Fireside by Susan Wiggs Page B

trying to figure out what’s going on down there.”
    Sophie had warned him the situation might get complicated. She said this “temporary” detention might last for a while.
    Bo didn’t see how the government could keep a hardworking single mother away from her own kid. It didn’t just feel wrong, but inhuman.
    They reached the baggage-claim area, and Bo found the carousel that corresponded to AJ’s flight. The conveyor belt was already disgorging pieces of luggage, the occasional box bound with bailing wire, a car seat, a set of snow skis.
    “Let me know when you see your bag,” Bo said.
    The boy watched the conveyer belt, then glanced at the duct-taped suitcase he toted behind him. “It’s right here,” he said.
    Bo frowned. “You mean you don’t have any luggage?”
    “Only this.” He indicated the carry-on bag and his backpack.
    “Then what are we standing around here for?”
    AJ just looked at him.
    Damn. There was something that drew him to this kid. This solemn, very unkidlike kid. And it wasn’t just DNA.
    “Is this the first time you’ve ever flown in an airplane?” Bo asked.
    “First time I’ve ever flown in anything.”
    At last, a glimmer of humor. “Well, hell. This is where the checked luggage comes out. And since you don’t have any, we’re done here.” Bo grabbed the carry-on and led the way to the parking lot. As they stepped through the automatic doors, the outside air assaulted them with bone-cutting January cold. The cindery reek of jet fuel and diesel exhaust bloomed in thick puffs from the shuttle buses.
    AJ seemed dazed. He hunched up his shoulders and stuffed his hands in his pockets. Bo stopped walking and lifted the suitcase. “Hey, you got an extra coat in here?”
    The kid shook his head, plucking the nylon fabric of the Yankees Windbreaker. It flapped thinly against his skinny arms and shoulders. “This is all I got.”
    Great.
    “It was hot in Houston,” AJ added.
    Now that, Bo could understand. Once in a blue moon, a cold spell might hit the Gulf Coast in a fistlike front known as a Blue Norther. Usually, it was plenty warm down there, and often muggy. Growing up, Bo hadn’t owned a coat, either, except for his varsity letterman’s jacket, purchased by someone from the high-school booster club; no way could he have afforded it himself. Now, that thing had been a work of art—smooth black boiled wool, sleeves of butter-soft cream-colored leather.
    He peeled off his olive-drab parka, handed it to AJ. “Put this on.”
    “I don’t need your coat.”
    “Yeah, well, I don’t need you catching cold on top of everything else, so put it on.” A knifelike gust of wind sliced across the multilevel lot.
    “People don’t catch cold from being cold,” AJ objected. “That’s an old wives’ tale.”
    “Just put on the damned coat. It’s a long walk to the car.”
    The boy hesitated, but then put on the parka. Bo couldn’t quite conceal his relief. He didn’t know what he would have done if the kid had defied him. Bo was a bartender. A ballplayer. Not a dad.
    He got his key out of his pocket. The key fob still felt strange in his hand. He pressed the smooth, round button and the low-slung BMW Z4 roadster winked a greeting at him. He pressed another button and the trunk released. Carlisle, the sports agent who popped up at exactly the right time, had put the precontract deal together. Bo remembered standing in the cold November rain, just staring at the thing. A BMW Z4. Convertible.
    Never in a million years did he think he’d own such a car. But life was funny like that. Everything could change on the turn of a dime. In a heartbeat. In the time it takes to pick up the phone. Just as he was getting his shot, he found himself in charge of a kid.
    “Here’s our ride,” he said, inviting AJ to put his stuff in the trunk.
    The kid complied without comment, though Bo could tell he was checking out the car.
    It had been one of the first things he’d bought when,