One of these children could be her son.
Dani Sullivan clutched the windowsill of her rented
Lake Bliss bungalow and watched the small group of boys who
played at the water's edge. She searched each child for
something familiar, desperate after eight years to see the
sweet face of one little auburn–haired boy.
Would she recognize anything of herself in the child?
Or would his features trigger an unwanted memory?
A woman clad in a floral one–piece bathing suit
hustled out of a lawn chair. Her long blonde ponytail
swayed as she rushed toward a boy wearing bright red swim
trunks who stood near two other kids throwing sand. He wore
a navy Detroit Tigers ball cap, and tufts of his brown hair
peeked out the back. The shade reminded Dani of nutmeg, a
color that matched her own curls at that age. The shape of
his face and the way he'd run—swinging his arms like
they were the source of his locomotion—seemed so
familiar. So right.
Her son?
An image of a baby boy flashed in her mind. A newborn,
wrapped in a hospital–issued blanket, dark–eyed
with a tuft of auburn hair. Her beautiful baby, whom Dani
had promised a happy life.
As another woman's son.
Fueled by an overwhelming urge to get closer, she
scurried onto the screened–in porch and grasped a
wooden beam for support. Outboard motors roared on the
lake, drowning out conversation. The woman appeared to
scold the children next to him then guided the boy to sit
on the end of the dock where it met the beach. The others
gathered around. The woman removed the boy's cap and tilted
his head upward. The child swiped first at his right eye
then at the woman's hand.
That could be her son's adoptive mother.
Nausea tightened Dani's gut.
Without thought, she pushed open the screen door and
took a few steps toward the beach. The sun was harsh on her
face; the mixture of dried–out grass and weeds
pricked her bare feet. She pulled her sunglasses from on
top of her head and slid them onto her nose.
The voices at the beach escalated, and the woman
grasped the boy's hand. Once again, he swatted her away and
rubbed his eye. She massaged her temple in apparent
agitation.
Instinct kicked in. Dani jogged the few yards to the
beach and made her way to where the boy sat on the dock
covering his eye. "Can I help? I'm a nurse."
The woman turned, her eyebrow raised in question.
"I'm Dani Sullivan, the new renter in cottage three. I
thought maybe the boy needed help."
The woman glanced at the child, then back to Dani. "I
think he's got sand in his eye. He won't let me look, and
I'm not sure what to do."
Dani removed her sunglasses and squatted to get a
better look at him, and he pulled his hand away from his
face for just a moment. Though his eye was red, she didn't
see any sand on his cornea, and his eye was no longer
watering. She took the opportunity to scan his eyelashes,
his mouth, his nose. Did they resemble hers? She'd seen her
son eight years ago for barely an hour. Would she even know
if this boy was him?
He rose from the dock. The faintest hint of unease
surfaced in his uncovered eye. "Don't even think about
giving me a shot."
His comment surprised a laugh from her. She would have
made a similar remark. "I promise—no shots. Okay?"
After a quick nod, he lowered his hand, uncovering his
eye. She took a few steps closer, the sun–heated sand
gritty between her toes. She concentrated on dragging the
humid air into her lungs. "What's your name, honey?"
"Sam Reagan."
Sam. A name she knew but hadn't chosen.
Her son.
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