Don't Let Go (5 page)

All three boys turned obediently toward the house, but the littlest, Silas, ran ahead of them, slamming the door shut.

Ellie sighed. “I told him you were coming to fetch him sooner or later. I think he hoped I was lying.”

“Why’d you keep him from me all these years?” he demanded, letting his frustration show.

Instead of cowering, Ellie lifted her chin at him. “Candace told me things about you—things I hope aren’t true,” she added with a searching look.

Solomon glowered. “They’re not,” he retorted. “That boy was my life,” he added hoarsely.

The suspicion in her eyes faded. She gave a nod of understanding and resignation. “Silas has been with us since he was four. He’s been one of us,” she added, her own voice husky, her eyes suspiciously bright.

Solomon sensed her deep sorrow at the impending separation, but she turned toward the house, keeping her emotions under tight rein. “Come on in,” she called.

He followed her leggy stride, admiring her outward spirit.

The interior of the mobile home was scarcely cooler than the temperature outside. Not a single light was shining. He guessed right away that the power had been turned off.

As bedraggled inside as it was outside, the trailer was nearly Spartan in terms of furniture but surprisingly tidy considering the number of boys living in it.

“Silas?” Ellie called. “Christopher, Caleb, go find him,” she instructed. “Then all of you wash up.”

She put the baby in a windup swing and reached in the cupboard for a glass. “All I can offer you is water,” she said, matter-of-factly.

Solomon wasn’t fooled. He’d already guessed that the silent refrigerator probably stood empty. “Please,” he said, nodding at the glass.

She filled it at the sink, then handed it to him.

He drained it in three swallows. “Did she tell you why she left me?” he swallowed his pride to ask.

Ellie gave him a good once-over. “What she told me doesn’t really matter, considering it was her problem, not yours. Like I said in my letter, she was never content with what she had. Don’t blame yourself for that,” she added frankly. “Silas, on the other hand, never complains. He must’ve gotten that from you,” she added.

He found her candidness refreshing. She deserved better than this. “Sounded in your letter like you’d fallen on some hard times,” he fished, inviting her to unburden herself.

Her smoky eyes reflected cynicism. “My husband ran off,” she admitted, “with a cocktail waitress from Turley’s Show Bar. Decided being a daddy wasn’t what he wanted, after all.”

Despite the careless toss of her head, he detected disillusionment so deep and so wide that he found himself reaching for his wallet.

Her eyes went from questioning to indignant as he cracked it open and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. “I don’t want your money!” she exclaimed, backing up. “Boys! You’d better be washing up.”

“Silas won’t come out from under the bed, Mama,” said the oldest son, who sidled into the doorway, his gaze fastening on the money.

“I’ll get him out,” she said, pushing past Solomon to head down the hallway. “Watch the baby,” she said to Christopher.

Solomon trailed after her. Silas was his responsibility now. He found Ellie in the center of an impossibly small bedroom, down on her hands and knees. “Silas, I told you this was going to happen. It’s a good thing, trust me. Your papa’s going to take good care of you. Come on out now, or else.”

Solomon didn’t know what “or else” entailed but it was bad enough to prompt Silas to wriggle out from his hiding place. He crawled into Ellie’s embrace and hid his face in her neck. “Hush, baby. It’s okay,” she said, her voice trembling audibly. Solomon thought of Jordan Bliss. A weight immediately pressured his chest. Jesus, not again.

“Listen,” he said, loath to separate another child from his caretaker, “I’m going to write you a check.”

As she shot him an outraged look, he added, “It’s up to you whether you cash it or not, but it’s got my home address written on it. That way you can find me if you want to visit Silas.” Stepping over to a dresser, he scribbled out a sum ample enough to see Ellie and her brood through the next few months, at least.

By the time he turned back, Ellie had pulled clothing out of a second dresser and was stuffing it into a paper bag. She took the check without looking at it and stuck it in the pocket of her shorts. “This is all he’s got,” she said, handing Solomon the bag. “Okay, Silas. Give me a hug and get on out of here.” Her terse tone camouflaged the fact that she was close to tears.

