The Boy Who Appeared from the Rain

By Kevin David Jensen

For a disappointed couple, the worst-best thing that can happen is for a beautiful child to come into their lives, thinking he's theirs—and for them to be given every opportunity to keep him.

He appeared at the door in the Seattle rain: age ten, and dripping. He called her "Mom." The officer who brought him thought he was hers and left him there. He called Craig "Dad." He knew where the bathroom was, knew where to find a glass, knew the dog's name. The school said they were his parents. The state's records agreed. He even looked familiar.

The problem, of course, was that they'd never had a child. Yet somehow Zechariah Fleming not only fit in, but wore the very name they had chosen for the son they never had.

No one came looking for him. What could the Flemings do? They did the worst-best thing possible: they kept him. Just for a little while, long enough to find his family—long enough, incidentally, to fall in love with him.

He resurfaced past pains. His unreserved wonder at his new life (a bed, even going outside!) introduced new joys. He was happy. But something was wrong: he had been sent to them from a mysterious past, but he had no way to say by whom. Meanwhile, someone watched from the shadows, working out his own agenda as Kara and Craig searched for a way to care for Zach without becoming a family.

Then, when all the signs converged to proclaim he really was theirs, a new struggle ensued: a race to find his true origins before whoever sent him returned to take him—their son—away.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kevin David Jensen
• Release date: Dec 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311147806

Kevin David Jensen

Kevin David Jensen was born in 1973 in Longview, Washington, where he first encountered the wonders of books, baseball, rain, and the great outdoors. In his youth, he dreamed of playing Major League baseball, but when he found it impossible to hit a Little League curveball, he decided to instead pursue an education, and went on to earn Bachelor's degrees in English and Religious Education from Harding University. He completed a Master of Divinities at Harding School of Theology in 2001 and later moved to the Yakima, Washington area with his wife, Jenny. When he's not writing or playing baseball in the yard, Kevin enjoys hiking, gardening, cooking homemade pizza, and hanging out with Jenny and their three children.

Book preview

The Boy Who Appeared from the Rain

by Kevin David Jensen

Published by Kevin David Jensen at Smashwords

Copyright 2014 Kevin David Jensen

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Acknowledgements

Special thanks to each person who contributed their time, insight, home, good looks, or French fries to the development of this book. Thanks in particular to my wife, Jenny, for bearing through my distraction toward writing, and also to (in no particular order) Colton Buermann, Karly White, Monique Love, Mark & Larissa Wardrip, Cherry Jensen (thanks, Mom!), Mark Lockwood, Gary & Rosemary Pointer, Miah Robert, Jamie Robert, Jonathan P. Grizzle, our local McDonald's, and the Market Diner at Pike Place Market in Seattle, Washington, where the fries are soft and flavorfully seasoned. May you ever enjoy the delights of rain, French fries, and the great outdoors.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Epilogue

Personal Note from the Author

About this Author

Chapter 1

A brown-haired boy in worn blue jeans and an orange T-shirt snuck the phonebook out of the drawer in the adult's bedside cabinet, glanced over his shoulder toward the door, and began turning pages. He flipped past maps and emergency phone numbers to lists of names beginning with A. He continued on to F, then located Fl, then Fle.

There it was, the name he was searching for—Fleming. His pulse quickened. It was really there! He traced a trembling finger down the list of Flemings: Aaron, Adam, Amanda, Anthony and Janelle… There were a lot of people named Fleming. He was looking for two in particular.

His finger slid further down the column, then stopped. His breath caught. Fleming Craig and Kara, he whispered, his blue eyes going wide. They were real. They were alive. For several seconds the boy stared at their names, checked every letter, reading and rereading the single line. He sweated with excitement. They were alive!

Their address—Who knew you could find an address in a phonebook?—it was there, just as he had been told. 6050 Spindler Avenue. He had found their address! The boy almost whooped aloud for sheer joy.

A clatter of dishes being stacked in the kitchen startled him out of his concentration. He stuffed the phonebook back in its drawer and crept across the hallway into his own scantly-furnished bedroom. Footsteps vibrated the floor a moment later and shuffled into the bathroom. The bathroom door shut behind the feet.

The woman would be doing her makeup. He still had time. Tiptoeing back to the adult bedroom, he reclaimed the phonebook and found that name again—Fleming Craig and Kara. He whispered their address to himself—6050 Spindler Avenue—repeating it until he had it memorized.

Now to find it. There were maps at the front of the phonebook, and he found them again. They included a list of streets. He tracked down Spindler Avenue. It was surprisingly close to his school. He could be there in minutes once class let out. 6050 Spindler Avenue.

He envisioned how he would get there—right from the school, then left. No, he was thinking of his route from the wrong side of the school. Left from the school, then left again. The house would be somewhere on the next block…if it was a house. It might be an apartment, or maybe…a mansion! It could be a tent—he didn't care. He was going to find Craig and Kara Fleming, and that was all that mattered.

Breathing hard with anticipation, the boy set the phonebook in its drawer once more and hurried back to his room. When the woman emerged from the bathroom a minute later, he gathered up his backpack without being told and strode down the hall to the front door. She stood holding it open for him. Despite the momentous day—for both of them—she said nothing, but merely followed him to the car, started it up, and drove him to school. She would not miss him.

He would not miss her, either. She was fine—he did not dislike her. But she was insignificant now. Craig and Kara Fleming lived at 6050 Spindler Avenue. This afternoon, as soon as school was out, he would find them. This was going to be the most amazing day of his life.

*****

Thin gloves, clean and black, handled a picture frame with care as intent green eyes surveyed the portrait within it through slits in a dark pullover hood. I didn't break in here to steal pictures, the man beneath the hood reminded himself. He set the frame back precisely in its place, checking the faint dust lines around the it. They were untouched; no one would know.

