"Shit!" Billie exclaimed, marching into the kitchen. The grape juice began to soak into her shirt, while some had run down her body leaving a purple trail across the tile to the kitchen.

Before I noticed Jim's warning, I started to laugh. He was trying to wave me off, but he looked like Jimbo the Monkeyman again. With one arm waving his beer and the other trying to shut me up making rapid swooping motions across his chest and spilling beer he only made me laugh harder.

"You think this is funny?" Billie said, blotting at her blouse with a towel. Spring stood behind her, arms extended for anyone's help, with grape juice trickling down her pink dress.

"No," I laughed. "I'm sorry. I really don't think it's funny."

Seeing how everything in my life had just changed and how the woman I planned to propose to had just died, I couldn't imagine laughing in this situation. Yet, I was guffawing like I'd never seen anything so funny. The line between my laughter and tears appeared as fine as a sharpened pencil, or the thin stripe of grape juice leading into the kitchen. And as I laughed, I felt a few tears slip out. I understood why it was okay to cry and why people who laughed were sometimes carted away.

"I'm sorry, Billie," I said again. I walked to the kitchen and picked up Spring. She eyed me strangely, sensing that the laughter was out of place.

"I don't think it's funny," Billie said. "Look at this blouse. It's a Dana Buchman!"

As quickly as it had begun, my laughter ended. The child in my arms felt heavy and started to slide down my side, lifting her pink dress up around her stomach. Jim removed Spring who surprisingly allowed him to and carried her into the living room, consoling her with the experience of a dad three times over. He pulled the skirt of her dress down to where it should be and rocked her.

"Billie, I'm sorry. It was an accident," I said.

"Why are you sorry? I know she didn't mean it." She continued to blot, adding some more water to the towel.

"I don't know. I just am."

"Dylan, I'm sorry about Diane. And for you." She looked to Spring rocking in Jim's arms. "And for her."

I guess the situation was too much for Billie. When she finished the triage on her blouse, she left.

"D-Man, you know how Billie is," Jim said after she was gone. "Kids might as well be gerbils. She doesn't know how to handle them. I didn't think you did, either."

Jim put Spring gently on the couch and she sat there while he followed me around the kitchen.

"I don't," I said.

"I see how you are with Spring. You're good with her. She likes you."

"She does?" I looked toward the living room to see her little gray eyes, still red from crying.

"It's gonna take a little time," Jim said, "for Billie to take all this in. You know Billie."

"Billie? I'm not worried about Billie. I'm worried about Spring. What is she supposed to do?" I looked at the urn on the shelf. Would Diane prefer to be flush with the edge or angled to see the living room?

"Yeah, sure you are, D-Man. So, why don't you go out for a while? You like to walk. Go for a walk. Get a beer. Get out of here. I can watch Spring..."

"Spring should be with me, thanks."

"So what can you do? You gotta do something?"

"I'm going to go over to Diane's apartment and get her stuff."

"Now?"

"Why not now? I might as well get it out of the way. Besides, Spring needs her things. We have to get her room ready here."

"Aren't there relatives or somebody she should be going to?"

I looked at Spring. Diane had said nothing about anyone in her family. Maybe there was someone an aunt, a godparent someone. "I don't have a clue. I guess I'll find out. But she's gotta feel okay here in the meantime."

Jim offered to help me get things from Diane's apartment, but I politely declined. Diane and Spring had spent most of their time over at my place, and even I wasn't familiar with her apartment. It was my responsibility to go through her things. I asked Jim to give me a few days to get over this, and he reminded me that he had some cold beers in the fridge when I was ready.

On the way to Diane's apartment, I went by the accident scene because I needed to see it. Obviously, Spring had no idea what I was doing. Except for a few pieces of colored plastic near the crosswalk, I couldn't tell anything had happened.

Diane's place looked the same. It felt like I was simply coming over after work and had just beaten her home. In a few minutes, she would come strolling through the door, kiss Spring, kiss me, and say that since I didn't appreciate her tofu, my pizza with extra pepperoni should be here in 20 minutes. She'd walk over to the stove and start some water for Spring's gourmet macaroni and then to the bedroom to change clothes. I'd pour a couple of glasses of wine, sit on the couch and we'd tell each other about our days.

I wanted something that normal, that uneventful. Instead, it was Spring and me and three partially molding pumpkins.

"Spring, go to your room and get your things together to pack, okay?"

She said nothing, but retreated to her bedroom. Diane hadn't purchased much since arriving in New York. She'd rented a furnished apartment from Mr. Barnes and there wasn't any need to buy much other than food. There were no new dishes, chairs, or wall hangings. Because of this, the apartment never looked like Diane. You know how after a while, your place seems to take on your characteristics or you begin to take on its? Messy or clean, cluttered or organized. After only five weeks of living here, very little of this metamorphosis had occurred. There were two pictures sitting on the shelf, one of Diane and Spring by the penguins, and the other of me holding Spring upside down when we were goofing around one night.