As the boy wrapped his thin arms about her shoulders and trembled, Solomon tore his gaze from the heartache etched on Ellie’s brow. “Come on, son,” he urged in his gentlest voice. He held out a hand to him.

Silas looked at the hand. Eyes filled with trepidation, he nonetheless found the courage to put his little hand into the bigger one.

The instant their palms touched, Solomon’s knees went weak. A ferocious tide of love roared through him, so fiercely that he had to fight from crushing his son’s fingers. He wanted to speak reassuring words, but with his throat clogged with emotion, all he could do was to blink back tears and nod at Ellie as he herded Silas toward the door.

The formal dining room in the nineteenth-century farmhouse was used strictly on holidays and special occasions. It surprised Jordan to find that Jillian had not only dusted the mahogany sideboard, she’d also dressed the table in a lace tablecloth, topping it with heirloom china and crystal glassware. The essence of cooked apples wafted from the kitchen, betraying the fact that Jillian had also baked their mother’s recipe for apple pie. And all of this was to celebrate Jordan’s safe return?

Even Graham and Agatha thumped down the stairs wearing their finest. Bemused and a little curious, Jordan was told that Special Agent Valentino was en route and would she please stir the rice so that Jillian could race upstairs to dress?

“Of course,” said Jordan, glancing wryly at her own, casual sundress. “I didn’t know this was going to be a special occasion.”

Valentino’s knock came just as Jillian descended the stairs in a pretty pink dress. At the sudden brightening of her countenance, Jordan had a thought: Maybe this was more than just a thank-you.

She watched as Jillian introduced her children—Graham, who grudgingly accepted Rafe’s handshake, and six-year-old Agatha, who caught the agent off guard by hugging him effusively. He looked over at Jordan and smiled. “You look much better,” he told her kindly.

“Thank you,” she murmured, knowing full well that she looked like hell.

“Would you like a tour of the house?” Jillian asked.

“Sure,” said Rafael.

They made their way up the stairs, with Agatha right on their heels. As Graham threw himself down on the sofa to sulk, Jordan returned to the kitchen, one ear cocked to her sister’s narrative and the agent’s kind replies.

They spoke like old friends, Jordan mused, not just acquaintances. Friends who found themselves on unfamiliar ground.

Her speculations continued as she watched their exchange over dinner. Jillian had outdone herself dishing up a savory entrée of duck à l’orange, served with rice pilaf and steamed vegetables. Rafe ate with deep appreciation and impeccable manners.

“Graham would like to know how you got the Navy SEALs to rescue Jordan,” Jillian asked, pulling her uncommunicative son into the conversation.

Rafe touched his napkin to his lips. “Well, my colleague, Hannah Lindstrom, is married to a SEAL officer,” he explained to the teen, who briefly met his gaze. “Hannah made inquiries and, as luck would have it, six members of Team Twelve were in Caracas, anyway, training the Elite Guard.”

Graham grunted and stabbed his fork into his meat.

Jillian tried again. “You mean our military trains their military?”

“Just their elite warriors,” he replied. “We want to see this Moderate government succeed. Training their best is one way to keep the Populists from wresting control again.”

At the reminder of the unstable political situation, Jordan’s appetite fled.

“What are the chances that they might?” Jillian asked, shooting her sister a troubled look.

Rafael shrugged his shoulders. “The Moderates were elected by the barest of margins,” he admitted, “and the poor, who support the Populists, probably didn’t even vote, which means there may be more support for the rebels than the Moderates can combat.”

Jordan didn’t want to hear that. She placed her fork beside her plate. How was she supposed to eat and casually discuss the fate of Venezuela when Miguel and the others relied on Father Benedict for every crumb to enter their mouths, for shelter from harm? She’d heard nothing from the priest in the past week, didn’t even know if Miguel was alive.