He looked over the photos once more, snapshots of the residents, Craig and Kara Fleming, from youth to adulthood to marriage: young Craig fishing, a teenage Kara laughing, the happy couple now in their thirties and holding hands at the beach. The photograph he had picked up and set down drew his eyes again—a brown-haired, grade school boy in a light blue Little League uniform. It had startled him at first, made him wonder if this couple had somehow discovered… But that was impossible, of course. It was merely a portrait of Craig in his childhood. The eyes were the wrong color. Even so, had the figure felt any hesitation about proceeding with his plan, that picture swept it away.

He refocused on the task at hand; he could not risk time-consuming distractions. He surveyed the front part of the house: the rectangular table on which the photographs were displayed was situated to the figure's left as he stood in the entryway. Extending from the left of the entryway was a hallway, and to the right a kitchen that blended into a small dining room. There was a den just ahead on the left, and the figure moved into it.

It was cozy, with an inset fireplace resting cool and dark in one corner. Over the fireplace hung a large portrait of Craig and Kara surrounded by relatives, obviously from Craig's side of the family. There were children in the picture, but only with the other couples. With Craig and Kara, there were none. That fact ambushed the figure, provoking an unexpected sense of regret.

The home was modest and neatly-kept, tidy enough without that unfriendly feeling he had found in some of the more upscale homes he had recently…visited. A book lay out of place on the couch, a small mess of papers covered the computer desk; he sorted through them, leaving no trace. Not everything was perfectly in order here. These people were not the type to nitpick at every detail. They lived here. This was a home, not a showcase.

He moved silently to the kitchen. Breakfast dishes lay unwashed beside the sink and the morning's paper waited unopened on the stand-alone counter in the center of the room. He rifled through every cabinet in seconds, searching, careful to precisely replace anything he moved. He found nothing out of the ordinary.

A door led from the kitchen to the garage, and another out the side of the house to the yard beyond. He peeked out the side door window. There were a patio and green grass outside, with a golden Labrador snoozing in the shade of a wooden shed. Unlocking the door, the figure eased it open and placed one foot on the patio, just far enough to look around. The dog lifted its head and eyed him curiously, but did not bark. A garden space had been tilled at one edge of the property, and from it grassy back yard stretched out perhaps a third of an acre. It was a large lot for this neighborhood. A few well-pruned trees lined the far fence.

Everything was normal here, at least so far. This was what the figure needed to know. Craig and Kara did not appear to be the kind of dubious people the figure usually associated with when he donned his gloves and pullover hood. They were decent folks; he parried another stab of regret.

The yellow dog stretched, rose to its feet, and loped lazily across the grass to meet him. The figure didn't pet the dog, though the urge struck him. He was not here to relax. He needed to stay focused.

Information, he reminded himself as he stepped back inside. That's why I'm here. His plan would unfold in a few hours; for it to succeed, he needed specific information, needed to know what life in the Fleming home looked like from the inside. He swept back through the house, observing, noticing. Not taking, not today—just looking. Information.

Usually, with both occupants away at work and no alarm system in place, a short visit like this would have been intended for gathering something more tangible than mere data. Even so, this was too consequential a job to hire out to a lesser—what, thief? I'm not a thief, not today. More of a…spy? A detective?

Perhaps a thief after all, he decided, but not of the usual sort. Like Robin Hood, stealing from the rich to give to the poor. Yeah, Robin would be proud. The purpose is noble. But I couldn't steal from these people. He grimaced. Not anymore than I already have. He quickly suppressed any further pangs of guilt. What was done could not be undone.

He stepped past the front door and into the hall, studying everything: the wall to his right, dividing the hall from the den, lined with cabinets from floor to ceiling, each packed with (he sifted through their contents swiftly) linens, cleaning supplies, and the sorts of albums and sentimental objects that families collected; a perfectly normal-looking bathroom on his left; bedrooms up ahead, two of them at the end of the hall.

The bedroom on the left was the master bedroom, complete with a small bathroom of its own. The bed was unmade, the curtains were open, and a pair of dirty socks—Kara's, it appeared—had been tossed aside on the floor.

He perused the room without disturbing anything, then moved to the second bedroom, a guestroom as he judged by the bed, desk, and sitting chair. But the furniture was nearly obscured by tools—rakes, shears, a hedge trimmer, a box of mismatched nails, a chainsaw…and much more, too much to examine closely, half of it piled atop the bed. At last, the figure had found something unusual here; Craig's landscaping work had apparently overrun their guestroom. The figure wondered vaguely how Kara felt about that.

Something shifted in the house. There was a sound at the front door. Either Craig or Kara had come home. That was unexpected, unusual for them so early in the day.

Not good.

He glanced around, his pulse quickening. There was no time. He would have to escape through the window.

Or there might be a better option. The hall made an L, the short leg providing passage from the two bedroom doors to a laundry room. The instant he heard the front door crack open, he slipped into the laundry room and found a back door there.

He would have preferred a little more time, but no matter. The information he had gathered would suffice. This afternoon he would put it to use, setting gears in motion. His work here was done.

He placed a black-gloved hand on the back doorknob, anticipating the proper moment, adrenaline surging through his veins. Just as he heard the front door swing open fully, the figure swung the back door inward. He slid noiselessly outside, eased the door shut behind himself, and without further delay, hurried around the corner of the house and down the block, out of sight.

*****

Craig Fleming stepped through the front door just ahead of Ben Carpenter, his brother-in-law. He froze so suddenly, mid-sentence, that the shorter, stockier man had to swivel awkwardly to the side to keep from colliding with him.

What's wrong? Ben asked.

Craig lifted a finger to his lips, and both men listened. Silence persisted through a long moment before Craig moved. I thought I heard something. The house was still, the doors were shut—everything seemed to be in its place. Craig took a peek into the den, but all looked normal there, as well. He headed down the hall toward the bedrooms and glanced into his own room, then the guestroom, then ducked into the laundry room just to check the back door. It was shut. That sound he'd heard must have been his imagination. Nothing was amiss.

