by Neta Jackson
Philip walked slowly into the living room. As far as he could tell, only one easy chair was missing, plus some framed photographs from the walls. That was it.
Running a hand through his dark hair, he stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over Lake Shore Drive and Lake Michigan beyond, battling his emotions. Gabby had more chutzpah than he’d given her credit for. She’d been in the penthouse once before when he wasn’t there—had left a glass with her lipstick on it as a calling card. Huh. He should’ve been warned. In spite of himself, a tiny smile curled one edge of his mouth. This raid was like the old Gabby—impetuous, daring—like the girl in the photo.
The tiny smile died. Now she was gone, along with her stuff.
It wasn’t the things she’d taken that bothered him so much, but what it meant. He hadn’t thought it would go this far! Was it too late to turn things around? She’d not only taken her stuff but everything that belonged to P.J. and Paul too!
An unexpected wave of loss swept over him . . . but it was drowned a moment later by a larger surge of anger. No! No way was she going to just take the boys away from him. He swore under his breath. Where were the boys supposed to sleep when they came to visit? And now he was fifteen grand in the hole! He couldn’t just go out and buy new furniture for their bedrooms, not to mention CD players, clothes, sports equipment—all the stuff it took to keep two preteens housed and entertained. He didn’t have time for this crap—
A vaguely familiar figure caught his eye thirty-two stories below in the narrow park that created a verdant buffer between the luxury high-rise and Lake Shore Drive. Looked kind of like the old bag lady Gabby had run into, the one who’d started this whole mess. She had a yellow dog with her this time . . . Wait. Philip leaned closer to the wraparound window and squinted. Not just any yellow dog. That was Dandy! His mother-in-law’s dog—or Gabby’s dog now that her mother had passed. What was that old woman doing with Gabby’s dog? Stupid question. She probably stole him while Gabby was out in North Dakota burying her mother. Give those thieving street people a dime, and they’d rob you blind.
Well, the old bag wasn’t going to get away with it!
With a reckless energy that surprised even Philip after his short night at the casino hotel, he strode out of the penthouse and back into the elevator . . . and a few minutes later he was half-running across the frontage road between Richmond Towers and the park. “Hey, you!” he yelled. What was her name? Couldn’t remember it. “You with the dog!”
The old lady had sat down on a bench, but she looked up as he ran toward her. The dog made a low guttural noise. Philip stopped. “Is that Dandy? Martha Shepherd’s dog?”
She looked him up and down, narrow eyes glittering between sagging folds of skin. “Was.”
So she was going to play games. He wanted to shake her. “Okay, so you know Mrs. Shepherd died a week ago. But that dog belongs to my wife now. Our son Paul is crazy about that dog. You—whatever your name is—you stole him. Give him back— now.” He thrust a hand out, ready to jerk the leash out of her hand if she didn’t give it up.
The old woman stood up. “Well! Don’t that just rot my socks. You sayin’ you want the dog?” She took a menacing step in his direction. Dandy growled again, his top lip curling over his canines. Philip pulled his hand back. “You?” she hissed. “Mister high-an’-mighty Philip Fairbanks? Who don’t even have the decency to give food an’ shelter to that wife you mentioned two breaths ago. You kicked her out on the street, left her no place to go. Now you want a dog?”
She stabbed a finger in his chest so hard it hurt. Startled, Philip took a step backward. “And if ’n I got my facts straight, you don’t even have time ta take care o’ them two boys o’ yours. Just packed ’em off to they grandfolks. Guess you thinkin’ this dog can take their place.”
Philip felt his face flush. She had no right—
“Oh yeah. Almost fergot. You kicked poor Miss Martha outta your fancy digs too. But, hey.” The old lady shrugged. “Guess you figgered if ol’ Lucy here could live out in the street, must be good enough for your wife and her ol’ lady too. Why, I’m kinda flattered—for about half a second.”