Unaware of Jordan’s plummeting emotions, Rafe added, “They also have Cuba and Iran furnishing them with weapons and Colombian cartels financing their resurgence. It’s a tenuous situation.”

Jordan pushed her chair back. “I’ll go warm up the pie for dessert,” she volunteered, avoiding Jillian’s concerned glance.

When she returned to the table, conversation had turned to the details of Jordan’s rescue. “Jordan, Rafael says the SEALs who saved you are stationed in Virginia Beach.”

“Are they?” Jordan replied, unsettled to think that Solomon McGuire lived just a stone’s throw away. What would he think to know she read his poem every night, perversely comforted by the intuitive knowledge that he’d lost a child himself, once.

“You should write them a thank-you note,” Jillian suggested, unaware of Jordan’s agitation. “Rafael could give it to his partner to pass along.”

Jordan didn’t answer. If she wrote to Senior Chief McGuire, she wouldn’t know what to say to him. His poem was a comfort, yes, but nothing changed the fact that he’d wrenched Miguel away from her—possibly forever.

“Can I be excused?” Graham demanded unexpectedly.

All three adults looked at him, startled by his angry tone.

“You’ve hardly eaten anything, honey,” Jillian pointed out.

“That’s because you guys are boring me to death,” he retorted, rudely. “I want to hang out with Cameron.”

Cameron was the boy next door—if you could call him that when the nearest house was half a mile away.

“Rinse your plate, then, and put it in the dishwasher,” Jillian replied, looking disappointed. “I guess you won’t be getting any pie,” she added, on a firmer note, something Jordan knew that Gary would’ve said.

Jordan understood the boy’s discomfort. Having a strange man in their home, a man who seemed to know his mother on an intimate level, must seem like a betrayal to his father’s memory.

Graham wordlessly shoved back his chair and disappeared.

Jillian flinched and drew a sudden breath.

“Jillie?” Jordan called with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.” Her sister forced a smile. “It was just a pang. Let’s have a toast,” she added, reaching for her glass of water.

Jordan and Rafael obliged. Agatha joined in eagerly.

“To the FBI and all its wonderful agents. God bless them all, especially Rafael.”

“To Rafael,” Jordan echoed, watching the subtle glow return to her sister’s face. The agent, on the other hand, appeared self-conscious of praise—or was it more than that? His black-as-night eyes seemed to harbor painful memories.

He tried to dismiss himself. “The meal was delicious,” he began, “and I’d love to stay for a second serving, but I have an early flight in the morning.”

“Oh,” said Jillian, sounding disappointed. “Where are you going?”

“Just to D.C. I’ll be back on Tuesday.”

“Please say you’ll have some dessert,” she begged him, looking crestfallen.

“It’s Grandma’s apple pie!” Agatha piped up. “I helped Mommy bake it and it took all day!”

The agent looked from mother to child, his mouth quirking ruefully. “Well, in that case, I’ll stay,” he decided.

Jillian’s smile lifted Jordan’s spirits. “You sit,” she said to her sister. “I’ll get it.” More than anything, she longed to see Jillian happy again. It seemed a miracle that Rafe Valentino did just that.

Chapter Five

Solomon drove toward Anniston, Alabama, in a daze. As the miles rolled beneath his tires, he cast sidelong glances at his son, drinking in every feature of the boy he’d lost and found again.

The pale, silent child huddled on the far side of the truck’s cab was as familiar as he was alien. Solomon didn’t know what to say to him. They were, for all intents and purposes, strangers. Solomon loved his son; but it didn’t follow that the boy felt the same way about him. If anything, he seemed terrified.

When a rivulet appeared on the upholstery, creeping out from under Silas’s legs, Silas’s fear was undeniable. The boy had just wet his pants.

Solomon groped behind the seat for a roll of paper towels. “Why didn’t you say you had to go?” he asked.

Silas didn’t answer.