Craig released a breath and relaxed. You need loppers? he asked Ben, motioning him into the guestroom.

As many as you can spare, Ben replied, surveying the room and scratching his balding head in amazement at the disarray. Our first big volunteer day at the Children's Home this year, and we didn't even think about tools. So naturally I called you.

Not a problem, Craig replied. I was headed this way anyway. I need to run by Grover's and pick up some trees.

Ben picked up a set of red-handled lopping shears that had been resting on the bed. He leveraged them open and closed.

Go ahead and take those, Craig said. The guy I bought this stuff from must have collected them. There are several in here…somewhere. The disorder was such that he couldn't see any more loppers right off. Take some of the little ones, too—the hand pruners. The more you take, the happier Kara will be.

Ben, stooping over to scoop up more loppers, shot him a playful glance. She's been nagging you, huh?

You have no idea, Craig said, but then shrugged. Actually, you probably do, since you grew up together.

Ben gave a half-grin as he dug through the various instruments on the bed. Anything I can do to help.

Craig sorted through the junk in search of hand pruners. He found three sets and placed them beside Ben's growing stack of loppers.

Ben stole a furtive glance at Craig. I still feel a little sad when I come into this room.

Craig straightened from his scavenging and ran a hand through his chestnut-brown hair, wavy at the ends and only just recently beginning to show signs of thinning. Still worried about us?

Well, not like I used to be. But I know my sister. She was pretty upset. Not at you. She just really wanted to have kids, you know. He grimaced as Craig shot him a frown. Sorry. I didn't mean to open an old wound. I was just…remembering.

Craig shook his head over the handle of a rake. Look, Ben, we're not going to be jealous because you and Lia have four great kids. I mean, you gave me and Kara four nieces; we love that. Besides, Kara actually got over it before I did. She could enjoy having dinner with you and Lia and the girls without asking 'what if' every time, after a while. I did too; it just took me longer.

Ben's aquamarine eyes connected with Craig's for a moment, then looked away to locate another pair of loppers. These had handles of green paint mostly flaked away, the metal blade bearing one small chip—probably too big to be sharpened smooth, but Craig thought he might have a go at it later just to see.

Craig gathered up the rake, a small shovel, and a few other tools he thought Ben's crew of volunteers might find useful. Ben didn't say any more, but Craig could hear his thoughts in the silence. So you want to know if we're going to adopt before we get any older.

I guess so, yeah.

Craig rolled his eyes. You and my mother.

The other man shrugged. It's just… You and Kara moved into this house hoping this room would be more than a guestroom. And it still could be. The children's home, they've got some great kids who just need a place. The two of you, you're wonderful with the girls. It'd be a shame not to at least give it some thought.

I'm not really interested in going through all that again. Craig spotted two more hand pruners and a sharpening stone and set them in Ben's growing pile. To be honest, we're pretty happy as we are right now. We love Seattle. Kara likes her job. The business is going well. We have a good home. And on a good day I can even tolerate my brother-in-law. He tossed a pair of gardening gloves to Ben, who snorted. So…I don't know if I want to risk changing that.

These will be enough, I think, Ben announced, and he gathered up an armful of the loppers and hand pruners along with the gloves. Craig took up the remainder. They hauled the collection to Ben's SUV parked in the driveway. Ben popped the rear hatch. "So you don't want kids?"

I didn't say that. But we've already tried. Craig unloaded his share of the tools, stepped back, and scanned the broken clouds above. They were building toward a good rain, just like the weatherman had predicted. Sometimes weathermen's forecasts were actually right. Of course, rain in Seattle in the springtime was always a pretty safe bet.

Ben was waiting for more.

I don't know, Craig finally admitted, brown eyes no longer seeing the sky. That miscarriage was tough, Ben. Being pregnant really got her hopes up, even if it was brief. They told us we might have a chance, so we tried. And then they said there really wasn't much chance after all, but we had to try anyway. Then Tiffy… That pretty much wiped us out. Once that was over, we were just…done.

Ben set his tools in the vehicle and listened.

And between the IVF treatments and getting ready to adopt Tiffy, we stacked up a lot of debt. Plus Derek and I were just getting the business up and running. The business expenses, the mortgage, the medical, not to mention all the stuff for Tiffy—trying again wasn't an option.

And now?

Craig sighed and shrugged. I don't know. Things are better, but we're older, we've moved on… I just don't think we need it like we did.

Ben watched him. Craig almost expected to receive a short sermon on the need to care for orphans, and another preacher might have supplied it. But his brother-in-law turned away instead, shut the hatch, and graciously shifted the topic to something more pleasant. Do you have another game this week?

Craig nodded. Tonight. A dozen eager nine- and ten-year-olds throwing the ball away and swinging for the fence at pitches six feet high. Great entertainment. Want to come?

I can't today, Ben shrugged, but I might come out and see one later.

We fairly often need a first-base coach, Craig invited.

Ben shook his head. All I know about baseball is that there are three bases, a bat, and a ball.

Four bases, Craig corrected. Home plate is technically a base.

Ben waved a hand. See what I mean? Thanks for the tools. I'll get them back to you Sunday.

Craig watched Ben climb back into the vehicle and depart. Then he closed up the house and hopped into his old, gray Mazda pickup with D&C Landscaping painted on the side. Would we adopt at this point? he wondered. He wasn't sure. Kara might want to. But on top of the expense, who had the energy to go through the months or years of hassle? And then, of course, one could only hope that the adoption went through, that all the effort involved was not wasted.

He let the thought drift away. The old hope they'd had was gone now, but life with Kara was good. They had moved on. They were content now…content with the way things were.

