Mulberry Park. Judy Duarte
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letter, a pale blue note with brown writing, spoke of a child named Danny. There was no telling who the boy or his mother were, but apparently Analisa had reason to believe the family was strapped for cash and that they’d have to sell their house and move far away if the woman didn’t marry a hansum prince who liked kids and had a whole lot of money.
Today, as Claire sat on the concrete bench under the mulberry, her legs still tense and shaky from her run, she read the latest note drawn on pink paper with a green marker.
Dear God.
Trever dint use to beelve in you. He duz now. Thank you for the skate bord. Maybe you dint here me good when we prade about it. Trever reely wanted a red bike. The bord is ok. He is happy and rides it all the time. Did he thank you? I told him he shood.
Claire sat in the shade of the tree, just as she had each evening this week, and pondered whether she should answer this letter or not. Every other night she’d taken it with her, but now she was vacillating.
If she did answer, maybe she ought to respond as herself, a woman who’d merely found the letters.
Apparently, the child had a tremendous amount of faith and had been voicing her prayers out loud, too. She’d obviously asked God to give her friend a bike and believed he’d been granted a skateboard instead.
And speaking of skateboards…
In the distance, the sound of wheels on rough concrete drew her attention, and she glanced toward the parking lot, where a boy was practicing on a banged-up board—no helmet, no pads.
And no sign of any adult supervision.
As much as she’d like to mind her own business, the former mother in her, as rusty as it had become, couldn’t keep still. She folded Analisa’s letter and put it into the pocket of her shorts, then strode across the lawn to where the boy tried to balance on the skateboard, stumbling more often than not.
“Excuse me,” she said.
The boy, his scruffy brown hair badly in need of a trim, stopped in his tracks and gazed at her, his eyes wide and wary.
“Is your name Trevor?”
His brow furrowed as he nodded. “How’d you know that?”
“Just a lucky guess. I’d heard you had a skateboard.”
“Yeah.” He glanced down at the board that rested beside his untied shoes, then back at her. “I found it in a field, and I thought…Well, whatever. Is it yours?”
“No, but I couldn’t help worrying about you. Shouldn’t you be wearing protective gear?”
He shrugged. “I guess, but I don’t have any. Yet.”
Claire and Ron had purchased different safety gear for every sport or activity in which Erik had been involved. They were in the garage now, including the helmet and pads he’d used for his in-line skates.
Ron had packed it all away and told her to give it to the Salvation Army, but she’d been unable to part with anything. Unable to let go.
She opened her mouth to offer them to the boy, but couldn’t seem to utter the words. Instead, she asked, “Do your parents know you’re here, riding a skateboard in the park?”
“My mom is dead. And my dad doesn’t live with me.”
Claire’s heart, once stone-cold and buried with Erik, pulsed like a bleep on a hospital monitor. “Who’s looking after you?”
“Katie.”
Claire wanted to ask more questions, but refrained. It really wasn’t any of her business, and she couldn’t believe she’d interfered this much already. Of course, the boy was about the age Erik had been when…
She cleared the knot of emotion from her throat. “Accidents happen in the blink of an eye, Trevor. People get injured, especially small boys. Please be careful. For me?”
He shrugged. “Okay.” Then he nibbled on his bottom lip the way Erik used to do when he had something weighing on his mind. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“What’s that smell?”
“Excuse me?” Did she stink? She’d just finished her run and had been perspiring. “What are you talking about?”
“Your perfume. I can just barely smell it, but it’s nice. And powdery.” His eyes glistened. “Like the kind a mom might wear.”
She tried to utter a thank-you, but the words wadded up in her throat, making it hard to swallow, hard to breathe.
When it became apparent that she wasn’t going to answer his question, even though she’d meant to, he turned and walked away. His feet shuffled, his dirty, frayed shoelaces untied and slapping the ground.
“Trevor?” she called.
He stopped and glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah?”
“My perfume is called Everlasting. My mom used to wear it, too.”
He nodded.
“One more thing,” she said before he went on his way.
She spotted a now-what? in his eyes.
“Tie your shoes, okay?”
Their gazes locked, and a warm whisper blew through her chest like a spring thaw.
Neither of them moved.
“Please?”
A wry grin tugged at his lips. “You even sound like a mom.” Then he knelt on the ground and grabbed the strings, tying them into a double knot.
She wanted to say, “I am a mom.” But that wasn’t true anymore. Instead, she started for her car. As she reached into her pocket for the keys, her fingers brushed against Analisa’s letter. The one she’d found today.
Unable to help herself, she headed back to the mulberry tree to take a seat and pen an answer to the child’s letter.
But God only knew what she would say.
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