The Red Gloves Collection (13 page)

I hav a wish to ask you abot, and here it is: Plese God, send me a Daddy. My daddy died wen his heart stopped pumping, and now its just my mom and gramma and me.

Tears filled Megan’s eyes and made the words blurry. She blinked and forced herself to continue.

My frend Keith has a daddy who plays baseball with him and takes him on Saterday trips to the park and helps him with his plusses and minuses evry day after scool. Mommy is too bizy to do that stuff, so plese God, plese send me a Daddy like that. Chrismas would be a good time. Thank you very much. Love, Jordan.

Megan wiped her tears. She read the letter again and again, and finally a fourth time as the sobs welled within her. Deep, gut-wrenching sobs of the type she hadn’t allowed herself since she was a little girl. She could give Jordan everything he needed, but never the one thing he wanted. A daddy—a man to play with him and love him and call him his own.

And the fact grieved her as it hadn’t since George died.

Megan slipped the letter back inside the envelope and eased it under her pillow. Then, with her work clothes still on, she lay down, slid beneath the comforter, and covered her face with her hands. Suddenly she was thirteen again, alone on the sandy shores of Lake Tahoe, devastated by her own losses and desperate for answers.

The boy had been fifteen, tall and wiry with sun-drenched hair and freckles, and they met each other near the water every day for a week. What was his name? Kade something? The memory was dimmer than it had once been, and she could barely picture his face. But Maggie had never forgotten something the boy told her that summer.

Hold out for real love, Maggie, because real love never fails.

Megan had gazed out across the chilly lake and shook her head. It would take a miracle for that kind of love, she’d told him. Nothing short of a miracle.

“Then that,” the boy had said as he grinned at her, “is what I’ll pray for. A miracle for Maggie.”

Megan rolled onto her side and let the full brunt of the sobs come. For years she’d held on to the boy’s definition of love—a love that would never fail. But the boy on the beach had been wrong. Love—whatever love was—certainly failed. And miracles? Well, they didn’t happen for her, and they certainly weren’t about to happen for Jordan.

The sooner he understood that, the better off he’d be.

CHAPTER TWO

Y
ear-round, Saturday mornings were busy at Casey’s Corner in Midtown Manhattan. The smell of hot blueberry pancakes and sizzling bacon drenched the air, while the clamor of clattering trays and a dozen conversations served as a backdrop for customers lined up at the door. The café was a hot spot for tourists from Texas to Tokyo and extremely popular among Midtown’s business elite. With a menu that was “healthy eclectic,” ripe avocado and alfalfa sprout sandwiches were served up alongside a half dozen styles of homemade cheesecake. The food was fresh and fast, and the atmosphere as diverse and dynamic as New York City itself. In the six years since Casey Cummins opened the café, it had practically become a local landmark.

One of the regulars was telling him a joke, and Casey had to remind himself to laugh. His mind was a million miles away, stranded on an island of memories and secrets he would share with no one.

Especially today.

Most days, Casey jogged to work. He wore his trademark blue nylon sweats and white Nikes, same as always, so that when the morning was behind him he could run the twenty blocks through Central Park back to his apartment. His routine was the same as it had always been, but these days Casey logged more miles and rarely ran the straight path to his front door. Not because he needed the exercise, but because he wanted to be anywhere but back at the lonely set of walls he called home.

It was the third Saturday in October, and Casey easily drifted from one conversation to another as he made the rounds. “Joey … how’s the new job at the bank?” or “Hey, Mrs. Jackson, another Saturday closer to Christmas,” or “Marvin, my man, how ‘bout those Nets? Jason Kidd’ll tear ‘em up this season.”

Hours passed, and Casey kept himself in the moment. Never mind that his thoughts were somewhere else, the café routine was as familiar as putting one foot in front of the other. Even on a day like this.

The crowd began thinning around noon, and Casey found a seat at the counter. “Long morning, Billy-G.”

The old black chef peered out from his position in front of the kitchen stove. “Okay … ” He studied Casey for a moment. “Give it up.”

