The Red Gloves Collection (41 page)

Even on the most dangerous mission of all.

A
t eleven o’clock that night in Nashville, Tennessee, an evening janitor made his way into the studio of the nation’s biggest country western music television station and began cleaning around a bank of computers. The room was empty except for a few producers working on feature pieces.

As was his routine every night, he sprayed a fine mist of industrial cleaner on the desktop around the computers and rubbed away the day’s grime and germs. The producers and staff assistants at the station knew to keep loose notes and scrap papers in their desk drawers and normally he could clean around whatever stacks of information or files or documents might be shoved up against the computer screens.

But this night—as was the case on occasion—when the janitor rubbed his rag across the desktop, a single piece of notepaper drifted to the floor. The janitor stopped, straightened, and pressed his fist into the small of his back. He’d been cleaning offices for twenty-two years. His body was feeling the effects.

He set the rag down, bent over, picked up the piece of notepaper, and stared at it. The words were scribbled and hard to read. Something about Mike Meade and surfing and someone named Hannah. A phone number was written across the bottom. The janitor studied it a moment longer and turned back to the row of computer stations.

Where had the paper fallen from? Had it been near the computer on the end, or the one in from that? Or possibly the computer four stations down? The janitor shrugged, opened the desk drawer closest to him, and tossed the paper inside.

Someone would find it eventually.

CHAPTER SEVEN

C
arol Roberts boarded a plane bound for Washington, D.C., late Tuesday night, December 13. Her frustration was at an all-time high. She hadn’t wanted to come home during the holiday season, but now she had no choice. Four days had passed since bedlam broke loose in the States, since the
Washington Post
ran an article under the headline, “Daughter of Former Senator Searches for Biological Father.”

The plane was crowded, but Carol barely noticed. From her seat in first class, she stared out the window, closed her eyes, and pressed her forehead against the cool glass. What was Hannah thinking? The letter hadn’t been for anyone’s eyes but hers. She was supposed to read it, take in the information, and squirrel it away somewhere. It was supposed to occupy her mind and make the holidays less lonely.

Since then the story had run in every major newspaper in the United States, including
USA Today.
None of the reporters were pointing fingers at Carol or Jack. Instead it had become a human interest story: “Will Ambassador’s Daughter Find Birth Father in Time for Christmas?” One paper wrote an emotional plea for the man to surface under the headline: “Hannah’s Hope—will Christmas Include a Visit from Her Father?”

The media circus had made its way to Sweden, doubling the calls that normally came from the U.S. to the embassy. Reporters wanted to know what was being done from the ambassador’s office to help find Mike Conner. And what was the reason Hannah was only finding out about him now? And how come Carol had left him when he joined the Army? And had he really joined the Army, since no record had been found indicating the truth in that?

Finally Jack had given her an order. “Get home and take care of this mess. We can’t afford the distraction.”

Carol clenched her fists. Jack was right, and that’s why she was on a plane headed for Washington, D.C. A dull ache pounded in her temples. If Hannah wanted help finding Mike Conner, why hadn’t she simply called? Carol might not have had all the answers, but she could’ve put Hannah in touch with someone who did. Instead the girl had shown the independence that had marked her recent years.

Calling Congressman McKenna? What fifteen-year-old did things like that? And granting an interview with the
Washington Post?
Carol repositioned herself, settling against the headrest. She kept her eyes closed. The next two weeks were supposed to be spent planning parties and receptions and dinners for dignitaries.

Since the news had broke, the conversations with Hannah had been short. The last one, two days earlier, was what finally convinced her to board the plane. She needed to get back to the States and cool things off. For everyone’s sake. Carol let the words play in her mind again …

“The
Washington Post?
How could you, Hannah?”

“You’re repeating yourself, Mother.”

“I’ll repeat myself as much as I like.” Carol had been pacing across the Italian stone floor in her spacious kitchen. “The
Washington Post?
Do you realize what you’ve done?”

“What, Mother? What have I done?” Hannah’s voice rang out, shrill and sincere. “You mean by telling the truth?” She exhaled hard and fast. “Well, maybe I’m not much of a liar. Can you imagine that? Maybe I think it’s better to be honest.”

