searched his face for what seemed like a full minute. It was almost as intimidating as facing a row of scowling linebackers on the football field, which, considering her size, made no sense at all.
“What? I have spinach in my teeth or something?”
One side of her mouth lifted in a faint smile. “You’re the first person, ever, to have an honest reaction to the news, that’s what.”
For the next five minutes, she provided him with a rundown of Drew’s situation: at age two, when he wasn’t forming sentences, gesturing or responding normally to physical or verbal interactions, Drew’s pediatrician put Bianca in touch with a colleague who specialized in childhood developmental disorders. Test results put the boy in the “mild-to-moderate” level on the autism spectrum. After three years of speech, physical and occupational therapy—partnered with sensory and behavioral integration—he was mainstreamed into public school.
Logan then listed similarities between Drew’s situation and his friend’s daughter, but he didn’t share the fact that she had died.
Bianca nodded. “It takes a lot of time, effort and commitment to raise a child with autism and ensure they are happy and comfortable.”
At least now Logan understood why she’d chosen a job usually filled by interns and college grads starting out in the industry; the work kept her in the job pool, yet afforded flexibility in case her boy needed her.
“I take it you have good days and bad days?” he asked.
Bianca cast a pensive glance toward Drew’s photo. “Mostly good, thanks to some very dedicated, loving people.”
“Your husband deserves some credit, then. I know a guy whose kid has cerebral palsy. Couldn’t handle the day-to-day stress, and it cost him his marriage. I’m glad your husband stuck around...that he’s doing right by you and your son.”
She looked surprised. Hurt. Angry. Which rattled him, until she said, “Jason died three years ago. Pancreatic cancer.”
“Oh. Wow. Sorry to hear it,” he said, meaning every word.
She lifted one shoulder and one eyebrow. “It is what it is.”
Logan had no idea how to respond to that, so he looked at his watch, then blew a silent whistle through his teeth. “Well, I’d better head out. Radio interview in an hour. All the way over on Boston Street.”
Bianca looked at her desk clock, then stood and slid his file into a drawer marked ATHLETES. “Hope you have a helicopter.”
Proof that she had a sense of humor after all?
“Just in case,” he said, unpocketing his cell phone. “It’s not an official guest spot. Just another of those ‘we’ll put you on air if you’re ever in the neighborhood’ things. I figured it was a good time to hawk the fund-raiser on the radio, since not everybody watches The Morning Show.”
“I won’t tell Marty you said that.”
Logan grinned, wondering why he’d told her all of that. And why he wasn’t going outside to make his call. And who the dedicated, loving people in her life might be. Not likely a boyfriend because very few guys had the capacity to commit to a woman with a kid with special needs. His sister’s ex was living proof of that.
“Do you have time for a real coffee break?” he asked Bianca as he waited for someone to answer his call.
She looked surprised by the invitation. Not as surprised as Logan was to have extended it. Thankfully, the receptionist spared him the need to say something that would explain why.
“I’d like to leave a message in Jack White’s voice mail, please.”
The woman put him on hold, and while a familiar Eagles tune wafted into his ear, Logan said to Bianca, “You know that great little coffee shop around the corner? It’s never busy at this time of day, so—”
“This is Jack,” said the recording. “You know what to do.”
“Hey, Jack. It’s Logan. Can’t stop by today after all, so don’t count on me to fill air time between Twinkies commercials.” Laughing, he added, “See you at the meeting tonight.”
He hung up, took a breath, then told Bianca, “My sister’s son, Sam, is autistic, and he has a birthday coming up.” He swallowed, nervous at sharing this personal information. “I thought maybe you could suggest a toy or a book or something that he’d enjoy.”
Logan could almost read her mind, thinking, “Why not ask his mother?”
“And while you’re at it,” he tacked on, “maybe you can offer a different viewpoint on this idea I have of building a school for kids like Sam. And Drew.” He paused long enough to add, “If you’re not free, I can wait. Or come back in an hour or two. If you have things to wrap up, that is.”
Did his rambling make him sound like an idiot to her, too?
She pointed at her desk. “As a matter of fact, I do have a lot to do before I pick up Drew.”
“Oh. Yeah. Sure. Maybe some other time, then.”
Silence.
Too truthful to schedule a rain date she wouldn’t keep? He might have admired her honesty...if it hadn’t made him feel like a babbling buffoon. Much as he hated to admit it, Bianca hadn’t given him any reason to think her invitation to grab a cup of coffee from the production office had been anything but. He tried to cover his discomfort by stepping into the hall and looking both ways.
“This place is like a maze. Which way to the lobby again?”
“Are you parked out back or in the garage across the street?”
“Out back.”
“Then you don’t need to go all the way back to the lobby.” She faced the computer. “Turn right and follow the hall to the end,” she said, typing, typing, typing. “The double doors will lead you to the rear lot.”
“Thanks. And thanks for the coffee, too. It really was as good as Starbucks.”
The keys click-clacked as she said, “Glad you liked it. Drive safely now.”
Logan left Bianca to her work, exited the building and got into his car. He’d already acknowledged her intelligence, but based on the smooth, thoughtful way she’d dismissed him, he had to admit that he’d seriously underestimated her people skills.
Movement to the left caught his attention, and as the driver of an SUV backed out of the space beside his, he was reminded of that day, ten years earlier, when he’d heard the words that changed his life.
His mouth went dry, thinking of the way he’d handled the bad news. How almost four years had gone by before he’d quit treating it with booze. The all too familiar itch started in the back of his throat and his mouth went dry. Logan swallowed. Hard. In the past he would have scratched it with scotch, but AA—and his sponsor—had taught him how to divert the cravings. Logan made a mental note to tell Jack about it at tonight’s meeting. Confessing these weak moments had kept him sober for six years, two weeks and five days.
He
