A Season for Grace. Linda Goodnight
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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.”
The waitress slid the steaming burger and fries onto the table. “There you go. A year’s worth of fat and cholesterol.”
“No wonder Chick keeps you around, Millie. You’re such a great salesman.”
“Saleslady, thank you.”
He took a giant bite of the burger and sighed. “Perfect. Just like you.”
Millie rolled her eyes and moved on. Collin turned his attention back to Mia. “You were saying?”
“Were you even listening?”
“To every word. The kid is special. Why?”
Mia experienced a twinge of pleasure. Collin Grace confused her, but there was something about him…
“Beneath Mitch’s hard layer is a gentleness. A sweet little boy who doesn’t know who to trust or where to turn.”
“Imagine that. The world screws him over from birth and he stops trusting it. What a concept.”
The man was cool to the point of frostbite and had a shell harder than any of the street kids she dealt with. If she could crack this tough nut perhaps other cops would follow suit. She was already pursuing the idea of mentor groups through her church, but cops-as-mentors could make an impact like no other.
She took a big sip of Coke and then said, “At least talk to Mitch.”
The pager at Collin’s waist went off. He slipped the device from his belt, glanced at the display, and pushed out of the booth, leaving a half-eaten burger and a nearly full basket of cheese fries.
Mia looked up at the tall and dark and distant cop. “Is that your job?”
He nodded curtly. “Gotta go. Thanks for the dinner.”
“Could I call you about this later?”
“No point. The answer will still be no.” He whipped around with the precision of a marine and strode out of the café before Mia could argue further.
Disappointment curled in her belly. When she could close her surprised mouth, she did so with a huff.
The basket of leftover fries beckoned. She crammed a handful in her mouth. No use wasting perfectly good cheese fries. Even if they did end up on her hips.
Sergeant Collin Grace may have said no, but no didn’t always mean absolutely no.
And Mia wasn’t quite ready to give up on Mitchell Perez…or Collin Grace.
Chapter Two
“Hey Grace, you spending the night here or something?”
Eyes glued to the computer screen, Collin lifted a finger to silence the other cop. “Gotta check one more thing.”
His shift was long over, and the sun drifted toward the west, but at least once a week he checked and re-checked, just in case he’d missed something the other five thousand times he’d searched.
Somewhere out there he had two brothers, and with the explosion of information on the Internet he would find them—eventually. After all this time, though, he wasn’t expecting a miracle.
His cell phone played the University of Oklahoma fight song and he glanced down at the caller ID. Her again. Mia Carano. She’d left no less than ten messages over the past three days. He had talked to her twice, told her no and then hadn’t bothered to return her other calls. Eventually