by Judy Duarte
“I recently inherited a house on Sugar Plum Lane,” Maria said. “It belonged to my tía—my aunt—but several months before she passed away, she quitclaimed it to me. It’s an old home, but very clean and comfortable.”
Claire nodded, assuming the woman meant to use the house as collateral. It was a simple enough procedure, especially if there wasn’t a huge mortgage or if there weren’t any liens against it.
This appointment was just the first in a prescreening process the bank had recently instituted, and if the initial paperwork was in order, Ms. Rodriguez would be given a full application packet.
“Did you fill out the form you were given at the front desk?” Claire asked.
“Yes.” Maria handed over the paperwork.
Claire looked at the neat, legible writing; it appeared to be complete. “Where do you work, Ms. Rodriguez?”
“I’ve been cleaning houses, but after my aunt passed away, I no longer had a sitter.” She caressed her stomach, then cleared her throat. “I’m a hard worker and plan to get a job as a waitress. Once that happens, I’ll make double payments and get it paid off in no time at all.”
“How much money are we talking about?”
“I need fifty thousand dollars to see me through the next two years.”
“You don’t intend to work for two years?” Claire asked, realizing she might have to give the woman bad news before they went any further in the process.
“With the cost of daycare, especially for infants, I’m afraid it wouldn’t do me any good. But as soon as Sara enters kindergarten, the expense should be easier to handle.”
When Erik had been a baby, Claire had wanted to stay home with him, but Ron had gotten caught in the credit card trap, and she’d been forced to return to work immediately after her maternity leave. It had torn her apart to leave her infant son in the care of others when he’d been so tiny. But at the time, even though she’d worked at an entry-level job and the cost of his sitter had taken nearly half her paycheck, there had been no options.
Claire looked at the Rodriguez children, a blue-eyed boy with a head of thick dark hair and a squirmy toddler. Her gaze naturally drifted to the woman’s belly. In a couple of months, maybe less, Maria would have another little one.
“What does your husband do?” Claire asked. Maybe there was a big enough income and it wouldn’t matter that she’d be out of work.
“He’s…we’re…” She cleared her throat. “Separated. Legally.”
“My daddy went to prison,” the boy added. “And for a very long time, but he can send me letters.”
The man was a convicted criminal?
Every day Claire met people wanting loans, couples hoping to refinance the house—to send a child to college, to remodel, or to pay off credit card bills. It was her job to calculate the risks of loaning them money, whether she sympathized with the applicant or not.
And in this particular case, Claire did sympathize. The poor woman had a rough row to hoe—and apparently no one to help. But the newly instituted loan regulations were sure to bind Claire’s hands.
She scanned the application again, looking for something on which to base a decision to preapprove the loan.
Education? Just high school.
Work experience? None to speak of.
A savings account? Just a couple of thousand dollars.
“Actually,” Maria explained, “I’m very frugal. So I’ve considered my living expenses plus the monthly payment in the loan amount I’m requesting. But maybe I can get by with less.”
“I believe you,” Claire said, “but I’m not able to approve your loan.”
“Why?”
“Because you have no income and no significant savings.”
“But I have a house. It’s worth a whole lot more than what I’m asking for. If I didn’t make the payments on time, you could take it from me.”
As tears clouded the woman’s eyes, an awkward sense of guilt settled over Claire. This wasn’t personal. She was only making a decision based upon the bank’s best interests. Didn’t Ms. Rodriguez understand that Claire wasn’t sitting in judgment here, granting loans on a whim? Playing God?
What about yesterday? a small voice quizzed. Isn’t that what you did at the park?
Again, she cleared her throat, hoping to shed the guilt that had settled over her as well as the sense of impotence. “I’m truly sorry, Ms. Rodriguez. We’re in the banking business, but we can’t loan money when the risk to do so is too high.”
“But I’m a hard worker. And honest. You can talk to the priest at my parish, he’ll tell you…”
Again Claire felt the uneasiness, the discomfort. The guilt. “Have you considered selling the house outright and living off the proceeds until after the baby comes and you can go back to work?”
“I don’t want to sell the house,” Maria said. “It’s all I have.”
It wasn’t all she had. She had her children.
Claire would have traded places with her in a snap, if it would have brought Erik back.
Maria slumped back in her chair. “So there’s nothing you can do?”
“I’m afraid not. Fairbrook Savings and Loan has a reputation for being conservative, so you may have better luck at another financial institution in town.” Claire stood, signaling the discussion was over, the judgment made. “Unfortunately, my hands are tied.”
The woman nodded, then touched the boy lightly on the shoulder. “Come along, mijo.”
“Are we done?” the boy asked.
“Yes.”
Maria guided her children out of Claire’s office, her shoulders hunched, yet she held her head high and led her little family to the door.
The boy slipped his hand in his mother’s. “Can we go to the playground now? Please?”
“Yes, mijo. For a little while.”
Claire would have given anything to turn back the clock, to have her son at her side again, asking to go to the park.
Yet that fact didn’t make her feel the least bit better about dashing another woman’s dreams.
