Building Dreams. Ginna Gray

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      Ryan trotted up the remaining steps, curious but not particularly alarmed.

      The first vestige of the latter feeling came a moment later when he unlocked his door and opened it to a dark apartment. Stepping inside, Ryan flipped on the living room lights and checked his watch. It was only nine—too early for Mike to be in bed. Maybe he had fallen asleep watching television in his room.

      “Mike! You here?”

      There was no answer. Frowning, Ryan tossed the mail onto the coffee table and strode across the room, heading for the door that led into the bedroom hallway. “Hey, Mike! Where are you?”

      His son’s room was empty. The bed, on which the boy wallowed periodically throughout the day, was made up in Mike’s usual haphazard manner but it showed no sign of having been touched.

      The room was crammed with a thirteen-year-old boy’s clutter. A catcher’s mitt and a bat and ball lay on the desk, along with dozens of baseball cards, two crushed soft drink cans, a deflated football, a pair of dirty socks, a pocket electronic game, and an assortment of candy wrappers, rocks and scraps of paper. A squadron of model airplanes hung from the ceiling and another half-finished aircraft sat on a sheet of newspaper in the middle of the floor. In a pile in the corner, where Mike had tossed them, were a torn kite, a Frisbee and a skateboard. A ratty sneaker with a hole in the toe lay on its side beside the bed. Yet, for all its messiness, the room had an undisturbed air.

      Real alarm began to spiral up inside Ryan. Where was Mike?

      The front door slammed. “Hey, Dad. I’m home!”

      Ryan whirled, his relief so great his knees nearly buckled. The debilitating emotion lasted only an instant, just long enough for parental ire to override it. Dammit, where the devil had that boy been? No matter what, he was damned well supposed to be home by dark with the doors locked.

      Ryan stalked toward the living room. Mike was heading for his room, and father and son nearly crashed into one another when Ryan stormed through the door.

      “Oh, hi, Dad. Wait’ll you hear—”

      “You’ve got some explaining to do, young man.”

      “Huh?”

      “Where the devil have you been? You know you’re not to leave without permission.”

      “I didn’t leave! Well…not really. I was next door.”

      “Next door?”

      “Yeah. I’ve been helping our new neighbor move in.”

      Ryan stared at his son, taken aback. Mike was a good kid. He was responsible and cooperative, but like most teenage boys, when it came to things like household chores or anything that involved physical labor, he groused long and loud.

      “Well, hey, that’s great, Mike. I’m proud of you.” Ryan hesitated. “Uh…you did volunteer to help, didn’t you? I mean…they’re not paying you, are they?”

      “Heck no! I wouldn’t take money from someone like Mrs. Benson,” Mike declared, affronted. The next instant he brightened, his young face lighting up with enthusiasm. “Wait’ll you meet her, Dad. She’s really great. She’s a high school teacher—or she was until school let out last week for the summer. She says she’s not going back next fall. She’s going to take a real long sabba…sabbat…”

      “Sabbatical?”

      “Yeah, that. Man, I bet it’d be cool, having a teacher like Mrs. Benson. She young. Well…sorta…for a teacher, anyway. And she’s real friendly and all, and she laughs a lot. And guess what else, Dad? Amanda Sutherland…you know, that lady who does the news on television? Well she’n Mrs. Benson are best friends. Ms. Sutherland is helping her move.”

      One corner of Ryan’s mouth kicked up in a faintly scornful twist. “Is that right?” he replied without a trace of interest. Women were far from his favorite topic of conversation.

      He retrieved the mail from the coffee table and started riffling through it. “So how about Mr. Benson? What’s he like?”

      “Oh, there’s not a Mr. Benson. At least, not anymore there isn’t. Ms. Sutherland told me he died about seven months ago.”

      Ryan’s head snapped around, his eyes narrowing. “You mean our new neighbor is a widow?”

      “Yeah. And she’s—”

      “Oh great. That’s just great,” Ryan snapped. “Just what I need—an unattached female right next door. That’s the perfect piece of news to cap off what’s been a really rotten day.”

      Ryan and Mike had lived where they were for almost eight years. Until his death the previous month, a doddering old bachelor had occupied the apartment next door. Ryan had hoped that the next tenant would be someone equally innocuous.

      “Ah, c’mon, Dad. Don’t be that way. Mrs. Benson is different. She’s nice and…well…special. You’ll like her. Really.”

      “Yeah. Right.” His jaw tight, Ryan returned his attention to the day’s mail.

      Mike headed for the kitchen. “Tonight Mrs. Benson just brought over some small stuff. The movers are bringing her furniture tomorrow, and she’s moving everything else herself in a rented trailer. So anyway, I told her I’d be back to help some more after my softball game tomorrow,” he said with his head inside the refrigerator. “That’s okay, isn’t it, Dad?”

      “I guess,” Ryan replied through gritted teeth. “But first you have to do your Saturday chores.”

      “Ah, Daaad. Do I have to? Just this one time, couldn’t—”

      “You know the rules, Mike.”

      Actually, Ryan half hoped that the additional work would make Mike change his mind. On the one hand, he was proud of his son for generously helping out a neighbor, but he hated the idea of a single woman living next door, and he certainly did not want Mike to spend a lot of time with her. In Ryan’s experience, unattached females were usually on the lookout for a man.

      He tore open an envelope with more force than necessary, his teeth clamped together so hard they ached. At the first opportunity he intended to make his feelings about women crystal clear to this new neighbor.

      The opportunity arose the very next morning.

      As usual whenever Mike had a softball game, Ryan’s identical twin, Reilly, came along. Depending on the previous evening and the woman with whom he had spent it, Reilly sometimes appeared on their doorstep on Saturday mornings looking a bit frayed around the edges—but he came. He was nothing if not a devoted uncle. So far, he hadn’t missed a single game.

      That particular Saturday morning Reilly arrived early bearing a box of warm donuts for their breakfast and whistling off-key. Ryan took one look at the devilish twinkle in his brother’s eyes and raised a sardonic brow.

      “You’re bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning. Don’t tell me you actually got a decent night’s sleep for a change. What’s the matter? Get stood up?”

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