Oh. Yeah. That.

  Carrie explained further. “His favorite verse. From the Bible.”

  Which was exactly why Roman was through with this conversation. And though he had seen a man holding up such a sign at a game before, he wanted nothing to do with this sign, even if Billy had made it.

  Carrie rambled on. “William and I were watching a baseball game last summer and we saw someone hold up a sign like this. That’s what gave him the idea. It’s the promise of the Bible. It has nothing to do with the game—not that game—but it affects every single person watching. To win the game of life you need to embrace what it says.”

  The girl talked too much. And Roman knew she wanted him to ask what the verse said, but he refused. Since Billy hadn’t been able to get him to look it up, he couldn’t—and wouldn’t—give this stranger the satisfaction. Besides, he felt his visit to reality fading. The couch called. Oblivion beckoned.

  She bit her lip. “Well . . . anyway . . . where else do you have eighty thousand people gathered together, facing each other?”

  Marketing. It was always about marketing.

  She rolled the sign back up. “William was so proud of this. He was probably as excited about me holding it up as he was about his first start.”

  Roman pressed his fingers against his forehead. He felt a headache coming on. And then the tears surprised him. He was not a crier, especially not in front of a woman. “I’m sorry, I really need . . .” Surely she could fill in the blank.

  Thankfully, she moved toward the door. “I understand completely,” she said. She set the sign against the wall next to the antique chair. “I feel horrible I can’t fulfill his wish. Maybe someday. But in the meantime, I think you should have the sign. William’s sign. Next time you go to a game, you can hold it up knowing it was important to William. To Billy.”

  He wanted to argue with her, tell her there was no way he would ever hold up such a sign, but to do so would extend her time there, and he was already far past his limit. “Nice to meet you,” he managed.

  “Nice to meet you too, Mr. Paulson.” Once on the stoop, she turned back to him and studied his face in a way that was almost embarrassing. “I really believed that William and I might have married one day. You would have been my father-in-law. You have a nice face. Strong. Determined. I like that.”

  He nodded once and closed the door.

  Nice. Strong. Determined. These words did not compute. In fact, within one intake and exhale of breath, the past few minutes were swept away into a nether-land. A shadow-land.

  Roman turned from the door and surveyed the room. It looked foreign to him, irrelevant and not quite real, like a set for a sitcom with all the correct accoutrements of daily living but none of the spark of real life.

  He noticed the green light on his answering machine was blinking. Messages. He had messages.

  They were of no interest to him.

  He returned to the captivity of the couch.

  | | | | | | | | | | |

  Velvet’s life on game days was frenetic. From the time she entered the stadium until she left, she was transported into another world totally separate from reality. In the stadium no one cared whether the stock market was up or down, the current war was being won or lost, or what movie star was sleeping with whom. The world on game day consisted of eighty thousand people from all walks of life, from big cities and small towns, all wearing red and white, all intent on two things: winning the game and having a great time doing it.

  Velvet loved to see the fans streaming in, not just because their presence (and appetites) represented income, but because at the start of the day they were happy. All of them happy and full of hope and big dreams. The victory of the team was embraced as their own personal accomplishment to be celebrated, while a defeat was a joint failure to be mourned. She always hoped for victory because it made her life easier. Happy fans made happy customers. The surliness of a tense game spilled over at the food counter. And if it was close? Food sales suffered as people stayed in their seats. If it was a rout? They left early.

  So far, so good. Although TV monitors had been added in the concourse, Velvet rarely looked at them. After all these years she still relied on the roar of the crowd to monitor the score. Nebraska was winning, yet it must have been close enough to keep the large crowds in the stands.

  She kept an eye out for Roman. And AJ. They’d teased her about how many Runzas they’d eat today, yet so far, she hadn’t seen them. There was the chance she had missed them as she’d made her rounds to all the concessions stations. As she walked from one to another, she got out her cell phone and called him. Hey, Roman. Your Runzas are getting cold was ready on her lips.

  But Roman didn’t answer. Again. Between his cell and his house she’d left half a dozen messages. This was not like Roman; not at all.

  She reached the concessions stand where Lianne was working but pulled up short when she saw the man Lianne was helping.

  John. Her John.

  She wasn’t sure what to do. John didn’t know the young woman helping him was his daughter. And Lianne didn’t know the man she was helping was her father.

  It would be okay. In a matter of seconds it would all fade into just another transact—

  Lianne looked in her direction, her eyes showing recognition. “There. There’s the person I need to ask about this.”

  Ask about what?

  John turned toward her. He smiled. “My, my. Just the lady I also wanted to see.”

  Lianne looked a bit confused but added, “He wants to change a hundred, and I didn’t know if I should.”

  “Change it,” Velvet said, glad for the mundane distraction. She moved behind the counter, choosing her daughter’s side over her lover’s. She relished the buffer between them.

  “Thanks,” John said. “I never even thought about the need for smaller bills.”

  Lianne took his money, made the change, then went off to fill his order.

  “I thought you were flying out Thursday, after the book signing,” Velvet said quietly, so Lianne wouldn’t hear.

