30 Days

By Steve Adams

A cell phone and a red light strip away the protective framework of Lauren Alexander's life. Knowing she was adopted while her parents still lived was one thing. With them gone, only one man knows the answers to all of the questions in her head""tabloid prince and major league pitcher Jack Mallory. Can the faith of a fifteen-year-old girl dealing with her own grief challenge the demons of her biological father's past to get the answers she wants? Can Jack see Lauren as more than the ghost of her dead mother?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 18, 2019
• ISBN: 9781644583081

Book preview

cover.jpg

30 Days

Dr. Steve Adams

Copyright © 2018 by Dr. Steve Adams

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Day 1

Day 2

Day 3

Day 4

Day 5

Day 6

Day 7

Day 8

Day 9

Day 10

Day 11

Day 12

Day 13

Day 14

Day 15

Day 16

Day 17

Day 18

Day 19

Day 20

Day 21

Day 22

Day 23

Day 24

Day 25

Day 26

Day 27

Day 28

Day 29

Day 30

Red Light

There is no grief like the grief that does not speak.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Dr. Nicholas Alexander wearily lifted his wife’s suitcase into the trunk of their Camry and closed the lid. An amused smile hovered around the edges of her mouth. He shook his head and softly chuckled.

I think your suitcase gained more weight on that cruise than I did, he muttered.

Beth Alexander affectionately patted the few pounds of extra padding around her husband’s middle.

More of you to love, she said. Let’s go get our girl.

He opened the car door. Beth, it’s after nine. Wouldn’t it be easier to pick her up in the morning?

Beth showed her phone to him. The message from their fifteen-year-old daughter was clear. Miss my bed! the fifty-year-old seminary professor grunted and closed the car door, walking around to the other side. He winced as he settled behind the wheel. The flight from Honolulu to Atlanta to Louisville, Kentucky, added up to twelve hours of sitting in a chair. Even the first-class seats they splurged for could not alter that fact. He guided his car onto the Watterson Expressway. He glanced over at his wife. Joy filled his heart as he thanked God for her. He promised her that he would take her to Hawaii when they were married. He needed twenty-five years to fulfill that promise, but he did.

So did Hawaii meet your expectations? he asked.

She placed her left hand over his right. You have always surpassed my expectations, she answered tenderly.

They rode in companionable silence—the professor and the first-grade teacher—until they headed west on I-64.

Nicholas, did we do the right thing in telling her? Beth inquired, revisiting a thorny issue.

He sighed. Baby, please don’t do this, he said. We talked about it for a year. We waited until she turned fifteen like we agreed. We spoke with several counselors on how to tell her. The car slowed on the exit ramp for Cannons Lane. Lauren accepts the fact that she’s adopted. She thanked us for telling her.

The car stopped at the red light.

You’re right, she surrendered. I’m tired and being silly.

*****

Jordan Matthews raced up Cannons Lane, having just got off work. The dashboard clock told him he had enough time to shower and change before the party. His phone rang. He glanced down to see his girlfriend’s picture on the screen. He never saw the light change.

Kentucky Highway Patrolman Dennis Lucero arrived at the accident scene first. His experienced eyes quickly went to work. The Ford Explorer struck the sedan on the driver-side door at high speed—a textbook T-bone impact. The height and speed of the SUV flipped the car over until it struck a light pole, caving in the roof of the vehicle. He radioed for emergency response vehicles while running to the SUV. He reached through the shattered window, feeling for a pulse and finding one. He moved to the battered car but slowed as he rounded the rear of the vehicle. The impact with light pole collapsed the roof over the front seat. The collision drove the driver-side door almost two feet into the vehicle. He checked the integrity of the fuel tank before crawling through the rear window. He wiggled his hand through the gap between the bucket seats. He found their hands clasped together, but nothing else.

Other officers arrived on the scene as he extricated himself from the car. A Louisville police officer glanced at him. Dennis sadly shook his head. They gradually brought order out of chaos. Paramedics loaded Jordan Matthews into an ambulance. A tow truck moved the SUV out of the intersection. Firefighters worked to retrieve the bodies from the car. Dennis overheard one of his colleagues relay information to the dispatcher.

