Catch a Falling Star (36 page)

S
he was not up for this.

Evie looked at Javan through the rearview mirror. He sat in his car seat, staring out the window as if the cars lining the parking lot were the most interesting sight in his six-year-old world. She should have left him home with Logan, deadline or no deadline.

“Come on, Evie. I need to make this conference call. Take Javan with you to the grocery store.”

“He'll throw a fit.”

“No, he won't. Help me out here, babe.”

“I'll do it—but I know he'll hate every minute he's with me.”

And so far, her prediction was coming true. Well, no tantrum yet. Instead, Javan ignored her. Bottom lip pushed out. Eyes focused on his tennis shoes. Shoving her hands away when she tried to buckle him into his car seat.

This would be a fun, fun trip to the grocery store.

As they entered the store, Evie muscled a cart from the long row waiting by the front doors. Did some employee jam carts together and then time customers to see how long it took them to get a cart separated from the gridlock?

“Come on, Javan. Time to get in.”

“No. I wanna walk.” Javan marched off, his stout legs stomping out the rhythm of his resentment.

Great. They'd be here forever. “Mamá wants you to ride in the cart, okay? You can watch my purse.”

Javan never even looked back.

Score: Javan 1. Her 0.

Evie pushed the cart, catching up with Javan before he bypassed the produce section.

“We're going to get some fruit first, Javan. Turn right, niñito.” She held her breath, letting it out in a relieved exhale when the little boy obeyed her. She double-stepped to keep up with him. “You want some apples?”

“Red ones.”

“Red ones it is, then. Want to put them in the bag?” Evie pulled a plastic bag off the rack. “How about six? Can you count six?”

“Sure.”

One by one, Javan dropped six apples into the bag. They moved from there to choose a bunch of bananas and some oranges.

“I wanna get cereal now.”

“Cereal is all the way at the back of the store. I still need to get some salad stuff. We'll get that later.”

“But I'm all out of Kix.”

“I promise, we'll get some. It's on the list.” Evie tapped her forehead and then moved the cart toward the bins of lettuce. “Come on this way with Mamá.”

She gathered the different items for a green salad: romaine lettuce, red and yellow peppers, cucumber, red onion. Spying a container of sunflower seeds, she moved farther along to get that, too. What had she forgotten? Mushrooms. Logan always liked mushrooms in a salad. She turned back around . . . and realized Javan wasn't standing nearby.

“Javan?” She looked toward the grocery cart. Maybe he was in front of—no. From left to right, she scanned the produce section of the store. Where was he? “Javan?”

She took a few steps to the right. Stopped. Which way should she go. Right? Left? Stay here? Surely Javan couldn't have gone far.

“Javan?” This time she raised her voice a bit, in case he'd wandered an aisle over. A woman with short-cropped gray hair over by the pineapples made eye contact with her. “I'm looking for my son. He's six. Have you seen a little boy with curly black hair?”

The woman shook her head, her mouth curving in a sympathetic smile as she moved closer. “What is he wearing?”

What was Javan wearing? Evie closed her eyes. Tried to remember. “Jeans. A . . . an Iron Man shirt. My husband loves Iron Man. Tennis shoes—with Velcro. His name is Javan.”

Why was she standing here talking to this woman? She had to find her son. She dashed over to the next aisle of the produce section. “Javan! Come here right now!”

Nothing. What should she do? Get a manager? Keep looking?

A touch on her shoulder caused Evie to whirl around.

“Ma'am, do you need some help?” A man wearing a black shirt and blue work apron stood next to the woman Evie talked to moments earlier.

“I've lost my son.”

How could she have lost Javan?

“What's his name?”

“Javan.” Evie described what the little boy was wearing. Again.

“Why don't you come to the front and we'll make an announcement—”

“No. No. I have to go look for my son—”

“We'll find him. If you're up front, we can bring him to you.”

“I've got to find him.”

Ignoring the employee's repeated request, Evie sprinted down the main aisle. She couldn't wait for someone else to find her son. As she passed each new aisle to her right, she paused, looked, hoping to see a little boy looking for his mamá. Looking for her.

“Help me, help me, help me . . .” Her words came out in short, whispered gasps.

Who was she talking to?

For the first time in her life, Evie wished she believed in God. Wished she could pray. Ask for help. Ask God to protect Javan. To find him. But she didn't believe in God. She had to do this herself.

“Javan!” She came to the end of the store aisles.

Nothing.

What to do now?

A man's voice sounded over the store intercom: “We have a Code Adam. A lost six-year-old boy with curly black hair wearing an Iron Man T-shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes.”

Had someone taken her son? Grabbed him, dragged him from the store . . . she covered her face with trembling hands. She had to call Logan. He would know what to do. Panic roiled inside her, tumbling her thoughts around so fast she didn't know what to do. Find Javan. That's what mamás do—they keep looking until they find their little boys.

She turned left, running down the first aisle, not caring that she knocked into carts and caused other customers to step out of the way.

“Javan!”

The next aisle. Turn right. Run.

The next aisle. Turn right.

And there . . . there was Javan, his arms filled with three boxes of Kix, talking to an employee.

