Kiahna.
With a jolt, his heartbeat resumed, twice as fast as before. How many years had it been? Almost eight, right? He'd met her that awful summer, back in 1996 when his entire world was upside down. And even then they'd known each other only a few hours, the time it took for a massive storm to make its way across Hawaii and farther out into the Pacific.
Just long enough for her face to be indelibly written across the canvas of his mind, his heart. She was breathtaking. A Hawaiian girl with deep green eyes, light skin, and a hundred dreams about her future. For an hour she had seemed the answer to every problem that stood against him.
And now she was dead.
Passengers came and went a few feet from him, but Connor was frozen in place, his heart still pounding. His eyes remained locked on her name, willing it to disappear from the awful list. But no matter how hard he stared at it, the words wouldn't go away.
Kiahna Siefert.
Yes, it was her. Of course it was. She'd switched airlines, but she'd stayed in Honolulu, where she was raised. And what else? Had she married or studied medicine the way she'd dreamed? Had she raised the family she'd spoken so openly about?
A dark and buried memory flashed in his mind: him and Kiahna early on the evening they'd met. Because of the storm, hotel space was limited, and somehow their paths had crossed. A few hours in the lobby and then …
He closed his eyes, willing the memory to disappear. Instead it grew more vivid, her words as clear as they'd been that night. She talked about her hopes and dreams, and he shared his frustration over being stationed in Los Angeles, his fears about the FAA investigation. He even told her about his father.
The only thing he didn't tell her was—
“This is the first boarding call for Flight 1205 to Atlanta.”
Even two gates away he heard the announcement. They were waiting for him. He blinked and in a sudden, swift movement rolled the paper, tucked it beneath his arm, and headed for his plane. Before he reached the Jetway he crushed the newspaper into a tight wad and popped it into the first trash can. As he boarded the aircraft and took his place in the cockpit, he had a sudden awful thought. One so bad he would never have admitted it to anyone.
If the article was correct, then the single darkest secret in his life was no longer a threat. Never again would he wake up breathless at three in the morning as he'd done four or five times a year, every year since. No longer would he backtrack through the alleys of his mind, desperate for a way to cover his bases, to make sure Michele and the girls never, never learned about his layover in Honolulu the summer of 1996.
Connor had kept the information to himself, never told another soul about it. But the possibility always existed, as long as Kiahna was alive, that somehow the truth would get to Michele.
Now … that possibility had drowned right there in the ocean.
Kiahna was dead; his wife would never find out.
Connor felt himself relax. He adjusted his tie and tugged on the brim of his hat. It wasn't his fault her plane had gone down. Rather it was one of those strange and rare occurrences, the freak one-in-a-million air disaster that hit the industry every few years. His copilot was saying something, running through some of the checks on gauges and computerized systems.
He exhaled and realized he'd been holding his breath. Once more he read over the flight plan, but he couldn't concentrate. He was too busy hating himself. Because at a time when he should have felt sorrow and remorse for the green-eyed island girl who'd lost her life, he felt only one thing.
Complete and utter relief.
SEVEN
The doorbell rang at five minutes before two.
Ramey watched Max, how his eyebrows lifted and a spark came to life in his expression as though maybe, just maybe, his mother had come home. Maybe she'd found a way to swim off the doomed airplane and make her way back to the island, after all.
But even with his little-boy hopes, the glimmer lasted only a moment. “Who is it, Ramey?”
She considered lying to him, telling him it was a passing salesperson or a personal friend. Anything to keep Max from knowing that days after his mother's death he was about to be dealt a hand that would decide his future. But in the end she decided against it. The boy knew the attorney. No point raising his suspicions about the visit.
Once more, the doorbell rang.
“Ramey?”
The boy's voice brought her back to the moment. She said, “It's Mr. Ogle, you remember him, right?”
Max's eyes were wide and vacant. “Yes.”