Flexing his jaw, Solomon veered off the highway onto an exit ramp. Thank God, Ellie had sent a bag of clothes with them.

As he stood outside the stall in the men’s room at a roadside McDonald’s, Solomon felt uncomfortably out of his element.

He’d known what to do with an infant. Feed him; change him; croon lullabies. Silas was a little person, now, independent in some ways, helpless in others. Solomon didn’t know the first thing about caring for him.

His son pushed out of the stall in dry clothing. Solomon inspected him quickly, then scooped up the sodden pants lying on the floor and found a plastic sack in the garbage to stuff them in. Wouldn’t this add an interesting dimension to laundry day?

“Wash your hands,” he instructed. “You hungry?”

Together they washed their hands in the same sink, Silas’s fingers small and sturdy beneath Solomon’s touch.

Solomon tried again. “Look here, son,” he said, handing Silas a paper towel. “You’ve got to talk to me,” he urged. “I can’t read your mind to know what you need.”

To his dismay, Silas’s little chin trembled. His big eyes filled with tears.

Undone by the sight, Solomon hit his knees right there on the bathroom floor. He pulled the stiff little figure into his arms and held him tight. “I’m scared, too,” he rasped in his ear, grateful that his humiliation wasn’t being witnessed by anyone else. “The last time I saw you, you were just a baby,” he continued roughly, “and I could hold you in my arms and rock you.”

To his relief, he felt Silas lean into him.

“Look,” he added, picking up the boy as he stood. “Look into the mirror and tell me what you see.” He put his face cheek to cheek with Silas’s.

Silas didn’t say a word, but he took in their reflections—the identical dark hair, the light, silvery eyes fringed with dark lashes. “We’re the same,” Solomon answered for him. “You came from me, see? We belong together.”

The little boy’s gaze searched his own. “Did you sing to me when I was a baby?” he asked suddenly.

With a skip of his heart, Solomon realized he’d just heard his son speak, for the very first time—in the thickest Southern drawl imaginable, with a lisp that was a result of his missing front teeth.

Emotion clogged his voice box, making it impossible to answer right away. “Aye, I did,” he rasped, at last, displaying his own Maine dialect.

“What did you sing?” asked Silas.

“I’ll show you later,” Solomon promised, “when we get to Virginia.” It would take them another twelve hours to get there. Solomon didn’t want to stop this time. He couldn’t wait to bring his son home.

By lunchtime the following day, Solomon had started a mental list of things that needed change in his life in order to accommodate a six-year-old. The fact that his home was a houseboat and Silas couldn’t swim didn’t help matters.

“Auntie said we’d be bait for ’gators if we swam in the creek,” Silas had said this morning as Solomon led him for the first time down the pier toward home. The rising sun had turned the marsh that fringed the inlet into stalks of gold.

“There aren’t any alligators this far north,” Solomon had explained. He’d made his first note to self:
Teach Silas to swim
.

Exhausted and emotionally spent, all Solomon had wanted to do was to fall into his captain’s bed and sleep. But Silas was wide-awake, having slept all night in the truck. Some of his shyness had worn off, making him a fount of unending questions.

“What’s this? How’s it work?”

The interior of Solomon’s houseboat was crammed with curiosities that captivated Silas’s imagination. Solomon didn’t dare retreat into his bedroom.

Every nook, every cabinet, every drawer and cupboard—and there were dozens, all handmade and hung by Harley, a master craftsman—drew Silas’s scrutiny. He discovered the trapdoor that led to the engine room. “No, no. You don’t belong down there. It’s dangerous.” Solomon made another note:
Buy a lock
.

“Come find me!” came Silas’s muffled voice as Solomon stood in the galley-style kitchen putting together sandwiches.

Solomon sucked jelly off his fingers and went seeking.

But the living area from which the challenge had been issued stood empty. With rising concern, Solomon cast his gaze about, praying Silas hadn’t slipped through the door to traipse along the deck, above the deadly water. “Where are you?” he demanded, as the nightmare played itself out in his head.

