Show next week; write as much of the teleprompter script as possible for tomorrow’s show; order new business cards for herself and her boss; schedule an in-person meeting with Drew’s teacher; write Logan Murray a thank-you note for appearing on today’s show.
Bianca riffled through her greeting-cards file and found a blank-inside card with a sporty red convertible on the front. Might as well get the most pressing task out of the way first, she thought, picking up her favorite ballpoint.
“Dear Mr. Murray, the staff of WPOK thanks you for sharing your time and talents on The Morning Show.” That pretty much covered it, but Bianca didn’t like the look of all that leftover white space. How would she fill it? she wondered, tapping the pen on her bottom teeth.
Then, remembering that Marty had invited him to come back soon, she added, “We look forward to your next appearance and will contact your agent soon to schedule a mutually convenient time.” She signed it, “Cordially, Bianca P. Wright.” If he took the time to read it himself, he’d realize she’d sent two messages for the price of one postage stamp: the station really did appreciate his time and talents, and in the remote possibility Marty was right about him, the signature line would make it clear she didn’t share Logan’s interest.
She picked up the phone to call Michael Phelps and waited while it rang, thinking.
Taking care of Drew barely left time for sleep, let alone a relationship. Not that she was complaining. Right from the start she and her little boy had connected on a level that no one else had seemed able to reach. Not even his own father. Bianca worked hard to repress memories of Jason’s detached attitude toward Drew, but at times like this, it was difficult to forget the cold, sometimes cruel things he said about his little boy.
A beep sounded in her ear, and it took a second to collect her thoughts. After leaving a voice mail message for Phelps, she sent the swimmer a follow-up text. Experience taught her that, from time to time, even the most organized celebrities let things fall through the cracks. “But not on my watch,” she muttered, also sending him an email, just to be safe.
After putting in the order for updated business cards, Bianca dialed Mrs. Peterson’s personal extension at the school. The note Mrs. Peterson had tucked into Drew’s book bag had kept her up half the night, trying to figure out why the boy who seemed content and confident at home had reverted to old behaviors at school. Talking out of turn, getting up without permission, stemming...
“I’d like to discuss Drew’s recent, ah, setback,” she said after the beep, “so please call me at your earliest convenience.” If the recorder picked up the exasperation in her voice, so be it. Neither the staff nor the administration had gone out of their way to hide bias toward kids like Drew. Their misunderstanding of the disorder frustrated her, which inspired her decision to chaperone every field trip and volunteer weekly in the classroom. The hope was twofold: explain the causes of disruptive behavior, and show them how to diffuse volatile situations by watching how she interacted with Drew and kids like him. Sadly, neither mission had met with much success.
But Bianca had never been a quitter. Not when her college friends told her that double-majoring was a waste of time and money. Not when Jason got sick. And certainly not when Drew was diagnosed with autism. Her son was counting on her now more than ever, and she wouldn’t allow anything—or anyone—to keep her from doing what was in his best interests.
She picked up his picture and traced a fingertip over the sweet, crooked smile. “Don’t worry, il mio tesoro, I’ll make things right if it takes—”
A quiet knock interrupted her promise. She was surprised to see Logan, looking rumpled and lost, in her doorway.
“Uh-oh. Couldn’t find your way to the exit?”
“Oh, I found it, all right,” he said, rubbing grimy hands on a crisp white handkerchief, “but my car won’t start. From the sound of things, I’m guessing it’s the battery.” He held up his cell phone. “Believe it or not, it’s dead, too.”
He seemed younger, and he looked vulnerable with that lock of near-black hair falling over one eye.
“I have jumper cables in my trunk,” she offered. “If that doesn’t do the job, I can drive you to my favorite mechanic’s shop.”
“No, no...don’t want to put you out. Just came in to borrow your phone.”
She grabbed her purse. “It’s no bother. I’m pretty well finished for the day anyway.”
For the second time that day, he fell into step beside her. Why did he seem taller than the six-foot-three claimed by his bio? Well-toned thighs flexed with every step. So much for the accuracy of the Post article claiming he’d let himself go since retiring from the game.
He held open the door, and as she stepped outside, Logan pointed. “That’s my car over there.”
She pointed, too. “And that’s mine. Be right with you.”
In one article about him, she recalled, a reporter had called Logan flamboyant, conceited, a braggart. Yet he was wearing an ordinary navy suit and driving a sedate black sedan. Had he changed a lot since his football days, or were the reports flawed?
Bianca got into her car, started the engine, then parked nose to nose with Logan’s Camry, leaving just enough space to stand between the vehicles. How strange, she thought, climbing out of her Jeep, that even her mom drove a flashier vehicle than his. Bianca fastened her keys to the clip inside her purse and popped open the hood.
“So,” Logan said, aiming a thumb over his shoulder, “was that Italian I heard when I walked into your office just now?”
“Italian?” It took a moment to figure out what he meant. “Oh, you mean il mio tesoro....”
Nodding, Logan pried open his hood, too.
“It’s just a little term of endearment. Something I’ve called Drew since before he was born.”
“‘My treasure,’” he translated. “I think that’s...sweet.”
Why the hesitation? She’d met far too many people who considered kids like Drew nothing more than badly behaved nuisances. Some made half-baked attempts at tolerance. Others didn’t even try. Which was Logan?
“My mom is Italian,” they said at the same time.
Laughing quietly, Logan looked at the sky. “Takes me back.... My mom used to call me poco terrore.” He met her eyes to add, “Totally different mothering style, evidently.”
“Little terror?” Bianca couldn’t resist a smile. According to her research, Logan was the youngest of three and the only boy. “So you were a handful even as a kid, huh?”
His expression said, “Even then”? But Logan held out a hand. “If you’ll give me your keys, I’ll get the jumper cables out of the back of your car.”
“Thanks, but it’ll be faster if I get them.”
Bianca knew where the cables were. She had to know exactly where everything was—in the house, in her purse, here in the car—because she never knew when a noise, a crowd, a scent might set Drew off and she’d need to put her hands on something else that would quiet him quickly.
She moved both backpacks aside—one holding an assortment of toys, the other
