children to talk on the telephone? To write? To keep in touch somehow?
“Know what, Uncle Sam?” Analisa adjusted the doll, making it face her bowl of fruit.
Sam unwrapped the pastrami on rye, then tore open a bag of tortilla chips. “What’s that, honey?”
“Trevor said that dolls are dumb.”
Sam popped a chip in his mouth. “Who’s Trevor?”
Analisa pointed toward the playground, where the boy sat on the down side of the teeter-totter all by himself. “There he is.”
Sam slid a glance at Claire, eyes sparking, a grin tugging at his lips. “Someone needs to teach Trevor a little tact, especially when it comes to dealing with girls.”
“What’s tact? ” Analisa asked.
“It’s choosing your words carefully,” her uncle told her, “so you don’t offend someone.”
“What’s offend mean?”
He cleared his throat, glancing at Claire, before returning his attention to the child. “It means to hurt them or upset them.”
“Then Trevor really needs to learn it.” Analisa lifted the top off her sandwich and removed the slice of tomato.
“Trevor is still a child,” Claire said in the boy’s defense, “so that means he still has a lot to learn.”
“You’re a boy, too,” Analisa told Sam, “so maybe you can talk to him about it.”
“I don’t think a stranger ought to tell him about that sort of thing. Besides, it’s a lesson his parents should teach him.”
“Why don’t I talk to him?” Claire said. She had no idea why she’d volunteered, yet now that she’d opened her mouth, she wasn’t sure how to backpedal. “I’ll explain that Analisa loves Lucita as much as or more than he loves his skateboard.”
It’s the approach Claire would have used if Erik had been the one to make light of a doll that had become much more than a toy.
A shadow of sadness skulked over her again, as it often did whenever she thought about her son, and she tried her best to ignore it.
About that time, Mrs. Richards returned to the table with a thermos, unscrewed the lid, and filled a red plastic cup with herbal tea. Then she looked up and smiled sheepishly. “I knew I’d brought it today. I always do.”
Analisa agreed. “Mrs. Richards loves tea. And when she was a little girl like me, she used to have tea parties.”
Hilda smiled, then took a dainty sip from the plastic cup.
For the most part, they ate their lunch in silence. When Claire had finished her sandwich and fruit, she excused herself, saying she had to go. “I need to stop by the dry cleaners and the grocery store.”
Sam got to his feet. “If it’s okay with you, I’ll walk you to your car.”
“All right.”
As Sam began to pick up the used napkins and wrappers, Hilda shooed him away. “You go on back to the office, Mr. Dawson. I’ll clear the table. It’ll give me something to do.”
“All right, Mrs. Richards. Thanks.” After saying good-bye to Analisa and telling her he’d see her at home, Sam walked with Claire to the parking lot.
There was a light wind from the west, a salty ocean breeze that stirred the scent of his musky cologne. Their shoulders brushed once, twice.
The first time it happened, she didn’t think much of it. She just basked in an awareness of his bulk and his warmth. But the second touch triggered a flutter in her pulse that suggested they could become more than the friends he’d claimed they were.
Not liking the direction her thoughts had drifted and looking for a distraction, Claire glanced up ahead and saw Trevor. When his gaze met hers, he lifted his hand and wiggled his fingers.
She waved back. She’d promised to talk to him about Lucita, and she would—later. After Sam left.
For some reason, she felt compelled to extend her time with Sam, although she refused to ponder why.
“You know,” he said, interrupting her thoughts, “I’m not used to dealing with kids, especially girls.”
“I’m sure you’re doing just fine.”
He shrugged. “My home life was crappy when I
“Know what, Uncle Sam?” Analisa adjusted the doll, making it face her bowl of fruit.
Sam unwrapped the pastrami on rye, then tore open a bag of tortilla chips. “What’s that, honey?”
“Trevor said that dolls are dumb.”
Sam popped a chip in his mouth. “Who’s Trevor?”
Analisa pointed toward the playground, where the boy sat on the down side of the teeter-totter all by himself. “There he is.”
Sam slid a glance at Claire, eyes sparking, a grin tugging at his lips. “Someone needs to teach Trevor a little tact, especially when it comes to dealing with girls.”
“What’s tact? ” Analisa asked.
“It’s choosing your words carefully,” her uncle told her, “so you don’t offend someone.”
“What’s offend mean?”
He cleared his throat, glancing at Claire, before returning his attention to the child. “It means to hurt them or upset them.”
“Then Trevor really needs to learn it.” Analisa lifted the top off her sandwich and removed the slice of tomato.
“Trevor is still a child,” Claire said in the boy’s defense, “so that means he still has a lot to learn.”
“You’re a boy, too,” Analisa told Sam, “so maybe you can talk to him about it.”
“I don’t think a stranger ought to tell him about that sort of thing. Besides, it’s a lesson his parents should teach him.”
“Why don’t I talk to him?” Claire said. She had no idea why she’d volunteered, yet now that she’d opened her mouth, she wasn’t sure how to backpedal. “I’ll explain that Analisa loves Lucita as much as or more than he loves his skateboard.”
It’s the approach Claire would have used if Erik had been the one to make light of a doll that had become much more than a toy.
A shadow of sadness skulked over her again, as it often did whenever she thought about her son, and she tried her best to ignore it.
About that time, Mrs. Richards returned to the table with a thermos, unscrewed the lid, and filled a red plastic cup with herbal tea. Then she looked up and smiled sheepishly. “I knew I’d brought it today. I always do.”
Analisa agreed. “Mrs. Richards loves tea. And when she was a little girl like me, she used to have tea parties.”
Hilda smiled, then took a dainty sip from the plastic cup.
For the most part, they ate their lunch in silence. When Claire had finished her sandwich and fruit, she excused herself, saying she had to go. “I need to stop by the dry cleaners and the grocery store.”
Sam got to his feet. “If it’s okay with you, I’ll walk you to your car.”
“All right.”
As Sam began to pick up the used napkins and wrappers, Hilda shooed him away. “You go on back to the office, Mr. Dawson. I’ll clear the table. It’ll give me something to do.”
“All right, Mrs. Richards. Thanks.” After saying good-bye to Analisa and telling her he’d see her at home, Sam walked with Claire to the parking lot.
There was a light wind from the west, a salty ocean breeze that stirred the scent of his musky cologne. Their shoulders brushed once, twice.
The first time it happened, she didn’t think much of it. She just basked in an awareness of his bulk and his warmth. But the second touch triggered a flutter in her pulse that suggested they could become more than the friends he’d claimed they were.
Not liking the direction her thoughts had drifted and looking for a distraction, Claire glanced up ahead and saw Trevor. When his gaze met hers, he lifted his hand and wiggled his fingers.
She waved back. She’d promised to talk to him about Lucita, and she would—later. After Sam left.
For some reason, she felt compelled to extend her time with Sam, although she refused to ponder why.
“You know,” he said, interrupting her thoughts, “I’m not used to dealing with kids, especially girls.”
“I’m sure you’re doing just fine.”
He shrugged. “My home life was crappy when I
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