Mulberry Park. Judy Duarte

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      “Sometimes, when we have a reason to be cautious and ignore warnings of danger, it’s often because we’re being foolish, not brave.”

      Her dark-haired, blue-eyed son flashed her a smile, reminding her of his father. “Don’t worry, Mama. I’m brave and smart.”

      “I know you are, mijo.”

      After shutting off the engine, Maria climbed from the maroon Plymouth Caravan, circled to the side door and opened it.

      Danny unbuckled his seat belt. “I see Analisa’s car, so she’s here. Can I run ahead?”

      “No, you need to help me.” Maria unfastened the harness that secured two-year-old Sara in the car seat. “You carry the lunch and place it on an empty table in the shade.”

      “Okay. But can we sit next to Analisa and her abuelita?”

      Actually, Mrs. Richards was Analisa’s nanny, not her grandmother, but Maria didn’t correct the boy. “You can ask Mrs. Richards if it would be all right if we share their table.”

      Danny snatched the blue plastic Wal-Mart sack that had been packed with sandwiches, apples, and graham crackers. “Okay.”

      Sometimes Maria worried that she expected too much from the boy, that she might be pushing him into a more grown-up role than was fair. But following his father’s arrest and conviction, she’d been determined to do whatever it took to make sure her children grew up to be more responsible than her husband had been.

      “Down,” Sara said. “Peese?”

      With those expressive blue eyes, Sara also favored her daddy, a handsome man who knew how to lay on the charm when he wanted to. Maria prayed his baby-blues and captivating smile were the only things his daughter and son had inherited from him.

      When they’d separated for the final time, she’d taken back her maiden name, and when he’d gone to prison, she’d insisted the children go by Rodriguez, too.

      The arrest and trial had been tough on Danny, who’d had to tolerate the whispers in the neighborhood, the taunts of kids who’d heard his father had killed someone. It had been tough on Maria, too. The pointed fingers, the knowing looks, the murmurs.

      Maria placed her daughter’s feet on the lawn and, as she watched the child toddle after her big brother, rubbed the small of her aching back.

      Babies were a blessing, or at least they should be, but it was hard to get excited about the little boy she was carrying and would deliver soon. Not that she wouldn’t love him once he arrived, but he’d been unplanned, a mistake she’d made one lonely night, when lust won over wisdom.

      It wasn’t the child’s fault, but she feared this pregnancy would be a penitence she’d be paying for years to come.

      While Maria approached the playground, she placed a hand on her swollen stomach, feeling a little bump—a knee or a foot—that moved across her womb. Soon there would be another mouth to feed.

      As Maria neared Analisa’s nanny, her steps slowed. She and the older woman had chatted a few times, but Mrs. Richards wasn’t very friendly. Still, as was her habit, especially with the children present, Maria conjured a happy face. “Hello, there. It’s a beautiful day for the park, isn’t it?”

      Hilda rarely smiled warmly, but there was something especially lackluster today. Her expression seemed drawn, pale.

      “Is something wrong?” Maria asked.

      “It’s just this fool arthritis.” Hilda rubbed her knobby-knuckled hands together. “And it’s been acting up like old fury today.”

      Tía Sofía, Maria’s aunt, had suffered with aches and pains prior to her death, and it had been sad to watch.

      Hilda’s gaze swept over Maria, settling upon her belly. “I imagine you’re not too comfortable these days, either. I hope your husband helps out around the house.”

      Maria didn’t want to lie, but she didn’t want to share the ugly details, either. “I’m divorced, so it’s just me and the kids.”

      “Too bad.”

      That might be true, but under the circumstances, she was much better off without a man, although that wasn’t a subject she wanted to broach.

      She reached for the plastic spoons and cups she’d packed in the diaper bag. “Excuse me for a minute. I need to give Sara something to play with.”

      Moments later, as the toddler plopped down in the sand and began to dig, Maria returned to Hilda and took a seat.

      “You know,” Hilda said, “that little boy is always here.”

      The elderly woman hadn’t needed to point out a child in particular. Maria knew she was referring to Trevor, who sat alone on the down side of a teeter-totter. “Yes, I’ve noticed.”

      He was quiet and tended to keep to himself, although every once in a while, Analisa or Danny managed to draw him out.

      Hilda clucked her tongue. “And he’s never supervised.”

      Maria thought he might be a latchkey kid, left on his own each day. “Some children aren’t fortunate enough to have parents who look out for them.”

      “Well, we don’t live in the same world as we used to, and there are wicked people who prey on little ones.”

      Maria found it impossible to argue with her logic or to defend the boy’s parents.

      They sat quietly for a while, lost in their own thoughts and worries. When Maria’s tummy growled, she glanced at her wristwatch, then at Hilda. “Maybe we ought to call the children and have them eat lunch.”

      “Good idea.”

      Maria took the kids to the restroom and helped them wash up. When they returned to the table, she passed out sandwiches and apple slices, but something kept her from joining Danny and Sara and opening the baggies that held her own meal.

      Her gaze drifted to Trevor, who remained seated on the teeter-totter. He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a handful of something small and bite-size.

      A snack?

      Maybe.

      The baby moved about in her womb, and her stomach grumbled again. Her blood-sugar levels had been screwy lately, so she shouldn’t skip lunch, but she suspected that whatever had been in Trevor’s pocket had been his breakfast, too. So there was no way she’d eat in front of him. She’d just have to leave the park early. And next time, she’d make an extra sandwich—just in case.

      “Trevor,” she called to the boy. “If you like peanut butter and grape jelly, you can join us for lunch. I have plenty.”

      The boy’s eyes, as leery as a stray cat, studied her for a moment. A long moment. Then he slowly got up from the sloping wooden plank on which he’d been sitting and trudged to the table.

      Maria placed the food she’d packed for herself СКАЧАТЬ