“In here!” came the muffled voice.

Solomon’s horrified gaze flew to the storage space under the built-in bookcases where he kept his SEAL gear, including a loaded, .5mm handgun.

“Silas!” he thundered, then immediately reined himself in. The boy didn’t know any better. He was just doing what any healthy child would do; he was playing.

With a forced smile, Solomon lifted the lid of the smooth, wooden chest. “Found you,” he said, a cold sweat filming his forehead. “Come out now and eat.”

As he pulled the boy out, he stashed his gun out of sight, under the pile of gear, making yet another note:
Buy hardware for a second lock.

They sat in the dining nook by a pentagonal window that overlooked Lynnhaven Inlet and consumed their sandwiches. Solomon’s thoughts scrambled to address his new circumstances.

His routine necessitated a 4:00
A.M.
wake-up, in order to arrive at the Spec Ops facility by zero five hundred hours to oversee physical training. Who would watch Silas when he went to work? The Navy’s Family Services Center offered before-and-after-school programs, but what about when he was called away, for weeks and months at a time? Perhaps he could request special permission to remain stateside, but then he’d ruin any prospect of making master chief.

“What grade are you going into, Silas?” he asked his son.

Silas just looked at him.

“You’re six now, right? Did you go to kindergarten last year?”

Silas shook his head. “Christopher and Caleb went to school.”

A terrible thought skewered Solomon. “You know how to read, though, don’t you?” He, himself, had taught himself to read when he was four.

Silas lowered his chin and darted him an anxious look. “No, sir,” he whispered.

The thought of Silas not having such a great source of entertainment at his fingertips dismayed Solomon. Surely the boy ought to be reading by now, at least short little words. He added to his growing list:
Teach Silas to read.

How in God’s name was he supposed to do that, plus all the other sundry tasks, with only four days of leave time left and just a few weeks of summer remaining? Feeling overwhelmed, he scratched his head. He needed help. A nanny. A tutor. Someone who was good with children.

A vision that seemed to hover at the periphery of his thoughts jumped front and center:
Jordan Bliss.
The peanut butter he’d swallowed moved thickly down his throat. She would know what to do with a six-year-old boy. He’d made inquiries—she was a first-grade teacher,
and
she lived near enough to assist him.

His breath came faster. Yes, and having been separated from one little boy, she might have an interest in helping another.

His rational thoughts disintegrated into what was recognizably a primal urge. The desire to mate with her had ambushed him back in Caracas when he’d written her that poem. It hadn’t eased, either, in the intervening days as the memory of her feisty spirit and passionate devotion resurfaced again and again. And now he had the perfect excuse to see her.

Jordan reread the e-mail from Father Benedict with tears in her eyes and her heart in her throat. At last, she had word of Miguel, though the news wasn’t terribly good:

Dearest Jordan,
he wrote,
I’m writing this from within the British consulate in Ayacucho, which is being evacuated at this precise moment as a Populist Army has seized most of the Amazonas region by force and is expected to march upon the city today. I hope to find refuge for myself and three of the children in La Catredral Maria Auxiliadora. I regret to say that Fatima fell ill with fever yesterday. I felt it best to leave her with a family of my acquaintance, who I pray will love and keep her as their own. Miguel is faring well enough with the others, though he has yet to utter a word since your parting, and he rarely strays from my side.

You may not write me back at this e-mail. Simply forward news of Miguel’s location to the agency handling his adoption so they know where to find him. Perhaps they can negotiate some means to send him to you. I must strongly warn you that it is unsafe for you to fetch him in person.

I hope this note finds you well and whole in spirit, considering these unfortunate circumstances.

Yours Respectfully,
Timothy Benedict

With a cry of urgency, Jordan leapt up and riffled through her address book for the number of the agency in Venezuela handling her adoption. She dialed the international number with fingers that trembled with both relief and anxiety.

“
Corazones Internacional,
” answered a woman in Spanish.

