Like Dandelion Dust (11 page)

But it was impossible.

After the kids were in bed, she popped in a video of Alabama football highlights from the previous season, but even then she was distracted. Finally she clicked the Off button on the television, turned out the lights, and stared at the ceiling.

How could they do it?

The boy was absolutely perfect. He was ahead of his class in preschool, well-adjusted in every way possible. The latest report showed that relatives of the adoptive mother had recently moved to West Palm Beach. That meant the boy had an aunt and uncle and possibly cousins in the area.

She hadn’t been lying to the Porters earlier that day. To tear him away from that environment truly would be devastating. She turned onto her side and stared through the sheer curtains to the streetlight outside. Something about their story didn’t ring true. Even if a prison guard gave the packet of documents to the wrong prisoner, why would that prisoner forge Rip’s name?

If it was a lie, it was a careful one. The way the story went it, didn’t matter why someone would do such a thing. The culprit was nameless, faceless. Short of interviewing every inmate at the prison four years ago, there was no way to find out who might’ve received the package and forged Rip’s name.

Allyson suspected it wasn’t a prisoner at all, but Wendy Porter herself. She’d documented the conversation she’d had with the woman in the hospital four years ago. And she’d read it several times that day, both before and after the meeting with the Porters.

Wendy Porter had been afraid of Rip. She hadn’t wanted him to come home from prison and release his rage on her baby son. That’s the reason she gave him up. At the time Allyson had asked the woman whether Rip would have a problem signing the papers, and Wendy’s answer had been quick. Definitely not.

But did that really make sense?

The branches in the trees outside her window swayed gently, casting moving shadows on her bedroom floor. If the man was abusive, and if he followed the profile of most domestic-violence perpetrators, he would never have signed away his rights to a son. Abusers tend to have a strong sense of ownership. It was at the root of why they were abusive in the first place. They see people as objects to be owned and manipulated. When a person doesn’t respond correctly, the abuser unleashes on that person as a way of keeping his possession in line. Abusive people are very aware of their possessions.

Especially their wives and children.

Allyson breathed out long and slow. She could put the pressure on Wendy, make her take a lie-detector test or have her handwriting scrutinized to see if it might be possible that she—and not an erroneous prisoner—forged Rip Porter’s name.

But what was the point?

If her theory was correct, they could prosecute Wendy, maybe even send her to prison for a few years. But the boy would still belong to Rip. And that was the one part of the story that did ring true—until he’d been released from prison, Rip Porter knew nothing about having a son. The name on the paperwork did, indeed, look different from the signature he’d supplied them that morning.

So how would it help having Wendy sent away?

If Rip was going to get custody, if the boy had to leave his home and start a new life in another state with people he didn’t know, then Wendy should be part of the formula. The boy would need a mother, wouldn’t he? Someone to watch out for him if Rip’s rage ever returned?

No wonder sleep wouldn’t come.

By tomorrow afternoon she’d have her answer about Rip’s handwriting, whether the county expert thought his name had been forged. Then the judge would follow the established protocol for a situation like this. He’d grant custody to Rip and Wendy. And in a very short time, the boy’s idyllic life would come to a screeching halt.

She closed her eyes and pictured her own children. Tavia with little Harley . . . Travis . . . Taylor. How would they respond if someone called and said that life as they knew it was over? That they would have to leave and go live with another family, never to look back again?

Allyson did not cry often. She had seen too much, gotten too hard to get emotional over every case that didn’t turn out right. Usually it was the temporary custody, the times when a child was making progress with a foster parent only to be placed once more with a natural parent—a drug user or rehabilitated convict. Heartache was part of the job.

But now tears spilled from her eyes and onto her pillow.

Something about this case made her think of her own father, the man she’d loved and lost to cancer so many years ago. A series of sobs shook her. “Daddy . . . I still miss you. Tell me what to do.” It wasn’t right. Somewhere in Florida, a little boy who had known from birth a very special relationship with his parents was likely going to lose them both. Not because of cancer. But because the system was about to fail him utterly.

And that—more than anything that had come across her clean desk in the past decade—was enough to make her weep.

Chapter Eight

B
eth sat next to Molly on the bench that faced the park swings. Joey and Jonah were racing, seeing who could swing the highest.

