Mulberry Park. Judy Duarte

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      Today he was driving slower than usual, though. He glanced at the speedometer. Yep. Well under the twenty-five-miles-per-hour limit.

      He was practically at a standstill when he came to the pub, where a yellow neon OPEN sign flickered like a porch light, welcoming a tired old soul home, offering rest to weary bones, a place to unload a few burdens for a time, to share a few laughs.

      Yet in spite of the overwhelming impulse to stop, Walter pressed down on the gas pedal, increasing his speed. He’d beaten it again today, but he feared there might come a time when he’d give in, when he’d take the easy way out.

      As he passed the bar, he spotted a young boy walking along the sidewalk, kicking at a rock along the way. It was that kid from the park, the one who didn’t appear to have anywhere else to go, anything better to do.

      Again Walter suspected he and the boy had a lot in common, that they were both miserable and alone.

      He had half a notion to befriend the kid the next time he ran into him, but Walter didn’t have anything to offer anyone.

      And he was a fool to think he might.

      At quarter to ten, Sam Dawson grew tired of watching television and decided to read for a while. He clicked off the power on the remote, then headed to the room that had been his den before his niece moved in.

      She’d gone to bed hours ago, but checking on her before he turned in had become a nightly ritual. He wasn’t sure why, though. Maybe because he used to sneak off at night when he was a kid—not that anyone knew or cared when he did.

      Sam supposed that might not become a problem with his niece, but peeking in on her still seemed like the kind of thing a responsible guardian should do.

      From the doorway, he studied Analisa’s sleeping form, watched her chest rise and fall in peaceful slumber. She’d tucked a worn-out doll under one arm and a brand-new teddy bear under the other.

      His niece was a real cutie, and he was going to have his hands full when she grew up. But he was up to the task, even if that meant going head-to-head with any of the teenage boys who followed her home.

      Sam raked a hand through his hair, then glanced at the little table and chair set that Hilda, the nanny he’d recently hired, had suggested he purchase.

      Analisa sat there for hours, pretending to host a tea party for the queen or imagining a classroom for a couple of dolls and a few stuffed animals.

      Tonight scissors, paper, markers, glitter, and glue littered the white wooden tabletop.

      Analisa was usually pretty good about picking up after herself.

      He’d have a talk with her about it tomorrow, which was a much better solution than his old man would have come up with. Sam would have been jerked out of bed, asleep or not, and slammed against the wall for making a mess.

      In a strange twist, his own father had become the antithesis of a role model when it came to parenting.

      As Sam turned away, allowing the light from the hall to add more illumination to the child’s room, the bold writing on a light green envelope on the little table caught his eye, drawing him back.

      To God, it said.

      She was writing another one? Wasn’t the last one bright pink?

      A subtle wisp of concern blew over him, and he wasn’t sure what—if anything—he should do with it.

      A couple of days ago, she’d come up to him and asked, “What’s it like in Heaven?”

      Her question had thrown him off balance, and he hadn’t been sure if he should have given her a Santa Claus explanation or his own cold, hard spin on the afterlife.

      “I don’t know” was the only response his conscience had allowed.

      She’d looked at him as if he’d kicked a puppy, and he’d felt as if he had, too. Maybe he should have made up something, mentioned the Pearly Gates, streets of gold, and a mansion in the clouds.

      Her blue eyes had glistened to the point he feared she might start crying, then she’d crossed her little arms and shifted her weight to one foot. “Well, if you don’t know, and since Mrs. Richards doesn’t, either, we need to ask someone else.”

      No, they couldn’t ask anyone else. First of all, Sam no longer knew anyone even remotely religious. And secondly, he wasn’t about to flip through the yellow pages, call some minister out of the blue and ask a question like that.

      Instead Sam had reached for one of Analisa’s long, blond curls and gave it a gentle tug. “I probably should have asked your dad. I’ll bet he knew all about it.”

      She’d nodded. “My daddy knew everything.”

      At times Greg Dawson had come across as a know-it-all, which had led to a second falling out between the two brothers nearly six years ago. Just one more rift they’d failed to mend.

      But Analisa didn’t need to know anything about that.

      Sam leaned against the doorjamb of her bedroom and raked a hand through his hair. At times he wished he’d been on better terms with his brother, but it was too late now. Fate—or Whoever—had dealt them a fatal blow.

      But hey. He’d get through it. He always did. And even though he couldn’t make amends with his brother, he would do everything he could for his niece.

      All right, so he didn’t feel especially competent about being a parent, but money solved a slew of problems, and he had plenty of that. So the first thing he’d done was hire a nanny to take care of all the things a mother would do.

      Jake Goldstein, a friend who’d attended law school with Sam, had recommended Hilda Richards, so that had solved the first dilemma.

      Sam already lived in a nice house in one of the best neighborhoods in Fairbrook, so he’d hired a professional designer to create a pink and frilly bedroom that was every little girl’s dream. Then he’d provided his niece with all the dolls and toys she would ever want, all the things she would ever need.

      It was a galaxy far, far away from the rundown neighborhood in which Sam and Greg had grown up. A fairy-tale world away from the childhood he and her father had experienced, a life Sam had done his best to escape.

      Greg had escaped, too, but he’d chosen a religious path.

      “You ought to come to church with me,” Greg had told him more than once.

      “Forget it.” Sam hadn’t needed the religious crutch. Instead, he’d pulled himself up by the proverbial bootstraps, excelled in college, utilized student loans, and went on to law school.

      Rather than admire Sam’s achievements and acknowledge that he’d kept his party-animal nose to the grindstone until he’d become an attorney, Greg had downplayed it all.

      At the time, Sam had chalked it up to jealousy, but Greg had never seemed the least bit interested in money or success.

      Six years ago, Greg had started in on Sam again. He’d told him that he СКАЧАТЬ