“Señora Nuñez, this is Jordan Bliss. I’ve pinpointed Miguel’s location,” she breathlessly announced.

“Ah, Señora Bliss,” said the woman carefully. “I’m glad you called again. Miguel’s dossier was approved and returned to us today.”

Jordan’s heart gave a leap of joy. How long had she been waiting to hear those words? It couldn’t have happened at a better time. “That’s wonderful! I just received word that he’s in Puerto Ayacucho at La Catredral Maria Auxiliadora.”

A silence followed her revelation, so lengthy that Jordan thought perhaps the line had gone dead. “Señora Nuñez?” she queried.

“Yes,” said the woman, faintly.

“The priest caring for him is Father Benedict,” Jordan continued, sensing reluctance on the other end. “He says he’ll be expecting one of your agents to collect Miguel.”

The woman cut her off. “I’m sorry, señora,” she said with lament. “I am truly sorry, but we cannot send any agents into Ayacucho. Rebels have stormed the city; there is fighting in the streets.”

“No,” said Jordan forcefully. “I know it’s dangerous, but we have to get him out. He needs me. He isn’t talking anymore.” Her own voice cracked in distress. “Please don’t back out on me now,” she begged, her eyes stinging sharply. “It took a year to get his dossier approved.”

“You need to be patient, señora. Wait a few weeks or months for the unrest to die down.”

“In a few weeks or months, the Populists might run the government again,” Jordan countered fiercely. “They had outlawed foreign adoptions before; what makes you think they’d even let Miguel leave the country? I have to get him now before the laws change!”

“I’m sorry, señora. I truly am. There’s nothing we can do but keep his information here on file.”

“Wait!” Jordan begged, gripping the phone so hard it bruised her palm. “What if I were to fetch him out myself? You could mail me his dossier with explicit directions. I’ll take them to all the right people, and you wouldn’t have to do a thing.”

A compassionate sigh sounded in Jordan’s ear. “It would be dangerous for you, señora. Very dangerous.”

“I understand that,” Jordan insisted. It was more dangerous to her emotional and mental health not to fight for Miguel. “But it can be done, right?”

Thoughtful silence followed. “I suppose it could be done,” the woman carefully admitted, “if you found a lawyer to sign the papers and left him a money order for the final payoff of ten thousand American dollars, payable to us. You would then need to take Miguel to Caracas to the American embassy for the rest of the papers to be processed.”

Jordan envisioned the monumental task ahead of her. She would need to free up funds, not just the money for Miguel’s adoption but enough money for a flight, for both of them. “I can do it,” she promised, the perspiration on her brow cooling swiftly in her air-conditioned study. “Just mail the dossier and your instructions to my home address.”

“As you wish, Señora Bliss,” said the woman with heavy reluctance. “You should receive it within five to ten days.”

“Thank you,” Jordan breathed. She hung up the phone slowly, feeling stunned, shocked by the commitment she’d just shouldered. It was one thing to adopt a child through an agency; it was something else to wrest him from a war-torn country and battle the legal system practically alone.

A forceful knock at Jordan’s front door jarred her from her troubled thoughts. The sound conjured an image of a man whose memory was driven deep in her consciousness, like a splinter.
It’s not him
, she reassured herself, heading to answer the door.

Through the narrow pane that edged one side of the door, Jordan spied a little boy, about the age of her students.

Who on earth?
She pulled the door open, admitting a puff of warm, summer air, and her quizzical smile fled.

“You!” she blurted, startled that her sixth sense had been so accurate. Solomon McGuire’s silver gaze hit her like a punch in the gut. She could scarcely draw a full breath.

“Hello, again,” he said, the sound of his voice causing the fine hairs on her body to prickle.

“What do you want?” she asked, feeling weak and shaken, especially on the heels of that phone call.

“Well, Jordan, to get right down to the point, this is my son, Silas,” he said, confirming her thoughts. “It’s a long story, but he’s been missing for five years.”