Her Sister's Children

After sliding open a patio door, Logan stepped out into the brisk evening air, sauntered across the deck, then descended a circular sweep of redwood stairs leading to the granite shelf below. It felt so good, so right, to be back at the lake, at the place he’d longed for these past fourteen years.

A brisk wind, raw with the threat of rain, ruffled through his hair, beckoning him to the edge of the cliff. The past filtered back in scents and in sepia-toned images. The sweet fragrance of long-past campfires and melting marshmallows, fragile wildflowers and warm chocolate-chip cookies. His grandmother’s vein-knotted hands, knobby with arthritis. Gentle, loving.

His mother and the raw stench of cheap booze.

The past no longer mattered. He’d grown up, worked hard, established a successful business. But sometimes, in the dark of night, he remembered that frightening evening long ago when his mother had thrown his clothes in a grocery sack, grabbed his hand, and hauled him out to a car where yet another one of her “boyfriends” waited. “Your grandma will take care of you,” she’d said, reeling closer for a sloppy kiss. “I’ll come after you in a while.”

He’d been left like yesterday’s trash on the steps of Pine Cliff that night, and his grandmother had raised him from that point on.

He never saw his mother again.

A squadron of fat white seagulls swooped low overhead. Their piercing cries were as evocative of his childhood as the scent of lilacs, his grandmother’s favorite perfume.

With keen eyes, constant hunger and an abiding love of handouts, the gulls were like feathered watchdogs, loudly announcing the arrival of any potential food source—any prowler—along the shore.

They swung lower, disappearing behind the sheer granite face, then shot upward, screeching with obvious disappointment.

Someone was on the shore below.

Irritation surged through Logan. The drive and shoreline were posted No Trespassing. Courteous hikers were fine, but some built bonfires, toasted marshmallows, then left behind crumpled food packages, grocery sacks, beer cans.

Moving to the other side of the cliff, Logan looked over the edge. Saw nothing.

He stalked along a narrow ledge, brushing aside the tangle of wild raspberry vines curling over the old trail. Ahead, aeons of winter ice and battering waves had pried away small chunks of granite, leaving irregular steps. With a growl of impatience, he caught the familiar handholds and descended to the rocky shore below. An avalanche of pebbles skittered underfoot, ringing against the rocks like a handful of marbles.

A small figure crouched at water’s edge, half hidden under an outcropping of rock. A young boy with a damp Minnesota Twins T-shirt clinging to his bony frame, his thin arms curled tightly around his knees. He didn’t move when the frigid waves licked at his sodden tennis shoes. Even at a distance, with the sound muffled by the slap of waves and raucous seagulls above, Logan knew the boy was crying. The scene was an eerie vision of his own past.

“Hi there,” Logan called out as he approached.

The boy stiffened. He rose slowly, but didn’t turn around. Hiding the tears, no doubt.

“Are you okay?”

He nodded silently.

“Is your family along here somewhere?” Logan continued, keeping his tone friendly. “This area isn’t very safe.”

The boy nodded again. His face averted, he started across the water-slick apron of granite at the base of the cliff. Two steps later his feet shot out from beneath him. With a small cry he fell, then gripped an ankle with both hands and threw his head back in a silent expression of pain. Surely he would begin crying in earnest now. Instead, he was oddly quiet.

Hunkering nearby, Logan offered an encouraging smile. “Can I get your mom or dad? Where are they?”

The kid was older than he’d guessed from a distance, probably middle school. He had a defiant tilt to his chin and a stubborn glint in his eyes despite the tear tracks trailing down his cheeks. That hint of rebellion triggered even more memories of Logan’s adolescence.

“Is your family along the shore somewhere?” he asked again.

The boy stared at the ground.

“What’s your name?”

No response. A stiff, rain-laden gust of wind came off the lake. The boy suppressed a shiver.

“Cold?”

“No.” His voice sounded subdued. His thin shoulders started to shake.

Raindrops peppered the shoreline. Across the water, a wall of advancing rain turned sky and lake charcoal.

“Come on, fella. Let’s get inside. You can use my phone.”

Staring out at the advancing storm, the boy balked. Then he reluctantly stumbled to his feet.

“Don’t worry, kid. I’ll help find your parents and get you home before you freeze.” Looping an arm around the boy’s shoulders for support, Logan turned toward the series of narrow, ascending ledges leading to his house.

The boy whimpered, sagged after the first step. “I can’t!”

“Want some help?” Logan waited until the child gave a grudging nod, then gently swung him up into his arms. “This is rough going down here. I’ll set you down as soon as we’re on level ground.”

His face pale and clammy, the boy murmured some sort of indistinguishable protest, then melted into boneless surrender, his eyes closed. Logan’s heart caught for a beat, until he saw the narrow chest rise and fall in steady rhythm. A little hot chocolate and a blanket would help until a parent showed up.

The child’s weight felt good in his arms, filling Logan’s heart with an unfamiliar surge of protectiveness. Probably just some latent, universal parent-mode kicking in, he thought wryly as he picked his way over the slippery rocks, though heaven knew when he’d ever hold another child in his arms. He sure as hell wouldn’t risk another marriage, and he’d never have a child without one. His own childhood had taught him that. Deep regret washed through him at the thought.

By the time they reached the house, sheets of icy rain obscured the landscape, plastering Logan’s shirt and jeans against his skin. The child had burrowed closer to Logan’s chest for protection, and their shared warmth felt as deep and essential as the beat of his own heart.

At the door of the house he stopped. “Think you can stand?”

The boy nodded vigorously, but when he stood up he carefully avoided bearing weight on his injured ankle. “Thanks,” he mumbled, ducking his head.

Logan pushed the door open. “Let’s get you out of this rain, bud.” Inside, he kicked off his wet sneakers and ushered the boy into the kitchen. The white cupboards and bleached-oak flooring had once appealed to his preference for wide, well-lit spaces, Logan thought as he glanced around, but the effect was nearly as cold as the weather outside.

“Phone’s there,” he said, pointing to the wall next to the curved breakfast bar. “I’ll get you a towel and a dry shirt.”

When he returned, the boy still stood at the kitchen door, a wary look in his eye. “I don’t bite,” Logan said, tossing him a blue bath towel and a faded Saint Olaf College sweatshirt.

The boy wrapped the towel around himself and shivered into it, his lips blue against his white face. If he didn’t catch pneumonia after this, it would be a miracle.

“Called your parents yet?”

A flare of something—rebellion again?—turned the boy’s cheeks pink. Poor guy. When Logan met this kid’s mother, he would damn well tell her about the dangerous cliffs along the shore. Logan’s own mother hadn’t been any better; she’d never given a damn, either.

Logan reached for the phone. “If you won’t tell me your name, I’ll need to call the sheriff. Someone must be worried about you, and a doctor should see that ankle.”

“I’m J-Jason.” A look of anguish filled his eyes. “Please—please don’t tell—”

He crumpled before Logan could reach him. The sound of his head hitting bare oak flooring echoed like a cannon shot in the vast emptiness of the house.

CLARE FRANTICALLY pulled open the massive oak and leaded-glass door, then rushed into the kitchen. She’d gone down the shore both ways, then followed the paths she’d shown Jason just days before. There’d been no sign of him. Her fears had intensified with every step.

After a last glance outside, she snatched the receiver and began dialing the sheriff’s office. Again. Why hadn’t a deputy arrived? Or the sheriff? The entire National Guard standing in her kitchen with muddy boots would have been a welcome sight. Her cold-numbed fingers fumbled over the last number. Punching the reset button, she redialed with a vengeance.