*****

Craig eased his pickup into the lot at Grover's Grove. The place wasn't busy; only a few parking spaces were occupied. He passed through the storefront and out the back, where potted flowers lined his path until they gave way to a hundred varieties of roses, followed by a wide assortment of shrubs. He continued on past the shrubs to trees stationed like pillars in long rows, their roots bound in burlap and tucked into beds of soft mulch.

He sought birches, and they were easy to locate; their white bark gave them away. Angling down their row, he examined each specimen, gauging their ages and vigor, assessing the arrangement of their limbs for both aesthetic value and strength.

A nursery worker approached from the other end of the row—a woman in her mid-thirties, slender and strong, auburn hair tied back in a ponytail, maneuvering an eight-foot-tall maple in his direction. Facing the row behind Craig, she settled her tree in an open slot among the other maples and kicked some mulch around the balled-up roots.

Can I help you find something? she asked, inspecting the maple briefly before looking over her shoulder at Craig.

Craig motioned toward the trees he was examining. I need a birch. Which one would you recommend?

She moved to stand beside him shoulder to shoulder—rather close, actually. Where are you going to put it?

We're landscaping around a restaurant. Plenty of vertical space, needs a tree without too much canopy spread… She didn't move away. Her shoulder actually bumped his for a moment.

I'd say this one might work well for you, then, she said, indicating the tree he had been studying. It has all the basics. A good, strong trunk; thin is flimsy—you want firm, strong, round.

She was facing the tree as she spoke the words, but Craig caught her peeking out the corner of her eye at his chest and torso. He cocked an eyebrow at her.

And then, she continued, it needs to have sturdy limbs… She ran two fingers along one of the lower, thicker branches, but her eyes were back on him, measuring his biceps. Good leafage is important, too, she said. She fingered a leaf, but spied his hair as it shifted lightly in the breeze. Of course, that depends on the season. Eventually, the leaves fall out—er, off.

Craig frowned; his hair hadn't thinned that much, not yet.

And never ignore the roots. If you and your tree are going to be spending a long time together, you want to make sure he has plenty of stability.

"You mean, 'make sure it has stability'... He raised both eyebrows at her too-innocent expression, then turned his attention back to the tree. So this one has it all, huh? I guess I'll take it. If you could just carry it to my pickup for me…"

She backhanded him in the gut, making him grunt. Carry it yourself, bozo! I give advice. I don't carry trees for big, strong men who can do it themselves. She spoke with a grin that was downright flirtatious. What else are you looking for?

Uh, a blue spruce. But I didn't see any as I came in.

They're back that way, she told him, nodding behind him. You walked right past them. I'll give you a hint—they're blue.

He returned her sarcastic smile.

What else?

Vine leaf maple? Four of them?

We can do that.

Will you pick out the best ones for me?

She thrust fists onto her hips. If you can't do it yourself.

He chuckled. And if you could carry that blue spruce to the pickup, too…

She scowled at him. You're trying to get hit again, aren't you?

I just like it when you touch me.

You're a scoundrel. What would your wife do if she could see you now, flirting with some woman from the nursery?

Craig turned to face the worker directly. She was still very close to him. She would murder me. She's terribly mean, my wife. Violent, even. Hit me just today.

Did she now? I bet you deserved it. The woman placed one hand and then the other around Craig's waist, her hazel eyes peering into his brown ones as she pulled him close.

A motorized cart rattled by at the near end of the row, towing a wagon filled with flowering shrubs. The aged driver, hands gnarled like old tree knots, yelled down the row at them in a gravelly voice as he drove by. No kissing the customers, Kara! We're not that kind of establishment!

In his view, Kara kissed Craig anyway. It brought a grin from both Craig and the old fellow as the cart and wagon rolled away.

Did you get Ben's message? she asked.

Craig stepped back and lifted the birch they had selected. I did. We dropped by the house a few minutes ago and got him some tools.

They turned and walked together to the end of the row, the tree in tow. "You are a scoundrel, you know, distracting me from my work like this."

You like it when I distract you, he quipped in reply.

She rolled her eyes playfully and trotted ahead to the blue spruces a few rows away while he took the birch to his pickup. By the time Craig returned, she had picked one out for him. You find the vine leaf maples, I'll go ring up the order, she said. And I'm not carrying them to the pickup for you, you scoundrel. With that, she turned and made her way back to the storefront.

Put it on the business account! Craig called after her.

I know! she called back.

Craig shook his head. She was so attractive when she was playful. Something came alive in her eyes so that they laughed at him. He gripped the blue spruce and carried it out to the Mazda.

A few trips later, the pickup bed now stocked with a foursome of vine leaf maples alongside the trees, Craig returned to the storefront. From behind the counter, Kara handed him an invoice. So, you want to get together for dinner tonight? she asked.

Sure, he replied. My place or yours?

Whichever. What time is the game?

Seven.

Okay. I'll have dinner ready by 5:30, then.

I'll be there.

They exchanged a quick, parting kiss, and Craig headed for the storefront's open double doors. The aged man from the cart walked in past him just in time to growl at Kara, If you keep kissing the customers, we'll get mobbed with people wanting equal treatment, and they'll trample my plants!

"If she quits kissing this customer, Grover, I'm finding another place to shop!" Craig returned over his shoulder as he strode out into the cloud-filtered sunlight.

Oh, yeah? the old man bellowed behind him. "When I was your age, customers came to the nursery to buy plants!"

With glance back and a chuckle at Grover's good-natured scoff, Craig continued on to the pickup, climbed in, and drove away.

*****

Kara watched fondly as her husband left the shop. Then she turned to a slight Hispanic woman who was helping her three children set armfuls of pansies and marigolds on the counter.

What are you going to do with all of these beauties? Kara asked the kids as she rang up the pansies.

The youngest, maybe three years old, responded first. We're planting a flower bread!

Bed, the oldest, a girl of perhaps nine, corrected her. We're planting them by our apartment.

That sounds like fun, Kara encouraged.

This one's mine, said the three-year-old, pointing a finger at a blue pansy.