Casey blinked and kept his gaze on the man’s face. Billy Gaynor was a quiet family man from Nigeria who’d worked for Casey since the café opened. Billy’s culinary magic was as much a part of the success of Casey’s Corner as the quirky New York street signs and Broadway memorabilia that hung on the hand-painted walls. Casey and Billy-G were colleagues and friends—even more so since Amy died. They were both widowers now, and despite the thirty years between them, there was no one Casey would rather spend an hour with.

Billy-G was waiting, and Casey grabbed a nearby pitcher, poured himself a cup of coffee, and took a slow drink.

“Yes, sir.” Casey peered over the top of his steaming mug. “Another great Saturday morning in the Big Apple, eh Billy-G.”

His friend’s eyebrows forged a slow path through the thick skin that made up his forehead. “Ya ain’t fooling me, Casey.” He lumbered around the corner and leaned against the counter opposite Casey. “Ya gotta talk about it.” Customers still filled most of the seats, so Billy-G kept his voice low. “You can’t fake it with me, Casey. I already know.”

Casey set down his coffee and lowered his chin. He thought about smiling again, but changed his mind. “What ya know, Billy-G?”

“It’s your anniversary.” The man leaned closer. “One month after mine, remember?”

A brief burning nipped at Casey’s eyes. “That.” He sniffed hard and sat up straighter on the stool. “No big deal, Billy-G. Life moves on.”

“Yes.” The old man leaned against the counter, his eyes still locked on Casey’s. “But only a fool would forget a girl like Amy.” He hesitated and took a step back toward the kitchen. “And you ain’t no fool.”

“Yeah, well … ” Casey narrowed his eyes some and sucked in a quick breath. He set down his cup and gave the counter a light slap. “Time for my jog.”

Billy-G stopped and leveled his gaze at Casey once more. “I’m here. Anytime you wanna talk, I’m here.”

“Thanks.” Casey glanced over his shoulder and mentally mapped out a course for the door. His throat was thick, and memories were drawing close to the surface. Some days he could talk about Amy for hours and never feel the tears. Times like those he liked nothing more than to hang out with Billy-G after closing time and talk about a thousand yesterdays. But not today.

He flashed a smile at Billy-G. “See ya tomorrow.”

T
he pavement felt like ice beneath his feet, and Casey ran faster than usual. Some of the regulars had waved him down, hoping for a conversation or a laugh, but he couldn’t pretend for another minute. Billy-G was right.

Casey Cummins was no fool, and today he could keep up the happy-guy act only for so long. It was his eighth wedding anniversary, and if Amy and the baby had lived, they would’ve spent the day together, celebrating life and love and cherishing that special something they’d had between them, the kind of love so few people shared.

He headed north on Broadway and cut across the street toward Central Park. The thing of it was, no one wanted to hear about his loss. Not really. People had their own tragedies, lost jobs and children in the Armed Forces, broken relationships and bankruptcies. At Casey’s Corner everyone wanted a sympathetic ear, and he made it his job to listen.

But rarely did he talk.

Casey slowed his pace some and headed into the park on a paved path. He’d heard people question God after a tragedy, wondering how a loving Creator could allow a world filled with devastation and loss. Some of his customers were so angry with God after September 11, they’d stopped believing.

Casey didn’t feel that way at all.

Bad things happened in the world, it was that simple. A fifteen-year-old rape victim, the mother of a toddler killed by a drunk driver, the wife of a police officer shot in the line of duty—each of them had their own September 11, a day when they’d been forced to realize that without faith, life didn’t make sense.

Not a single minute of it.

Casey’s had happened a week after the terrorist attacks, on September 18. That was the day Amy went into labor and began bleeding. He rushed her to Mount Sinai Hospital, and even after the doctors ushered him into a private waiting room, Casey thought Amy and the baby were going to be fine. It wasn’t until almost an hour later, when a weary doctor shuffled up to Casey, that he realized something was wrong.

“We lost them both, Mr. Cummins.” The doctor had tears in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Amy had begun hemorrhaging when she went into labor. The blood loss was too much, and there’d been no way to save either of them.

