Oceans Apart (34 page)

TWENTY-EIGHT

Connor and the kids were home less than an hour when the call came in.

They’d been busy since pulling into the garage, unloading the camping gear, and cleaning it for next time. Max and the girls were so at ease with each other it was hard to tell they hadn’t known each other forever.

Something in the genes,
Connor told himself.
They’re related, after
all, even if they don’t know it
.

The only sobering part of the afternoon was the obvious.

Michele wasn’t home. He hadn’t heard from her since her cell phone call midway through the week. Her silence angered him.

How was he supposed to help her understand the situation when she kept her distance in every way?

He planned to call her after everything was put away and the kids were busy in the backyard, but not until then. It would take that much time to let his anger cool, to remember that even if she was making things more difficult, the mess they were in wasn’t her fault.

At just after four, he was helping Max put away the fishing gear when the phone rang. “Be right back.” He set down the tackle box and jogged into the house. He clicked the on button just before the answering machine picked up. “Hello?”

“Mr. Evans?”

“Yes.” The voice was familiar in a vague sort of way. Connor leaned against the kitchen island and forced himself to concentrate.

“Can I help you?”

“This is Mr. Ogle, the attorney in Honolulu.” 263

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“Mr. Ogle, hello.” Connor glanced at the calendar. It was Monday. They still had five days before the two weeks were up. “Things are going very well with Max.”

“Oh.” Surprise filled the man’s tone. “I’m glad. A good two weeks together has to be better than the alternative.” He paused.

“Anyway, I went ahead and did as you asked. I put out feelers with the attorneys I know, and late last week I found a couple that’s very interested.”

Connor’s chest felt suddenly tight, and he couldn’t take a deep breath. What was the attorney talking about? “Mr. Ogle, I never asked you to . . . I’ve been camping all week with the children.”

“But your wife said . . .”

Heat filled Connor’s cheeks. A picture was taking shape, one he couldn’t fathom. Because the Michele he knew and loved would never have done such a thing. He gave a shake of his head, as if maybe that could clear up the situation and make sense of it. “My wife said what?”

“So you don’t know?”

“Mr. Ogle”—Connor massaged his brow with his thumb and forefinger—“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I see.” The weight of the predicament sounded heavy in the attorney’s voice. “I should explain, then.” He gave a tired-out breath. “Your wife contacted me last week and said you’d made a decision. Max needed to come home at the end of the two weeks.

She asked me to start looking for an adoptive family for the boy, the sooner the better.”

Connor could feel the blood draining from his face. She couldn’t have done that, not without talking to him. When he remained silent, Mr. Ogle continued.

“I explained that finding adoptive parents for an older child could take months, years even, but she told me she was praying it 264

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would happen sooner. She told me the two of you wanted a phone call if I found anyone.”

Connor’s heart was pounding so close to the surface, he could feel the beat in his neck and temple. “And now . . . now you’ve found a family?”

“Yes.” He hesitated. “They’ve already started the process.”

“But they’ve never even
met
Max.” How had he lost control so quickly? His son was all but gone from his life, and they’d never had a chance to see that things turned out different.

“They run a bed-and-breakfast on the big island, Mr. Evans.

Apparently they lost their son in a drowning accident a few years back. They want a boy about Max’s age, someone to keep them company and learn the family business so he can take it over when they’re too old to run it.”

Connor couldn’t believe any of it. He groped his way along the counter and dropped to the nearest kitchen stool. Not only had the attorney found adoptive parents for Max, but he had the boy’s entire life planned out. All because of Michele’s phone call. He wanted to scream that none of this was fair, that Max didn’t want to live at a bed-and-breakfast or keep some older couple company all his life.

God . . . help me, here. This can’t be happening.

“Mr. Evans?” The attorney sounded tentative, as though he understood the dilemma even before it was spelled out to him. “I’m sorry all of this comes as a surprise to you.”

“Yes.” Connor squeezed his eyes and tried to think of what to do next.

“Daddy . . . can we go out and play?” The girls ran into the house, with Max on their heels. “Please, can we? The car’s cleaned out.”