  “I was, but . . . I decided to stay. I would have called you yesterday but when my publisher found out I was staying over, they arranged another book signing last evening.” His grin made him look twenty again. “Besides, I thought it would be fun to try to surprise you here.” He spread his arms. “Surprise!”

  She was not amused. She hated surprises of any kind. She liked to know what was going to happen, when, and how, and by whom. The moments she preferred were those she instigated.

  John finished putting his change in his billfold and slipped it into a back pocket. “Actually, I was hoping we could go out after the game.”

  She went with her gut reaction. “I’m usually pretty busy for quite a while afterward, wrapping things up.”

  “I’ll wait.” His smile was so pleasant, so calm. It unnerved her.

  Lianne brought his hot dog and Coke. “Here you go. Ketchup and mustard are on the counter against the wall.”

  Suddenly, John began to stare at Lianne. Then his eyes flitted to Velvet. Then back to Lianne.

  Velvet’s stomach grabbed. Oh no. He sees!

  She had to get him out of there. Now. In order to get him to leave she said, “Fine. I’ll meet you out front by the statue at five thirty.”

  He seemed not to hear.

  She had to break the moment. “Hey, John, I’d love to chat, but I can’t right now. Five thirty, all right?”

  He nodded, but his eyes were on Lianne.

  “My face turn green or something?” she asked him.

  “No, no. Sorry. You just remind me of someone, that’s all. I like your hair.”

  Then with a nod to them both, he took his food and walked away.

  This is not good. Not good at all.

  | | | | | | | | | | |

  After John faded into the crowd of the stadium, Velvet tried not to think about him or about their meeting tonight. How would she respond when he made a comment about Lianne’s gray streak of hair and her own—or rather, the one she used to have when she was Lianne’s age?

  What could she say? Oh really? I never noticed or Lucky girl or Don’t you know it’s the latest fashion?

  Lame, lame, lame.

  Velvet had trouble concentrating. She found herself repeating the same instructions twice, or asking a question and getting an answer but not hearing and having to ask it again.

  All because of John.

  And Lianne.

  Why did they have to show up anyway? She wanted her life to go back to normal as soon as—

  She saw a photo of Billy on the TV monitor and was pulled out of her pity party. She’d forgotten today was his first day to start. He must have been doing really great to get singled out on television. She left the counter and moved closer, wanting to tell Roman what was said about his son.

  She heard the middle of it. One announcer was saying, “William Paulson was a budding running back, with the potential to be one of the greats.”

  The other announcer said, “He shall be sorely missed.”

  Missed? Was a budding running back?

  The screen went back to the game. A man and his son stood nearby watching the coverage. Velvet stopped them as they moved to head back to their seats. “Excuse me? I only heard part of that. What did they say about William Paulson?”

  “He died,” the little boy said.

  “He drowned saving a kid at a picnic.”

  Her heart stopped. “Drowned?”

  The man nodded. “On Thursday. It was in all the papers yesterday and on the news.”

  “Dad? I want to get back to the game.”

  They walked off, leaving Velvet standing in the middle of the concourse. Dead. Billy dead. This didn’t make any sense. Billy couldn’t be dead. Roman would have called. Roman—

  Roman!

  “Ma’am? Are you okay?” an elderly man asked.

  “Fine.” She forced herself to move. “Thank you. I’m fine.”

  She started to walk to the left, then pivoted and walked to the right, then stopped again. Roman wasn’t at the game. He was home. She had to leave. She had to see him. Now.

  “Ms. Cotton?” One of her workers stood nearby, holding three hundreds. “We need change?”

  But she couldn’t leave. Not until after the game.

  She was stuck.

  | | | | | | | | | | |

  Peter returned to his car and got in. He’d knocked on the door to Lianne’s apartment but had gotten no answer. He wanted to see her. Needed to see her.

  They hadn’t talked since she’d got out of the car after their visit to Agata’s Wednesday night. They hadn’t talked about the baby at all. And now . . . with William’s death . . .

  Peter needed to talk to her. About everything. About nothing. He needed to feel her arms around him and have her hold him close and tell him everything would be okay.

  Not that he could be certain Lianne would do that. Could do that. They hadn’t been together through any crisis. Was she a compassionate person? Did she feel things deeply? He wasn’t even sure she was a crier. If he was real about it, he doubted she was. Could a person who was so matter-of-fact about life, so blunt, feel true sorrow and be broken by it enough to cry and hug and need comfort?

  Actually, the person he wanted to talk to about all this, the one he wanted to get comfort from, was William. How ironic was that? How stupid. How strange. Yet his thoughts kept returning to I have to tell William. I have to talk to William.

  “Sick. I’m sick,” he said aloud.

  He was startled when a bicyclist passed his window. Should he just sit there and wait for her to come back from wherever she was? Should he go home to his empty apartment where he’d be confronted with all things William? He was in limbo, in no-man’s-land, completely lost.

  Suddenly, Peter noticed a Nebraska flag in a neighbor’s yard.

  The game! Today’s Saturday!

  He had a ticket for the game yet had never once thought of it. All week he and William had talked about his first start. Now, for Peter to have spaced it off so completely . . .

