When You Wish (Contemporary Romance)

NEW YORK

Chapter One

Five words and his whole life changed.

“Your grant is being reevaluated.”

Dr. Daniel Chadwi
ck stood in his laboratory, suddenly quite clear on why “killing the messenger” had once been an accepted practice. Right now Dan wanted to throttle the little weasel that smiled so politely while ruining his life.

“Exactly what constitutes reevaluation?”

Perry Schumacher’s lips and nose twitched. If he’d had whiskers on that nose he couldn’t have looked more weasel-like. Poor unfortunate soul, but Dan had no sympathy left.

“Mrs. Cabilla wants to make certain she is serving her late husband’s memory to the best of her ability. You know the particulars of the grant: one lump sum, per year, to the charity of her choice.”

Dan’s teeth ground together as they always did whenever someone referred to his work as a charity. He was a medical research scientist on the cusp of a breakthrough that would aid countless human beings. Mrs. Cabilla knew that. She was the only person who understood Dan’s need to champion the underdog—even if it was an underdog disease.

He opened his mouth to argue, but Perry got there first. “Mrs. Cabilla is aware of your progress. But after five years of funding your studies, her faith is nearly gone. She is considering another charity.”

“Which one?”

“Project Hope.”

“Never heard of it.”

“That’s because it’s new.”

“What’s it for?”

Perry rustled the papers on his clipboard, looked down his weaselly n
ose, and sniffed. “Providing security blankets to gravely ill children.”

The room went so silent Dan could hear the drip of the faucet next to his worktable—the faucet he never got around
to tightening because he was always too busy. To be honest, he never noticed how annoying the sound was while in the zone of discovery. And he was in the zone a lot.

Plop, plop, plop.
Dan shook his head to make the sound stop echoing. Didn’t help. He stared at Perry, blinking in hopes that the little man would disappear. Didn’t work.

“Tell me you’re kidding.”

Perry settled his chin upon his tightly knotted tie. His glasses slid down his nose and perched precariously on the tip. “I never kid.”

“I just bet you don’t.” Dan ran his fingers through his hair, wondering how it had gotten so long aga
in. He’d just had his hair cut . . . when? Last week? He glanced at his watch and frowned. Make that last month. When the work was going well, he had better things to worry about than his hair.

Yanking off his lab coat, Dan advanced on Perry. “Where can I find her?”

Perry must have seen something he did not like in Dan’s eyes because he backed out of the way, holding the clipboard in front of his face as if to stop Dan’s fist. Small people always reacted that way when Dan was around, though he’d never touched anyone with violence in his life. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending upon how one looked at it, Dan was huge—six-feet-five-inches, 230-pounds huge. Whenever anyone looked at him, they saw football player or All-Star wrestler, despite the M.D. behind his name and an IQ that could rival his weight.

“F-find who?” Perry stuttered.

“Mrs. Cabilla. I want to talk to her.”

“She’s unavailable.”

Dan took another step toward Perry. “She’ll be available for me.”

Perry retreated some more, and his back came up against the wall. He lowered the clipboard an inch, and his tiny black eyes peered over the top. Weasel, no doubt about it. “No,” he said. “She won’t.”

Dan resisted the urge to grab the clipboard and toss it over his shoulder. Such behavior might give Perry heart failure, and that Dan didn’t want. At least not until Perry told him where he could find Mrs. Cabilla.

He inched closer, until he came toe to toe with

Mrs. Cabilla’s emissary. “Where?” he repeated.

“I can tell you, but it won’t do you any good.”

“Why not?”

Amazingly, Perry smiled. Dan frowned. If Perry was happy, Dan would not be. Over the last five years he and Perry had never gotten on, probably because of the height thing. Being six feet five inches was a disadvantage, but try telling that to a man who was a foot shorter.

“Because she went to the Andes.”

“A candy factory?”

Perry snorted and lowered the clipboard completely. “Do you ever look past your little world?”

“What for?”

“There is an amazingly huge universe beyond Northern Wisconsin.”

Dan shrugged. “All I need is right here with me.”

“Enjoy it while you can.” Perry slid toward the door.

Dan put his hand against the wall, between Perry and escape. “Where?”

“The Andes Mountains, Doctor. In Peru.”

“Peru? What does Mrs. Cabilla want in Peru?”

“Yarn.”

“Excuse me? I thought you said yarn.”

“Nothing wrong with your hearing.” Perry ducked beneath Dan’s arm and opened the door. “Mrs. Cabilla has become quite taken with knitting for stress relief. Seems to work and she’s very good at it. She wanted a special kind of yarn made from a sheep that wanders the Andes Mountains.”

“So she went to get it herself?” Dan couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing.

“She has the money and the time. Why not?”

“Wait just one minute. Mrs. Cabilla has become a knitting freak, and she’s considering giving my money to a foundation that provides blankets for kids?”

“No moss on your brain, Doc. And it’s not
your
money. It’s Mrs. Cabilla’s money.”

Dan flushed. “Of course it is. Who runs Project Hope?”

“Wouldn’t you just like to know?” Perry slammed the door, and Dan heard him scurry off toward his car. After that parting shot, Dan wouldn’t have been surprised if Perry had stuck out his tongue before fleeing. The man really didn’t like him at all, which was fine with Dan.

