Catch a Falling Star (32 page)

“All right.” Warren patted the side of the plane and then moved out of Griffin's way, shielding his eyes from the sun that was setting behind Pikes Peak, tingeing the sky yellow and orange. “You need anything?”

“Nope. I'm good.”

“Fine. Just give me a wave when you're done. I'll be over working on my buddy's plane in the hangar.”

Griffin waited until Warren walked off before hauling himself up into the cockpit of the Cessna. He settled behind the dual controls, surveying the view of the Rocky Mountains outside the windshield.

If only he could perform a preflight check and then take her up. Escaping into the blue sky was always the best way to clear his head. But he hadn't broken the boundary of his “Do Not Fly” status in almost two years—and he wasn't going to let his tirade with Tracey cause him to do anything else stupid today.

He shifted in the seat, his workout T-shirt and gym shorts still damp with perspiration. He should have gone home and changed first, but after his one-man showdown, his only thought was to get somewhere—anywhere—to think. And this was where he'd always done his best thinking: in a plane.

Griffin closed his eyes, inhaling the familiar scent of asphalt and gasoline as he mentally rehearsed the preflight checklists.

Exterior first: struts, tires, brakes, elevator, ailerons, flaps, rudder, engine, and oil. Interior checks: radios, navigation, master switch—on. Fuel switch to
ON
and start the engine. Then taxi to the active runway for takeoff. He mentally scrolled through the radio calls and frequencies: ATIS, clearance, ground control, and, finally, tower for takeoff clearance. He could almost taste the freedom waiting for him as he visualized flying above the vista of the Front Range, leaving the weight of his responsibilities back on the ground.

What if the medical board didn't clear him to fly again?

God, you wouldn't do that to me, would you? I'm a pilot. It's what I do. It's who I am.

Didn't God promise to give him the desires of his heart? All
he'd ever wanted was to fly . . . surely his vertigo-induced hiatus was almost over.

But what about his desire to have children?

God could certainly work miracles, but he wasn't going to nullify Griffin's stupidity.

Griffin watched a plane taxi down the runway, gaining speed as its wheels lifted off the ground and it soared off toward the horizon.

He hadn't realized how angry he was at Tracey until she showed up again, living the life he never would. Why had he ever let her talk him into having a vasectomy? Why hadn't he stood his ground, insisted they wait, think things out?

Acquiescing hadn't saved his marriage.

And it cost him any hope of becoming a father.

And now it cost him any chance of a future with Kendall because she deserved it all: A husband. Children.

And the reality was, as much as he wanted to blame Tracey, he had only himself to blame.

The fact hit him with the force of unexpected turbulence.

No one made him sign the permission papers for the vasectomy—he did that all by himself. As much as he wanted to say that his ex-wife “forced” him, Griffin was an adult at the time. Yes, he'd made an immature decision out of desperation. But it was his choice—and now he had to man up and live with the consequences.

And after twelve years, he needed to stop blaming Tracey. More than that, he needed to forgive her for walking out on him. Maybe he had worked harder than she had to save their marriage. Maybe not. But he had to stop holding her responsible for their divorce.

God, where did he go from here?

No marriage.

No children.

And maybe . . . no flying.

He had to stop saying he couldn't live on a permanent “Do Not Fly” status. It was time to ask God how. How did he forgive Tracey? How did he accept the reality of his future—especially if he was grounded?

“I can't do this—any of this—without you, God.”

The words he spoke hung in the air. The truth settled on his shoulders and Griffin shifted under the weight. Let it settle there. There was no getting away from it. Maybe by the time he stepped out of the plane, he'd be a little closer to accepting his limitations—and God's strength.

Where was everyone else?

Evie parked her SUV behind the Rocky Mountain Family Practice in the near-empty lot. Besides her car, there was Kendall's red Jeep—but who drove the rust-colored Jeep Cherokee? Had Kendall convinced someone else in the practice to purchase a Jeep? There was no way Paul would trade in his Harley.

Today was Monday, right? Yes, because the echo of Javan's weekend standoff followed her all the way to work. Evie gathered up her cross-body purse and the two boxes of Krispy Kreme doughnuts she'd purchased to share with the rest of the staff during their early-morning meeting. At this point it looked as if she and Kendall—and some mystery Jeep lover—would split two dozen doughnuts.

Balancing the boxes against her body, she pulled open the back door to the clinic. “Dr. Kendall?”

“In the break room, Evie.”

At least Kendall was here for the 7
AM
meeting. Where was everyone else?

When she entered the break room, her boss stood at the kitchen counter, pouring coffee into her favorite mug labeled with the words
MED SCHOOL: IT BEATS A REAL JOB.
At the circular table covered with a blue-and-white-checked plastic tablecloth sat . . . Ian Walker?

“Good morning, Evie.” Kendall raised the pot of coffee. “Want some?”

“Good morning, Dr. Kendall.” Evie deposited the boxes onto the table, lifting the lid to display the assortment of pastries. “And good morning, Ian. I didn't know we'd brought you on staff. Help yourself.”

“Morning, Mrs. Gardner.” He eyed the doughnuts and then looked at Kendall. “Is it okay if I have one?”

“Evie said it was. Go ahead.”

While Evie sweetened her cup of coffee, Ian selected a glazed doughnut and a strawberry-filled one dusted with powdered sugar.