The car is registered to Bethany Alexander, she said.

Dennis sprinted to the car, hoping he was wrong. The Christian Academy of Louisville parking decal on the back bumper confirmed his fear. Mrs. Alexander is dead. The woman who had left an indelible impression on his childhood and had taught his daughter Maria the previous year was no longer part of this world.

*****

Sarah Goodman paced in her kitchen, glancing at the clock and checking her phone every few minutes. Her repeated tries to contact her best friend, Beth Alexander, went straight to voicemail. She walked into the living room of their St. Matthews home. Beth’s daughter, Lauren, sat on the couch. Her suitcase and bathroom bag still sat in the foyer. Lauren stared blankly at the TV. Sarah could sense the fear rolling off the girl. She exchanged a concerned look with her daughter, Emily. A knock on the door startled all of them. Sarah’s husband, Sam, opened the door. His heart sank when he saw the two police officers.

Sam Goodman? He nodded. I’m Sergeant Dennis Lucero of the Kentucky Highway Patrol, and this is our chaplain, James Lacy. We understand Lauren Alexander is staying with you.

Sam nodded again and led them into the house. Lauren rose to her feet when the men entered. She slowly shook her head as they approached. Sam wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

Ms. Alexander, the chaplain began, we are deeply saddened—

No, please no, she shrieked, clinging to Sam.

To inform you that a car accident has claimed the life of your parents.

Sam held her, and his wife gathered their daughter into her arms. Lauren screamed out her denial long into the night.

*****

Time blurred into a miasma of condolences and visitors over the next few days. Lauren’s two uncles, her father’s brothers, arrived on consecutive days. Colin, a chef who ran his own restaurant in Chicago, flew in the day after the accident, followed by his older brother, Steven, who was in London on business. They offered what support they could. Steven was only recently married and lived in New York City. Colin and his wife, Constantia, had two sons, thirteen and ten. Her mother’s family had never been a factor in her life.

Lauren stayed with the Goodmans through the funeral. She refused to go back into her house, forcing Sarah to make several trips for clothes. The funeral occurred five days after the accident. A large crowd filled Alumni Memorial Chapel at Southern Seminary, drawing on three separate but linked communities of faith—the seminary, Beth and Lauren’s colleagues and friends at CAL, and the Alexanders’ church. Lauren sat up front, flanked by her two uncles. The service was beautiful, celebrating the lives of her parents as reflections of the life of Jesus. Lauren barely heard a word. Her thoughts kept replaying the conversation she had with her parents the day after her fifteenth birthday. She remembered their solemn faces as they sat together around the kitchen table and her father’s attempt to lessen the tension. She shocked them when she laughed after being told she was adopted.

Mom, I figured out a while ago that you two weren’t my birth parents, she explained. Mom, your hair is almost red and curly, and Daddy was a blonde when he was a kid. My hair is black and straight. Daddy, your eyes are brown and Mom’s are green. Mine are blue. I’m a lefty, and Mom is so painfully right-handed she would be an invalid if she ever hurt it. Plus, I don’t look like anyone in our family.

Nicholas and Beth shared an embarrassed look.

None of that means anything, she continued. We may not share genes, but we share everything that’s important. No child is more loved than me.

The three of them spent the next several hours talking about their efforts to have a child and the events leading to her adoption. Their discussion ended with a question that seemed part of a distant future at the time.

Would you like to know about your biological parents? Nicholas asked.

Lauren’s nose wrinkled. Maybe someday but not today.

Lauren, her uncles, and the Goodmans met with Anne Baldwin, the family’s attorney, the day after the funeral. The combined grief in the room delayed the proceedings, but they eventually moved through her parents’ will. As the sole beneficiary of the estate, Lauren discovered that she was a wealthy young woman as a result of the insurance payout, her mother’s retirement, and the investment portfolio managed by her Uncle Steven. Anne left the elephant in the room for last.

I know that no one wants to deal with this right now, but we have to address the issue of Lauren’s guardian, she stated. Nicholas and Beth’s will mentions a clear hierarchy beginning with family, but they didn’t mention anyone specifically.