“Sure” He forced himself to smile. “I’ll be out there in a bit.” When the blur of noise and motion was out in the backyard, Connor felt a lump choking his throat, cutting off every important 265

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thing he wanted to say. He massaged his neck for a moment, then did two short coughs. “Mr. Ogle, my wife and I never discussed this.”

“So there’s a chance you might want to adopt the boy after the two weeks are up?”

“Yes, there’s a big chance.” Connor didn’t need even a moment to think about his answer. “The girls and I, we’ve connected very . . .

very strongly to Max.”

“And Mrs. Evans?”

“She didn’t go with us on the camping trip.” He gritted his teeth.

“I’m expecting her home anytime, though. After that, I’m sure she’ll feel the same way.”

The attorney paused. “And if she doesn’t?” If she doesn’t?

If Michele didn’t fall in love with Max the way he had, was that what the man meant? For the past week he’d convinced himself that such a possibility didn’t exist, that of course his wife would go along with the most obvious, most loving solution for Max. But now the attorney’s question caused his heart to beat faster and harder than he could ever remember.

If Michele didn’t love Max, if she didn’t want him to stay, then he would have to choose, wouldn’t he? The very idea made his head spin, and dropped his heart to his knees. God wouldn’t let that happen, would He? Michele would come to her senses, surely she would.

But what if she didn’t . . .

“Mr. Evans, I need to know what to do. The couple is very interested in Max. They want me to give them pictures and move ahead with the process.” Kindness filled his tone, but clearly he needed an answer. “What should I tell them?”

Connor drew in a long, slow breath and straightened himself.

“Could you hold off for a few days, Mr. Ogle?” He moved to the patio 266

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door and stared at the children—his children—playing together on the backyard swing set. “You told us we had two weeks before we had to make a decision. Give us that at least. Please.” The attorney considered that for a beat. “Okay. I can put off moving ahead with their application until Thursday afternoon. I’ll need to know by then.”

Relief like a drug flooded Connor’s veins and made his knees weak. He hadn’t lost the boy yet. “Thank you, Mr. Ogle. I’ll be in touch.”

He was just hanging up the phone when he heard the patio door behind him. A quick look over his shoulder and he saw Max, a tired grin stretched across his face. The resemblance to himself, to his father, was striking. “I think I’m tuckered out.” Connor set the receiver down and tried to ignore the heaviness in his heart. He turned and gave Max his full attention. “Are the girls tuckered, too?”

“No, they’re playing house.”

“And they let you get away?” He raised his eyebrows.

“They wanted me to be the little brother, but I told them little brothers sometimes take rests.”

“I see.” Connor grinned but contained a chuckle. He motioned for Max to come closer. “Good call.”

“Yeah.” Max stretched his arms over his head and yawned.

“You really are tired.” Connor put his hand on Max’s shoulder and gave it a soft squeeze. “Wanna rest with me for a minute?”

“Okay.” Max looked straight up and smiled with his eyes.

They walked side by side into the family room. Connor sat in the oversized leather recliner and patted his knee. As if he’d done so all his life, Connor watched Max crawl up into his lap and snuggle against his chest. “Is it okay if I fall sleep?” Connor pictured Michele coming home to the scene of Max and him in the chair. He looked down at his son and the thought 267

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vanished. “Of course.” He wrapped his arm around Max and stroked his back. “Fishing can tire out a man real good.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

It was all Max got out before his breathing changed and became slower, more even. His body went limp against Connor’s, and the feeling was exhilarating. All week he’d fought against this very feeling, the sense that he and his son had bonded beyond anything time or distance could tear apart.

Gentle snoring sounds came from Max’s nose, and Connor tightened his hold on him. The poor kid must’ve been more tired than he thought. Not only the fishing and camping and unloading the car, but the mental exhaustion of wondering about his future.

How could Michele send him away? How could she have made the phone call to the attorney without even talking to him? It was completely unlike her. Michele—of the two of them—had always had the bigger heart, the kinder spirit. She was the fun parent, the one always suggesting a picnic at the beach or a walk through the park.