And the orange ones are mine, chimed in the boy, probably five. He pointed to the half-dozen marigolds.

"All of them?" Kara asked.

Yep! he answered with enthusiasm.

You have an eager group of gardeners, Kara commended the mother.

She wrinkled her nose. They're replacing the flowers they trampled yesterday. She looked as though they had discussed this situation at some length. And from now on, chasing each other is not allowed in the front. Only out back.

The older two children had the dignity to look ashamed, but the younger merely watched with interest as Kara rang up the total. The older girl offered Kara some cash; apparently the children were paying for their misdeeds, literally. Handing back the change, Kara admonished, No more stepping on the flowers, now. Take good care of these little guys—she handed the plants back to the kids in turn—and they'll bloom all summer.

Kara gazed after them as the mother herded her group outside. It didn't ache to be around children anymore, not like it had for a few years. It was pleasant now.

Even so, there was something distantly sad there—a regret, perhaps. It would have been nice to have given Craig a child or two. And of course, there was Tiffany—Tiffy, Craig had called her. What a shame. Craig would have been an excellent father, stern but fair. And after being reluctant at first, he had grown so eager.

But a different path had been ordained for them, and it was okay. Not her first choice, nor entirely devoid of sadness, but okay. As the mother with her three children disappeared from view, Kara sighed and returned to her work.

*****

6050 Spindler Avenue… The boy in the orange shirt fiddled with his pencil, staring absently at the assignment on the desk before him. Left, then left again… Fleming Craig and Kara…

The final bell sounded, and his classmates gathered up their backpacks on cue. The boy collected his as well, scooped up his assignment paper, and joined the queue to the teacher's desk. It dissipated quickly; within seconds he stood before Ms. Faber, handing her his worksheet.

She frowned at it. Is this all you finished?

He shrugged meekly, still reciting the address in his head. 6050 Spindler Avenue…

You've been distracted all week, young man, Ms. Faber told him sternly, though not without compassion. What's bothering you? Do you want to talk about it?

She met his eyes, and he looked away. Sighing, she slid the worksheet back to him. Well, take this home with you and finish it tonight. Bring it back tomorrow. And bring your concentration, too.

He nodded without really hearing, slipped the paper into his backpack, and hurried out of the classroom into the throng flowing through the halls to the busses and cars waiting outside. Out of habit, he stopped on the sidewalk and scanned the traffic for his ride, then caught himself. It wouldn't be here, not today, not anymore. That was what he had been told. He looked anyway, just to be sure.

He was relieved—ecstatic—when his ride did not appear. Heart pounding, he launched himself down the street to the left, walking quickly. Left, then left again. It was raining, and he realized dimly that in his excitement that morning he had left his jacket at home. He didn't care. The rain on his shoulders and head felt wonderful, like freedom. Fleming Craig and Kara…

He ran down the street and turned left at the first intersection. He ran some more, checking the numbers on the houses—6032, 6036, on the other side of the street a 6041… 6046, 6048, 6052…

The boy came to a sudden halt and stared. There was no 6050! 6048 and 6052 were separated only by a chain-link fence, with no space for a 6050 between them. He gaped, trying to understand. Craig and Kara Fleming were real, the phonebook said so—they lived at 6050 Spindler Avenue… But there was no 6050!

Orange T-shirt now damp from the soft rain, the boy ran to the far end of the block. The numbers continued to increase. At the next intersection he discovered green street signs up on a pole, identifying 24th Avenue South and Clipper Street. He frowned at them. This wasn't Spindler Avenue!

He retraced his steps back to the corner where he had turned left. The signs there agreed that this was not Spindler Avenue. But he had followed the directions he had found in the phonebook! Left from the school, then left at the first street… He had been so careful. How could he have gone the wrong way?

Gathering determination in one deep breath, the boy dove deeper into the neighborhood, completely ignoring the rain. He had to find Craig and Kara Fleming. The magnitude of that goal filled him with hope and terrified him at the same time. What would they look like? Would they like him? Would they send him away?

Spindler Avenue had to be somewhere nearby—he must have read the map wrong somehow. He would check every street sign until he found the right road, and then he would find the house, and then he would find them…

Undaunted, he jogged from street to street, turning at random intervals, searching but not finding Spindler Avenue. After perhaps an hour he paused to rest against a light pole. The rain was harder now—it had drenched his clothes and was streaming down his hair into his face—but he paid it no heed. He studied the unfamiliar intersection at which he had stopped. He did not recognize it at all. He was thoroughly lost.

Even so, adrenaline coursed through him. He would press on until he located Spindler Avenue and found Craig and Kara Fleming. They were out here somewhere, at 6050 Spindler Avenue, somewhere in the city…

*****

An hour later, Craig held the blue spruce upright as Derek Hopper shoveled dirt into the hole around its roots, which were now loosened from their burlap bindings. He glanced at his watch—just after five o'clock, right on time.

Craig watched as the larger man, dark-skinned with dark hair and eyes, worked soil up to the top of the hole, stomped it down, and piled the excess up higher. As Derek finished, Craig released the tree and moved to gather their tools.

Another good day's work, Derek declared cheerfully as he tamped down the last of the dirt. And just in time, too. He peered up into the misty rain that had resumed moments ago. Doesn't look like you're going to get your game in tonight.

Hard to say, Craig replied, scanning the increasingly gray sky himself. We're on one of the fields you and I fixed up. It can take a little rain.

He received Derek's shovel and stowed it with his own in the trailer hitched to Derek's pickup. Derek followed behind Craig, pushing a wheelbarrow. That reminds me, he said as he lifted the wheelbarrow and set it in the trailer upside-down. Look what I saw on my way here this morning. He slid his phone from his pocket and pulled up a photograph. It showed a baseball field the two of them had improved earlier that spring. The infield looked healthy, its grass lush and well-trimmed. But the outfield—

Oh, that's just great! Craig exclaimed. Shallow trenches crisscrossed the outfield; streaks of mud showed where only green should have been.