After an awkward pause, a three-ring circus erupted as the Goodmans and each of her uncles made a passionate case for where Lauren should live. The wrangling between her loved ones penetrated her grief. For the first time since the accident, she felt something other than crushing sadness. Her hands crashed down on the conference room table.

Enough! she shouted. I’ve had it. You’re all talking about my future and not one of you thought to ask me. I’m fifteen. Mom and Daddy’s will says that I get to decide where I’m going to live and with whom. After all, it’s my life.

The five adults in the room shared a rather sheepish glance. Lauren gazed at the three options for a long moment.

Uncle Steven, I love you very much, but you and Aunt Kelsey have been married for less than a year, you’re constantly traveling, and I—

Have no desire to live in New York, he finished for her. He leaned over and hugged his niece. My brother did an amazing job of raising you.

Lauren turned to the Goodmans. I’m not saying no. Louisville is the only home I’ve ever known, and Emily is like a sister, but I need to get out of the city for a while—at least a few weeks—and let God speak before I even think about making this decision.

We understand, Sarah said, embracing her and trying not to cry. There’s no rush.

Colin Alexander rose to his feet and looked up at his niece. He was barely 5'6" with a wiry frame in spite being a chef. He loved Mexican food and stunned his family by moving to Mexico after finishing culinary school. He returned three years later married to a fiery Latina and opened his own restaurant in Chicago.

Come and stay as long as you need, he said, holding her hands. Connie needs a shopping buddy, and I need somebody to beat the boys on the PS4.

Anne cleared her throat. There’s one small hitch in your plan. Lauren’s birth mother signed away her parental rights before she died, but her biological father didn’t. She handed Lauren a sheet of paper. By law, he must be found and notified of Lauren’s existence and determine if he is in fact her birth father.

Lauren scanned down the page until she found the box marked Father’s Name.

Why does the name Jackson Mallory sound familiar?

You’ve got to be kidding me, Steven muttered.

Smoke

No one heals by wounding another.

—Ambrose of Milan

Jackson Mallory deftly guided Smoke, his ’70 Hatteras yacht, through Naples Bay toward the marina. Three of his former teammates—Paul Duncan, Eduardo Espinosa, and Dwight Faulkner— stood with him on the flying bridge. The four of them had spent the last five days fishing, snorkeling, and carousing in the Keys.

How’s the elbow, Jack? Paul asked.

Rehab’s coming along according to the schedule, he answered. It still stiffens up on me occasionally, but I should be back on the bump for the Braves after the All-Star break next year.

He glanced down at the scar on his throwing elbow, a reminder of the Tommy John surgery he underwent in April—the first major injury in his fifteen-year career.

Isn’t that a little optimistic? Eduardo observed.

Doctors think it might be sooner.

What are the Braves saying? Dwight asked.

My contract’s insured, but other than me doing my rehab down here, nothing. Without me, they’re looking up at the Mets and the Nationals. Plus, my contract runs through ’17.

Jack grinned and drained his beer as they neared the dock. He eased the luxury yacht alongside the wharf with practiced skill. Two of the marina workers tied off the vessel. The four men went below and gathered their bags. They chatted amiably as they headed for the parking lot.

Who’s going to be in town for the Fourth? Jack asked.

Haley and I will be, Paul answered.

Sylvia and I are going to anchor in the Gulf and watch—

Hello, legs! Dwight marveled.

The other three looked toward the parking lot. A long-legged young woman in a provocative bikini and high heels strolled toward them.

I thought you found Jesus, Dwight, Paul teased.

Actually, He found me. That doesn’t mean I can’t admire His handiwork.

I wonder if Camille shares that perspective, Jack speculated aloud.

The woman stopped about five feet in front of them, coyly biting her lower lip with her hands behind her back. She lifted her sunglasses to the top of her head.

You guys are former ballplayers, huh? she asked vapidly.

All except Smoke here, Paul corrected her.

She giggled. So you’re Jackson Mallory.

Guilty as charged, he admitted.

She took a step closer. Then this belongs to you, she announced in a no-nonsense tone, handing him an envelope. You’ve been served.

