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“There aren’t any alligators this far north.” He’d made his first note to self:Teach Simon how to swim.
How he’d longed to fall into his captain’s bed and sleep, but Simon, who had slept in the truck, was wide awake and suddenly talkative. Amos had shown him around.
“What’s this? How’s it work?”
The interior of Amos’s houseboat was crammed with curiosities that captivated Simon’s imagination. It took another full hour before Amos could convince Simon to go to bed in the lower bunk of his spare berthing area. Not twenty minutes later, Simon had slipped into his captain’s quarters and asked to sleep with him. Before the sun even shot through his blinds the next morning, Simon woke him up. “I wanna see something.”
While Amos was sleeping, Simon had found the door to the engine room, which was fire-proof and fortunately too heavy for him to pull open.
“No, you can’t go in there. It’s dangerous.” Amos made another note:Buy a lock.
Every nook, every cabinet, every drawer, and cupboard—and there were dozens, all hand crafted by Amos himself, a self-taught carpenter, had invited Simon’s scrutiny.
“Come find me!”
Simon’s muffled cry interrupted Amos as he was in his kitchen putting together sandwiches. Sucking the jelly of his finger, Amos went seeking.
The living area from which Simon’s voice had come stood empty. With rising concern, Amos glanced out the many large windows. Had Simon slipped outside to traipse along the deck, above water he couldn’t swim in?
“Where are you?” Worry roughened Amos’s voice.
“In here!”
Amos’s horrified gaze flew to the storage space under the wall of bookcases, where he kept his SEAL gear, plus a loaded .5 mm handgun.
“Simon!” He swallowed the urge to yell. The boy didn’t know any better. He just wanted to play. With a forced smile, Amos lifted the lid of the wooden chest. “Found you.” A cold sweat filmed his forehead. “Come out now and eat.”
As he lifted Simon from the box, he stashed his gun out of sight, under the wetsuit, making yet another note:Buy hardware for a second lock.
They sat in the dining nook by an octagonal window that overlooked the pier and consumed their sandwiches. Amos’s thoughts scrambled as he dealt with his new circumstances.
His routine necessitated a 4:00 A.M. wake-up to ensure his arrival at the Team building by zero five hundred hours to oversee training plans and consult with the commander on upcoming operations. Who would watch Simon when he went to work? The Navy’s Family Services Center offered before-and-after-school programs, but what about when Amos was called away, sometimes for weeks at a time? Perhaps he could request special permission to remain stateside, but then he would ruin any prospect of making master chief.
“What grade are you going into, Simon?” It pained him that he didn’t even know.
The boy regarded him blankly.
“You’re six now, right? Did you go to kindergarten last year?”
Simon shook his head. “Chris’pher and Colton went to school.”
It occurred to Amos that Emma might not have had the necessary documents to enroll Simon in public school. A sudden suspicion dropped into his thoughts. “You know how to read, though, don’t you?” Amos had learned to read on his own, when he was four.
Simon regarded him anxiously. “No, sir.”
The quiet voice conveyed fear that he might be in trouble.
“That’s okay. It’s not your fault.” Amos touched the top of Simon’s head. But the thought of Simon not having access to the world of books distressed him. How would the boy entertain himself? How would he keep up with kids at school?
Amos added to his growing list:Teach Simon to read.
How on earth was he supposed to accomplish such a feat with only four days of leave left to him and just weeks before school was due to start? Jamming his fingers into his thick hair, Amos racked his brain for a solution. He needed a nanny or a tutor. Someone good with children.
A vision that seemed to hover on the periphery of his thoughts jumped front and center:Grace Garrett. The crust of his peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich stuck in his throat. Amos chased it down with a swig of milk. According to the bio supplied by the FBI and read several times over by Amos, Grace was a first-grade teacher. She would know exactly what to do with a boy who couldn’t read—andshe lived near enough to assist him. He still remembered her address from when he’d mailed her his poem.
His hopeful thoughts disintegrated in the face of reality. Why would Grace Garrett agree to helphim? Amos was the last person in the world she would want to see, let alone assist.
Still, the thought of paying her a visit wouldn’t leave him. From their first encounter, he’d been struck by her fearless devotion to a child that wasn’t even hers. The way she’d gone toe-to-toe with him had been a novelty in itself. Aye, whether she admitted it or not, they had something in common. They both loved a little boy. And, praise God, he’d gotten his little boy back.
