Mulberry Park. Judy Duarte

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      He hadn’t, though. Not really. There was a gaping hole in her life and her heart.

      A hole nothing could fill.

      Chapter 4

      Claire might end her run each evening at Mulberry Park, but she made it a point to arrive after most people had taken their children and gone home for dinner.

      So what was she doing here on a Saturday at noon, her car idling in one of only a few empty stalls?

      She glanced across the console to the passenger seat, where a crayon-sketched angel named Erik rested. His gold halo was askew on a Bart-Simpson-style head of yellow hair, while big blue eyes with spiky black lashes looked up at her, and a crooked red grin tweaked her heart.

      Yesterday, while peering up into the mulberry, Claire had spotted the picture on the lowest branch. Analisa’s depiction of Erik-the-Angel didn’t even remotely resemble her sweet, rough-and-tumble son, a boy with dark curly hair and golden-brown eyes.

      In fact, Claire had reason to believe Analisa had drawn a male version of herself.

      Erik looks a lot like you, she’d written in her response to the first letter. She hadn’t meant that literally, but had been suggesting a commonality, since both of them were innocent children who’d been unfairly separated from their parents by death.

      She blew out a ragged sigh. If Ron were still a part of her life, he’d tell her she was crazy, that she’d been foolish to quit seeing the shrink. And she’d be hard-pressed to argue with him.

      Again she had the urge to leave, but scanned the park instead. The only person she recognized was Walter, the white-haired Korean War vet who’d caught her in the tree several evenings ago. Today he was seated at a table in the shade, not far from the restrooms.

      Would he recognize her in a crisp, ivory-colored blouse and blue linen walking shorts rather than running gear? She suspected he might.

      If she ever decided to get out of her car, she planned to keep a low profile, sit a while and watch the children from a distance—something she’d been unwilling and unable to do after Erik’s death.

      She remained behind the wheel a moment longer, then reached across the console and turned the angel picture facedown in the passenger seat. Next she climbed from the car and locked it.

      Before heading toward the park grounds, she adjusted her sunglasses. It wasn’t as if she was trying to hide or planning to stalk anyone. She was just curious, that’s all.

      Her gaze drifted to the playground, where several kids laughed and played. When Erik had been a preschooler, she used to bring him to the park whenever possible.

      He’d loved the outdoors. She had, too.

      Yet now the sight of happy children—even two preschoolers squabbling over the same red plastic bucket—triggered a rumble of grief.

      She had the urge to bolt before her eyes filled with tears, but that’s what the sunglasses were for. To shield her sadness from the world.

      Up ahead, Walter sat at a table, his chess game spread before him. She wondered if he was waiting for a friend.

      Perhaps he wouldn’t mind having company for a bit. She certainly couldn’t very well hover near the playground. If she were still a parent, she’d be concerned about a childless woman hanging out by the swings and slides.

      She made her way across the lawn, and when she paused beside Walter, her shadow darkened the chessboard.

      As the white-haired old man glanced up, recognition dawned on his craggy face, triggering a crinkled grin. “Come by the park to climb trees again today?”

      “I’m afraid not.” She pointed to her knee, where a bandage covered another scrape she’d gotten yesterday while retrieving Analisa’s picture.

      “Oops. Did that happen the day I saw you?”

      “No. The time after that.”

      He let out a little chuckle. “So you really are a tree-climber.”

      “Not anymore.”

      “Too bad. A lot of fellows my age take to bird-watching, which I always figured was a boring hobby. But I didn’t realize they occasionally spotted pretty chicks.”

      She offered him the hint of a smile. “Are you waiting for someone?”

      “No one in particular.”

      “Then do you mind if I sit for a minute or so?”

      “Not at all.” He brightened, a spark in his tired gray eyes hinting at the life still in him.

      Claire brushed a few leaves aside from the green fiberglass bench, then sat and studied the playground.

      A dark-haired girl with pigtails walked along the wooden beam that bordered the sandbox, her arms outstretched for balance while she tottered along, placing one foot in front of the other.

      On top of the slide, another girl perched, ready to shove off. The sides of her hair—white blond—were held back with red barrettes.

      That could be her, Claire realized, but there had to be hundreds of other possibilities in a city the size of Fairbrook.

      Finally, she voiced her question. “I don’t suppose you know a little girl named Analisa?”

      “I generally steer clear of the kids, but I do know that one. She comes with her nanny nearly every day. Why do you ask?”

      “Just wondered.”

      Walter lifted a gnarly, liver-spotted hand and pointed toward the slide. “That’s her. The little blond tyke who just landed in the sand and is now walking toward the swings.”

      “Cute kid.”

      “Yep.”

      Analisa wore a red cotton blouse, denim shorts with a ruffled hem, and white sandals. She appeared to be clean and well-cared for.

      Claire watched as the child backed her bottom into the seat of a swing and began to pump her little legs, soaring toward the sky. “What do you know about her?”

      “Not much. She used to live with her parents in a foreign country. I forget which one—Guatemala maybe. Anyway, from what I understand, they were missionaries and died. Now she lives with her father’s brother.”

      Unkel Sam, Claire realized. A man who worked more often than a lonely, grieving child would like him to.

      If Claire had a chance to speak to Analisa’s uncle, she’d tell him to find more time for the girl. To enjoy her while he had a chance to appreciate all he’d been blessed with.

      “Why the interest?” Walter asked.

      Claire shrugged. “I…uh…found a letter she’d written.”

      “To who?”

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