Motorbikes, Derek said. Lots of tire tracks. A couple of kids out having a good time, probably.

With his hands on his hips, Craig frowned at the picture. We can level out the tracks, but that grass won't grow back properly for a while. I suppose we could reseed it, but there's really no point, since they have games on it every night.

Derek nodded sympathetically.

I guess I'll swing by there Saturday if the weather's good and see what I can do. Are you busy that morning?

Surprisingly, Derek—ever the optimist—sighed. Actually, I need to talk to you about that. He breathed deeply and looked around before continuing, as if hoping to spot reinforcements before engaging in battle. You know how, when we started this business, we said I'd be more the muscles, for obvious reasons—he patted one of his massive biceps—and the plant specialist, since I studied agriculture, and you'd be more the corporate brains, since you have the business degree and all, and—

Craig stopped him with a hand. You're rambling. What's bothering you, buddy?

Derek shifted uncomfortably. So, see, Shanice and I have been going around and around about this for two weeks…

Oh, no, Craig groaned. She doesn't want you to quit, does she?

What? No! Derek answered. No, she's a lot more supportive than when we started. Making enough to live on changed her mind. No, she likes us having our own business now, except…

Except what? Derek was nervous, and it was making Craig nervous, too.

"Except we're coming up to summer, and she's remembering last summer, and she doesn't want it to be like that…"

Like what?

She says I neglected her and the kids too much. I told her summer's when we make the most money because that's the only time it's not raining in Seattle, but she said—

Craig interrupted him. How many hours did you work last summer?

About sixty a week, according to her. Sometimes more. His expression looked as guilty as he sounded.

That's a lot of hours when you have a family, Craig observed. So she wants you to cut back?

Derek nodded. So I can be at home more for her and the kids. Head bowed, he glanced sheepishly up at the shorter man, tightly-curled hair beginning to catch drops of rain that sparkled in the cloud-dimmed light.

Craig laughed with relief. Wow, you were starting to scare me! Of course you need to be there with Shanice and your kids. That's great—they want you at home! You actually argued with her about that?

Derek added a grin to that sheepish look and shrugged. Not about wanting to be home. But it's going to drop our bottom line, you know?

Our bottom line is fine, Derek, has been for three years. We can cut back a little this summer, it won't hurt us any. I didn't realize you were spending that much time away from your family.

It's just that—see, you and Kara were really struggling to pay off all those bills, especially the medical bills from trying—

Wait a second, Craig interrupted again. You were doing all that extra work last year so Kara and I would have enough money?

Derek shrugged again, eyes still concerned. I didn't want to embarrass you and ask how you guys were doing. But you know—you weren't spending a lot, Kara was still working…

It turns out she loves the job, Craig said. I don't think I could make her stop. She loves to grow things. He clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder. But we're doing fine. The only debt we have now is the house, and we're ahead of schedule on that. He felt a measure of tension leave Derek's shoulder. We don't need the extra right now. At the worst, it'll be like winter—a little less income, but enough to get by on.

You're sure?

Hey, if you were in my shoes, wouldn't you tell me to go spend more time with my kids?

Without hesitation, Derek nodded. Yes, I would. He reached out and wrapped Craig in a bear hug, his six-foot-four football player bulk fully engulfing Craig's own slender but solid six-foot frame. Stepping back, Derek smiled, much more at ease.

Craig glanced at his watch again. Look, if Shanice wants you home earlier, you might as well impress her and start now. And forget Saturday—I'll take care of the ball field.

Okay. See you tomorrow. Derek turned toward his pickup.

And don't show up early! Craig watched Derek climb into his truck and drive away.

*****

It was 5:50. Kara loitered at the stove, swirling stir-fry around the wok with mild annoyance as she noted the time. Of the two of them, Craig was the less likely to be late. But late he was, and the rarity made her all the more impatient.

The vegetables were ready and had been for several minutes, so she reached back to the stand-alone counter in the center of the kitchen and fetched up a bowl of ham she had sliced into cubed strips. She tipped the bowl, sliding half of the ham into the wok, mixing it in with the vegetables.

Content with the mixing, she pulled a few odd ends of ham out of the remaining half, carried them to the door that led to the side yard, opened it—and looked curiously down at the knob. She hadn't unlocked the door; it had been left unlocked. That was strange.

Paws, smelling dinner cooking inside, was already at the door, wagging his tail hopefully. She offered him the bits she had brought, and he licked them up as she rubbed his head. It was still raining lightly; the patio was wet and the wind had picked up a little, chilling the air just a bit after a warm day. She stepped back inside and shut the door behind her.

The rest of the ham she covered and stowed in the refrigerator. Through the kitchen wall she heard Craig's pickup pull into the garage. It's about time, she thought, glancing toward the table. All was ready, which was good since he would need to leave again shortly.

Craig hurried through the door to the garage and immediately noted her scowl. I'm late, I know, he greeted her. He had been expecting the scowl—good for him. He had a hands-free cell phone, and he ought to have used it. Traffic on I-5 was even worse than usual. Twice I sat in one spot for five minutes without moving an inch.

And you didn't call?

The next exit was ours, he explained. I thought I'd be home in ten minutes.

And when you weren't?

He sighed. You're right, I should have called… Why are you grinning?

She found that she was. She hadn't been able to hold the scowl for long, not with what she knew that he didn't know yet. I'll show you in a minute.

Show me? What is it?

You'll see. She brought the steaming wok to the table and set it on a hot pad between sliced cheese, a bowl of fruit, and a pitcher of iced tea. Go wash up.

Eyebrows drawn in blended curiosity and suspicion, he ambled off to the bathroom. As soon as he was out of sight, Kara collected the day's mail, already opened, from the counter and stacked it beside his plate, careful to hide the last envelope beneath the others.