“Your father is a very important man.” Carol hissed the words. “He doesn’t need our name plastered over every newspaper in the country.”

“My father is missing. Isn’t that the point?”

“Our family life is no one’s business but ours.” Carol heard the lack of compassion in her voice. “The world doesn’t need to know about Mike Conner.”

“Yes.” The fight left Hannah. “But
he
needs to know.” She made a sniffing sound. “Otherwise I’ll never find him.”

“What’s the rush, Hannah?” A calm came over Carol. She was angry at Hannah, but she hadn’t meant to make her daughter cry. “He’s been out of your life for more than a decade. Why do you have to find him now?”

“Because.” She coughed twice, her words thick. “Because I want to spend Christmas with him.”

That was when Carol knew she’d have to go home. Her plan had backfired. She had hoped the information about Mike would distract Hannah, keep her mind occupied so she wouldn’t be bored during the holidays. But she never should’ve said anything, never should’ve told her. Not until she was older. Because now the whole world knew about Mike Conner.

As the flight got underway, Carol tried to sleep, but all she could think about was a blond, blue-eyed surfer and whether right now, somewhere in the world, he knew that Hannah’s single hope was to find him before December 25. Like gathering storm clouds, other details about her time with Mike built along her heart’s horizon. She held them off while they crossed the Atlantic and as they landed at Dulles International Airport just before noon Wednesday. She kept them at bay on the limo ride to her house and even as she came through the front door and greeted her mother.

There was no need to talk about the subject. Obviously she’d come home to clear up the media disaster. Her mother only raised her brow and gave the slightest shake of her head. “Why did you tell her?”

Carol looked away. “She had to know sometime.”

“Yes, in person, maybe. When she would have been old enough to sort through the news.”

Carol’s anger bubbled closer to the surface. “Thank you, Mother. I’ll handle it from here.”

And that was all there was. After a few minutes, her mother returned to her room. Two hours later when she appeared downstairs again, she was stiff and distant, her chin tilted upward, eyes narrow. “Have you called Hannah?”

“Not yet.”

“Call her. I’ll have lunch for us in the dining room.”

Carol studied her mother, watched as she turned, back straight, and headed for the kitchen. When had things between them grown so shallow and cold? A functional ability to exist in the same room was all they had together, all they shared. But even as she pondered the lack of depth between her and her mother, a question slammed into her soul.

Was this how Hannah saw her? An imposing figure who visited a few times a year? Suddenly the cost of living overseas felt overwhelming. What had she missed with Hannah? Walks in the park and bedtime stories? Endless conversations about school and boys and maybe even Mike Conner? Certainly his place in her life would’ve come up sooner if she and Hannah lived together.

Carol dismissed the thoughts. She spun, walked down the hall and into their home office, and shut the double doors. Hannah’s cell phone would be off during school hours. She went to the phone and dialed the school’s number.

“Thomas Jefferson Prep, how can I help you?”

“This is Carol Roberts.” Carol leaned against the desk and felt the tension at the base of her neck. Maybe Hannah wouldn’t care if she was home; maybe she’d disregard her request and stay at school all afternoon. Carol summoned her strength. The clouds in her memory were about to break wide open. “I need to get a message to my daughter, Hannah. She’s a freshman.”

H
annah was in advanced placement history that afternoon sitting next to the jerky junior, the one with blond hair, when an office attendant came through the door and whispered something to the teacher. After a few seconds the teacher nodded his head and took a note from the attendant.

As the woman left, the teacher looked at Hannah. “Ms. Roberts, I have a note for you.”

A note? Hannah felt her back tense. Could it be from Mike Conner? Had he seen the story and found her at TJ Prep? Who else would be sending her a note in the mid-die of the school day? She gulped and straightened herself in her chair, her eyes on the paper in the teacher’s hand.

“Hey, Hannah.” The blond next to her leaned in. “Secret admirers in the office, too?” His tone was ripe with teasing. “So what’s wrong with me, Hannah? I could help you find your dad.”