She headed for the apartment's small foyer, watching Max the entire time. “He wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Max nodded, and his chin quivered. He stood straight and still, waiting.
Ramey opened the door and stepped back. The attorney was a man in his fifties, pleasant and distinguished with black slacks and a white short-sleeve dress shirt. Standard island business fare. He introduced himself and then stepped past Ramey toward Max.
The moment their eyes met, the attorney dropped to one knee and held out his arms. “Max …”
The child hesitated. Then in a rush he ran to the man and clung to him. His back shook and his words were short and choppy, almost impossible to understand in light of his sudden wave of emotion. “Mommy's … plane … landed in the water.”
Mr. Ogle stroked Max's back. “I know, pal. I know.”
“She couldn't get out.”
“I'm sorry.” The attorney held Max for a long time, until the boy's sobs subsided. Then he drew back and studied Max's face. “I need to talk to Ramey, okay?”
“Okay.”
Max looked at Buddy and that was sign enough. The dog was on his feet at Max's side, and the two went outside.
When Ramey and the attorney were alone, she struggled to find her voice. “Should we sit down?”
“I think so.” His eyes held hers, unwavering. He nodded to the sofa. “It won't take long.”
Ramey glanced at Max as she followed Mr. Ogle. The boy had dropped to the cement patio and had his arm around Buddy's neck again. Her eyes stung, and she blinked hard to stop the tears. At least the boy had Buddy. She took the spot at the other end of the sofa so that one seat cushion separated them.
“Kiahna's instructions were very clear.” Mr. Ogle pulled out a two-page document and a white sealed envelope from a file and spread them on the space between them. Less writing covered the top page, and the attorney held it up. “This one is a will, Kiahna's last testament. The first part is fairly straightforward. It leaves Max all her worldly belongings—a few thousand dollars in savings and whatever material goods she's collected. And her life insurance, of course.
“The second part is somewhat unusual.” He leaned back and exhaled. The tension in the room doubled. “It's a request, something that wouldn't be legally binding, really. But it was her wish all the same.”
Ramey folded her hands, waiting.
“I'll read it.” Mr. Ogle held the paper closer and did a small cough. “‘In the event of my death prior to Max's eighteenth birthday, it is my desire that before he is turned over to state custody, he spend two weeks with his father.’”
“His father?” Ramey's breath caught in her throat. The man Kiahna had refused to talk about, the one whose identity and whereabouts remained a complete mystery? She forced herself to listen.
“Yes.” His eyes found his place on the document. “The letter goes on, 'The man is a married pilot who was living in Los Angeles eight years ago. I am providing you with all the information I have; it should be enough to find him.”
A knowing filled Ramey's heart. No wonder Kiahna hadn't wanted to talk about him. Max's father was a married man, which meant … what? That his time with Kiahna had been only a one-night stand? Or worse, that he had led her on, made promises to her, and then left her alone with Max?
Either way the situation was sad, and somewhere in the center of her being, Ramey's heart began to hurt.
Mr. Og
le kept reading. “‘If you find him, and if he's willing to agree to the two-week visit, tell him that at the end of that time he'll have to make a decision about Max.’ As you know, Kiahna didn't list the father on Max's birth certificate, so the man will have to decide whether to adopt Max and tell him the truth, or send him home to be placed for adoption by the state.”
Ramey tried to imagine the reaction the man might have to the news. For that matter, whether he'd even consider such a request after so many years.
The attorney was almost finished. Kiahna's letter went on to provide the man's name, the name of the airline he flew for, and two phone numbers. One for the airline where the man worked, the other for the apartment where he had lived back when they spent their one night together.
“That's it? One night?”
“Apparently.” The attorney pursed his lips. “Makes me wonder if he even knows about Max.”
Ramey thought about that. Kiahna had been pregnant when she made the will, and since part of her request included telling the man about Max, chances were he had no idea he'd fathered a son with Kiahna. None at all.