  Death will do that.

  “Lianne!” That’s where she was.

  Lianne was at the game, working her new job in concessions.

  Peter took hold of the steering wheel and banged his head against his hands. “The game. The game.”

  The game went on without William. The world went on without William.

  It wasn’t fair. And it wasn’t right.

  But it was a fact.

  Peter had no energy or will to go anywhere, to be anywhere but here. And so he settled in. To wait.

  For something.

  Or someone.

  | | | | | | | | | | |

  Peter woke up. It took him a moment to realize he was seated in his car. He rubbed his face hard, then turned toward a sound to his left.

  Lianne was going into her building.

  He called through the open window. “Lianne!”

  She turned to him, but only for a moment. The door shut behind her.

  Peter got out and rushed toward the entrance. She had to have heard him calling.

  He caught up with her at her apartment door, the key in the lock.

  “Lianne!”

  “I thought that was you.”

  That’s it? “I need to talk to you.”

  “I’m done talking.”

  “Not just about the baby. About William.”

  She opened the door and pulled her key out. “I heard about his death at the game. Bummer.”

  “Bummer?” He shook his head, incredulous. “That’s all you can say?”

  “I’ve got my own problems. In case you’ve forgotten.”

  Her coldness shocked him. Although she hadn’t known William well, they’d talked. They’d even had a meal or two together when their paths crossed in the apartment. Most people, when hearing about the death of even a mere acquaintance, jumped on the connection—however vague—and reacted. Felt sorrow. Expressed sincere compassion.

  But not Lianne?

  She paused with the door unlocked. “Anything else?”

  “We need to talk about our baby.”

  “My baby. Bye, Peter.”

  She went inside and shut the door, leaving him stunned. Again.

  He knocked. “Lianne! Talk to me.”

  No response.

  He pounded. “Lianne!”

  An elderly lady opened the door to the apartment across the hall. “Stop the racket, boy. She obviously doesn’t want to talk to you. Which is no great loss, if you ask me. She’s an odd one, that one is.”

  She shut her door. Peter found himself alone in the hall, surrounded by closed doors.

  | | | | | | | | | | |

  Roman. Roman. I have to get to Roman.

  Velvet closed out the day’s business on overdrive. And double speed. One of her longtime workers kidded her. “Hot date tonight, Velvet?”

  Only then did she remember John. John, waiting for her by the statue. She was torn. If only she hadn’t run into him. Yet she couldn’t blow him off, couldn’t leave him standing there.

  Her speed paid off and she finished her duties early, by ten after five. She’d told John she would meet him at five thirty. She didn’t want to not show up, yet her need to rush to Roman’s house . . .

  Still uncertain what she should do, she left the stadium and was relieved to see John already there, early.

  He smiled as she approached; then his face clouded with concern. “What’s wrong?”

  She’d kept it in all afternoon. It felt good to say it out loud. “During the game I found out that one of the players died. He was the son of a good friend of mine and—”

  “William . . . ?”

  “Right. William Paulson. He was a great kid.”

  “A hero. He saved a child’s life.”

  “Right now I’m worried about his father’s life. I didn’t know about Billy; I didn’t know. And for days I’ve been trying to call Roman—just to talk. He didn’t answer, and now I know why. I feel awful. I should have been there for him. So I have to go to him now and—”

  He took her elbow. “Let’s go.”

  She shook his touch away. “You can’t go.”

  “Why not? I may be able to help. I’m a pastor, Velvet. Remember?”

  To Roman that would not be a high credential. “My friend doesn’t believe in God.”

  “But God believes in him and is there for him.” His voice softened. “Let me help, Velvet. At least let me try.”

  She was too frazzled to argue.

  | | | | | | | | | | |

  Velvet knocked and rang the doorbell at the same time. She had to see Roman. Had to.

  When the door opened, she barely recognized him. His eyes were red and puffy, his hair disheveled, his shoulders slumped. And he hadn’t shaved—in days?

  “Roman, I just heard. I’m—”

  She saw his eyes move past her, to John. She angled her body so they could see each other. “This is John, an old college friend.”

  Roman did not react except to step back, allowing them in. He didn’t wait to close the door, but left that job to them. He walked like a zombie to the couch, where an afghan lay in a pile. He sat. Velvet took the seat beside him. John found a place in a chair by the window.

  Velvet put a hand upon Roman’s back and willed a wave of sincere compassion to somehow be transferred through her touch. “Roman, I am so, so sorry.”

  “He’s dead.”

  It was a statement made as though they weren’t even present, as though he were reminding himself.

  Velvet didn’t know what she could say that would truly help. She had little experience dealing with grief.

  John came toward them. He pulled the coffee table a few inches away from the couch and took a seat on it, facing Roman. “Tell me about William,” he said.

  Roman blinked and looked at John as if seeing him for the first time. “Billy. I loved him.”

  “He was your son.”

  “He played football.”

  “I bet you used to toss the ball around with him. In the front yard?”

  Roman looked past John, out the front window. “We did it together.”

  “Did you play football in school?”

  “I was never as good as Billy. He could catch and run. You should have seen him run.”