When Craig returned, hands and face freshly scrubbed so that the dirt patches they always carried after a day's work had vanished, they sat across from each other. I know what the secret is, he offered. Your mother called and said she won't be able to make it out to visit next month.

Kara took a bite of white cheese and spoke between chews. She did call, actually, but just to confirm that we won't be too busy for her to stay with us.

And you reminded her that summer's my busiest time, right? That I'll have to work at least eighty hours that week?

She laughed and took another bite of cheese. I told her you would be busy. I don't think she took me seriously, though. She just likes you, you know.

"That's because when I said 'I do,' she thought I was talking to her," Craig remarked. Kara grinned as he lifted more vegetables to his mouth.

He chewed for a moment. Derek told me today that Shanice wants him to cut back on his hours this summer. I guess he was away from home too much last year, and she wants him to spend more time with her and the kids.

I remember her complaining about how much he was gone.

But do you know why he was working so much? He thought we still needed the money.

So he was trying to bring in revenue…

…so we would have enough to get by, Craig finished. He poured himself a glass of the tea. I told him we're doing a lot better than we were. I think he was relieved.

Good. Oh, hey, she said, pointing through the kitchen, you left the side door unlocked when you and Ben came by earlier.

He turned and looked thoughtfully at the door. No, we didn't go out that way. We went straight to the guestroom and found the tools he needed, and then we left. We didn't go out to the shed.

Kara furrowed her brows. I remember locking it this morning before I went to work…

Speaking of Ben, though, Craig said, he brought it up again today…

Brought what up?

He wanted to know why we never adopted. He looked up from his plate.

Kara shook her head slowly. He feels guilty because he has kids. What did you tell him?

That we're not jealous. And that we just couldn't do it at the time, emotionally or financially.

Kara considered. Well, that's true. I couldn't even think about adopting then.

Neither of us could.

So did he want us to take one of the kids at the children's home?

He was hoping we'd be interested.

Are we? Kara asked.

Craig swallowed, though he'd had nothing in his mouth at that moment. He met her eyes, but still hesitated. He was thinking, calculating. If you want to, we could look into it, he began. But for myself…I'm all right as we are. Unconsciously, he scratched the tip of his nose with the end of his thumb. It's not like we don't have nieces and a nephew we can go see when we want to. Still absently, he set down his fork and picked it up again. What about you?

Kara gave him a small smile, a little regretful, but still genuine. I'm okay, she shrugged. His tone had been less sad than she might have expected; that was a good sign. And there are advantages to 'us' being just the two of us.

Like what?

She grinned mischievously. Like having you all to myself whenever I want. That happy thought reminded her—Hey, take a look at the mail.

What's in there?

You'll see.

He glanced through the envelopes. Bill…bill…another advertisement for satellite TV. Do they never give up?… A postcard from the nursery. Is that what you're so happy about? He flipped it over to scan the sale announcement on the back.

No, Grover sent that ad out to the whole neighborhood. Keep going.

The last envelope caught his eye. The Mariners? he asked with predictable surprise. Do they want us to buy season tickets or something?

Just look inside.

He pulled out the contents and dropped the envelope on the table, the logo—a baseball layered between a pair of offset compass roses—facing upward. He unfolded the letter and began to read.

From the Director of Public Relations? He lifted an eyebrow at Kara, then read aloud:

Dear Mr. Fleming:

The Seattle Mariners have recently learned of your several years of time, expense, and effort donated to improve local Little League baseball fields. In recognition of your hard work, and in conjunction with our salute to Little League baseball during the month of August, we would like to invite you, along with Mr. Derek Hopper, as co-owners of D & C Landscaping, to be our guests at our game on the evening of August 12. We also invite you both to throw out the honorary first pitches.

We will be contacting you and Mr. Hopper by phone in a few days to speak with you about this opportunity. We hope you and your families will be able to join us for that game.

M. Pecking, Director of Public Relations

Is this a joke? Craig looked with narrowed eyes at Kara over the letter. Did my dad send this?

She grinned back at him and shrugged.

He picked up the envelope again and touched the embossed logo gingerly. Then he held the envelope up to the light, assessing its authenticity. Huh…

Why don't you give Derek a call? Kara suggested.

Craig gazed at her with a vague, bemused expression. Right, I should. Leaving his dinner and taking the letter with him, he drew out his phone and hesitated. You talked with Shanice already, didn't you?

Kara laughed. She called a few minutes before you got home. That's why I opened it.

Craig dialed Derek's number. When Derek picked up on the other end, Craig wandered off into the hallway. From his tone, it sounded like Derek had found his matching letter, and the two men were as excited as fish discovering water for the first time.

Heart light, Kara turned back to her meal.

*****

The rain that evening was spotty—a light drizzle for a few minutes followed by a single minute's hard downpour and then a wet mist, if that, until the drizzle returned. Typical Seattle weather in the springtime, Kara thought as she dished out a bowlful of food for Paws on the patio. The sunlight seeping through the clouds was just beginning to fade.

After Craig had left for his Little League game, she had considered pulling weeds in the flower beds until dusk; but the soil was too muddy tonight. So instead she collected the half-dozen containers of miniature roses she had purchased from Grover a couple of weeks ago and left to grow on the patio. Small as they were, it was time for them to be repotted into larger containers. A few more weeks with a little more space for their roots to spread and they would be perfect, ready to give away.

She brought the roses inside and set them on the table, then braved the rain outside to collect the empty pots she needed and half a bag of potting soil from the shed. She had expected Craig to be home by now, considering all this precipitation, but the rain could be inconsistent like this some days—drenching you here, but dropping little or nothing just a couple of miles away.

Inside, she set her load next to the flowers on the table, careful not to soil Craig's letter. He had left it lying open there when he had departed for the game; after talking with Derek, he had handled it almost reverently. Unfortunately, it didn't say exactly when the ball club would call; Craig would hardly be able to focus on anything else until he heard from them. Kara moved the letter gingerly into the den and set it atop Craig's latest novel on the couch.