Mr. Ogle set the paper down and looked at Ramey. “The apartment will be useless. Too long ago.” He narrowed his eyes. “The airline's our best chance.”
For a moment neither of them said anything. Then, for the first time since the attorney began speaking, Ramey thought of something other than the information in Kiahna's will.
“What about Max?”
The attorney reached for the sealed white envelope and held it up. “She wrote him a letter. The directions on the envelope say that it can't be opened until Max is present.” He paused. “She wanted him to hear it first.”
For a crazy instant, Ramey wanted to tell the attorney to take the letter and leave. Kiahna couldn't possibly have wanted Max, just days after her death, to travel from the island and spend time with a stranger! But she waited only a heartbeat before she stood. Kiahna and Max were as close as any mother and son Ramey had ever seen. Whatever the letter held, it was exactly what Kiahna wanted to say. She sniffed and looked at Mr. Ogle. “I'll get him.”
Max was remembering a special butterfly day between him and his mom.
Butterfly days happened once a month because butterflies helped you remember that life was good. At least that's what Mommy always told him. She would pack him a peanut butter banana sandwich and a juice pack and they would set out.
You had to get in your car and drive a long time, more than just the time it took to go to the store for milk or hot dog relish or marshmallows. Usually they sang songs, and after five songs or six if they were quick ones, the street would end and become bumpy and slippery. That's when his mom would reach her hand back through the seats and hold his fingers.
The bushes and trees were thick back there, and after another song the trees made a wall along the road so that it didn't feel like a road at all. More like a secret path. Then, after he counted three coconut trees and two mailboxes, they would stop. Through the trees was a grass place and a bench.
“Okay, Max,” Mommy would tell him. “We're here.”
That's when she'd grab hold of the lunch bag, and they'd climb out of the car, careful not to get scratched by the trees and bushes. His mom would smile at him and they'd hold hands over to the bench. Max would move his feet very quiet because the butterflies didn't like a lot of loud shuffling feet, that's why.
Once they reached the bench, his mommy would turn to him and do a wink. Then she'd shush him real quiet, just in case he forgot about the butterflies.
They would sit down and his mommy would put her arm around him and hug him close. “Now we wait.”
After about as long as two TV commercials, the butterflies would come. Two or three butterfly friends, and then whole entire butterfly families. Their wings were sunny yellow and pumpkin orange and chocolate brown and darkest black, and every time Max saw them come and bounce around in the close sky above them he thought the same thing.
Butterflies were God's bestest artwork.
His teacher told him once that artwork was when little boys colored inside the lines. God definitely colored inside the lines with butterflies. Pretty soon the butterfly families would become a butterfly village all bouncing and lifting and falling over him and his mommy.
She would lean close to his ear and whisper, “Know what I love about butterflies, Max?”
“What?”
“They prove that God gives second chances.”
“Why?” Max knew the answer, but he liked to hear her say the words.
“Because a butterfly spends most of its life as a caterpillar, scooting along on the ground, barely getting by. When a caterpillar sees a butterfly he thinks how wonderful it would be to fly.”
“And then one day he gets tired.”
“Very tired. He builds a little room, curls up inside, and takes a nap. Deep in his heart he wonders if maybe that's all. Maybe life is over.”
“But one day …” Max always smiled here, because this was his favoritest part of the story.
“One day the caterpillar wakes up, and God has done an amazing thing. The caterpillar shakes off the little room and feels something on his back. This time when he goes a bit down the tree branch he doesn't scoot like before.”
“He flies!” Max would look back at the butterflies.
“That's right.” His mommy's voice would get sort of scratchy at this part of the story. “And one day, Max, you and I aren't going to scoot anymore, either. Because God loves us even more than He loves the butterflies.”
“Right.”
“So butterflies make us remember, don't they, Max?”
“Yep.”
“That life is good no matter what. Because just like the caterpillar, the best days are ahead of us, and then …”
“And then we'll have wings just like the butterflies.”