She turned on her heel and strutted back to the parking lot to the howls of laughter from Jack’s friends. He opened the packet and scanned its contents. Paternity test… fifteen-year-old daughter… what the. His phone exploded the moment he turned it on. Text messages from his lawyer, agent, and publicist accompanied voicemail from the same people in triplicate.

Fellas, there’s something I need to take care of, he said. Paul, we still on for the Fourth?

He nodded. Smoke, you okay?

I’ll let you know.

He briskly walked to his Range Rover, climbed in, started it, and triggered the speed dial for his lawyer—Jacob Aaronson.

*****

Where have you been? Jacob demanded.

We just got off my boat when this bikini-clad fembot gave me the paper, Jack retorted. Is this legit?

As legit as the bill I send you for my services. Jacob paused. Jack, could it be true?

I don’t know. Do you remember every girl you slept with sixteen years ago?

Yes, it’s a short list—one, my wife, Leah.

What about when you were eighteen?

Same list.

Jake, what do I do?

Short answer, go to the nearest Quest Diagnostic Lab and comply with the subpoena. The lawyer hesitated. Jackson, on the lives of my grandchildren, could you be this girl’s father?

Maybe, he conceded helplessly. I don’t know.

Think. Where were you sixteen years ago?

Jack’s head fell into his hand. It can’t be.

He heeded his lawyer’s advice and stopped at the lab. The mouth swab took ten whole seconds. He snagged some Chinese take-out on his way home, mindlessly eating the food. He stood under the hot water of his rainfall showerhead, sipping three fingers of his twenty-five-year-old Bowmore scotch. He ended the day in the dark, in a chair, listening to the endless drone of the Gulf of Mexico from the upper deck of his beachfront home. Sixteen-year-old memories trapped his thoughts in an endless loop that no amount of scotch could break.

*****

A week later, Jack sat in the great room with his brain trust—his lawyer, Jake, publicist, Miranda Teagarden, and agent, Mitchell Holloway. The trio gazed impatiently at the letter in their client’s hand that had just arrived by messenger.

Are you going to open the stupid thing or what? Miranda demanded in exasperation.

Jack, there are only two possible outcomes, Mitchell added dryly.

Remind me again why I pay you for this abuse, he retorted, ripping open the letter.

He slumped down in his chair and handed the results to Jake. The aging attorney passed it to Miranda, not needing to confirm what his client’s body language fairly shouted.

Her name was Kate Devereaux, Jack said quietly. The Twins drafted me out of high school and assigned me to the Fort Myers Miracle. We met, had a summer romance. I was called up in September, and we lost touch. End of story.

Jack, I’m going to ask this once, Jake stated in his courtroom voice. Did you know about her pregnancy?

He glared at the older man. No, he said flatly.

What is the strategy moving forward? Mitchell asked.

Can I sign something and give up any claim to this girl?

That’s a bad idea, Miranda countered. This girl just lost her family. When the media gets wind of this, and they will, you will be the self-absorbed athlete who abandoned his daughter not once but twice. Your picture will be back on TMZ again as they dredge up all of your past indiscretions. With the current climate toward athletes on women’s issues, I’m not sure I can spin this in a good way.

She’s right, Jack, Mitchell noted. Your antics have sabotaged more than one potential endorsement deal. You’re an aging athlete facing the end of his career. You need to think about life after baseball.

Jack grunted. The Braves are still on the hook through 2017.

Unless they void the remaining years on a morals violation. Abandoning your recently orphaned child is fairly reprehensible, Jake reflected.

I assume all of this is leading somewhere, Jack surmised.

*****

Lauren sat between her aunt and uncle on the couch in their three-bedroom apartment in Chicago. Anne Baldwin sat with them in a chair, and Steven joined them on Skype from New York. The DNA test results sat opened on the coffee table in front of them.

So this man is really Lauren’s papi? Constantia asked.

Let’s not romanticize this, Lauren grated. He was a gene donor at most. My father was Dr. Nicholas Alexander, not some overpaid narcissist.