Chapter 2
Walter Klinefelter parked his red Ford Ranger at Mulberry Park, then withdrew the worn leather game case and locked the door.
Two spaces down, the old woman and the blond-haired little girl climbed from their white Honda Prelude. They weren’t what he’d call regulars, since they’d just been coming to the park the past couple of weeks, but they showed up about midday. Like he did.
He’d approached them once, trying to make small talk, but the woman snubbed him like he was a dirty old man or something.
Heck, he was harmless. But he supposed they didn’t know that.
“Oh, yay,” the blond pixie said. “He’s here again today.”
“Who, dear?” the granny asked.
“Trevor.” The girl moved the tan-skinned dolly she carried from one arm to the other, then pointed to the child who’d been hanging out at the park a lot this summer, the kid who appeared as though he didn’t have a friend in the world.
In that sense, the boy and Walter had a lot in common.
“I told you before,” Granny said. “That boy is too old to be your friend.”
“He’s not exactly my friend,” the little blonde said. “He just helped me do something yesterday, and I might need him to do it again.”
“He’d better not be helping you climb on those monkey bars. If you fall, you’ll get hurt.”
“I’ll be careful, Mrs. Richards,” Blondie said, as she dashed off. Yet she didn’t run toward the older boy who sat in the shadow of the slide, drawing with a stick in the sand. Instead she skipped toward the center of the park, near the mulberry tree.
Walter probably ought to mind his own business, which he seemed to do a heck of a lot of these days, but sometimes he got sick and tired of hearing himself think.
“I don’t suppose you play chess,” he said to the old woman.
She turned, and the sun glistened off the silver strands of her hair. He s
uspected she’d been pretty when she’d been younger, but now she wore a pucker on her face that suggested she’d weathered her own share of disappointment over the years.
“No,” she said, “I’m afraid I don’t play.”
“Too bad.”
They fell into step together, walking slowly.
“You’re here all the time,” she said. “And you’ve always got that game with you.”
“My last chess buddy passed on a couple of months back, and I’m hoping to find a new opponent.” There hadn’t been many takers, though. Either they were too young or couldn’t be bothered with an old man. That was to be expected, he supposed. There came a time when folks just outlived their usefulness.
The woman glanced at the midday sun, then reached a hand to her head and patted the springy gray curls as though feeling for something and finding it missing.
He did that sometimes, too. Got absentminded and forgetful.
“Oh, dear.” She clucked her tongue. “Wouldn’t you know it? I left my hat in the car.”
Walter watched as she headed back to the white Prelude. The girl had called her Mrs. Richards, so the two weren’t related. He supposed that made her a babysitter then. But what the heck. None of his business.
He made his way toward his favorite table, the one that sat along the path to the restrooms. He figured that particular spot saw more traffic than the others and would present more opportunities for him to find an opponent. It happened once in a while. Often enough for him to keep hanging out at the park, rather than whiling away the hours at home, which was merely a short walk from Paddy’s Pub. Too short of a walk, actually.
Walter had done no more than set up the game board and playing pieces, when Mrs. Richards approached. “I don’t suppose you know how to get into a locked car?”
So maybe he hadn’t quite outlived his usefulness after all.
“As a matter of fact, breaking-and-entering vehicles is one of several handy tips I picked up while in the pen.”
Obviously not one to appreciate his sense of humor, she placed a hand on her chest and sobered.
“Not to worry,” he said, getting to his feet. “That was just a joke. I’ve never been in prison.”
He had, of course, spent quite a bit of time in the local jail when you added it all up. The last arrest occurred after he’d gotten drunk while the city had held their annual Founders’ Day parade, but he supposed Mrs. Richards, who appeared too prissy to get a chuckle out of it, wouldn’t appreciate hearing the details.
His old buddies at the pub had thought it was a real hoot. They probably still did. But three years ago, Walter had experienced a sobering epiphany when Russell Meredith hit that kid on the bicycle. Russell swore he hadn’t had a drop to drink that day, but had been so distracted that he hadn’t even known that the bump he’d felt had been a child.
At first, before Russell had come forward and turned himself in, most people assumed the driver had been drinking. Why else would the guilty person have left the scene?
Naturally, since the accident had taken place just a couple of blocks from Paddy’s, the cops had questioned everyone who patronized the pub.
For a while, all the regulars had eyed each other a bit suspiciously, wondering whether the guilty driver had been one of them. In fact, Walter suspected they’d all cast surreptitious glances at the vehicles in the parking lot, looking for new dents or streaks of paint—whatever.
Even Walter, who’d driven home completely bombed plenty of times, had been relieved to see that his truck hadn’t suffered any damage.
He blew out a weary sigh, hoping to shake the memory that had caused him to admit what no one else had ever been able to. That he ought to quit drinking for a while.
One day led to a second, then a third.
And, thanks to Carl Witherspoon, a do-gooder who’d come to Paddy’s passing out AA fliers after Meredith’s arrest, Walter had kicked it.
So far.
Still, a good laugh and someone to share it with was what he missed the most. More than the booze.