Evie didn't stop running until she dropped to her knees in front of Javan, the floor hard and cold. With a sob, she wrapped her arms around the little boy, crushing him to her, cereal boxes and all. Her tears wet his curls, her laughter and sobs mingled together in a melody of fear and relief.

“Where were you, niñito?”

“I wanted to get the cereal all by myself.” Javan's voice quivered. “But I couldn't remember where the cart was. I couldn't find you.”

Evie rocked him back and forth. “I found you, Javan. I found you.”

“I'm glad. These boxes were heavy, Mamá.”

Evie's breath stilled. Had he . . . ? Yes, Javan called her “Mamá.”

Somehow, when she almost lost Javan, he found his way to her.

“You going to watch him sleep all night?” Logan's husky whisper caused Evie to turn her head so she could see him silhouetted against the hallway light.

“Maybe.”

“I'd like some time with you, too, you know. What's a guy gotta do to get his wife's attention these days?”

“Just ask.” Even as she answered her husband's question, her gaze returned to Javan. His Iron Man pajama bottoms were bunched up around his legs, the top twisted around his tummy. The scent of baby shampoo lured Evie close enough to plant a kiss on the soft curve of the little boy's cheek. With every inhale and exhale, Javan gave a soft, six-year-old snore.

“Come to bed with me, Mrs. Gardner?”

Evie rose to her feet, tiptoeing over to her husband and wrapping her arms around his waist. “You don't have to ask twice, Mr. Gardner.”

Together, they walked down the hallway to their bedroom, switching off the hall light as they entered their room. Evie bit back a smile when Logan locked the bedroom door behind them. They learned the hard way that Javan thought nothing of opening a door without knocking.

She slipped underneath the soft cream-colored sheets, a sigh escaping her lips as she rested her head on Logan's broad chest. If she stayed still—quiet—she could hear the sound of her husband's strong heartbeat.

“You all right after today?” Logan's arm curled around her shoulders.

“Yes.”

“After Javan got lost, I thought you'd be wired for sound—all strung out.” His voice rumbled low in his chest as his fingers trailed through her hair.

“Believe me, I'm still on adrenaline overload. But I'm happy, too.”

“Happy? You want to explain that to me?”

“Javan called me ‘Mamá.' When I found him . . . he called me ‘Mamá.' ” She rolled onto her side, leaning on her elbow so she could look at her husband. “I can't say losing Javan was
worth it . . . but Logan, the minute Javan said that, I could breathe again.”

Logan tucked a long strand of hair behind her ear. “Why is the word so important?”

“You know my past . . . what happened when I was fifteen. Getting pregnant. Losing the baby—” The hot sting of unshed tears burned the back of Evie's throat.

“I told you, that doesn't matter to me, Evie.”

“But it matters to me.” Evie swallowed the salty taste of regret. “All these years staring at negative pregnancy tests. I started thinking maybe I'm not meant to be a mom.”

“That's not how things work.”

“It certainly seems as though Fate is trying to tell me something.”

“So, Javan calling you ‘Mamá' changes everything?”

“That and a conversation I had with one of Dr. Kendall's patients. I didn't tell you about that.”

“You talk to all of Dr. Kendall's patients—” As if realizing this conversation was going on for longer than he anticipated, Logan repositioned his pillow and sat up, pulling her over so she rested against him again.

For a moment, Evie allowed herself to relax in the shelter of her husband's arms—the one place she felt safe.

“So who was this patient and what did you talk about?”

“His name is Ian. He's sixteen and he was adopted. He told me how he gave his adopted mom a lot of trouble at first and how she told him that she could love him longer than he could hate her.” Evie clasped Logan's hand, weaving their fingers together. “He told me not to give up on Javan because he's already had one mom abandon him.”

“Smart kid.”

“I know.”

“So does this mean you still want to adopt Javan?”

“Yes. I know it'll still be hard. And I may get discouraged again. But with you helping me, I know we can do this.” Evie paused. “Dr. Kendall says she's praying for us, too. She knows I don't believe in God, but she still prays for me. I don't know why, but the thought of her praying for us . . .”

“It can't hurt.”

“I know. And sometimes it feels like it helps.”

Kendall expected an email. A phone call.

But she hadn't expected her sister, Bekah, to show up on her doorstep, unannounced.

“What are you doing here?” Kendall stood in her doorway, trying not to compare herself with her sister. Again.

But how could she not? Bekah wore her casual chic outfit as if she'd trademarked it. Skinny jeans paired with a fashionable pair of leather gladiator sandals, a sleek white top peeking out from underneath her pink jean jacket, with a fringed scarf decorated with rainbow-colored tiles flung around her neck as an afterthought. Her long black hair cascaded around her face, made up to accentuate her fawn-shaped eyes.

“Did I get you out of the shower or something? It is after ten.” Bekah scanned Kendall's towel-wrapped body, wrinkling her nose at her sister's wet hair.

“No. I just finished swimming. Glad you knocked when you did. I was heading for the shower. Wouldn't have heard you.”

Too bad she'd been perusing the news on her computer, hoping against hope that she no longer made the local news. At last, Heath Parker's name was getting more press than she was.

Sully scuffled around Kendall's bare feet, trying to see who was at the door.

“So . . . you probably want to come in. Let me get Sully settled.” She grabbed the dog's collar and backed up, pulling the door open with her other hand. “Come on in.”