“Knitting,” Dan murmured. “Yarn. Sheep. Peru, for crying out loud.”

Mrs. Cabilla had gone off her rocker. That was as plain as the day was new. But what could he do about it? That was the question.

Five years ago, at the ripe age of twenty-six, Dan had finished his studie
s and dedicated his life to science. Science was something he understood. What he could touch was real. What he could see was true. What he could discover was worth his life and more. He had finally found something he was good at, and since he was good at precious little, according to his family, Dan took what he had and ran with it.

He wasn’t going to
let some New Age, hip-hop charity take everything he’d worked so hard to achieve, right when he was about to achieve everything.

Dan grabbed t
he phone and punched in the number for directory information. “A new listing,” he said when the operator came on the line. “Project Hope.”

Northern Wisconsin was a land of contrasts. On one hand, spacious and deserted: acres upon acres of trees and wildlife—a sportsman’s paradise. Then right up a county highway would appear a tourist town—Minoqua, Eagle River, Bayfield—where there were shops and coffee houses, restaurants and lodges.

In the summer, the streets teemed with people wearing shorts and sunglasses. Winter brought a different crowd with snowmobile suits and boots, ski jackets and jaunty hats. It was into one of these towns, packed with summer shoppers, that Dan drove in search of Project Hope.

Lake Illusion, the town, sat along Lake Superior. Lake Illusion, the lake, was at the outskirts of the town, a perfect north woods setting for Mrs. Cabilla’s home. Dan’s lab was housed in an abandoned Boy Scout camp on the opposite side of the same lake.

He squinted against the midafternoon sun. The address he’d received when he’d called the number for Project Hope was located on a quieter side street, away from the usual hustle and bustle on Lake Illusion’s main drag. Plenty of parking down this street, as there were no pottery shops, Native American jewelry stores, or crystal havens—all tourist magnets. Dan parked his pickup truck at the curb in front of a large Victorian home, got out, then glanced at the paper in his hand.

Three hundred thirty-six
. Odd, the place didn’t look like an office but rather a residence. Dan frowned as he walked up the sidewalk. No sign at the front proclaiming the offices of Project Hope, just a wind chime hanging on the porch, swaying in the heated breeze and chiming a haunted tune.

The front door stood open, allowing him to see into the foyer through the screen door. Inside sat a respectable, little old lady behind an antique desk. Perhaps this was a bed-and-breakfast. If so, the woman would probably know where he could find Project Hope.

Dan opened the screen door and a bell rang. The woman, who’d been focused upon something in her lap, looked up and smiled a welcome. Now that he was closer, he saw she wasn’t as respectable as he’d thought, or as old. Her hair, a pale enough blond to look white, was drawn into a ponytail at her neck and reached all the way to the seat of her chair. Her eyes were the most extraordinary shade of russet-brown that Dan had ever seen and sparkled like polished stones. She wore dark red lipstick and Indian earrings that brushed the shoulders of her peasant blouse.

“Hello,” he began.

She straightened and put a jumble of cloth onto the desk. “Come on in. Do you have an appointment?”

Dan moved close enough to see that the cloth she’d held in her
lap was a quilt block. He remembered Perry’s words about security blankets and frowned. Maybe he
was
in the right place after all.

“I’m looking for Project Hope—”

“You’ve found us. And you are?”

“Dr. Chadwick.”

“Doctor! How lovely.” She pressed her hands together as if in prayer and beamed at him over the tips of her fingers. “My ear has been bothering me ever since I went parasailing last week. Do you think it was the altitude? Or maybe I shouldn’t have gone into the water at such a high speed.”

She continued to look at him as if he could help her. Dan had never actually practiced medicine on people. Sure, he’d had to deal with them in school, but he’d never been any good at it. If he hadn’t planned to go into research from the beginning, he would have once he realized how incredibly inept he was in the face of pain and emotion. He shouldn’t be surprised, considering his pa
rents. But that was neither here nor there.

“Doctor?”

“Uh, yes, well, I’m not sure.” He tried to get past the image of this woman flying through the air with the greatest of ease. “I’m not an ear man, you see.”

“A rear man, you say?”

Her ear must really be bothering her. “No,” Dan said louder and clearer. “I’m not an ear man.”

“Ah, what kind of man are you then? A leg man?”

Dan blushed, one of the embarrassments of being blond and fair-skinned. The woman laughed, delighted, and he blushed darker, his skin on fire all the way up to his forehead.

“You’ll want to talk to Grace,” she said, letting him off the hook.

“I will?”

“She’s the brains behind Project Hope. It’s been her baby, from the start.”

“Yes, she’d be the one I want to talk to.”

“She’s between appointments.” The woman waved toward a long hallway leading out of the foyer. “Go on down, second door on the left.”

“Thank you.” Dan followed the flip of her fingernails, painted the same garnet-red as her lips.

As he passed from the foyer into the house proper, flute music played in
the distance. The haunting melody drew him forward. As he neared the second door on the left he caught the scent of apple pie and cinnamon. His stomach growled. Damn, he’d forgotten to eat again. Professional hazard.