Ryan's Place - By Sherryl Woods Page 0,22

gave the woman’s hand a pat, then left her to join Ryan.

“What’s the problem?” Ryan asked.

“That poor woman is beside herself, and who could blame her?” the priest said. “A few weeks ago the doctors told her that her son has a congenital heart problem that requires surgery. He also mentioned that it’s probably something he inherited from his father. Apparently, the news was so distressful for the father that he quit his job and took off, leaving them with no income and no insurance.”

Ryan felt his gut tighten with knee-jerk anger at a man who would do that to his family. He pushed the reaction aside to deal with the real crisis. “I suppose you want money for the surgery,” he said. “I’ll make the arrangements tomorrow. You could have told me about it tonight at the pub. Why bring me over here?”

“Because that boy needs his father,” the priest said. “He can’t go into such a risky surgery believing that his own father doesn’t care about him. Though you never faced a major illness, I’m sure you can relate to how he must be feeling.”

Unfortunately, Ryan could relate to it all too well. “You can’t expect me to find his father.”

“I do.” Father Francis regarded him with a steady look. “I think your own experience will motivate you to help. And if finding his father can’t be accomplished in a matter of days, then I want you to step in and be his friend.”

Ryan had no difficulty offering financial assistance, even in hiring a private detective to conduct a search, but involving himself emotionally in the boy’s situation was out of the question. “What’s wrong with you being his friend?” he asked testily.

“I’m a priest, and I’m an old man. It wouldn’t be the same,” Father Francis insisted. “Come. Meet the boy and his mother. You’ll need to talk to them to get the information you’ll need for the search.”

“You’re assuming I’ll go along with this,” Ryan grumbled.

“Well, of course you will,” Father Francis said without a trace of doubt. “That’s the kind of man you are. You put aside your own feelings to do what’s needed for someone else.”

Ryan was growing weary of living up to such high expectations, but he dutifully followed the priest. The woman watched their approach with a wary expression.

“Letitia Monroe, this is Ryan Devaney. He’s here to help.” Father Francis patted the boy’s hand. “And this is Lamar.”

Ryan nodded at the mother and shook the child’s icy hand. “Nice to meet you, Lamar. You, too, Mrs. Monroe.”

“You can help us find my husband?” she asked, her cheeks still damp with tears.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Ryan promised. “I have some friends who are pretty good at finding people who are missing.”

She looked alarmed at his words. “Not the police,” she said urgently.

“No, not the police,” he reassured her. He hunkered down so he could look Lamar in the eyes. “You a Celtics fan?”

The boy’s eyes lit up. “They’re the greatest,” he said, his voice weak.

Ryan had to steel himself not to feel anything, not pity, not anger. “Well, once you’ve had your surgery, we’ll see about getting you tickets to a game. Would you like that?”

“Really?” Lamar whispered.

“That’s a promise. Now let me talk to your mom for a minute. Father Francis will keep you company. Just don’t play checkers with him,” he warned, then confided, “he cheats.”

“What a thing to say about your priest,” Father Francis scolded, but there was a twinkle in his eyes.

Ryan spent a few minutes with Mrs. Monroe, trying to garner enough facts to pass along to a private investigator who visited the pub most evenings on his way home.

“Do you really think you can find him?” Mrs. Monroe asked. “It will mean the world to Lamar to have his daddy at his side when he has this surgery.”

“And to you, I imagine,” Ryan suggested.

“Me?” she scoffed. “I don’t care if I ever set eyes on his sorry behind again. What kind of man runs out on his family at the first sign of trouble?”

Ryan couldn’t think of any acceptable excuse for it, either, but he tried. “Father Francis said Lamar’s condition could be hereditary. Perhaps your husband simply feels guilty.”

She seemed startled by the suggestion. “You think that’s it?”

“I don’t know your husband, Mrs. Monroe. You do. But if it were me, I’d be struggling with a lot of emotions about now. Maybe you should wait till you talk to him before you give up