by Judy Duarte
Had she felt it, too?
For a moment, another unfamiliar sense of adolescent insecurity settled over him, but he shrugged it off, letting his hand drop to his side.
Still, his pulse remained escalated, his senses on alert.
“Actually,” Claire said, “it was good for me to spend the day with Analisa. I enjoyed being with her, and it made the time pass quickly.”
Did her Saturdays usually drag?
Before he could give it much thought, Analisa skipped back into the living room, and Claire excused herself and headed for the kitchen.
Yet Sam couldn’t quite tear his eyes away from Claire, from the gentle sway of her gait.
“Uncle Sam.” Analisa gave his shirtsleeve a tug. “Did you hear me?”
“I’m sorry, honey. My mind sort of wandered off for a moment.”
“That’s okay.” She plopped onto the sofa, then patted the spot right next to her. “Sit here, okay? That way, I can see the pictures when you tell me the story.”
Normally, Hilda read to Analisa in the evenings. In fact, Sam had allowed the nanny free rein with a lot of things. After all, what had he known about kids and their needs?
Of course, now there were a lot of things he’d have to do himself, like reading out loud about zany fairies and a princess with strawberry blond hair.
They’d just begun a third reading of the story when Claire called them to dinner and led them to a formal dining room, where silver candlesticks and a daisy-filled crystal vase adorned the table.
“Aren’t you going to light the candles?” Analisa asked.
Claire looked at Sam, cocked her head slightly, and shrugged a single shoulder. “I told her it was a special dinner. I haven’t cooked for anyone other than myself in a long time.”
He didn’t ask how long. Didn’t need to.
“So,” she said, “while we’re pulling out all the stops, how about a bottle of chianti? I’ve got some in the wine cabinet.”
“Sounds great.”
Minutes later, Sam dug into the best spaghetti sauce he’d eaten in a long time.
“You know,” Claire said, while twirling long strands of pasta onto her fork, “I haven’t had a vacation in the past couple of years, so if it would help, I can take time off and babysit Analisa while Hilda is in the hospital.”
The offer both surprised him and provided a sense of relief. “Are you sure?”
“Actually, I think it would be good for both of us.” She shrugged, yet a pink flush slid across her cheeks. “I mean for Analisa and me.”
It would be good for Sam, too. At least, temporarily.
Coming home to a beautiful woman, a happy child, and a home-cooked meal was a domestic picture that, after his lousy childhood, he’d never imagined.
Never even considered.
Chapter 10
Claire stood in the kitchen scooping vanilla ice cream from a brand-new carton and placing it into parfait bowls, while Sam and Analisa waited in the dining room.
The meal she’d just eaten, one shared at the table instead of consumed from a take-out container in front of the television, had been one of the nicest she’d had in a long, long time.
There’d been a few awkward moments, though. Not the kind where restless noodles rebelled against a fork or spaghetti sauce splattered on a white cotton dress, but the cheek-warming kind that made a woman feel like…
Well…like a woman again. And now that dinner was over, Claire was reluctant to see the evening end.
She placed three bowls of ice cream, spoons, and a plate of frosted sugar cookies onto a tray, then returned to the dining room.
As she neared the table, Sam’s eyes lit up. “Would you look at that? Homemade Christmas cookies. And in July.”
“But since it’s not Christmas, these are regular cookies.” Analisa pointed to the platter. “See? They’re cowbells, pinecone trees, and little fawns like Bambi.”
“Don’t forget the stars.” Claire passed out the ice cream, then offered Analisa her choice from the platter.
The little girl bent her arms, placed her elbows on the table, and propped up her chin in the palms of her hands, studying each cookie carefully. She settled on a yellow deer with red candy sprinkles on its back.
Claire held out the plate to Sam, and he chose a pinecone tree—or maybe, due to the color of the frosting, it was a “blue fir.”
The conversation stilled as they dug into the ice cream and munched on sugar cookies made from an old family recipe—a holiday treat that was just as yummy as Claire had remembered. And they’d soon eaten their fill.
“I really appreciate you looking after Analisa for me.” Sam reached into his pocket and withdrew a business card. “If you’ve got a pen handy, I’ll jot down my home phone number for you, as well as my address—just in case you need them.”
After retrieving a pen from the kitchen, Claire handed it to Sam. She watched him write, his brow furrowed, his expression intense, his profile angular and strong.
When he gave her the card, she flicked her thumb against the edge, then flipped it over to the back, where he’d written his address in firm, decisive letters—15692 Abernathy Place.
“What time would you like me to drop her off on Monday morning?” he asked.
Claire had been thinking about this moment all afternoon. The only toys she had at her house were Erik’s. Earlier today, to avoid the discomfort of allowing another child in Erik’s room and the questions she might face, Claire had suggested they make cookies and prepare dinner for Sam, a ploy she couldn’t use every day. So she’d come up with a better idea. “Why don’t I come to your house Monday morning? I think it might be best for Analisa to be in her own environment.”
And it would be best for Claire, too.
“All right.” Sam stood and began to gather the bowls from the table.
“You don’t need to worry about the dishes. I’ll clean up after you leave.” It would give her something to do as the night grew dark and quiet.
