She sat at her desk and adjusted the tilt of a silver-framed photo of a young boy. Must be Bianca’s son; he had the same eyes as her. And if the boy’s mischievous smirk was any indicator, he was a handful. No photo of a husband, he noticed, but then, there wasn’t much room for one on her work-cluttered desk. Maybe a thorny divorce explained her sudden mood shift, or juggling family and career was more than she could handle today. And maybe, he thought, stifling a grunt of his own, she was like every other woman he’d met: impossible.
“Help yourself,” Bianca said. “Mugs are in the cabinet above the coffeemaker.” She put her back to him and began tapping numbers into her cell phone.
“Hey, sweetie,” she said as he filled a station-logoed mug. “It’s so good to hear your voice!”
Word for word what his ex used to say...before rehab. Funny how she’d liked him better all boozed up. The reminder was enough to crush all desire to get to know Bianca better. Well, that, and the possibility that she was married.
Logan glanced at his watch. If he left right now, he might just make it to his next interview on time. He waved, hoping to get Bianca’s attention so he could mouth a silent thank-you for the coffee before hitting the road.
“I know, I know,” she was saying, “but you still have to do what Grandmom tells you to. Rules are rules. We’ve talked about that, remember?” She covered the mouthpiece and exhaled a frustrated sigh before continuing. “Tell you what. If you do all your chores and don’t misbehave today, we’ll go out for ice cream after supper. Okay?
“I love you, sweetie. See you in a few hours.” Eyes closed, she held the phone to her chest for a split second, then spun the chair to face Logan. “How’s the coffee?”
“Better than Starbucks.”
Bianca gave him a quick once-over. “If you say so.”
“No. Seriously. It’s really good.”
“Well, I’m two cups over my daily quota, so you’re welcome to what’s left.”
He put the mug on the counter. “So that was your son on the phone?”
“Mmm-hmm.” A tiny smile played at the corners of her mouth as she glanced at the picture. “Drew. He’s seven.”
“I have two sisters. The youngest has a boy about his age. Maybe they go to school together.”
“Baltimore is a big city, surrounded by dozens of suburbs.”
“You don’t buy into the ‘it’s a small world’ philosophy?”
“It isn’t that so much as...” And like before, Bianca’s smile disappeared as quickly as it appeared. “Drew is autistic.”
Logan didn’t know why, but his thoughts went immediately to Poe, the service dog he’d adopted when a friend’s autistic daughter had died of meningitis complications three years ago. Poe—and dogs like her—were responsible for the pro bono commercials he’d made for the local service dog training facility. Logan pocketed both hands. “I, ah, I don’t know what to say.” He could have told her that his nephew was autistic, but this didn’t seem the time or place.
She searched his face for what seemed like a full minute. It was almost as intimidating as facing a row of scowling linebackers on the football field, which, considering her size, made no sense at all.
“What? I have spinach in my teeth or something?”
One side of her mouth lifted in a faint smile. “You’re the first person, ever, to have an honest reaction to the news, that’s what.”
For the next five minutes, she provided him with a rundown of Drew’s situation: at age two, when he wasn’t forming sentences, gesturing or responding normally to physical or verbal interactions, Drew’s pediatrician put Bianca in touch with a colleague who specialized in childhood developmental disorders. Test results put the boy in the “mild-to-moderate” level on the autism spectrum. After three years of speech, physical and occupational therapy—partnered with sensory and behavioral integration—he was mainstreamed into public school.
Logan then listed similarities between Drew’s situation and his friend’s daughter, but he didn’t share the fact that she had died.
Bianca nodded. “It takes a lot of time, effort and commitment to raise a child with autism and ensure they are happy and comfortable.”
At least now Logan understood why she’d chosen a job usually filled by interns and college grads starting out in the industry; the work kept her in the job pool, yet afforded flexibility in case her boy needed her.
“I take it you have good days and bad days?” he asked.
Bianca cast a pensive glance toward Drew’s photo. “Mostly good, thanks to some very dedicated, loving people.”
“Your husband deserves some credit, then. I know a guy whose kid has cerebral palsy. Couldn’t handle the day-to-day stress, and it cost him his marriage. I’m glad your husband stuck around...that he’s doing right by you and your son.”
She looked surprised. Hurt. Angry. Which rattled him, until she said, “Jason died three years ago. Pancreatic cancer.”
“Oh. Wow. Sorry to hear it,” he said, meaning every word.
She lifted one shoulder and one eyebrow. “It is what it is.”
Logan had no idea how to respond to that, so he looked at his watch, then blew a silent whistle through his teeth. “Well, I’d better head out. Radio interview in an hour. All the way over on Boston Street.”
Bianca looked at her desk clock, then stood and slid his file into a drawer marked ATHLETES. “Hope you have a helicopter.”
Proof that she had a sense of humor after all?
“Just in case,” he said, unpocketing his cell phone. “It’s not an official guest spot. Just another of those ‘we’ll put you on air if you’re ever in the neighborhood’ things. I figured it was a good time to hawk the fund-raiser on the radio, since not everybody watches The Morning Show.”
“I won’t tell Marty you said that.”
Logan grinned, wondering why he’d told her all of that. And why he wasn’t going outside to make his call. And who the dedicated, loving people in her life might be. Not likely a boyfriend because very few guys had the capacity to commit to a woman with a kid with special needs. His sister’s ex was living proof of that.
“Do you have time for a real coffee break?” he asked Bianca as he waited for someone to answer his call.
She looked surprised by the invitation. Not as surprised as Logan was to have extended it. Thankfully, the receptionist spared him the need to say something that would explain why.
“I’d like to leave a message in Jack White’s voice mail, please.”
The woman put him on hold, and while a familiar Eagles tune wafted into his ear, Logan said to Bianca, “You know that great little coffee shop around the corner? It’s never busy at this time of day, so—”
“This is Jack,” said the recording. “You know what to do.”
“Hey, Jack. It’s Logan. Can’t stop by today after all, so don’t count on me to fill air time between Twinkies commercials.” Laughing, he added, “See you at the meeting tonight.”
He hung up, took a breath, then told Bianca, “My sister’s son, Sam, is autistic, and he has a birthday coming up.” He swallowed, nervous at sharing this personal information. “I thought maybe you could suggest a toy or a book or something that he’d enjoy.”
Logan could almost read her