“I love this.” Beth breathed in through her nose and smiled. “Those two boys are going to be best friends.” She glanced at Molly. “Can’t you just feel it?”

“Yes.” Molly leaned forward and put her elbows on her knees. “Every time they’re together.”

The older kids were riding their bikes on the path that circled the park. School was out, and it was the middle of June. Humidity had hit—but not to the point of being unbearable. Blue skies, eighty degrees, and a light breeze made the South Florida afternoon feel perfect. The heat from earlier in the month had eased, and they all looked forward to their twice weekly morning visits to the park. That morning Beth had called Molly, the way she’d done every Tuesday and Thursday since they unloaded the moving van. “Up for the park?”

Molly laughed. “Joey’s been bugging me about it since he woke up. Let’s bring a picnic.”

Already the kids had been playing for almost an hour.

Beth leaned back. “Know what I was thinking?”

“Uh-oh.” Molly looked over her shoulder at Beth and winced. “This isn’t about church, is it?”

The question hurt. Beth hadn’t brought up church since the barbecue; she’d made a promise to stay away from the topic. She felt her smile fade. “Thanks.”

“What?” Molly was quick with an apologetic tone. She put her hand on Beth’s shoulder. “Hey, don’t get mad. I’m sorry.” She giggled. “I’m just teasing. You’ve been very good about the whole church thing.”

“Okay, then. Give me a little credit.”

“I will.” Molly angled herself so she was facing Beth. “What were you thinking?”

Beth took a minute to transition. When she spoke, some of her enthusiasm was gone. “I was thinking how the two of us were a lot like Joey and Jonah. When we were little, I mean.”

Molly straightened and leaned back against the bench. She watched the boys, how Joey encouraged Jonah, spouting a series of pep talks and instructions. “Yeah. I can see that.” She laughed. “Joey
is
sort of bossy.”

“Not bossy.” Beth angled her head, her eyes on the boys. “He cares about Jonah. Like he’s personally responsible for Jonah’s well-being.”

Molly looked at her. “I was like that with you?”

“When we were little, yes.” Beth crossed her ankles and stretched out her legs. “I can remember when we were learning to ride our bikes.” She giggled, the hurt from Molly’s earlier remark entirely gone. “Remember those burnt orange bikes with the white stripes on the sides?”

“And the white tassels flying from the handlebars?”

“Right.” Beth looked up and watched a pair of blue jays land in a maple tree twenty yards away. “Anyway, you were seven and I was five, I think. You were learning to ride a bike, so I wanted to learn, too. It didn’t matter if I was young.”

“We had training wheels, right?”

“Right, but that summer Dad took them off.” Beth could see them, scared to death about the prospect of riding two-wheelers. “Anyway, he worked with you first and then, I don’t know, he must’ve gotten a phone call or something. He told you to keep practicing. He’d be out in a minute to teach me.”

“Oh, yeah.” Molly faced her again. “I remember now. As soon as he was in the house, I climbed off my bike and ran to you.”

“Right. You said you didn’t want to ride without me.” Beth laughed and looked at the boys again. “Instead of practicing, you ran alongside me and after a few runs I was riding like a pro.”

“But when I climbed back on my bike, I got about three wobbly feet and crashed to the ground.”

Beth giggled. “Exactly.” She watched the boys slow down, jump off the swings, and run for the merry-go-round. Joey was leading the way. “You weren’t bossy. You were just looking out for me.”

“The way you looked out for me when we were older.”

“Yeah.” Beth smiled at her. “Like that, I guess.”

Just then the boys came running toward them, each shouting and pointing at the other. Jonah got his words out first. “He won’t let me have a turn pushing the merry-go-round! He says I have to stay still and enjoy the ride.”

“Joey . . . that’s not very nice.” Molly brushed her knuckles against her son’s face. “What have we taught you about sharing?”

“Yeah, but I’m taller than him, Mommy.” Joey pointed back at the merry-go-round. “I can push ’cause I’m a big boy. Jonah’s a little boy.”

“Am not!” Jonah stuck his tongue out at Joey. “I’m older than you! So you’re a little boy, Joey!”

“Mom . . .” Joey held out his hands, pleading with Molly. “It’s better to ride, anyway. I’m just trying to be nice.”

