MARY CLARK - Piece of My Heart

When he and Eileen got the call from Mount Sinai that Laurie had been hit by a cab, it felt as if their family might be gutted. But instead, what could have been a tragedy led to a new addition to the clan. Dr. Greg Moran was Laurie’s physician in the emergency room. The two of them were engaged only three months later, and Eileen and Leo loved their son-in-law as if he were their own.

He still smiled sometimes at the memory of Eileen leaning into him, as Laurie and Greg exchanged vows, and whispering, “We’re going to have the sweetest little grandbabies, and you are going to be the best granddaddy.” She died of a heart attack a year later, before she had a chance to meet Timmy or to even know he would be born. And then, three years after Timmy was born, they lost Greg, too.

For the last seven years, “family” had been just Laurie, Timmy, and him—a widow, a widower, and a little boy who barely remembered his father.

But this weekend, that was finally going to change. Alex had opened his daughter’s heart again and had proven himself worthy to be a father figure to Timmy as well. For once, their family was growing instead of shrinking.

And now Johnny was missing.

If only he had not been delayed. Leo found himself seething once again about Darren Gunther’s outrageous claims of innocence. He remembered that confession like it was yesterday. It had taken hours, but Leo had finally found a way to get under Gunther’s skin. When the charm of Gunther’s false face fell away, he admitted that he’d stabbed that bar owner in a rage. Now he was maligning Leo’s good name by claiming that the conversation never happened.

If not for Gunther, Leo would have been here at the resort all day. There would have been another set of eyes to help watch the children.

He went straight to the room number Laurie had given him and found a note on the door. We’re in 236 and have your keys there.

Room 236 was the one next door to his. When Timmy answered the door, he wore a rare frown. “I’m really getting scared for Johnny, Grandpa.”

Timmy allowed his grandfather to pull him into a hug. “It’s going to be okay. You’ll see.”

This can’t happen again , he thought. We can’t suffer another loss. We have to find him.

Timmy led the way to the large suite at the end of the hallway. He had always been a long, lanky kid—more the shape of his father’s than his mother’s family—but he had filled out over the last year.

A beautiful pink sunset glowed beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean, but the weight of worry in the room was crushing. Laurie managed a small smile and welcomed Leo with a hug. “I’m so glad you finally made it.”

He knew the intention behind the comment, but nevertheless felt a pang of guilt. This might not have happened if I’d been here instead of the DA’s Office.

“I’m so grateful you called the East Hampton police,” Marcy said. “The detective who was here seemed competent, but I just don’t know what to do with myself right now. When I went through my phone to select photographs for Andrew and Alex to use at the print shop, it’s like a switch flipped. This is really happening. Johnny’s one of those kids in a ‘missing child’ poster.”

“Timmy,” Laurie said, “maybe you can go play a game while we talk.”

“I want to be here with you guys,” Timmy said, “trying to figure out where Johnny is. Grandpa said I’m good at police work.”

Timmy waited for Laurie to decide. Her expression made it clear that she wasn’t going to argue with her son about this. He wasn’t a typical ten-year-old. “Any ideas, Dad?” she asked.

“Is Kara still here?”

“In the bedroom with the twins,” Marcy said, nodding toward an adjacent door.

Chapter 12

Father Mike Horrigan lived in a small, brick house set back behind Blessed Sacrament Church, where he’d been assigned for nearly fourteen years. In the back of the house, he enjoyed the privacy of a brick patio and a yard with a lush garden. Out the front door, however, placed him right next to the church parking lot, which this evening was the site of a car-wash fundraiser organized by the high school’s basketball team. Parker Logan, the tallest member of the team, looked like a giant next to the Prius he was sponging down at the edge of the lot.

Father Horrigan noticed Parker’s mother, Betsy, speaking to Cynthia, the parish office manager, at the picnic table that sat between the church and the parking lot. He could still remember Betsy’s glee when she showed off how ten-year-old Parker was already taller than she was. Betsy’s husband had chimed in, “I’ve met Great Danes taller than you, sweetie.”

He noticed that the women quickly lowered their voices when they spotted him.

Betsy threw him a friendly wave. “Hello there, Father Mike.”

“You were gossiping about the Real Housewives again, weren’t you?” he teased.

“Guilty as charged,” Cynthia admitted.

“No confession required,” he said. “Watching a show is one thing, living like that one is quite another.”

Cynthia looked at him with compassion. “Forgive me for asking, Father, but is something on your mind?”

Father Horrigan was only twenty-six years old when he first came to Blessed Sacrament, and Cynthia, nearly twenty years his senior, had always had a maternal disposition toward him. In the years since, she had been the person he spent more time with day to day than anyone else. She knew him well. The phone call from Marcy Buckley was still weighing on him. He knew that Johnny would likely turn up any moment, the way children do, but he had heard the anguish in his mother’s voice. He kept thinking about Marcy saying that she would be relieved to hear that Johnny’s birth mother had taken him. At least he would be safe. He wanted to be able to ease her mind if it was at all possible.

“Betsy, would you mind if I borrowed Cynthia for a moment?” he asked. “It’s about a parishioner matter.”

“Not at all,” Betsy said. “I’ve got some brownies I promised to break out once the kids hit their fundraising goal, so I’ll get to work on that.”

Once Father Horrigan was alone with Cynthia, he asked whether she remembered Sandra Carpenter. “She had a daughter named Michelle,” he said, hoping to jog her memory.

“Yes, of course, but it’s been years since she’s been in contact.”

Sandra had been a regular attendee at Sunday Mass during his early years at the church. Her daughter, Michelle, sixteen years old when he first met her, was one of those teenagers who only came to Mass because of her mother’s pressure, but she was always sweet and polite. Once she graduated from high school, her Sunday appearances grew more sporadic over time, and she eventually stopped attending altogether. Whenever Father Horrigan asked about Michelle, Sandra reported that her daughter was doing well.

Then suddenly one day, Sandra paused before answering, and then broke down into tears. At first, Michelle had been getting good grades as a student at the University of Baltimore, but after two years, she took some time off. Michelle’s plan was to live in a family’s guesthouse in Rehoboth Beach and work full-time as a waitress for a few years. That way she could go back to school and graduate without a load of debt.

“When she first said she wanted to move to Rehoboth, she kept assuring me it was only two and a half hours away, and we could see each other all the time. And for the most part, that has been true. But I haven’t seen her for more than three months. She kept saying she was busy, or sick, or one excuse or another. I could tell she was avoiding me, and last night, she finally told me why. She’s eight months pregnant and has no idea what she’s going to do. I told her I could help her if she wants to raise this child on her own, but the reality has set in. She’s twenty-two years old. If she works fewer hours, she’ll barely be able to support herself, let alone a baby. She knows that she’ll never finish college if she becomes a single mother.”