Couldn’t she set aside the past long enough to imagine what Max might be going through this week? Couldn’t she have asked, before making the call?

He hesitated. She did ask; she asked Elizabeth when the two of them were on the phone early in her midweek call. He hadn’t heard Michele’s part of the conversation, but he heard Elizabeth’s. The child was effusive, going on about what a good time they were having and how he’d taught the boy how to fish, and how well Max was fitting in.

So she knew, after all.

She knew how he felt, how Max felt, and she’d called the attorney anyway. He looked down and gave the boy a light kiss on the top of his head. Then something caught his eye and he looked up.

It was their wedding portrait, a canvas oil painting of Michele and him on the day they married. He narrowed his eyes, studying 268

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the look on her face, the openhearted love that shone for anyone to see. Her beauty had been breathtaking back then, and not only because of her dark looks. There was that certain intangible quality of her heart, her ability to soar within him, even when he was in the air and she was on the ground.

Had his affair caused her such grief that she’d lost that look, lost her ability to love, in so short a time?

He breathed in the fragrance that was Max, warm and dirty from the camping trip, and let the question simmer in his heart. The answer, of course, was obvious. Michele couldn’t possibly have lost her ability to love. No, she was only anxious and afraid and paralyzed with anger.

And in that instant something the old pastor had said to him a week earlier, the day he’d gone in for some quick advice, came back.

He had asked the man how he could get Michele to forgive. The pastor had given him a hint.

It’ll start with you.

Suddenly, for the first time, he understood what that meant.

The affair hadn’t simply happened. It hadn’t been a mistake or an accident or the result of a terribly tempting set of circumstances.

He couldn’t blame the FAA or his father or the distance he’d felt with Michele. No, fault couldn’t be placed there or on Kiahna. She was only a girl, an idealistic faith-driven girl, who had trusted him one stormy night.

The affair didn’t happen because of any of them.

It happened because he made a choice to break the most important promise he’d ever given Michele and his family. The promise of faithfulness. Because of that, this mess—the one that involved Kiahna and Max and Michele and Elizabeth and Susan, the one that even involved some Hawaiian couple with a bed-and-breakfast and a hole in their hearts where a little boy used to live—all of it was his fault.

His fault alone.

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The truth came at him like a battering ram and planted a mountain of sorrow squarely on his chest. How come he hadn’t seen that before, hadn’t owned the fact that he didn’t merely play a role in what had happened?
He
caused it. Pure and simple. It was his fault Kiahna had gotten pregnant, his fault she’d been forced to give up her dream of becoming a doctor, his fault she was on Western Flight 45 that fateful morning.

The truth grew heavier still.

It was his fault that, after leaving Kiahna, he hadn’t found the courage to tell Michele, the courage to go home, look her in the eye, and tell her the truth so they could start rebuilding their lives.

It was his fault the boy was without a father, and his fault Michele was on the other side of the country, sinking in the quicksand of anger and unforgiveness.

The sorrow—thick and oppressive—came then, and he let his head rest against Max. At the same instant another thought made its way into his conscience.

He hadn’t even apologized.

Not to Kiahna, or to Mr. Ogle, and especially not to Michele.

Every time he talked about the affair, all he did was try to excuse it, rationalize it, explain it somehow. But he’d never looked Michele in the eyes and told her he was sorry.

This was the truth he couldn’t stomach, couldn’t figure out no matter how long he sat there. Why hadn’t he taken the blame?

Max stirred and made a slight shift of his position. Again, Connor soothed his hand along the boy’s back. His voice came in the gentlest whisper. “Max . . . what have I done?” He closed his eyes and thought of where his choices had left him.
God, what sort of hypocrite am I? I’ve been running from all of
it . . . from Michele, from the truth. Most of all from You.

Connor tried to imagine God Almighty—how would such a holy God view him, Connor Evans, after all the mistakes he’d made?
I wouldn’t blame You if You walked away from me for good, God.