“Then I’ll just take these to the sink. It’s the least I can do for you. So, if you’ll just show me the way…”
Claire placed the empty cookie platter on the tray and carried it to the kitchen.
Sam followed. “You know, we haven’t talked about money, but I plan to pay you for looking after Analisa.”
“That’s not necessary.” She set the tray near the sink. “I wouldn’t have offered if I hadn’t wanted to do it.”
“But—”
She placed a hand on his chest. “Hold the argument, counselor.” Then, sensing the boldness of her touch, she stepped back and crossed her arms. “I don’t need the money.”
Silence stretched between them, and so did the memory of the civil suit her ex-husband had insisted upon filing. From the day she received it, Claire’s share of the settlement just sat in the bank, racking up interest in a high-yield account, a fund she had no intention of tapping or spending. Even so, her job paid well enough and her vacation time would be compensated. She didn’t need a nanny’s wage to watch Analisa.
“Besides,” she added, “I really enjoyed my afternoon with your niece. Babysitting her won’t be a chore. The time together will be good for both of us.”
She’d said as much earlier—during dinner. At the time, she’d been thinking of her and Analisa, but as she looked into Sam’s eyes and felt a stirring, a longing of some kind, the only “us” she could think of included him.
They stood suspended in a quiet, pensive moment, and their gazes locked.
Sam lifted a hand and ran his knuckles along her cheek. “Nevertheless, I still owe you.”
The suggestion in his tone and the warmth of his touch slid through her, backing her heart so far into a corner that it had no choice but to respond.
“Hey.” Analisa’s voice sounded from the doorway. “What are you guys doing?”
Sam lowered his hand, then glanced at the child. “We were just talking.”
Maybe so, but for a momen
t, there’d been plenty of other options.
“Are you ready to go home?” he asked his niece.
Analisa nodded, and Sam returned his focus to Claire. “I guess we’d better call it a night. It’ll be her bedtime soon.”
“Of course.”
“Uh-oh,” Analisa said. “I’d better go and get Lucita and her new clothes. I left them in the living room by the sofa.”
“Lucita has new clothes?” Sam asked.
Claire smiled, as both pride and humility struggled for a foothold in her heart. “I figured the doll needed a makeover.”
“You’re full of surprises. Pleasant ones. Thanks.”
“It was fun. And seeing her happy made it all worthwhile.”
Claire followed Sam and Analisa to the entry, where he paused. She sensed a push-pull going on, although she might be mistaken. Maybe she was the only one wishing they didn’t have to leave so soon.
“Thanks again for watching Analisa,” he said. “And for dinner. It was great.”
“You’re more than welcome.”
As Sam and Analisa walked down the steps and headed to his SUV, a black Cadillac Esplanade, Claire stood in the doorway, under the yellow glow of the porch light. She watched them until the engine roared to life and the headlights flicked on. Then she tore herself away from the view and closed the door.
Something had happened today, something nice that, ironically, had sprung from Hilda’s misfortune.
Claire had gone hours without thinking about Erik or feeling the brittle ache of grief.
Even now, as she stood in the center of her living room alone, the sorrow no longer clawed in her chest. Instead, a memory-laced sadness lingered where the pain used to be.
Her boss and coworkers had been encouraging her to take some time off, but prior to today, the thought of a vacation held little appeal. So when she’d called her supervisor at home this afternoon, he’d been surprised but had given an immediate okay.
For the first time in what seemed like forever, Claire actually had something other than work to look forward to. And someone who needed her.
Analisa was a sweet little girl and so full of life. Claire had been drawn to her ever since reading that very first letter to God.
Speaking of which…
Claire made her way to the dresser in her bedroom, where she kept her purse, and retrieved the yellow envelope that contained the latest note. She studied the familiar script on the front: To God From Analisa.
Claire envisioned the little blonde sitting in her bedroom, carefully penning each word in a heartfelt letter meant to reach Heaven.
A letter Claire still intended to read but not answer.
She carried it to her bed and sat on the edge of the mattress, then tore open the flap and withdrew the note inside.
Dear God.
Thank you for Clare the helper angel. Trever told me to stop riting to you cuz your to buzy. But I told him your never to buzy for us. Im glad you lisen and help in lots of difernt ways. Will you help Trever? He is reely sad but wont tell me why. I think its cuz he doznt have a mom or dad. Can you give him new ones?
Love Analisa
With an ache in her heart, Claire continued to sit on the edge of her mattress for the longest time, studying the letter through a watery blur.
She’d sensed Trevor’s sadness, too. And she wasn’t sure what was causing it. Loneliness, she suspected.
When she’d driven him home today, he’d directed her to the apartment complex in which he lived, a bluish-gray, paint-chipped building not far from Paddy’s Pub in the seedy part of town.
As he’d climbed from the backseat with the skateboard in his arms, he’d thanked her.
She hadn’t really done anything except to protect him from a bully and drive him home. Nothing that would make his world or his life any better. Not knowing what else to say, she’d uttered a simple, “You’re welcome.”
Rather than drive away the moment he was out of her car, she’d waited to make sure he got inside safely, watched as he’d trudged along a sidewalk that needed sweeping and climbed a stairway.