She punched that stubby finger in his chest again. “But I feel for ya, Mister Fairbanks. Now that you don’ got no wife, no kids, no mother-in-law ta take care of, must get kinda lonely up there in the sky. Guess you be needin’ a dog to take care of. Ain’t so hard. Just gotta take him for a walk mornin’ an’ evenin’, and pick up his poops—they got a law, see, says ya hafta clean up after ya dog. Sign’s right over there.” She jerked a thumb somewhere behind her. “So . . . here.” She held out the leash in her clawlike hand. “Guess he’s yours. Go on. Take him.”
Philip stared at the old woman . . . Lucy, that was her name. The old bag was nuts! He suddenly felt foolish. What had he intended to do? Return the dog to Gabby, like a peace offering? Maybe . . . but mostly, he’d just been angry. Angry at everything. Nothing was going right.
He threw up his hands. “Look. I can’t take the dog now. I have to go to work. But you . . .” He shook a finger at her, trying to regain the upper hand. “You have no business with that dog. An old lady like you can’t take care of a dog living out on the streets. Just take the dog back to Gabrielle, wherever she is. If I see you around here again with Dandy, I’ll . . . I’ll call the police.”
Philip wheeled and walked stiffly back toward Richmond Towers. He gave a fierce shake of his head, but Lucy’s words still burned in his ears.
chapter 1
THREE WEEKS LATER, AUGUST 2006
For the umpteenth time, my twelve-year-old jumped up from the living room floor where he and his older brother had been squabbling over last Sunday’s newspaper comics and peered out the front bay window. “Mom! When’s Dad coming? He said six and it’s already six thirty!”
“Yeah, and wherever we’re going for supper, it better be air-conditioned.” His older brother’s voice rode the edge between whining and wilting. “All that fan’s doing is moving hot air around, Mom.”
I’d been hanging around the living room for the past half hour, rearranging books in the built-in bookcase on either side of the painted brick gas fireplace and watering the new houseplants my coworkers at the Manna House Women’s Shelter had given me as housewarming gifts, not wanting to miss even one minute of precious time with Paul and P.J. before their dad came to pick them up. I bit back the first words that rushed to my mouth— “Ask him why he’s late!”—and instead chirped, “He’ll be here any minute, I’m sure. Friday night traffic can be a beast, you know.”
Like a prophecy fulfilled, we heard two short honks outside. “See? There he is.”
Both Paul and P.J. grabbed their duffel bags and scurried for the front door. I followed them outside, trying to imprint the backs of their heads in my mind to last me for the next twenty-four hours until Philip returned them. Free from boarding school regulations, Paul’s hair had grown back into the tousled chestnutred curls that reminded me of my own at that age. P.J.’s hair was dark and straight like his dad’s, but the two inches he’d added over the summer were still a startling revelation, as if his new height had been attached to his fourteenth birthday—the birthday I’d missed.
I’d missed Paul’s birthday too, for that matter. But that was going to change this weekend.
“Hey!” I called after them. “I need a good-bye hug.”
“Oh yeah! Sorry, Mom.” Paul did an about-face, ran back to give me a smack, then disappeared into the backseat of the Lexus. P.J. waited until I caught up to him on the sidewalk and let me give him a hug, then he opened the front passenger door and lowered his lanky body inside.
I gave a little wave as the car pulled away, a lump crowding into my throat.
So this is my new reality.
I should be in that car too, all of us going out together for pizza, or whatever they were going to do tonight.
Instead, I turned and looked at the three-story six-flat that was now my home. A
classic Chicago brick with bay windows at the front of each apartment. Late afternoon sun—still muggy and warm—trickled through the leaves of the trees lining the mostly residential street, casting speckled light and shadows dancing on the brick facade. My new apartment was on the first floor—a gift I gratefully embraced every time I looked out the front windows and saw the ground only seven feet down. No more dizzying heights.
I brushed a damp curl off my forehead. No use moping. I had more phone calls to make if I was going to pull off this welcome-home-birthday-party surprise that Jodi Baxter and I’d been cooking up. The boys had arrived last weekend from Virginia, where they’d been staying with Philip’s parents the last six weeks, but I’d wanted to give them a week to get adjusted to the new apartment and the new situation between Philip and me before I invited people over to celebrate. Frankly, as hard as it was to let the boys out of my sight, Philip’s taking the boys for tonight and tomorrow gave me time to make party food and do some shopping. I’d better get to it.
