"It's June," I exclaimed.

"No better time to start. Early prep work separates winners from whiners. We draft in fifty-two days. Truth be told, I'm a shade behind my normal pace. Any other summer, I'd already have the big guys, my top five picks. This year, time got away from me. No choice but to cram and hope for the best. Can't do worse than last fall."

"That bad?"

"The criminal with the gun destroyed my chance of winning. Plus, my number two guy blew his knee. Maybe just as well I didn't take it all, though. Got in a big stinkin' fight with Ruth. All the team owners chip in $50 to maybe win $500, but we have fun for sixteen weeks. Can't begrudge ladies a harmless distraction. You know, Rutha"she calls it gambling and doesn't approve. Wanted me to give my winnings to her chess club. To develop young players, she claimed. I wanted the dough to go to the breast cancer foundation. Argument ripped us to pieces, and I never won."

"The argument?" I teased.

"That, too. But, boy, I wanted that crystal football trophy and braggin' rights."

"Maybe this year," I said cheerfully.

She shrugged her shoulders in a relaxed fashion. "Enough about me. No work today?"

I took a deep breath, timed perfectly with David's respirator. "Not yet. I went on a field trip with Ashley's class. We spent the morning at the grocery store, practicing shopping."

"You could use some brushing up," Fran said, a gleam in her eye.

"Funny."

"Nothing pressing at Marketing Consultants?"

I pulled up next to her and sank into a chair. "Oh, there's plenty to do. I just don't feel like doing any of it."

"Can't blame you." She closed her magazine and leaned back until the sun coming through the window shined on her gray buzz.

I sighed. "I'm going to lose my business."

She didn't open her eyes. "Nonsense."

"I'm serious." I ran my fingers through sweat-drenched hair. "We missed a deadline on Monday."

"Happens all the time in business, Kris," she said easily.

"Not mine. I've done 3,000 projects and never missed one."

"You were due."

"Maybe." I blew the air out of my cheeks. "Yesterday, I yelled at a client."

"First time for that, too?"

"Of course, I said, offended.

"He deserve it?"

"Shea"and yes."

"Forget it then. Guilt is a useless emotion."

I stared at her blankly. "You, an ex-nun and lifetime Catholic, believe that?"

She peeped out of cracks in her eyelids. "Sure do."

I shook my head. "I wish I could let go."

"Comes with time." She leaned forward and parted my hand. "Looks like you've got quite a load there." She pointed to the full-size garbage bag I'd lugged into the room.

I opened it. "Fifteen stuffed animals."

She chuckled. "Never do anything halfway."

"David collects them. I thought he could use a few here to cheer him up. He has 150 at home."

"Sure enough?"

"He's into this big-time. He's given each one a date and place of birth. He keeps track of it all on an elaborate master list."

"No fooling?"

"Whoever is good gets to sleep with him at night."

"This fellow has quite the imagination. And now, he has," Fran halted to calculate. "165 total. Not too shabby."

I turned toward my brother. "Hey, Dave. On the news last night, they had a story about an Irish Wolfhound that ate ten stuffed animals and toysa"even an Ernie doll."

No response.

I studied my brother's face, frozen in anger, and plowed forward. "A veterinarian did surgery and removed them all. I think the dog's going to be okay." I paused. "I hope you will be, too."

Fran draped her arm on my shoulder.

I leaned toward her and spoke so softly I wasn't sure I made a sound. "He had his first seizure when he was four. I was thinking about that when I woke up today. The day of my first communion. After church, we went to a pancake house for breakfast, and he slid off the booth. When he was seven, they thought he was well enough to take him off medications. On the way to the doctor's office, he had a grand mal, the big kind. The little ones are called petit mal. When he was a kid, every time David said, 'petit mal,' he slurred the words and they sounded like, 'pity me.'"

Fran remained silent, but I saw my misery reflected in her eyes.

"I should go to work sometime today," I said, without budging.

"So soon?"

I put my head between my knees and muttered, "Nah, who gives a shit about work?"

Fran rested her hand on the back of my neck. "That's the spirit. Now let's make ourselves usefula"grab that pen and paper. Got to give these fifteen rascals names and birthdays.

I smiled at Fran. She had a knack for understanding life's priorities.

I worked the swing shift that night at Marketing Consultants and caught up on work in the quiet solitude of an empty office. For dinner, I ate from the giant popcorn sack.

The next morning, I called to apologize to the client whose deadline we'd missed and accepted an apology from the client I'd screamed at. I managed three productive hours in my five-hour stay.

At lunchtime, I made a beeline for Choices.

After inquiring at one of the front registers, I found Cecelia in the produce section, unloading a crate of bananas. She looked worn and haggard, and when she caught sight of me, she didn't pep up.

"There's more?" was her dispirited reply to my friendly, "Hello."

"Would you believe I'm here to shop?"

"No."

"Why? Is it that obvious I love chips and dip and Dr. Pepper?"

She eyed my body and smiled slightly. "No, you look healthy enough."

"Thanks."

"If you really eat all that junk," she added, amused, "you either exercise a lot or have an incredibly favorable metabolism."

"Exercise."

"I see." She resumed her banana stacking.

"Don't they ever fall?"

"What? These?" She pointed to the yellow pyramid. "Not usually, but the oranges are hell."

"I'll bet." I plucked one from the top to test her architecture, then delicately replaced it. "Listen, I stopped by to see if I could take you to lunch."

A deep frown etched her forehead. "I don't think so."

"If you've eaten already, we could go for coffee."

"It's not that," she replied, eyes downcast.

"You're too busy with the fruit?"

She tried to conceal a smile. "Not exactly."

I kept my tone intentionally light. "Too scared?"

She shot me a shrewd look but didn't reply.

"Have you talked to anyone about Lauren's death?"

"What's done is done. There's nothing I can do about it. What's there to say?" she asked, more resigned than angry.

"I'll make you a deal: Come with me to lunch, and we'll talk about whatever you want. If it's Lauren, fine. If not, that's okay, too. I'm a great conversationalist. Either way, you won't get bored."

"You'll buy lunch, and I don't have to say a word about Lauren?"

"Yep."

"Why?"

"Because I'm hungry, I hate eating alone, and you're the only one I can invite on short notice."

She smiled wryly. "At least you're honest. Give me five minutes to finish, and I'll meet you out front."

"Fair enough."

I walked a few paces before turning to give a hearty wave.

When I looked back, I caught her openly staring at me. A strange mixture of longing and sorrow flitted across her features before she returned a slight wave.

Over appetizers of vegetable dumplings at the Chinese restaurant next to Choices, Cecelia talked about running a health food store, and I rambled on about directing a marketing business and a detective agency.

Well into our main courses of lo mein and sesame chicken, Cecelia cleared the dishes from in front of her and leaned across the table. "Are you in a relationship?"

I pulled back and almost hit my head on the wall behind the booth. "Umm, yes. I have a lover. Destiny."

"Destiny Greaves?"

"You know her?"

"Only from television. I always wondered if she had a girlfriend."

"She's had lots," slipped out of my mouth. "Hopefully, I'm the last." That didn't sound right, either, so I stammered, "For now."

Bemused, Cecelia took a slow, careful sip of water. "Is Destiny the love of your life?"

"Maybe. No. Probably. I'm not sure. I can't imagine. I hope ..." I sputtered, rested my cheek on my hand, and shook my head. "I have no idea."

I heard her laugh for the first timea"a beautiful, infectious sound that began in her chest and resonated through her body. "You're unbelievable."

"Thanks," I said, hoping she'd meant it as a compliment. I quickly moved to safer ground. "Was Lauren the love of your life?"

Cecelia's joy vanished, and her brow furrowed. "I hope not. I'm too young to think the best is over. Forever."

An awkward silence covered the table.

I spoke up. "I miss her, too."

She raised one eyebrow. "Lauren?"

I nodded. "I know I never met her, but I've spent hours looking at her calendar, recreating the last days of her life. Plus, I've studied a photo of her and Ashley. You wouldn't believe the light in Lauren's eyes. And I've spent time with that amazing little girl. I can't fathom how Lauren could leave her."

I took a deep breath that hurt my chest. "I understand why she didn't go to Patrice or Nicole for help. All her life, she'd been Patrice's protector and probably couldn't reverse that role. Nicole, hell, Nicole was checked out. I can appreciate why she left without saying anything to them. She could have screamed ita"whatever it wasa"and they wouldn't have heard her. What I can't grasp, though, and it's bugged me ever since we met, is why she didn't say something to you. She didn't, did she, Cecelia?"