On the refrigerator, Diane had hung some of Spring's artwork from the daycare. There was a picture of two happy stick people standing under a happy orange sun. I knew the people were happy as they were smiling, though I guess the smiles could have been ironic. In another picture, three people stood over some and I'm not sure about this, but I think so orange ducks that resembled the creatures on my wall at home.

Entering Diane's bedroom made me smile. I could smell her perfume, Boucheron, floating in dainty parcels around the room. On the bed stand, a photograph of Diane and me leaned against the lamp. Spring had taken the picture, the only one of a series of six that didn't cut off one of our heads. Diane and I giggled though I can hardly believe I giggled as Spring snapped away.

On the night stand under the generic beige phone, I spotted the pink sliver of a binding. It was Diane's address book. Inside might be the answers to anything I'd forgotten to ask. While I would have memorized sensitive numbers and carried them to my death, Diane would have written them in here. I opened the book to the A-B's. Nothing. C-D's. Nothing. E-F-G's. Nothing. Surely under the H's...I turned the page. There it was: my name and birthday. No phone and no address. Flipping through the pages, I didn't see anything, but I double-checked the S's. Sommers. Perhaps there will be a cousin or aunt?

I had missed one. On the S page, where my address book had used up at least three full pages with new names or old names with new information, was a single listing. It didn't say Sommers, like I had hoped. It said E and listed a phone number, with no area code and no address.

E?.

I looked aimlessly around the room for another clue. E could be for Everyman, but then it should have listed a 555 prefix like they do in the movies. E could stand for Eddie as easily as E could stand for Elizabeth. I, too, had forgotten to list some of the area codes for numbers I remembered.

The drawer in her bed stand was empty, and a pair of fuzzy slippers was partially hidden beneath the bed. Nothing else. In her bathroom, I only found the usual deodorant, and toothpaste not a prescription in the cabinet.

Opening the door to her closet, a billow of Boucheron caressed my face. I closed my eyes to inhale and relive the tingling sensation Diane sent up my spine. I could hear her voice and almost see her smile, while I dozed off after sex. She'd tickle my back and head because, as I'd told her, it would help her sleep better. I planted my face in her clothing and inhaled again, half expecting her to walk in and ask me what the hell I was doing.

On the floor of the closet, next to the few pairs of shoes, was the Aspen Rolling Duffle Tote I had purchased as a housewarming present. It was empty and still bearing its original tags. She'd never had the chance to use it. Behind the tote, the old relic of a suitcase Diane had arrived with hid behind the cellophane of her dry-cleaning. As I slid the suitcase closer, I noticed it weighed more than I had expected and that I couldn't grab it with one hand. When I tried the latch, I discovered that it was locked. For a woman with nothing to hide, in my hands was the only piece of privacy I could find in her apartment. Not like a missing key was a big deal. A screwdriver and 15 seconds would do just as well. But for a woman with nothing to hide, why was the suitcase locked? I set the suitcase on the bed, running my fingers along its edges. Old stickers listed names of foreign countries. Several had worn off over the years, leaving only fragments behind, some of which were covered by additional stickers. While the tan leather suitcase probably dripped with clues, it told me very little. Even the heavy brass hinges had rusted with age.

I lifted the case and shook it not a big bear shake, but a slight what-if-there's-glass-in-it shake. I didn't hear anything break, which is always a good sign, but I didn't hear anything that told me what might be inside. I shook it a little harder. Various items slid around, and still, nothing appeared to break. I tested the latches again. This time, I pushed and pulled them in all directions with the same result. Still locked.

"Spring," I called out. "Spring?"

I abandoned the suitcase to check on her. I found her, with arms crossed, lying perfectly straight on her bed and staring at the ceiling. Her duck backpack sat filled on the floor and her clothes were piled up next to it. The toe-end of a sock stuck out by the zipper of the backpack.

"Spring... Her eyes were still red, but she looked tired of crying about something that she didn't understand. "Do you know where your mom kept the key to her suitcase? We'll need it, if we're going to pack her things."

She continued to stare.

I sat next to her and touched her arm. "Spring?"

She said nothing.

"We're going to go in a little while. I'm hungry for some mac and cheese. I picked up some fresh pasta and I might need some help remembering how to make it."

Nothing.

I returned to Diane's room and opened the Aspen Rolling Duffel Tote and packed a few items. I could come back for her clothes later although I had no idea what to do with them. I grabbed the address book, her perfume and the robe I found hanging on the back of the bathroom door. The robe, a short and well-worn pink and black silk kimono still smelled like Diane not just her perfume or her hand lotion or her shampoo, but like her body after a night of sleep and with the oils in her hair. I pressed it to my face and inhaled. This was the scent I wanted to capture forever. I folded it and set it in the suitcase. Then, I took it out. What if between here and my place, Diane's scent was replaced with the new Ballistic-nylon-smell of the tote? I wrapped the robe in some of her T-shirts, tested if it would pass a NASA inspection for leaks and felt confident I could protect the robe until I could place it on my own bedroom door hook.