Steven sighed, and the three adults in Chicago shared a concerned look. Lauren arrived in the Windy City with a positive outlook that steadily deteriorated into a sullen scowl in between sudden crying fits. Colin’s sons, Antonio and Ben, started avoiding her after day four. Colin and his wife had an extended conversation in Spanish after one particularly severe outburst. Their concern centered on the brittle nature of her behavior. Colin tracked down his brother after Lauren woke everyone screaming in the throes of a nightmare.

*****

You want me to do what? Jack shouted in disbelief.

Invite her to come down and spend some time with you, Miranda replied calmly. Take her out on the boat. Take her to the movies. You know how to show a girl a good time. The three men gave her the look. Okay, scratch that last part.

Ya think.

I’ll put together a list of safe outings. Show it to her and let her choose. I’ll arrange for some discrete leaks to a few friendly media outlets.

Jack walked to the sideboard and poured himself some more scotch. Let me get this straight, he said in a deceptively mild voice. You want me to use this little ‘father-daughter reunion’ to stage some photo ops to ‘enhance my marketability’ for potential endorsement opportunities?

Mitchell eyed the pair nervously. He’s using the quote fingers. Miranda better tread lightly.

No, I’m taking advantage of an opportunity to undo some of the stupid things you’ve done in the past, like the Cancun fiasco. Who knows Jack, you might actually connect with someone before you poison the relationship.

She grabbed her purse and stalked toward the door. Jack tossed down the drink and caught her momentarily, gripping both of her shoulders.

I’m sorry, Miranda, he uttered contritely. I don’t know why I do that but that doesn’t excuse it.

She turned around. Show her the guy in front of me right now and you’ll do fine.

A soft smile appeared on his tan face. Let me pour you a glass of wine then you can tell me the rest of your plan.

She sat back down, and he handed her a glass of Chardonnay.

How long is this visit scheduled to last? he asked with exaggerated civility.

She sipped her wine. A month.

Jack’s eyes widened. A month!

*****

Anne, what does this guy want? Steven asked.

He wants Lauren to visit him in Naples, Florida, she replied, bracing for their reaction.

He wants me to do what? Lauren shrieked.

He wants you to visit him, she repeated calmly.

For how long? Steven inquired.

A month, she said reasonably.

A month? Lauren shouted.

Colin and his wife stared at the attorney as if she had sprouted horns.

That seems a bit excessive, Colin surmised.

The ticket is open-ended, Anne said in a mollifying tone. Lauren, you can choose to come home at any time.

But still, a month of my summer, she pouted.

Honey, it’s your decision, Colin promised. But if you want to move forward with your life, you need to satisfy that curiosity I see lurking in your eyes. Go see him and find the answers to your questions.

What if he’s all of the awful things I read about on the Internet?

Then God will be closing that door. Just remember, people are rarely how they’re portrayed in the media.

*****

Miranda held up one finger to silence him before providing the rest of the details.

Do you have anything better to do? she asked.

What’s she like? Jack grumbled.

Miranda plugged a flash drive into the large monitor on the wall, narrating the various photographs taken up from a school website. The black-and-white photos teased his curiosity and long-forgotten memories.

Tell me what you want me to do, he surrendered.

Miranda fleshed out the plan in broad strokes. He nodded at some and cringed at others. Jake and Mitchell braced themselves for the explosion when she dropped the bomb at the end.

What do you mean ‘no sleepovers’? Jack demanded. Sylvia is coming back from New York soon. We haven’t been together in three weeks.

Have you not heard a word I said? she reacted. Her father was a seminary professor. She has attended the same private Christian school, where her mother taught, since kindergarten. Try thinking about what she’s going through right now instead of yourself for a change.

He walked to the bar and poured another drink.

That brings up one more thing.

If you say no drinking, the deal’s off, he warned.

I’m not saying stop. I am saying absolutely, positively no getting drunk. If you do, I quit.

He refilled his glass. Then I guess I better tie one on now.

*****

I wonder what he’s really like, Lauren said.

Don’t trust the media for the whole picture, Colin stated. Look at me. Do I seem innovative and eccentric but wildly undisciplined?

Lauren snickered. Her uncle’s restaurant had no standing menu. Part of the allure of his establishment was its unpredictability. He put his arm around her shoulder and laughed with her.

Okay, so they got one right.