Evie moved a pile of napkins onto the table. “So, where is everyone else?”

“This is it for today. You, me, Ian. I told the rest of the staff to come in at the regular time.” Kendall pulled a carton of milk from the fridge and poured Ian a glass.

“Really?”

What was her boss up to? Did Kendall want her to talk to Ian about something?

“I'll let Ian explain.”

The teen swallowed a bite of doughnut, white powder gathering at the corner of his mouth. “Well, uh, Dr. Kendall and I were talking about how my parents adopted me. And she mentioned how you're adopting a little boy . . . uh, I can't remember his name.”

“Javan.” Evie gripped the coffee mug with both hands, warmth seeping through the ceramic sides.

“Javan. Yeah. Cool name.” Ian finished his first doughnut and took a gulp of milk. “Anyway, I told Dr. Kendall how I gave my mom and dad a lot of trouble when they first adopted me. That's when she asked if I would talk with you.”

Evie couldn't stop herself from looking at Ian. Adopted. Well, that explained why Ian, with his slender build, straight brown hair, and hazel eyes, looked nothing like Griffin Walker. She just assumed one brother looked like their father and the other brother looked like their mother.

“So, what do you want to know?” Ian finished off half the second doughnut in one bite.

What did she want to know? She thought this morning was going to be a staff meeting, not a chance to ask Ian Walker questions about being adopted. Did he think she carried around a list of questions to ask adopted kids?

Kendall stepped into the quietness that stretched between the trio. “Ian, you told me that you weren't very happy when your parents first adopted you. Why?”

“I was four when the Walkers became my foster parents—six when they adopted me. Things were bad with my birth mom. She was addicted to meth. The authorities finally took me away from her for good when she left me home by myself for a whole weekend.”

“Oh, Ian. How horrible.” Kendall's words mirrored Evie's thoughts.

“It wasn't the first time she left me home alone.” Ian shrugged his shoulders. “Just the longest. I think one of the neighbors figured it out somehow and called the police because they showed up Sunday night and took me away.”

“You were probably glad to get somewhere safe, huh?” Kendall nudged the box of doughnuts toward the teen.

“Here's the weird thing. I wanted to go back home with my mom. I kept waiting and waiting and waiting for my mom to come get me.” Ian stared at the table, ignoring the doughnuts. “But she never did.”

“But the Walkers—they were nice to you, weren't they? They loved you, right?”

“Oh, they were great. Dad taught me how to play baseball. How to throw a football. It was so cool to finally have a dad. I never liked my mom's boyfriends.” Ian stared at the wall across the room. “And Mom made all my favorite meals. Macaroni and cheese. Spaghetti. Sloppy Joes. She tried to read to me at night, but I wouldn't let her. She didn't care that I slept in my clothes, on top of the blankets. Every morning, I woke up, covered with a blanket. I knew she did that 'cause I woke up one time when she was doing it.”

Kendall crossed the room to refill her coffee mug. “Why were you so mad at your mom—and not your dad?”

“For the longest time, I couldn't tell you why. She'd be so nice—and I would slam doors in her face. I'd let Dad kiss me good night, but not her. I'd call him Dad and her Mrs. Walker.”

“What changed?”

“One night after Dad put me to bed, I got up to get a drink of water. I guess this was about a year after I went to live with them. And I heard Mom and Dad talking. Mom was crying. And Dad was praying. He said something like, ‘God, help us love Ian no matter what he says. No matter what he does. Just like you love us.' ”

“And that changed everything?”

“Nope. The next day, I told Mom I hated her. Screamed at the top of my lungs. She walked over and knelt down right in front of me and whispered, ‘I am going to love you longer than you can hate me, Ian. I know your birth mom left you. But I'm
your second mom—and I promise you I will never, ever stop loving you. I am not going anywhere.' ”

Ian swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. “I wasn't mad at my second mom, Mrs. Gardner. I was mad at my birth mom. And I couldn't tell her—so I took it out on my second mom. Does that make sense?”

It was difficult to see Ian through the haze caused by the tears in her eyes. Evie cleared her throat. “Yes.”

Yes, it makes sense. Does it make what Javan does hurt less? No.

“All I can figure is maybe Javan's doing the same thing to you. If he is, don't quit on him. He needs you. Every little boy needs a mom—and he's already lost one.”

Kendall reached across the table and touched her hand. “I know you weren't expecting Ian here this morning, Evie. And I apologize for the surprise tactic. After the last time we talked, well, I was afraid you'd resist my suggestion to meet with Ian. But I thought maybe Ian could help you see it from his side—and from Javan's side.”

“I appreciate this, Dr. Kendall. And you, too, Ian. I know that no teenager wants to get up this early in the morning. And you didn't even know there'd be doughnuts.” Evie turned the half-empty mug of coffee around in her hands, staring into the black liquid. “Anyway . . . thanks for talking with me.”

The sound of the back door opening brought Evie to her feet. “Sounds like somebody else is here. And I need to get up front and get ready for patients.”

Kendall stood. “Evie, do you want to—”

“We can talk more later, Dr. Kendall. I don't want to keep your patients waiting.”

G
riffin handed Doug the cold bottle of Coke he requested, watching as the older man peered into the bowels of his Jeep.