Walter cleared his throat as he shuffled toward the woman’s car. “As luck would have it, I have a coat hanger in my truck. Let’s see if I’ve still got the touch.”
“I appreciate your help,” she said as they reached the parking lot. “It seems as if I’d forget my head these days if it wasn’t connected to my neck.”
“No problem.” Walter went to the toolbox in the back of his pickup, then dug around until he found the bent wire hanger he kept on hand. Every once in a while one of the patrons at the pub had gotten locked out of a vehicle—maybe a good thing, he now realized. So years ago he’d tucked a coat hanger into the toolbox in the back of his truck. It had come in handy a time or two, which seemed to be all he was good for these days.
Hard to imagine that was his sole purpose for being on earth.
Walter Klinefelter, Parking Lot Superhero, who helped people out of a jam, then watched as they sped away in a cloud of dust, leaving him standing by his lonesome.
As he strode toward the Prelude, he wasn’t so sure he could help. These newfangled models had antitheft systems that made it tough to get in. They might have to call the Automobile Club, if she had their service. Or a locksmith, if she didn’t.
“By the way,” he said, reaching out to the seventy-something woman. “My name is Walter Klinefelter.”
“Hilda Richards,” she said, taking his hand in hers.
Human contact was a funny thing. Just an occasional touch could make a man feel alive again.
He nodded toward the blond pixie and asked, “You babysitting?”
“I’m a nanny,” she said, as if there was a big difference.
As she leaned against the side of the car, she winced, and he looked up from his work.
“My arthritis is acting up like old fury today. I hadn’t wanted to come to the park, but Analisa was insistent, and I hate to tell the sweet little thing no. She’s been through enough already.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the child who was now standing near Carl’s memorial bench that rested at the base of the mulberry tree. “Are you new in town? I’ve been coming to the park for a long time and have just recently noticed you.”
“No, I’ve been living here for years. And so has my employer. His brother and sister-in-law died about six weeks ago, and he’s now the guardian of his niece. He’s a busy man, an attorney with a big law firm.” She pointed to the red-brick professional building that sat adjacent to the park. “That’s his office there. On the sixth floor, with a view of the city. Anyway, he needed someone to watch over the girl, and I came out of retirement to do so.”
Walter glanced again at the orphaned child, poor little thing. He didn’t normally dig for information, but death seemed to be an ever-present reality these days, and he couldn’t help his curiosity. “What happened to her parents?”
“They were missionaries in a remote village in Guatemala, where the nearest medical clinic was far away and sorely lacking. Her mother died of blood poisoning, something that could have been easily treated in the States.”
“And her father?” he asked.
“He was going to bring little Analisa back to California, but while giving a tour of the neighboring villages to his replacement, he and the other man made a wrong turn on a narrow mountain road, and the Jeep rolled down a ravine. Her father was killed.”
Walter shook his head. “That’s terrible. Poor little tyke.”
“She’s pretty strong,” Hilda said. “As far as kids go.”
Walter returned to his work, wiggling the hanger between the window and the door.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Hilda said. “Would you look at this? I had the keys in my pocket all along.”
Walter carefully pulled the hanger free, then looked at the key chain that dangled from her hand.
“I’m so sorry for troubling you,” she said.
“No problem.” Heck, he didn’t have anything better to do. If h
e did, he’d be doing it.
As he left Hilda to open the car and retrieve her hat, he headed back to his table, back to his game.
But not before scanning the park for the orphaned child—poor kid—and spotting her looking up at the mulberry, her mouth open wide.
Analisa couldn’t believe what she saw. Her bright pink envelope now rested on the lowest branch, one that reached down to earth.
Had God read her letter? Had He answered?
Her heart skipped a beat, and she placed her dolly on the bench. Then she dashed off to the playground to get Trevor’s help. Even though the envelope wasn’t nearly as high as they’d put it, she still couldn’t reach it all by herself.
As she drew to a stop near the slide, where Trevor sat in its shadow, he looked up. He didn’t smile or speak, but he didn’t seem to be annoyed, either.
“I need you to climb the tree again.”
“You writing another letter to God?” he asked.
“No. Not until I get His answer.”
“That’s dumb. You’re going to be waiting forever.”
She kicked her shoe at a gum wrapper in the sand, then glanced at Trevor. “Don’t you believe God talks to people?”
“Why should I? He doesn’t talk to me.”
Still, the boy stood and brushed the sand from his pants. Then, with Analisa happily tagging along, he walked toward the tree.
“See?” She pointed. “It’s much lower now because God wrote me back and put it where I could reach better.”
Trevor climbed on the bench, then stuck the scuffed toe of his sneaker into a little hole in the trunk. He reached for a branch, pulled himself up, and plucked the envelope from the spot where it rested.
The flap was open, like it had been read.
Trevor dropped it to her, but she missed, and it landed on the lawn. So she picked it up and pulled out the folded pink paper.
She gasped when she saw the writing below her own. God had answered. But there was a big problem.
Trevor jumped to the ground. “What’s the matter?”
“God wrote in cursive, so I can’t read it.”
