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Chapter One
February
Tim Kent collected the condolences cards and letters he had finished reading. He would send thank you notes tomorrow, attaching the prayer images the church chaplain had given him—a sad duty—but then every one of his days had turned gloomy since the plane accident that had claimed his cherished Annette.
“Daddy, can I ask my best friend Debbie to come and play with me?”
Playing with her friend might put a smile on his seven-year-old daughter’s face. Brianna’s life hadn’t been easy these last two weeks as she had obediently held his hand and stuck to his side from one depressing official task to the other.
“Sure, but only until five o’clock. We’re going out for dinner.”
“Again? We went out to dinner last night and the night before, and the night … Why can’t you cook something, Daddy?”
“I don’t know how to cook, pumpkin.” The number of things he’d learned to do in the last two weeks could have earned him a ticket to paradise, but cooking hadn’t found its way into his new schedule yet.
“Well, learn to cook.” Brianna stomped her foot on the kitchen tiles. “It’s not difficult. Open your phone like Mommy did and turn on the stove.”
Annoyed by his daughter’s outburst, he huffed. So that was how Annette cooked. She’d just followed recipes on her phone. Eventually, he might take Brianna’s advice, although he found it much easier to visit the Italian restaurant around the corner. No need to waste his time cooking or dirtying the kitchen.
“Da-a-ddy, call Debbie’s mommy.” Ready to throw a temper tantrum, Brianna hopped from one foot to the other. “I wanna play.”
Where on earth would he find Debbie’s mother’s number?
“Did she give you her number?”
“No, you said I’m too young to talk on the phone. Can we go pick her up?”
Controlling his impatience, Tim crouched next to his daughter and caressed her hair to help her calm down. “Pumpkin, we need an address for that, but we don’t—”
“Look at those envelopes, Daddy. Debbie said her mommy sent you a cardcauseshe couldn’t come to the school.”
“Ah.” He frowned and collected the envelopes he’d just set aside.
His wife had been an English teacher for the fifth and sixth grades at the Cincinnati parochial school attended by Brianna and Debbie. All Saints’ administration had organized a wake for the students and parents to honor Ms. Annette and present their condolences to her family. Tim hadn’t met Debbie and her mother at the sad event. Had the mother sent him a card like many other parents who couldn’t attend?
“What’s your friend’s last name?”
“She’s Debbie Perkins.”
“All right. Let me look.” He browsed through the cards again and found one signed by Erin Perkins. The return-address label on the envelope allowed him to dig up a phone number.
“You got it, Daddy?”
“Maybe. Hold on, pumpkin. I’ll try this number.” He dialed the number and asked for Mrs. Erin Perkins.
“Speaking,” a soft voice answered.
“Mrs. Perkins, I’m Tim Kent. I received a sympathy card from you and want to thank you for your kind thoughts.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Kent. I’m sorry I couldn’t attend your late wife’s wake. She was my son’s teacher. I can assure you she was much loved by her pupils and will be missed by the school.”
“Thank you. I’m also calling because my daughter, Brianna, is your daughter Debbie’s friend. Brianna would love to invite Debbie to come and play with her this afternoon around two o’clock. I can pick her up.”
“No need. I’ll drop her at two, but I’d appreciate it if you bring her back around five.”
“I’ll be happy to.”
“Thank you. I heard the two girls are good buddies.”