Lauren, this is your chance to find answers to the questions you must have, Anne observed.

The attorney’s comment revived an ache in her heart she had felt since the funeral. She wanted to feel that special connection again. A curiosity accompanied that desire. What were they like? How am I like them? Why did they give me up?

Okay, I’ll go.

*****

Then it’s settled, Jake concluded.

Everyone nodded their agreement. Miranda, Jake, and Mitchell walked toward the door.

One last thing, Miranda said. She’s an athlete, plays basketball and softball. Oh, she’s a pitcher and a lefty just like you. She’s pretty good from what I hear.

Day 1

July 15

In that book which is my memory, on the first page of the chapter that is the day when I first met you, Appears the words, Here begins a new life.

—Dante Alighieri, Vita Nuova

Jack stood outside the Delta concourse in the main terminal of the Fort Myers airport. He wore a sedate, plaid shirt, cargo shorts, an FGCU ball cap, nondescript sunglasses, and flip-flops to blend in with the crowd. The last thing he wanted was someone asking for an autograph. He checked the arrivals screen. The status of Lauren’s flight changed to Arrived. He breathed deeply and slowly, trying to relax. How did I ever let Miranda talk me into this? A small crowd approached him from the concourse. He held up a sign with her last name on it.

After a tearful goodbye with her uncle outside the security checkpoint at O’Hare airport, Lauren’s enthusiasm for the trip grew as she approached the gate, spiking again when she sat in the comfortable first-class seat. Her excitement waned over the next three hours as the airplane took her further from the familiar toward the unknown. Her hands trembled when the plane stopped at the gate in Florida. Fear dogged her steps as she neared the terminal. Every worst-case scenario she could imagine filled her mind with dread. Would it be rude if I went back tomorrow? She spotted a man holding a sign with her last name on it. He was taller than most people with a tan face and a well-trimmed goatee that hid behind a cap and sunglasses. He doesn’t look like a million-dollar athlete with his picture on the cover of magazines.

A businessman angled towards someone waiting for him, and Jack saw her. He muttered an oath under his breath, and his hand robotically pulled off his sunglasses. Images from the past, almost painfully intense, streaked across his consciousness—the long straight black hair, the vivid blue eyes, and the silhouette. She removed an earbud and flipped her hair. Jack doubled over and grabbed his shorts to stay upright.

Mr. Mallory? Lauren asked.

She gasped softly when he stood and saw tears pearling in his gray eyes. He wiped the moisture away with his thumbs, chuckling softly at his own reaction.

No, he husked, clearing his throat. Mr. Mallory was my dad. I’m just Jack, and you’re, he almost said Kate, Lauren.

She nodded, extending her hand toward him only to let it drop. Are you okay?

Other than having a ghost walk over my grave, yeah, I’m fine. Yes, let’s go get your bags.

The full power of the Florida summer sun filled the terminal with light, eliciting a squint from Lauren.

Didn’t you bring sunglasses? Jack inquired.

She winced. I knew I forgot something.

Wait right here. I’ll be right back.

He trotted over to a small boutique and returned a few minutes later with a plastic bag.

Here, he said, handing her the bag. I didn’t know what you might like so I bought a variety pack.

Lauren’s eyes grew big as she glanced in the back. She counted four pairs of high-end sunglasses. She recognized the Oakley and Ray-Ban names, but Dolce and Gabanna was new to her. She opened the case. Her nose wrinkled at the leopard print design, closing the case quickly. She tugged opened one of the Oakleys to find an exotic looking pair with white frames and purple lenses. Her eyebrow cocked upward as she held them up.

What are these for?

He grinned. I own a boat, and I thought you might like to go out on the water while you’re here.

A smile flirted with the edges of her mouth. She put themback in the bag and opened the other Oakley case. The gold wireframes occasioned an indecisive eyebrow twitch. Jack watched her reactions, keeping score. I am 1-1-1. The Radarlocks were a win. I should’ve gone with the silver frames with her dark hair. Lauren removed the classic Wayfarers from the case. Her nose scrunched up, and Jack inwardly groaned. Her lips twitched, and a smile fought its way onto her face.

I’ve always wanted a pair of these, she said softly.