All the important things in Diane's apartment - at least those that were important to me fit into the luggage. Spring's clothes would probably fill it up. This was going to be its maiden voyage, a few blocks south from Walker to Duane.

"Spring, are you ready to go?"

"D?"

"Yes, Spring?"

"When is Mommy coming home?"

She just stood there looking up at me, wearing her yellow raincoat over her pink dress with the grape juice stain. She was wearing her red boots and toting her duck backpack. Other than the pink dress, she looked like the little girl I'd met a few weeks before in the middle of the night.

"Do you remember Mommy had an accident?"

She nodded.

"Mommy can't come home."

She stood there, biting her upper lip, like Diane, while little raindrops rolled down her cheeks.

I sat on the floor and lifted her to my lap, hugging and rocking her. If Spring was going to cry again, I might, too. While rummaging through the apartment had given me something to occupy my time, now it was just Spring and me.

"Spring, did your mommy ever talk about anyone?"

She nodded.

"Who?"

She pointed at me.

"Anyone else?"

She shook her her head.

"What about friends, relatives?"

"No."

"What about Daddy? Did she ever mention your daddy?"

Spring thought about it. She hesitated for a long time before answering, as though she had gone someplace else. Finally, she looked up at me and asked, "Are you my Daddy?"

I shook my head and she cast her eyes downward.

No, I'm not your daddy, Spring, I thought. I don't know what I am to you, or even for how long. Guess we're going to find out soon, huh?

Chapter 8.

The Same for You That night, we broke Spring's bedtime ritual. With a small cup of water on the night stand, I sat next to her on the bed and put my arm around her.

She looked at me. "D, do we have to do animal sounds tonight?"

"Not if you don't want to. Do you want me to sit with you for a little while?"

"I'm okay."

I sat with her anyway, waiting until she fell asleep.

On the way out, I left her door open a crack to make it easier for me to hear her if she woke up crying. I went into the living room and poured myself a glass of wine. About 15 minutes later, I heard Spring click on the table lamp.

"Today, we got you a box with flowers on it," she said softly. She must have been talking to the picture. I wanted to see what she was doing, but I didn't want her to become self-conscious. "It's really pretty. I like it. You'll like it, too, when you come home."

There was a long pause.

"I miss you, Mommy. I don't feel very good."

I expected to hear her say more or to start sobbing, but all I heard was the sound of her putting the picture back on the table. She clicked the light off.

I didn't know what to do with everything I was feeling. There was the hollow ache of my own sense of loss of Diane. Over the past six weeks, I had been reveling in the new sensations she had introduced to me. But I wasn't at all prepared for this one. And then there was the overwhelming sense of uselessness I felt when it came to Spring. I didn't want her to be sad or lonely or wounded, but I also knew that there was nothing I could do that would cause her to not feel that way.

I put some Dave Matthews on very quietly, lay back on the couch and closed my eyes. I half-wondered if I would fall asleep there. Instead, I remained distinctly conscious of my thoughts.

Maybe 20 minutes later, I felt a presence alongside me. I opened my eyes to find Spring standing there.

"You forgot to kiss me goodnight."

I had kissed her goodnight, but that was hardly the point. I picked Spring up and hugged her, kissing her forehead. Then I carried her back to her room and tucked her in again. Perhaps she would sleep this time, but I knew at this point that I wouldn't be doing much sleeping myself. I wanted Spring to be happy and have a home, and that meant finding the person who would take her in. The only remaining ties to Diane's past sat in my closet: her address book and the suitcase.

Although its clasp still locked, the old relic was worn with age,. Earlier, I had been concerned that I might uncover a secret about Diane that would make me uncomfortable. Now I realized that it didn't matter what secret I might find inside the suitcase. Either I wanted to help Spring, or I didn't really love Diane. If I didn't find someone to take care of Spring, the State of New York would take her. I had seen some of those foster families in the news. Not the good ones. You never see the good foster families in the news, just the bad ones. But the bad ones were flat-out scary and there was no way I was allowing Spring to wind up in one of those situations. There had to be someone in Diane's past who could become Spring's guardian. Maybe some second cousin three times removed. That stuff happened in movies all the time.

I set the suitcase aside and reached for the address book, thinking that I might have missed something when I was in her apartment. I went page by page until I had reviewed the entire book again. Nothing new. Only the E under the S heading and a phone number with no area code.

Knowing what I did about Diane, I knew that if there was an E, it had to have some real significance. The E meant nothing secretive, I was sure, and she hadn't written it that way to keep it from me. Then again, her suitcase was locked and I hadn't seen a key. She must have had it on her when the accident happened. The police said they didn't find her purse at the scene. I decided that before I destroyed her suitcase, I should exhaust the E possibilities first.

Chicago had two area codes I could recall. Dialing 312 and the phone number next to the E, perhaps I could get lucky and find someone in Chicago who knew her. The number rang to a disconnect. I tried again with 773 and someone answered.

"Yeah?"