A Mother's Claim

Her breath came faster. He wasn’t her baby, hadn’t been for a long time. He was almost twelve years old. How could that be?

“Hello—” she made herself say it “—Christian. I’m your mother.”

“I don’t know,” he mumbled.

“Accepting what you do know can be hard.”

His “I have a mom!” sounded angry, almost violent. Then he went quiet for a moment before saying more softly, “Had a mom.”

“I have missed you every day since you were taken.”

“Mom wouldn’t have done that.”

“Somebody did.” Dana knew she’d said it too sharply, but how could she not let him know how angry she was. “You were asleep in your crib in your bedroom. It was spring. The weather was nice. Your window had a screen, so I...left it open.” Craig had never let her forget that by doing so, she had left their child vulnerable. He didn’t quite say, It was your fault, but he didn’t have to. “You’d had a restless night, so I took a nap, too. When I woke up and went into your bedroom, your crib was empty and the screen on the window had been removed.”

Not only removed: stomped on, twisted. In unwary moments, she still saw the window screen lying mangled on the lawn. It had epitomized the worst of her fears. What kind of person had taken the time to destroy the window screen only because it had briefly gotten in the way?

Gabriel didn’t say anything. Even in her turmoil, she knew how torn his loyalties had to be. How could he accept that the woman he’d believed was his mother had committed a crime so awful?

“May I speak to Mr. Gregor again?” she said politely.

Her son didn’t even say goodbye. He probably felt a rush of relief as he handed off the phone.

The slow, rumbly voice was back. “If you’ll give me your email address, I’ll send you some pictures.”

She trembled. To see his face!

“If you would—” more that was hard to say “—I’d be grateful.” She gave him her email address.

“Consider it done.”

His kindness was reluctant but real, she thought.

She steeled herself. “Mr. Gregor, I have already bought an airline ticket. I will be arriving tomorrow. Can you recommend a place to stay?”

“Don’t you think you should give this longer before you get pushy?”

“I can’t read him when we’re on the phone.”

“Our computer has a camera. You could Skype.”

Anger punched through all the other emotions. “If you were me, would that satisfy you?”

Silence. He didn’t want to say no. Admitting as much would give the advantage to her.

“The Lookout Inn,” he said abruptly. “It’s a nice place. With this being out of season, you shouldn’t have any trouble getting a room.”

“Thank you,” she said. She didn’t care if she had a nice place. Eleven years of longing had coalesced into one driving need: to see Gabriel. “Then you can expect me tomorrow.”

“Doesn’t sound like we have any choice,” he said.

She looked at her phone suspiciously and saw that her guess had been right; he’d ended the call.

Would he still email the photos? Her heart drummed. Please, oh, please.

With a shaky hand, she dialed Craig’s number. She’d promised to let him know once she’d talked to Gabriel and what her plans were.

Dana desperately did not want him to insist on coming to Lookout, too. She had no desire to see him, but it was more than that. He had gone on with his life so quickly. He had two other children. Losing his son? Hardly a blip in his life.

She rarely wasted thought on her ex-husband, but bitterness seared her now. Craig had given up on Gabriel. So who was he to pretend to care now?

* * *

UNFORTUNATELY, THE MORNING dawned sunny. Nobody would be going out on the river without a wet suit, but that didn’t stop most ardent wind-or kitesurfers. A powerful wind that funneled between banks of the Columbia River Gorge was the draw. It wouldn’t be like summer, but a sparkling spring day would have Nolan busy from the minute he opened. If not for the business, he’d have been tempted to go out on the water himself.

He wished he’d thought to ask when Ms. Stewart expected to arrive.

Christian had exploded the minute he learned his biological mother was coming.

“You said you wouldn’t let her take me!” he had yelled.

“I said I’d fight her,” Nolan responded, weary and, yeah, freakin’ terrified he would lose. “And she isn’t here to take you away. What she wants is to see you. Talk to you.”

“I don’t have to talk to her if I don’t want.”

Shit. Nolan had pressed the heel of his hand to his breastbone to suppress the pain beneath. “Christian, this is a woman who has hurt for a very long time because she loved you so much. Think about how you want to treat her.”

Too many confused emotions crossed the boy’s face before he bolted upstairs. Nolan had let him go.

Wind & Waves didn’t offer lessons until mid-April. There wasn’t enough call for them. He rented a lot of windsailing packages and Hobie Cats as the morning went on, though, and sold a bunch of accessories, too.

Midafternoon, he had a lull. Over the winter and early spring, he covered the store with minimal additional staff. At the moment, Amir was out helping a couple launch a small catamaran-style Hobie Cat, leaving Nolan alone inside. The growl of his stomach reminded him he hadn’t had a chance to take lunch. Since he’d been so tied in knots this morning, he hadn’t managed to swallow much of his breakfast, either.

Nolan was reaching for his phone to order delivery from a local deli when the bell on the door rang and a woman walked in. He froze, hand outstretched, and watched her look around as she approached the counter. She might be a customer...but he was betting not.

No—he knew she wasn’t. The resemblance between this woman and Christian was too obvious.

Tall and yet slight to the point of appearing fragile, Dana Stewart wore honey-blond hair in some kind of twist on the back of her head. Her bone structure echoed her son’s—no, he supposed it was the other way around. Her cheekbones were almost too sharply defined, leaving hollows beneath. There was a tension to the way she carried herself, shoulders squared, head high, as if she wouldn’t let herself relax in any way. The hand not clutching a purse was curled into a fist.

She was beautiful, but he wondered how much more beautiful she’d been before her son’s disappearance damaged her in ways both visible and invisible.

Needing to be battle ready, Nolan slid off the stool and stood before she reached him.

He met wary gray eyes, which she hadn’t bequeathed to Christian. His were a warm brown.

“Ms. Stewart.”

“You’re guessing,” she said, in a distinctively throaty voice.