fell on the traditional Thanksgiving pageant. Adam Masterson bolted to his feet and proudly yelled “Bravo!” as his son, Titus, took another bow.
Adam felt his heart swell and his sight blur watching Titus’s smile radiate across the expanse. Titus. The light of his life, the motivation that forced him to get out of bed in the morning despite the shroud of grief he wore since his wife, Amie, had died three years ago. “Well done!” Adam shouted, smiling at Titus, who stood next to Timmy Bosworth, dressed in a Pilgrim costume.
Timmy took Titus’s hand in his and raised it over their heads. “Thank you and happy Thanksgiving!” Timmy announced to the crowd.
The audience erupted in more applause as the curtain fell for the last time.
“Adam,” Sarah Bosworth said, as she hoisted three-year-old Charlotte into her arms, “Titus was wonderful. He recited his lines like a professional actor. I felt like I was right there on Plymouth Plantation with those kids.”
Adam couldn’t help the rush of pride that shot straight up his spine. “He was good, wasn’t he?”
“He was. Timmy told me that he and Titus only practiced three times.”
“I’ll let you in on a secret,” Adam said, bending closer, his hair falling over his forehead. “I think Titus has an eidetic memory. The first time I took him through his lines, he’d memorized everything.”
“No kidding?” Sarah’s eyes widened. “Wish I had that ability.”
Adam glanced toward the stage and saw some of the kids running down the aisle. “He’s been reading since he was three. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised at anything he does.”
“Trust me,” Sarah said. “Gifted children aren’t easy. I know. Both Timmy and Annie are exceptional, and just last week, I caught Charlotte here sitting at the piano playing with Annie.”
Adam chucked Charlotte under the chin. “A prodigy, huh?”
Charlotte tossed her blond curls and laid her head on Sarah’s shoulder. “I like piano.” Charlotte smiled up at Adam.
“Dad! Dad!” Titus shouted exuberantly, as he worked his way through the throng of parents leaving their seats. Titus’s rented Pilgrim costume was faded but fit well. He did struggle with the black hat, which tended to interfere with his ever-present sport band that held his thick glasses in place. Titus’s mom had been myopic, too. But unlike Amie, Titus tended to be quite clumsy, always impatient to race to the next room, the next day and the next adventure.
“Dad! Did you see me?” Titus hurried up to Adam and flung his arms around his waist.
Adam smoothed Titus’s thick black hair away from his forehead and looked down into his eager crystal-blue eyes. His son looked exactly like Adam had when he was “nearly six”—minus the glasses. “I did! And you were the best. You did great.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Titus hugged him again.
Timmy Bosworth rushed up to Sarah, along with his eleven-year-old sister, Annie.
“Mom,” Annie said. “Can I take Charlotte backstage to see Mrs. Cook?”
Sarah narrowed her eyes. “Why does Mrs. Cook want to see your baby sister?”
Annie glanced sheepishly at Titus, who had a conspiratorial expression. “Um. I told her Charlotte could play piano.”
Charlotte squirmed out of Sarah’s arms. “I can play!”
Annie reached for Charlotte’s hand. “Mom?”
“Oh, fine. Go.” Sarah acquiesced.
Adam watched as Annie and Charlotte bounded up the stage steps. Titus said, “Charlotte should think about her future career. Like me.”
Adam jerked his head back. This was news to him. “And that would be…what?”
Titus looked at Timmy, who elbowed him for encouragement. Timmy and Titus were close, now that Titus was in kindergarten. Timmy had taken Titus under his wing, and when Adam had been immersed in a geothermal energy construction project, or if he’d had to drive to Chicago to meet with a prospective client, Sarah generously watched Titus at her house. Adam didn’t know how Sarah juggled three children, a creatively demanding career as a busy commercial design consultant, the summer fund-raising festival for Saint Mark’s and volunteer work for the new Indian Lake Community Center.
Too often, Adam was caught spending late-night hours at his computer rather than doing the laundry, making costumes for Titus or thinking about things like Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays. The only thing that broke his focus on work was caring for Titus. His son was his joy.
“I’ve had a revelation, Dad,” Titus said seriously.
Adam crossed his arms over his chest and glanced at Sarah, who smiled at Titus. “Go on.”
“I liked working on this pageant and I think I want to go into the theater business.”
Adam coughed and held his fist to his mouth. This was not what he’d thought his brilliant son would say. He’d imagined that Titus would want to follow in his footsteps. Become an engineer or a physicist. Titus was smart and quick and liked working alongside him on his local projects. Just last week Titus had gone with him to Frank Boston’s greenhouse, where Adam had been installing a new geothermal heating unit.
“Theater? You mean you want to be an actor?”
“No, Dad. Timmy’s gonna be an actor. I want to write plays. Like I did for Mrs. Cook.”
Adam’s eyes snapped to Sarah, who shook her head. “What did you write, son?”
“My speech. I did the research, which was interesting. And enlightening.”
Adam mouthed “enlightening.” He was continually surprised at Titus’s vocabulary. He’d bought Titus a dictionary and thesaurus six months ago. He wondered if Titus had read them both cover to cover. “Well, we’ll have to talk about it.”
Titus’s smile vanished. “You always say that and we never do.”
Sarah’s eyebrow arched. She put her hand on Timmy’s shoulder. “Let’s go find your sisters.”
“Sure, Mom.”
She gave Adam a quick hug. “I’m guessing I’ll see you at Frank’s funeral?”
Adam had known Sarah and her group of friends since high school. Adam had been the nerdy guy in high school, wading through CAD programs, tinkering with machines and engines.
Adam had never known his parents, who gave him up for adoption to a church-affiliated foster home only weeks after his birth. They’d left him in a car seat at Pastor Flutie’s front door with a note giving his birth date and name, which Adam always believed was fictitious. Years ago, Adam had tried to track down information about his birth parents, but the time and money he’d spent were wasted.
Pastor Flutie and his wife, Martha, were good people and raised him, along with over thirty other children who didn’t have parents and had come their way.
