New York for the weekend if he could get loose ends tied up—or at least keep things from unraveling.
The wise thing to do would be to stay in New Orleans over the weekend to wine and dine the doctors and their families, and make sure everyone was comfortable with the merger of the two medical clinics.
If he could only keep his own personal unease from showing. His hometown of New Orleans held nothing but nightmares for him—and a lucrative possible partnership between Lassiter Hand and Wrist Institute and the equally renowned New Orleans Sports Clinic. But negotiations were fragile.
A cheer from the bleachers had him turning his attention back to the field and the final lap of the race.
A modest but enthusiastic crowd encouraged the athletes as they competed for a sense of accomplishment as much as for a victory. These regional “special games” were hosted by a leading New Orleans hospital and run by scores of volunteers. It was certainly a different experience from the professional events he usually attended.
These games, free to all who wanted to watch, were every bit as exciting as the big-ticket events Cole usually went to. Maybe even more so, considering what these athletes were up against. All had mental challenges, and many of them had physical challenges, as well. But they had the same heart and courage as any other athlete.
From the sidelines, a distracted girl wandered onto the track right into the boy’s path.
Cole winced as the boy jerked and hurdled to keep from running into her and ended up on his knees.
Without a word, the boy climbed back to his feet and took off running, trying to catch the two runners who had passed him.
He closed the gap to inches. If he’d had three more strides, he would have caught the front runner. Instead, the boy took second place.
An official leaned down to check the boy’s knee, then pointed toward the medical tent. Without needing a prod from the intercom system, Cole headed in that direction.
From the moment she’d entered the stadium that morning, Bella Allante’s attention had been drawn to him as if he had some preternatural power over her.
Why now? Why, when her world spun on the tip of a needle, did Cole Lassiter have to show up now?
Distracted, she tried to focus on the one-sided conversation her teenage helper was carrying on.
“So my mom says to tell you thanks. Working with our family photo album has really helped my sister understand age appropriateness much better.”
“You’re welcome.” Isabella had stumbled upon her son’s fascination with family photographs a few years back. “I’ve used them to teach everything from facial recognition to table manners.”
“My sister is obsessed with photos of our grandmother. Didn’t you tell us that happened with Adrian, too?”
“Yes, it did.” Obsession wasn’t an unusual trait for someone on the autistic spectrum. Isabella just wished Adrian’s obsession had been with anyone other than Cole Lassiter.
The day her son had asked about the tall, dark-haired boy in many of her high-school photos, displaying curiosity but also being able to recognize him in photos at different ages, Isabella had been overjoyed at Adrian’s breakthrough in development but torn about using the image of the man she despised above all others to teach her son.
Although she’d been mightily tempted to tell him a half-truth that day, she had never lied to Adrian. So she had confessed that the boy in the photos was Adrian’s father, now a grown man and a renowned surgeon.
Instantly, she’d had to page through copies of her father’s medical journals to show Adrian photos of Cole as an adult.
Since then, Adrian had elevated Cole to the status of superhero, insisting on having a dark-haired plastic doctor doll along with his superhero action figures and adding Cole’s photo to the collection of pictures of family and friends on his bedside table.
She had been so thrilled she had found a way to reach her emotionally locked-away son she had decided to encourage and embrace his fascination with Cole, in the certain belief that she would never have to deal with the man in person.
Was that Adrian in the lead? He never wanted her to watch him compete, so she had only seen him run from afar.
Once more she scanned the crowd, intently watching the athletes take their final lap.
What was Cole doing here—beyond watching the son he had never acknowledged? That small part of her that needed closure nagged at her now like it had so many dark nights in the past. Had she tried hard enough, done enough?
Isabella lifted her chin. An Allante didn’t beg—and she would never stoop that low again. If only he had acknowledged her pregnancy in some way, she could have put her doubts behind her, along with those tarnished memories of first love.
“Ms. Allante, is something wrong?”
Isabella replaced her worried frown with a forced smile. “No—just anticipating a problem that might never happen.”
If only it was just a commonplace problem worrying Isabella now, instead of the man in the front row, sitting all alone with his elbows propped on his knees.
The girl, old beyond her years, nodded with understanding. “My mom does that all the time. My dad keeps telling her to just take it each moment as it comes, but it doesn’t seem to help.”
Isabella tried to follow the same creed, even while she tried to provide an environment as secure and routine as possible for her son. While she was doing well on the secure environment part, she was failing miserably to live in the moment.
Usually her problem was trying to anticipate the future. But today her worry was all about the past.
Only fifteen short years ago, she had wished with all her heart to set eyes on Cole Lassiter.
She had wished it right up to the moment she had repeated her marriage vows to another man. At that point she had begun wishing just as fervently never to see Cole again.
Cole stood and stretched, spreading to the skies those arms that had once held her so tight, and began to amble toward the medical tent.
The loudspeaker popped and squealed, then blasted out, “Will the mother of athlete number 183 please meet him in the first-aid area?”
A burst of panic flipped her stomach with her heart. “That’s Adrian.”
“Go.” The girl threw away the pencil Isabella had snapped in two. “I can take care of this.”
“Thanks.” Like she had every day since the pregnancy test had shown positive, Isabella straightened her spine, put her anxiety behind her, and vowed to do whatever was best for her child.
Under the tent in the makeshift first-aid station, Cole knelt to examine the boy’s skinned knee.
“You’re Adrian, right?” He was careful to move slowly and talk plainly.
“That’s right, Doctor,” an assistant answered for the boy. “Adrian is fourteen years old.”
Cole