“Why don’t you boys take turns?” Beth patted Jonah on the back. “You’re both big enough to push. Let’s see how that works out.”

They looked hesitant, but they ran off anyway. Halfway there, Joey tapped Jonah on the shoulder and stuck his tongue out. “There,” they could hear him say. “That’s a payback.”

Both women laughed. “Of course, there was plenty of that between us, too.” Beth sorted through her lunch bag for an apple. “I remember the time when the dog ate the head off your Barbie. We were maybe ten and twelve. Remember that?”

“How could I forget? I stole your Barbie head to replace mine and tried to pretend like nothing was wrong.”

“Only my Barbie had a headband that matched her dress.” Beth took a bite of her apple and chuckled. “Must have been pretty easy for Mom to solve that one.”

“I never was a very good liar.”

“No.”

The clouds were gathering faster, darkening the sky. They’d had thunderstorms nearly every day since their family landed in West Palm Beach, and today’s forecast was for more of the same. “Looks like a storm.”

“Better move this picnic to my house.” Molly stood and collected her things—the lunch bag and the mesh net with Joey’s sand toys. She motioned to the older kids. “Want me to tell them?”

“Thanks.” Beth grabbed her bag and peered at the sky. Lightning pierced the closest clouds. “We better hurry. I’ll go start the car. The kids can throw their bikes in the back. “ She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Come on, boys! Let’s go—storm’s coming.”

Joey and Jonah hesitated, and for a moment it seemed they might complain about having to leave. But instead Joey jumped off the merry-go-round and tore across the sand for the grassy field adjacent to the play area. “Come on! Look at all the dandelions!”

“Just a minute.” Molly jogged toward Beth’s older kids and yelled for them to come to the car. Then she turned back to Joey. Just a month ago, the entire grassy field had been dotted with bright yellow dandelions. But now the ground looked like a million fuzz balls. When the boys raced across the field, they stirred up a cloud of seeds. Joey and Jonah giggled and ran back to Beth and Molly.

“There’s a kabillion dandelions at this park, did you know that, Mommy?” Joey took Molly by the hand. “A super-kabillion.”

“Yeah.” Jonah skipped in alongside Beth. “They’re fun to race through.”

In the distance, another bolt of lightning flashed across the sky. “Okay, boys,” Beth picked up her pace. “Time to run.”

They piled into Beth’s van just as the first raindrops hit the windshield. “Whew.” Beth slid her key into the ignition. “That was close.”

The older kids took the back seat. “I had the most laps.” Cammie sounded proud of herself.

“Did not.” Blain made a face at her. “I lapped you three times.”

The debate continued. In the rear-view mirror Beth could see Joey staring wide-eyed out the window. “I love storms.”

“Except at night.” Molly gave Beth a wry look. “He’s in bed with us as soon as the first clap of thunder hits.”

Joey leaned forward. “Yeah, Mommy, but that’s because storms are ’posed to be shared.”

“Right.” Jonah nodded, his expression serious. “I like sharing storms with my mommy and daddy, too.”

The conversation remained comical all the way to Molly’s house, through her garage, and into the kitchen. While they spread out their lunches on the dining room table, Beth savored how good life felt. Her sister was once again her best friend. And their little boys were on their way to the same sort of friendship.

Still, there was something missing, something Beth didn’t dare bring up. And as Molly went to check the phone messages, Beth said a silent prayer.
God . . . please give Molly a reason to need You. I won’t bring it up . . . so give her a reason, God. Please.

The kids were situated at the table, but the message light was flashing on the answering machine. Probably a salesperson. Jack would’ve called on her cell phone, and with school out there weren’t many calls that needed her attention. Still . . . she wanted to check.

A burst of thunder rattled the windows, but Molly didn’t mind. Lightning storms were a part of life in Florida. She’d grown up with them, and by now she rather liked them. They made her lakeside home feel safe and warm, like a cocoon against the elements.

She pressed the message button and waited.

“You have one new message,” the automated voice announced. “First message, sent today at 10:31 a.m.”

The message started. “Hello . . .” The caller hesitated. “This is Allyson Bower. I’m a social worker in Ohio, the one who handled the placement of your son.”