He’d reached into his pocket and withdrawn a key strung through a fuzzy piece of braided red yarn. When he’d turned and lifted his hand in a little wave, raw emotion rushed her chest. She’d felt similar grief before, but this time it was for someone other than Erik, other than herself.
Instead, it was for Trevor and all the lonely little boys and girls in the world.
With one last smile, Trevor gave the term “latchkey kid” a dirt-smudged face that would remain indelibly etched in Claire’s mind.
And in her heart.
Trevor was sitting on the sofa in front of the television when Katie got home from work.
“Hey, you’re still up.” She put her purse on the recliner and kicked off her shoes. “Sorry I’m late. Rhonda called in sick again, so I had to cover her shift until someone else got there.”
“That’s okay.” He was used to being alone, even though he didn’t always like it.
He spotted a greasy red stain on the front of the brown vest the restaurant made all their waitresses wear, which made him think she’d had a hard day. He didn’t ask, though. It just made him feel sad when things went bad for her.
She took the rubber band out of her long brown hair, then massaged her scalp with her fingertips. Trevor didn’t know why they made her keep her hair fixed like that. It looked prettier when she let it hang down.
“Did you eat?” she asked.
“Yeah. Soup and crackers.”
She nodded, then headed to the kitchen. He could hear the cupboards opening and closing. The fridge, too.
The restaurant gave her a free meal each day, and sometimes, when she could, she’d sneak stuff home to him—like day-old donuts or a slice of pie. But he guessed she’d been too busy to get a break today.
When she returned to the living room, she carried a plate of crackers and cheese and a glass of milk. She looked especially tired tonight. Maybe that was because she didn’t wear much makeup anymore.
“Did you get the mail today?” she asked.
Uh-oh. After Mrs. Harper had dropped him off, he came inside and stayed there. “Sorry. I forgot.”
“I was hoping there might be a letter from your father. It’s been a while since we heard from him.”
As much as Trevor wanted news about his dad, he hoped Katie didn’t send him to the mailbox. The light overhead wasn’t working and it flickered on and off like the kind in a mad scientist’s lab.
“Do you want to check the mailbox?” Katie took a seat in the recliner and placed her glass of milk on the lamp stand. “Or should I?”
As spooky as it was out there, Trevor wanted to ask Katie to do it. But he didn’t like seeing her go outside at night, either. She was a grown-up, but she wasn’t very big or strong.
What if something happened to her? Then where would he be?
“I guess we could go together,” he told her.
Trevor never used to get too scared about anything when he was a little kid. And once his dad came home—if he ever did—things wouldn’t be so scary anymore. Like the voices of angry neighbors that woke him up at night. Or the squeal of tires and sirens.
And if that dumb teenager showed up looking for Trevor and acting all tough, Trevor wouldn’t have anything to worry about. He’d just go and get his dad who would kick the kid’s butt.
Of course, his father hadn’t hung out a whole lot at home before anyway. And even if things changed, like Katie promised they would, his dad might not want to fight anyone over a skateboard. But you know what?
Trevor would gladly trade the skateboard just to have his dad home again.
Sometimes, he forgot what it was even like having a regular family.
When Katie finished her crackers, she slipped on her shoes again. “Come on. Let’s go get the mail.”
Trevor stood up and joined her at the door. “Do you think my dad will come home soon?”
; “I sure hope so.”
So did Trevor.
Not having parents sucked.
Pacifica General Hospital, a sprawling, salmon-colored structure with a brown-tiled roof, sat on a hilltop in Fairbrook, overlooking the ocean. There, in a small blue-walled room located just off the intensive care unit, Walter had waited all afternoon and well into the evening to see Hilda.
He’d had more than his share of medical facilities over the years. His first encounter was at a military hospital in Japan during the Korean War, where he’d been treated for frostbite. After his discharge, he’d visited a couple of his more seriously injured buddies who’d been recuperating from wounds received at the Chosin Reservoir. Guys who’d been braver and more heroic in battle than Walter had been. Soldiers who’d deserved the medals they’d received and hadn’t shoved them into an old shoebox and stored them at the back of the closet.
His second experience was during those long, trying days following Margie’s heart attack, when he’d camped out in a chair in her room. It had just about choked the life out of him to watch them unhook the tubes and wires that had kept her body going even though her essence had already left.
Yep. Walter hated hospitals and had never expected to go inside another one again.
He would have visited Carl, though—if the call had come in soon enough. As it was, Walter received word of his friend’s death and upcoming funeral over the telephone. One of those oh-by-the-way revelations that had knocked him to his knees with the caller being none the wiser.
So now he sat, unsure whether he ought to bolt from his seat and run to his car or if he should pace the floors until someone came and told him Hilda was going to be fine. That all she needed was a pill or a shot to fix her right up.
“Mr. Klinefelter?” a female voice sounded from the doorway.
He stood. “Yes?”
A slight, dark-haired woman wearing a white lab coat reached out to shake his hand. “I’m Dr. Singh.”
He tried to read a quick diagnosis in her expression, but failed. “How is Hilda doing?”