Casey was breathing harder now. He rounded a corner and saw the familiar green and tan plastic play equipment and the giant slide to the right. The East Meadow play area wasn’t the largest or most popular in Central Park, but it was the place where Casey and Amy had come after they’d moved to New York. Normally, he would run past the area with only a quick glance and a flash of memories. Past the worn-out bench anchored near the back by the big slide, past the place where he had given Amy a ring, the place where she’d told him she was going to have a baby. The quiet spot where they’d held each other and wept once the dust settled after the collapse of the Twin Towers.

He slowed his steps and came to a stop, his sides heaving. The place, the bench, was a graveyard of memories, and most days he was better off not to stop.

But today …

Today, there was suddenly nowhere else he wanted to be.

A chill hung in the air, and the bushes rustled with a strong fall breeze. Casey gripped his knees and bent over, waiting for his lungs to fill. After a few seconds, he straightened and linked his hands behind his head. For half a minute he moved his feet in small circles, until his breathing was normal again. A dozen children were scattered amid the swings and slides, and not far away their parents stood in clusters or sat on other benches, chatting and sometimes yelling out at the little ones, warning them not to walk in front of swings or promising to play with them in a few minutes.

The voices faded, and Casey headed toward the back of the play area. Their bench was empty, like always. It was smaller, older than the others, and partially hidden by an overgrown bush. Only half the play equipment could be seen from that bench, so most of the parents didn’t bother with it.

He sat down and stretched out his legs. The ground was damp, carpeted with a layer of month-old fallen leaves. Casey kicked at a dark, wet clump and crossed his feet.

Eight years.

If Amy had lived they would’ve been close to celebrating a decade together. He let his head fall back a few inches and stared into the gray.
Come on, let me see her … just once.
He narrowed his eyes, willing himself to look beyond the clouds to the place where Amy still lived, still loved him and waited for him.

But all he could see was the swirl of late-autumn sky, and his heart settled deeper in his chest. He closed his eyes.

The pain is worse now than ever. I
— He held his breath, determined to keep his emotions at bay.
I miss her so much.

His eyes opened, and a robin caught his attention. It hopped along the sidewalk a few feet away, studying the ground, pecking at it. Then it stopped and tilted its head toward the trees, and in a rush of motion, flapped its wings and lifted into the air.

Casey watched until it disappeared. If Amy were here, she’d slip her arm around his shoulders and tell him to learn a thing or two from the robin. What good ever came from muddling around on the ground? It had been two years and Amy would’ve wanted him to fly again. Live again … love again. Amy, with her wheat-colored blonde hair and light brown eyes, her easy laugh and tender heart. The unaffected way she said exactly what was on her mind.

Come on, Casey …
He could almost hear her, see the sparks flying in her eyes.
What’re you going to do … stop breathing? Get out there and live.

But where would he start? And with whom? And how—after loving and losing the woman of his dreams— was he supposed to fly again? So what if two years had passed. He didn’t want to fly yet, didn’t want to move on. Better to be alone with her memories than find someone to replace her.

The very idea made his stomach hurt.

“Jordan, not so high.” A woman’s voice broke the moment, and Casey’s eyes followed the sound. She was a brunette, pretty in a professional sort of way, and she stood a few feet from the play equipment. “Jordan … did you hear me?”

Casey shifted his gaze to the big slide and saw a young boy, seven or eight years old. For a moment he looked as though he might disobey her, but then he stopped, turned around, and headed back down the ladder. Casey blinked, and he was back in the hospital room again, hearing the news about his wife and child for the first time.

The baby had been a boy.

The doctor had said so right after telling him the awful news. A boy who would’ve had Amy’s eyes and Casey’s sense of adventure. A boy like the one climbing on the play equipment. He would’ve been two years old, and he would’ve loved the East Meadow, where the carpet of green gave way to a view of the reservoir. Yes, this would’ve been his favorite place. Amy would’ve been by his side, holding his hand, and together they would’ve watched their son run and skip and jump across the play bridge.

Casey shifted his gaze, and the invisible picture disappeared. He sucked in a quick breath and slid a bit lower on the bench. Why was he letting his thoughts run wild? What good did daydreaming do him now? So what if it was their anniversary. Amy was gone—and with her every hope he’d ever had for the future. There was no hand to hold, no happy ending, and no towheaded little boy to play with.