I ran up the six wide steps leading into the building and into the small foyer with its six gleaming mailboxes, three on each side—and stopped. I’d come out without my keys! The inside foyer door was locked—and there was no one in my apartment to buzz me in.
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
I peered through the glass panels of the foyer door. My apartment door to the right stood open. Well, that was half the battle. If I could get through the foyer door, I was in. The only thing standing between me and getting inside were the glass windowpanes in the door. Huh. All I had to do was break one, reach inside, and open the handle—
Nope. A broken windowpane in the door would be an open invitation for any stray Tom, Dick, or Harry to walk into the building too.
I walked back outside and looked at my bay windows. The fan sat in the open window closest to the steps—but would still be a long reach, even if I got up on the wide cement “arms” of the low wall on either side of the outside landing where I stood. Even if I could reach it, I’d have to find a way to take the screen out first. If only I had something sturdy to stand on so I could reach it from below.
Rats! I sat down on the top step and buried my face in my hands. This was so . . . so stupid! How in the world was I going to get in? Even my cell phone was inside the apartment—but a lot of good it’d do me, even if I had it. Anybody I called wouldn’t have a key to my place anyway. Guess I’d have to sit here until one of the other residents in the building came home, and— Wait a minute! I stood up, went back inside the foyer, and pushed the buzzer of the apartment above me. I waited thirty seconds—no response. I pushed the third-floor buzzer. Still no response. Oh, please, please, somebody be home. I crossed to the other side of the foyer and pushed the buzzer for the other third-floor apartment and waited. Suddenly the intercom crackled.
“Yeah?”
“It’s Gabby Fairbanks in the first-floor apartment! I—”
“Who?”
“Gabby Fairbanks! First-floor apartment! I—”
“You got the wrong apartment. No Fairbanks up here.”
“No, wait—” The intercom went dead.
I pushed the buzzer again and leaned on it this time.
The intercom came alive. “What?”
“I’m locked out! Can you let me in?”
“Oh. Wait a minnit . . .” The intercom went dead.
I waited a good five minutes, but finally a black dude in a big T-shirt, baggy jeans, and bare feet came down the stairs and pulled open the foyer door. “Thank you so much,” I gushed, slipping inside before he changed his mind. “Gotta remember to take my keys. So sorry to bother you.”
The young man, maybe late twenties, jerked his head at my open door. “That your apartment?”
“Yes. I just moved in a few weeks ago. My name’s Gabby. You are . . . ?”
“Cinco. My brother lives up on third. He’s letting me crash there.”
“Oh. Nice to meet you. Thanks for helping me out.” I held out my hand and he shook it awkwardly, then I slipped into my apartment and let out a long breath. I really should get to know my neighbors in the building.
Although I’d have to hurry up, because if my dream came true, I might have new neighbors before long.
chapter 2
Jodi Baxter showed up at my apartment at noon the next day, juggling a cake carrier and two shopping bags. “The keyboard’s in the van,” she huffed, dumping her armload on the living room floor. Then she clamped her hand over her mouth. “Paul’s not here, is he?” she whispered.
I shook my head with a laugh. “Told you, the boys are with their dad today. The stuff for P.J. came too, right?”
My friend nodded. “Yeah, but it’s going to take two of us to get those boxes in. Whew! It’s hot in here. You got enough fans?”
“Not really. I’ve got three. We just move them around.” Oh, for central air. I propped open the foyer door with a wastebasket and followed her into the sultry steam bath outside—my house keys safely hooked to a belt loop on my jeans as added insurance—and the two of us carried in the long, heavy box from the back of the Baxter minivan. On the second trip we brought in the other box, not as heavy but big and square. We set them on the wooden window seat in front of the open bay windows in the sunroom just off the living room. One fan on the highest setting moved the muggy air around.
“Wow.” I ran my hand along the length of the long box. “I hope Paul likes it. Thanks for letting me have it sent to your house. I didn’t want to risk the UPS guy showing up here when I was at work—or worse, when the boys were here.”