What a memory that's going to be, she thought, imagining the two guys' excitement when August 12 arrived.

The doorbell rang. Kara circled the long wall that separated the den from the front entryway and hall. She peeked out the entryway window as she reached for the doorknob. A police officer stood on the doorstep, hat and jacket glistening from the rain, black hair spilling neatly to her shoulders. She was not a large woman, but sturdy, her brown face no-nonsense without lacking compassion.

At her side stood a boy nearly as tall as the officer's shoulders, nervously biting his lower lip. His plain, orange T-shirt was soaked through at the top and down to his chest. Rain dripped from his disheveled hair and striped his cheeks.

Kara opened the door.

The boy looked up with wide, earnest eyes as she came into view. Hi, Mom! he said.

Chapter 2

Kara was taken aback. Sorry—what did you say?

The police officer spoke. Officer Garrenton, Seattle Police. Are you Kara Fleming?

Yes, she replied.

Her hand on his wet shoulder, Officer Garrenton steered the boy to stand between them. "This charming young fellow has been wandering Seattle in the rain, trying to find his way home. I found him nearly all the way to the Pacific Medical Center. Actually, he found me. Hopefully he didn't get my upholstery too wet." She grinned fondly down at the boy.

Kara offered a smile of her own, an apologetic one. I'm sorry, officer. You must have the wrong house. We don't have any children.

Officer Garrenton gave a single, understanding nod. If one of my boys, when they were his age, had gone wandering off, gotten all soaked, and had to catch a ride home in a police cruiser, I wouldn't claim him, either.

Really, though, Kara maintained, I don't even recognize him. That might not have been entirely true. There was something about him…but not enough to place him.

Well, that's the hair, ma'am, the officer remarked playfully. He's been out in the weather a long time this afternoon. But a little work with a blow dryer and a comb and you'll have the fine-lookin' young man in that picture over there back as good as new. She pointed behind Kara.

Kara turned—and gasped. The face of the boy at the door smiled back at her from a photo tucked for years among several shots of her husband in his youth, all arranged on the rectangular entryway table opposite pictures of herself. Here, fishing with his father; there, receiving his high school diploma. And this one—Little League, age ten or eleven, posing with bat in hand, face framed between a light blue jersey sponsored by Ted's Pool Supplies and a light blue cap to match, photo framed in a gold-edged oval.

She spun back to the boy. It was uncanny, the resemblance. The dimple on his right cheek. Straight hair in a simple cut, slightly wavy at the ends, mussed from the rain. The same brown eyes—no, the boy's eyes were the same, but blue. Even so, Officer Garrenton was right: dry him off, comb his hair, maybe trim it a little, put a light blue hat on him…

What an odd coincidence.

The wind gusted and a little rain dodged the overhang to sprinkle the two guests in the doorway. Kara breathed, suddenly aware that she had stopped, and looked back at the officer. Would you come in, out of the rain?

Just for a moment, thank you, the officer replied. She followed the boy inside, and Kara closed the door behind them. The officer regarded the picture again. Yep, just look at that dimple! She laughed and patted the boy's shoulder.

Kara stared at the picture once more. Incredible, the resemblance…

Officer Garrenton went on. He did the smart thing—he asked for directions to get back home. I thought I'd better bring him myself, with it getting dark and him being so far away. I'm sorry I didn't have anything to dry him off with; he's dripping all over your floor. She was still smiling, but now her eyes awaited a reply that would indicate—well, probably gratitude.

Kara bit her lower lip. I just can't, I'm sorry—

I'll get a towel, the boy said suddenly, and he walked right around Kara, cut into the hall, and turned sharply left into the bathroom.

Er, excuse me? Kara called after him, but the boy was already back in the hall. He held a beige towel in both hands and began to dry his face, then stooped to dry the floor.

Officer Garrenton spoke to the boy. Zach, before you go running off, isn't there something you should say to your mother? She didn't sound angry, just a mom of boys who knew when enough silliness was enough.

Oh. Sorry, Mom, he intoned, now wiping the rain off his arms. I meant to be here sooner. I guess I went down the wrong street and—he paused to wipe his face off again, though to no avail; his hair was still dripping—and then I didn't know where I was. He raised his eyebrows in a penitent look. His shirt was still dripping water lightly onto the floor.

Kara's heart slammed against her ribs. This was a simple mix-up—so why the jolt of nerves all of a sudden? If only that penitent look didn't remind her so much of Craig's when he had done something fun on the sly, like going golfing with Derek when he ought to have been working. This boy, feigning apology, was delighted to be here.

Officer, she choked out, I—honestly, I've never had a son. Or a daughter, for that matter. But if I did—a boy, I mean— Something clicked and brought Officer Garrenton's words into focus. "Did you say his name is Zach?"

Crinkling her eyebrows just a bit, Officer Garrenton reached into her jacket pocket and brought out a school ID tag on a pale orange lanyard with Zach's photo printed at the top of it. He was wearing this. He must have gone roaming straight out of school. We thought you'd be nearly panicked by now, but you seem to be taking it well. A smug smile appeared as she glanced back down at Zach; she seemed to have mistaken Kara's look of confusion for worry. I looked up the address he gave me, and sure enough—residence of Craig and Kara Fleming.

Kara spoke—Yes, that's me…us…—but without hearing herself. Her eyes and mind had locked onto the ID tag:

ZECHARIAH FLEMING

BRIAR POINT ELEMENTARY

FOURTH GRADE — MS. FABER, ROOM 14

She gaped at the photo on the tag: it was the same boy as in the old baseball portrait, except with blue eyes to match the boy standing before her. The child in the school photo was dressed in a faded gray T-shirt, hair dry and relatively straight. And the name: