A Season for Grace

“Don’t you want your hamburger first?”

The tight line of his mouth mocked her. “A spoonful of sugar doesn’t really make the medicine go down any easier.”

So cynical. And he couldn’t be that much older than she was. Early thirties maybe. “You might actually enjoy what I have in mind.”

“I doubt it.” He raised a hand to signal the waitress. “What would you like?” he asked.

She motioned to her Coke. “This is fine. I’m not hungry.”

He studied her for a second before turning his attention to the waitress. “Bring me a Super Burger. Fry the onions, hold the tomatoes, and add a big order of cheese fries and a Mountain Dew.”

The waitress poised with pen over pad and said in a droll voice, “What’s the occasion? Shoot somebody today?”

One side of the policeman’s mouth softened. He didn’t smile, but he was close. “Only a smart-mouthed waitress. Nobody will miss her.”

The waitress chuckled and said to Mia, “I never thought I’d see the day grease would cross his lips.”

She sauntered away, hollering the order to a guy in the back.

“I thought all cops were junk-food junkies.”

“It’s the hours. Guys don’t always have time to eat right.”

“But you do?”

“Sometimes.”

If he was a health food nut he wasn’t going to talk to her about it. Curious the way he avoided small talk. Was he this way with everyone? Or just her?

Maybe it was her propensity for nosiness. Maybe it was her talkative Italian heritage. But Mia couldn’t resist pushing a little to see what he would do. “So what do you eat? Bean sprouts and yogurt?”

“Is that why you’re here? To talk about my diet?”

So cold. So empty. Had she made a mistake in thinking this ice man might help a troubled boy?

On the other hand, Grandma Carano said still waters run deep. Gran had been talking about Uncle Vitorio, the only quiet Carano in the giant, noisy family, and she’d been right. Uncle Vitorio was a thinker, an inventor. Granted he mostly invented useless gadgets to amuse himself, but the family considered him brilliant and deep.

Perhaps Collin was the same. Or maybe he just needed some encouragement to loosen up.

She pushed her Coke to one side and got down to business.

“For some reason, Mitchell Perez has developed a heavy case of hero worship for you.”

The boy was one of those difficult cases who didn’t respond well to any of the case workers, the counselors or anybody else for that matter, but something inside Mia wouldn’t give up. Last night, when she’d prayed for the boy, this idea to contact Collin Grace had come into her mind. She’d believed it was God-sent, but now she wondered.

“More and more in the social system we’re seeing boys like Mitchell who don’t have a clue how to become responsible, caring men. They need real men to teach them and to believe in them. Men they can relate to and admire.”

The waitress slid a soda and a paper-covered straw in front of Sergeant Grace.

“How do you know I’m that kind of man?”

“I checked you out.”

He tilted his head. “Just because I’m a good cop doesn’t mean I’d be a suitable role model to some street kid.”

“I’m normally a good judge of character and I think you would be. The thing here is need. We have so many needy kids, and few men willing to spend a few hours a week to make a difference. Don’t you see, Officer? In the long run, your job will be easier if someone intercedes on behalf of these kids now. Maybe they won’t end up in trouble later on down the road.”

“And maybe they will.”

Frustration made her want to pound the table. “You know the statistics. Mentored kids are less likely to get into drugs and crime. They’re more likely to go to college. More likely to hold jobs and be responsible citizens. Don’t you get it, Officer? A few hours a week of your time can change a boy’s life.”

He pointed his straw at her. “You haven’t been at this long, have you?”

She blinked, leaned back in the booth and tried to calm down. “Seven years.”

“Longer than I thought.”

“Why? Because I care? Because I’m not burned out?”

“It happens.” The shrug in his voice annoyed her.

“Is that what’s happened to you?”

A pained look came and went on his face, but he kept silent—again.

Mia leaned forward, her passionate Italian nature taking control. “Look, this may not make any sense to you. Or it may sound idealistic, but I believe what I do makes a difference in these kids’ lives.”

“Maybe they don’t want you to make a difference. Maybe they want to be left alone.”

“Left alone? To be abused?”

“Not all of them are mistreated.”

“Or neglected. Or cold and hungry, eating out of garbage cans.”

Collin’s face closed up tighter than a miser’s fist. Had the man no compassion?

“There are a lot of troubled kids out there. Why are you so focused on this particular one?”

“I’m concerned about all of them.”

“But?”

So he’d heard the hesitation.

“There’s something special about Mitch.” Something about the boy pulled at her, kept her going back to check on him. Kept her trying. “He wants to make it, but he doesn’t know how.”

Collin’s expression shifted ever so slightly. The change was subtle, but Mia felt him softening. His eyes flicked sideways and, as if glad for the interruption, he said, “Food’s coming.”