more serious tone, she added, “That is the last thing I want you to tell him.”
“So if saying no to his clumsy invite is the last thing, what’s the first?”
“I don’t want you to tell him anything. Except, maybe, thanks for appearing on the show.”
“Uh-huh. Are you forgetting how long we’ve known one another? I can see straight through you.”
Nearly six years. He and Jason had belonged to the same athletic club and often had played doubles tennis. Marty had been at her kitchen table sipping iced tea, waiting for Jason to get home from work, when she took the call from Kennedy Krieger, confirming that Drew indeed had autism. And prior to Jason’s cancer diagnosis, they’d been regular guests at Marty’s house.
“I’m lucky to call you a friend,” she admitted.
“Ditto, kiddo.” The note crinkled when he patted his pocket. “Well, I’d better call the guy before I lose this.” He rounded the corner, then ducked back in. “You’re sure you don’t want me to put in a good word for you?”
“Give it a rest, Marty. Even if I had time for a man in my life, you don’t seriously think it would be someone like Logan Murray.” As if to prove it, she clucked her tongue.
“I happen to know that he has a nephew just like Drew. So he knows all about autism.”
“I know. We talked about him. His name’s Sam.”
Marty paused and said with a frown, “Will you let an old friend give you some advice?”
“Something tells me I couldn’t stop you if I tried.” Grinning, she crossed both arms over her chest. “Lemme have it, old friend.”
“Logan and I have been pals for quite a while now, and—”
“Really. Then why did you need his contact information?”
“Because, Detective Wright, he got tired of the prank calls from crazy broads who want to become Mrs. Murray, so he changed his number. Again.” He bobbed his head. “Trust me...I’ve known him long enough to be able to tell when he’s interested in a gal, and when he’s really interested, if you get my drift.”
“Sorry to be so obtuse, but I don’t. Get your drift, that is.”
“The way he was lookin’ at you?” Marty whistled. “He’s into you, kid.”
“Marty...”
He held up both hands. “Okay, never let it be said I can’t take a hint.” He gave her a quick hug. “See ya!”
Bianca shook her head. Logan Murray. Interested in her? Ridiculous enough to be comical, she thought as she grabbed her To Do list and read the remaining tasks: call Michael Phelps to remind him what time to arrive for his segment on The Morning 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