“No problem. Oh, by the way . . .” Jodi dug into one of her shopping bags. “I snatched a couple of sandwich plates from Manna House instead of staying for lunch after the typing class. Tuna on white bread, chips, and potato salad. Figured you’d be busy cooking for tonight, but we need lunch, right?”
I grinned as I took the paper plates she handed to me, neatly wrapped in aluminum foil, and headed down the long hallway that led to the kitchen in the back. “You’d make a good Jewish mother, Jodi Baxter,” I tossed over my shoulder. “How’d the typing class at the shelter go today?”
Jodi lugged her bags down the hallway right after me. “It was okay. Althea wasn’t there. Somebody said she’s no longer on the bed list. But Kim and Wanda are still coming—Kim’s been practicing on the computer, I can tell—and a new girl I hadn’t met before . . . Tawny or something like that. Real young. What’s her story?”
I peeled the foil from the paper plates, poured two glasses of apple juice from the fridge, and set them on the breakfast nook table—the one I’d hauled away from the penthouse at Richmond Towers. “Don’t know.” I shrugged, plopping into a chair. “She’s only been at the shelter two or three days.” I started to bite into the tuna sandwich and then looked guiltily at Jodi. “You, um, wanna pray for the food?”
Jodi laughed. “Sure.” She closed her eyes and was quiet a moment. I watched her through half-closed lids, her brown shoulder-length hair swinging forward as she bowed her head. Maybe she was just going to give thanks silently—but then she started to pray aloud, so I closed my eyes.
“Thanks, Jesus, for being present with us today. Thanks for this food You provided for the ladies at Manna House—and for us.” She giggled a little. “And thank You for the special occasions we’re celebrating today—Paul and P.J. being back home with their mom, and for their birthdays Gabby didn’t get to celebrate a few weeks ago. And that we can celebrate a birthday for little Gracie, who was born sometime in this month a year ago. Oh, God! You have done so much in such a short time for that precious little girl . . .”
Jodi stopped. I opened my eyes. She was fishing for a tissue but coming up short. I handed her a paper napkin.
“Sorry.” She blew her nose. “Had a flash about the first time I saw Gracie and her birth mom, huddled in a doorway last November. Hoo boy.” Jodi shook her head. “Had no idea when Denny and I took them to the shelter that Carmelita was a drug
addict—or that my son and his fiancée would end up adopting her baby when she died. But now look at us—celebrating Gracie’s first birthday.” Jodi eyed me sideways. “Even though I’m waaay too young to be a grandmother.”
I laughed. “Not to mention your Josh is waaay too young to be a daddy. What is he, twenty?”
“Almost twenty-two. But it feels like he just graduated from high school. Uh . . . did I ever say amen? Amen, Lord.” “Grandma Jodi” took a bite of her sandwich and wrinkled her nose at it. “Ugh, kind of soggy. Sorry.”
Soggy or not, we were both hungry. As we scarfed down our lunch from the shelter, I thought about what Jodi had said about Gracie. From what little I knew, Gracie’s short life had been nothing short of a miracle. After Carmelita was discovered in a drug house dead of an overdose, the staff at Manna House had found a note among her things saying if anything ever happened to her, she wanted Edesa Reyes, one of the shelter volunteers, to keep her baby. Edesa, a young black woman in the U.S. on a student visa from Honduras, spoke fluent Spanish and had bonded quickly with Carmelita. But when Carmelita died, Edesa’s fiancé, Josh Baxter, pushed up their wedding date so Carmelita’s orphaned baby could have a mom and a dad.
And now it was August. Nine months since Gracie’s mother had died. Eight months after Josh and Edesa Baxter’s Christmas wedding. Four months since Philip and I moved to Chicago chasing Philip’s ambitions. Three and a half months since I tripped over a homeless woman and ended up with a job at the Manna House Women’s Shelter. Two months since my husband said I wasn’t the “corporate wife” he needed . . . since he’d kicked me out and sent our sons away, and I’d ended up on the shelter’s bed list myself.
Three short weeks since I’d moved into this apartment and could finally bring my sons home . . .
