemaker, and Megan lifted the pot, careful not to tear the article. She slid it out and held it close as she read through it. A children’s club in the city had set up a program called Healing Hearts that would pair adults with children who had experienced the death of one or both parents.
Suddenly Megan didn’t need the coffee. Her hands were shaking as though she’d already had five cups. A program for grieving children? It was exactly what Jordan needed! Megan left her cup on the breakroom counter and took the newspaper back to her desk. The club was probably closed at this hour, but it was worth a try.
She picked up the phone and punched in the numbers. Someone answered on the first ring.
“Manhattan Children’s Organization, may I help you?”
Megan opened her mouth, but no words came. Tears filled her eyes, and with her free hand she massaged the lump in her throat until she could speak. “I… I read about your program.”
The woman on the other end identified herself as Mrs. Eccles. “We have quite a few programs, ma’am. Could you be more specific?”
“Yes … ” Megan found the newspaper once more, and her eyes darted over the text. “It’s the Healing Hearts program. My … my son is a child like that.”
“I see.” The woman’s tone was noticeably softer. “Well, then, the first step is for you and your son to come down and
fill out the paperwork, give us a chance to meet you and interview both of you. Then we’ll try to pair your son up with one of our male volunteers as quickly as possible.”
“You have … volunteers waiting for children?” The idea knocked the wind from Megan. Why hadn’t she heard of this sooner? She glanced at the date on the newspaper and saw that the article was nearly two weeks old.
“Yes, ma’am. The program’s quite popular.” She paused, and Megan heard a rustling sound in the background. “Can I sign you and your son up for an appointment?”
Megan thought of all she had to do at work, the depositions and briefs and precedents that had to be studied. An appointment would take time, maybe an entire afternoon. Time she certainly didn’t have. A single teardrop rolled down her cheek, and she dabbed at it with the sleeve of her silk jacket. “Yes.” She sniffed quietly and closed her eyes to stave off any more. “Yes, I’d like that very much.”
The appointment took place a week later, and four days after that Megan took the call at work. It was Mrs. Eccles, and her voice rang across the phone line like a kind of early Christmas carol. “I have good news for you, Ms. Wright. We’ve found a match for your son.”
Megan leaned back in her office chair and held the phone more tightly to her ear. “You have?”
“Yes. I think you’ll be quite happy with our choice.”
“Is he … is he young or old?” Megan’s voice was breathy, and she could see the buttons on her blouse trembling with every heartbeat. Jordan hadn’t stopped talking about the program since they signed up. “Tell me about him, please. Did he … has he always wanted to help children?”
“Well… ” The woman hesitated. “His story’s a bit different than most.”
Megan’s shoulders fell a bit. Wasn’t that the point of the program, pairing children with adults who had a strong desire to help a lonely boy or girl? “Then … why did you pick him?”
“His wife died a few years ago, delivering their first child. The baby didn’t make it, either.” Some of the cheerfulness faded from the woman’s voice. “He saw the article about Healing Hearts and was very interested. Thought maybe it’d be good for both him and a hurting child.”
The Red Gloves Collection Page 13