That's when they'd wait a little bit with no words. And after that Mommy would pick up the lunch bag and give them each a sandwich. Some of the butterflies would go away because of the crinkly bag, but it didn't matter because Max understood. Butterflies couldn't stay in just one place.
That's why they had wings.
Max stopped remembering and looked at Buddy. He was asleep, his furry legs stretched out both ways. Max looked up to the sky and wondered. Maybe this was what Mommy meant by one day they'd have wings. Maybe this was the part of her life where God was giving her a second chance, just like the butterfly.
If that was true, then maybe she could bounce and rise and fall over to Ramey's back patio. Because the hurting feeling inside him was worse than before. But then … he didn't want her to be a butterfly, not really. Because butterflies couldn't laugh or hug or sit next to you and hold your hand. They couldn't sing you a special song.
Behind him, a door made a noise and he did a fast breath. Because all of a sudden he remembered about the talking inside. And the special meeting with Mr. Ogle.
“Max.” It was Ramey. “We need you to come in for a minute.”
He turned around and stood up at the same time. Ramey's voice was tired, the way it had been that day when Mommy's plane landed in the water. “Why?”
“Because Mr. Ogle has to read you something.”
She held her hands out to him and he came to her, hugging her big legs close because sadness was so strong it wanted to make him fall on the floor. “What's he going to read?”
“A letter from your mom.”
Max raised his eyes at Ramey. “From my mom? From heaven?”
Water came across Ramey's eyes. “No, Max. A special letter she wrote you earlier this year.”
“How come …” Max rubbed his eyes because he didn't want to cry again. “How come she didn't give it to me before?”
“Because she wrote this in case … in case …”
“In case her plane landed in the water one day?”
“Yes.” Ramey did a long breath. “In case of that.”
Max couldn't figure ou
t the feeling in his tummy. It was sad because his mommy was gone, but happy, too. Because the letter was a piece of her she left behind. A piece just for him. And that made him feel special.
He took Ramey's hand and led the way into the apartment. Mr. Ogle told him to sit in the middle between him and Ramey. Then he said the same thing Ramey had said about his mommy leaving him a letter. Max nodded and tried to have patience. His mommy always said patience was good.
Finally Mr. Ogle opened a piece of paper and began reading.
“‘Dear Max, if you're hearing this, then … I've already gone home to be with Jesus.’” Mr. Ogle stopped and bit his lip. “‘Before I go on, you need to know something: I'm safe in heaven now. No matter what else, I want you to know that; I'm okay. And, Max, you're going to be okay, too.’”
Max sucked in his cheeks so he could stay strong on the inside. But two tears spilled onto his face before he could stop them. He rubbed his cheeks hard and looked at Mr. Ogle so he'd keep reading.
“‘Deep in your heart I'm certain you wonder about your father. If you're old enough, then you know that even though you don't have a daddy, Jesus is your Father. But, Max, I want you to know you have a human father somewhere out there. He is a man I loved very much, but only for a short time. He couldn't stay here on the island, Max, because he had to go home.’”
Mr. Ogle looked at Ramey. That gave Max a chance to put his hand over his heart and feel how the beat there had gotten fast and jumpy. Very jumpy. His father was out there somewhere? Why hadn't his mom told him that before? Mr. Ogle did a choking sound and looked back at the piece of paper.
“‘Home was so important to your father, Max, that when God gave you to me, I never told him. Never once. Because he had his home across the ocean, and we had our home here, on the island. I don't know if you'll ever find your father, Max. But I wanted you to know he was somewhere out there, and that he doesn't know about you.
“‘Also, Ramey is going to help you find a special friend of mine, a man who lives on the mainland. If Jesus takes me to heaven, and if Ramey can find my special friend, I want you to spend a few weeks with him. This might be hard, Max, but it means a lot to me. It's what I want you to do. Really and truly.