Love, Special Delivery. Melinda Curtis
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dads have first dibs.”
Later that night after Hannah had gone to bed, Mom pulled Ben into the garage. It was crowded with plastic storage tubs from the move except for the space they’d carved out along one wall for Hannah’s infirmary. “I’m sorry Han got away from me again, Ben. I can’t let my eyes off her even for a minute.”
Dad sat in a burgundy camp chair next to the hot water heater, chewing on a cigar, which was the only vice left to him—chewing, not smoking. “You shouldn’t worry so much, Vanessa. Harmony Valley isn’t the Bermuda Triangle. Kids can safely roam free here.”
“She isn’t ours to let roam.” Mom was wound up tighter than the snake had been around Hannah’s arm. “What if she fell in the river? What if she got hit by a car? Her real father would have our hides. And who could blame him?”
“Time to face facts.” Keith mouthed the cigar. “It’s been three months. We may never find Han’s dad.”
“Don’t say that.” Ben had been searching since Erica died. A few weeks ago, he’d hired a private investigator to aid in the search. “Her father is out there.”
Erica’s parents couldn’t take Hannah because her grandfather had Alzheimer’s and her grandmother couldn’t handle caring for a child on top of that. Nothing in Hannah’s records—not even her birth certificate—said more than John Smith. There were thousands of John Smiths in California. And what if good ol’ John had moved to another state?
Ben stared at the wall with cages. A rabbit with a broken leg. A guinea pig missing an ear. A bird with a broken wing. A baby possum that required bottle feedings. Hannah was a magnet for animals, especially those in need. Would her biological dad appreciate that?
“What Han needs are friends.” It was too bad it was summer and school was out. “Let’s ask around and see if we can’t get her some playdates.” Ones without princess dresses, at least at first.
“Fine.” Mom slipped her arm around Ben’s waist, smelling of the garlic she used in nearly everything she cooked. “But we need to start thinking about what we’ll do with Hannah if you can’t find her father.”
“She’s always got a home with the Libbys.” Dad removed the cigar from his mouth and stared up at the ceiling, perhaps imagining he was blowing smoke rings.
Mom frowned.
Ben’s lungs felt as if he was fighting a fully engaged house fire from the inside and had run out of oxygen in his tank. It was unfair to ask his mother to raise a child when she’d already raised two of her own. And firefighter hours? He couldn’t walk away from a raging house fire if his shift was over. His father was the perfect example of absentee parenthood—gone for days at a time, never home when he promised, always rushing to pick up an extra shift or attend a union meeting. When other kids had dads in the stands for Little League or end-of-the-year school awards, Ben had had none. Those crazy hours? It was why Ben had been staying with his parents since Erica’s death. It was why he’d moved in with them in Harmony Valley.
“All I’m asking is we think about it.” Mom’s frown disappeared. She gave him another squeeze. “You’ll do the right thing, Ben. You always do.”
Ben was doing the right thing. He was caring for another man’s child. It blew his mind that he’d never met and couldn’t find John Smith.
He’d formed many friendships at the fire academy, but none stuck like the connection between himself, Steven and Erica. They shared the same family lineage of firefighters and a drive to succeed. They’d all been hired by the Oakland Fire Department and assigned to the same busy, downtown station. And then one night Steven had been killed on-scene when a drunken driver plowed into the ambulance he’d been standing in front of. Ben had been the first to reach him.
That night, Ben had shown up at Erica’s apartment with a six-pack. Six beers and several whiskey shots later, he woke up in her bed. They’d both been horrified. Erica had a boyfriend. They’d made a pact never to mention it again. And Ben hadn’t until three months later when Erica announced she was pregnant. Ben had asked if it was his, because despite not wanting kids it’d been the right thing to do. When Erica denied it, Ben had been unable to hide his relief.
He wondered again for the umpteenth time... Was John Smith real?
If he wasn’t real, that might mean...
Ben needed space to think. Space to stop himself from thinking. Space from Mom and Dad and even sleeping Hannah. Space from the nagging feeling that he’d been lying to himself for seven years. He and Erica had been friends. He should have met her boyfriend at least once.
Ben went outside and called the private investigator he’d hired to find Hannah’s dad. His report? Still a dead end.
“But now that I have her laptop,” Fenway said, referring to the computer Ben had given him last weekend, “I’m going through her pictures and reverting them back to the original photo. You’d be amazed what and who people crop out before posting to social media.”
If John Smith existed, Hannah deserved to be with him. Being a fireman’s kid wasn’t a bowl of cherry-filled chocolates. There’d be missed meals, missed school events, missed ball games. Much as Ben wouldn’t trade his parents, he wouldn’t wish a fireman’s family on anyone.
He sat on top of the wooden picnic table in the backyard and stared at the sky. It was peaceful in Harmony Valley at night. There were no sirens. No gunshots. No road-raging shouts. Instead, there were wind-rustled leaves, curious owls and singing crickets. It was peaceful, safe, boring. The kind of slow-paced place where a man had little to think of other than his own hard truths.
Was he Hannah’s dad?
A branch snapped to his left.
“Ouch,” a female voice said, sounding more annoyed than hurt.
The four-foot-tall shrubbery separating the Libby backyard from the rear neighbor shook. More branches protested a bodily intrusion.
“For the love of gardenias!” A figure moved beneath the shadows created by a large tree.
Ben hopped off the picnic table. “Need any help?”
The woman and the bushes stilled. “Um. No. I’m looking for... I’m trying to...” The woman huffed as if the weight of the world was too much for her patience. “I like to look at the moon, and this humongous tree is in my way.”
Her hesitation and intensity gave her away. “Mandy?”
The very air seemed to go still. No crickets chirped. No owl hooted. Even the offending tree had gone still.
He peered into the shadows, trying to discern if she was still there, imagining her holding on to that calm smile of hers. “Mandy from the post office?”
“It’s Ben, isn’t it?” She spoke as if this was the worst news of the evening. “How did I not know the fire marshal was my neighbor?”
He chalked up the defeat in her voice to the stress of his fire inspection. His opinion of the post office didn’t reflect on her. She... He had to admit, she and her unflappable smile were more interesting than most things in Harmony Valley. “We’ve both been busy working.” And he went down Harrison to the firehouse, while she probably drove in the opposite direction to the post office.
“If our house looks vacant, it’s because I park in the garage and walk to work.” Gone was the postmaster with her defensive stubbornness. In her place was a neighbor shooting the breeze, one who fed displaced raccoons.
“Speaking of looking...” His lips turned upward for the first time that night. “I can see the moon clearly over here.”
“Rub it in,” she said, less pained than when she’d discovered he was on the other side of the hedge.
He was near enough now to see the outline of her face, although not a clear expression. Not her smile.
He