“You—” She made a face at him, her voice louder than she intended. “—are pathetic. You couldn’t help me find my way out of the room.”

The teacher rapped his hand on the closest wall. “Classroom visitors,” his voice boomed across the room, “are no excuse for childish behavior.” He gave a sharp look at the junior and then at Hannah. “Miss Roberts, you will refrain from any further outbursts.”

Hannah’s hands trembled as she took the note from the teacher. She gave the blond one last glare. Everyone knew about her father now, but she didn’t care. He had to be out there somewhere, seeing the stories, watching the music video with her message. Any day now he was bound to get in touch with her.

She opened the paper slowly, like it was a bad report card. Her eyes skipped to the bottom of the wording, and what she read there made the blood drain from her face. What was this? The note wasn’t from her father at all. It was from her mother:
Darling … I’m at home waiting for you. Cancel your afternoon appointments. We need to talk. Mother.

Hannah stared at the words. She read them two more times, folded the note, and slipped it into her backpack. The jerky junior was staring at her, and she didn’t want to tip him off, didn’t want him to know that the note had upset her.

Her mother was home? All the way from Sweden? For a fraction of an instant, Hannah wanted to believe she’d come because of her request—that she be home for Christmas. After all, Buddy Bingo was praying every day for a Christmas miracle, so that Hannah could spend the holidays with her mom and dad.

But that wasn’t why her mother had come. Of course not. She’d come because of the newspaper stories, because her own reputation was on the line. Hannah quietly seethed. Her mother cared nothing about being together for the holidays, but when her own public image was threatened, she’d get on a plane practically without notice and fly all day if she had to.

Three hours later—after talking with her cheer coach and her dance instructor—Hannah walked out the doors of TJ Prep. She’d told Buddy Bingo about the change in plans. He’d be there by now.

But instead, as she headed down the brick-lined walkway toward the circular drive and parent pick-up area, she saw her mother’s sporty silver Jag. Hannah’s steps slowed. Her mother had come? Were they headed straight for the office of the
Washington Post?

She bit her lip and kept walking. Whatever her mother wanted from her, she wasn’t about to cooperate. Not until her mother helped her find her dad. Hannah reached the car, opened the door, and slid inside. Without looking at her mom she said, “Hello, Mother. Thank you for picking me up.” Formalities came first in the Roberts family. She set her backpack on the floor of the car and turned to meet her mother’s eyes. “Can I ask why you’re here?”

Her mother leaned back against the headrest, her gaze locked on Hannah’s. Something in her eyes was different, softer. Instead of rattling off a list of things they were going to accomplish, instead of slipping the car into gear and driving away without so much as a glance in Hannah’s direction, her mother gave her a sad sort of look.

“I’m here—” She reached out and touched Hannah’s shoulder. “—because I want to tell you about Mike Conner.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

W
ith every moment, every step, Carol could feel the years slipping away.

They went to a coffee shop, a dimly lit place tucked between the Yarn Barn and a Geoffrey Allen hair salon in an older section of Bethesda. At three-thirty in the afternoon they were the only customers. They ordered—a nonfat, sugar-free vanilla latte for Carol, a caramel macchiato for Hannah—and took their drinks to a booth at the back of the room.

The entire time, Carol watched Hannah with new eyes. A long time ago, she’d been just like her, hadn’t she? Independent, indifferent to the political importance of her parents, articulate beyond her years. Her father had been a congressman, and her mother had planned out Carol’s life long before she entered high school.

They sat across from each other and Carol stirred her drink. “Mike was everything I couldn’t have,” she said without explanation.

“Really?” Hannah’s eyes were wide. She looked nervous, expectant, like she was afraid to breathe for fear Carol would change her mind.

Carol sipped her coffee. Her eyes found a place at the center of her drink. “After high school I went to Pismo Beach with my best friend, Clara. Her aunt and uncle lived there.” Carol’s vision blurred and she could see Clara again, feel the excitement of getting away from Washington, D.C., going somewhere as foreign and exotic as California. She looked up at Hannah. “I met Mike on the beach the second day of summer.”