That Eduardo Morano had died in a car accident even though he should have been the one to suffer lung cancer was an irony that didn’t change a thing. His beloved wife had been left behind to pay the price for her husband’s vice. Life was so unfair. Maya thought of her own childless state and immediately felt a twinge of guilt. Her troubles were dwarfed by what Agata was facing.

  She searched for the right words. What came out of her mouth finally was, “What can we do to help?”

  “I go in for my first round of treatment tomorrow.”

  “So soon?” Maya asked. Yet time . . . time was always of the essence in these things. All things, really. . . .

  “The doctor thinks it’s best.”

  Maya’s eyes met her husband’s, saw what was implied, then looked back to Agata.

  “I’ll take you,” Sal said.

  “I’ll go too,” Maya said.

  “No, Maya. I appreciate the offer more than I can say, but I don’t want to make a big production of it. But, Sal, I was hoping you would come with me.” She reached for the coffee and began to pour. “Maya, take a biscotto, dear.”

  Maya took a napkin and placed a biscotto on it. As she waited for her coffee, her mind ticked along its ingrained track. An ungracious thought intruded.

  So much for asking her for money.

  Stop it! she told herself firmly.

  And yet the need to have a grandchild now, to give this woman some bit of happiness, just in case . . .

  Maya had to get pregnant. Had to.

  | | | | | | | | | | |

  Sal drove a fist into his pillow before placing his head in the indentation. Although he had done so every night of the seven years they’d been married, tonight’s punch seemed to possess an extra dose of force.

  Maya lay on her side facing him and waited. Once under the covers he turned his head in her direction and held out a hand, palm up. “We need to pray. About Mama.”

  They didn’t pray every night—at least not together—but Maya did pray. Quite often. Make me a mother, make me a mother was a prayer she said so often she wondered if God was getting tired of hearing her.

  A lot of good it had done. She kept thinking there was some magic word, some stance or way of praying that would assure her God would hear and give her the answer she wanted. She’d tried most of them: sitting, standing, shouting, whispering, begging . . .

  In her deepest, most secret core, she sometimes wondered if there was a God out there to listen at all.

  But her questions about prayer could not be answered tonight. Tonight, to please her husband, she took his hand and let him reach out to the Almighty for them both.

  TWO

  The wicked think, “God isn’t watching us! He has closed his eyes and won’t even see what we do!”

  PSALM 10:11

  Velvet purely hated mornings.

  She had perfected the act of walking out to get the paper without opening her eyes but for a quick glance to the first of the stoop’s steps. Her bare feet knew the way.

  She cracked her eyes open enough to give herself a destination—three feet onto the grass, to the left of the driveway—then made a beeline for it. She shuffled back inside. The early morning air already dripped of humidity and the promise of a scorcher. As a child she’d always associated September with sweaters and falling leaves. As an adult, she held on to the promise of cooler days. Besides, football games shouldn’t be played in the heat, but with a chill in the air. She loved it when the weather let hot chocolate sales soar.

  Velvet tossed the paper onto the scruffy, overstuffed chair that owned the space where a dinette table should have lived. She was not a table sort of person, preferring a chair that was wide enough and cushy enough to pull her feet into. A small table to the right was big enough to hold a mug or a glass, but otherwise Velvet was quite content to eat with a plate or bowl in her lap. She poured herself a mug of chai, chose a carton of blueberry yogurt from the fridge, held a spoon in her mouth for safekeeping, and retired to the chair.

  She opened the newspaper’s front page on her lap and removed the lid from the yogurt, licking the foil liner clean. She’d just begun to stir the yogurt when—

  Velvet set the yogurt aside and drew the paper close. In a teaser across the top of the front page was a picture of John Gillingham.

  Her John Gillingham.

  Next to his picture was the heading, “Best-selling Preacher Holds Local Book Signing.”

  Preacher? Best-selling?

  John was an author?

  And he was in town.

  Velvet suffered a shiver. This was too creepy. First Lianne. And now John. It was as though her past—which up until now had possessed the good manners to remain in her past—had suddenly decided to step forward and demand attention.

  She opened the paper to page three, where she found a larger picture. He looked good. Great, in fact. Velvet’s hand strayed to her hair, now completely gray. Did she look older than her forty-two years? Although the newspaper photo was in black and white, it looked as though John’s hair still held more brunette than salt and pepper. It was, of course, far shorter than the messy mane he’d had in college. Hers hadn’t been any better back then: a mass of permed corkscrew curls. And bangs that reached a room a good two seconds before the rest of her.

  But his smile . . . He still had a way of making her feel as if he had a glorious secret—one she’d obviously sought out and shared. Their romance had been explosive, in good ways and bad, so that now she had a hard time reconciling a preacher John with the rebellious John who’d won her heart.

  Among other things.

  She’d told him the news when she’d found out she was pregnant. He’d shrugged it off, saying he’d pay for an abortion. He’d even go with her to the appointment if she wanted him to.

  Velvet’s answer had been absolutely clear: Thanks but no thanks.

  Until that moment in her life, Velvet had not had any reason to think much about abortion. It sounded like a good idea, a permanent solution to a sticky problem. But when it was her choice to make . . . she couldn’t do it.

  Not that time anyway.

  And so she’d had the baby and given her up for adoption to a local childless couple with a Czech last name.

  The Skalas had been nice people who were desperate to love a baby. They offered to send her pictures as the child grew up, but Velvet thought it best their contact stop at the hospital door. She asked that they not tell the baby her name, and she, in turn, had not asked what they planned to name the girl.

  Lianne. It was a pretty name, a little exotic yet old-fashioned. Twenty-three years after the fact, Velvet approved.

  The article about John said he lived in San Diego and spent much of his time giving inspirational seminars. He’d even been on TV a few times. It was not surprising she’d never seen him. For Velvet, TV was a means to watch the weather forecast and movies, the older the better. And since he was into the God-Jesus stuff, Velvet wasn’t interested in hearing his message—old flame or no old flame.

  The article mentioned John’s book: My Mistakes and Other Leaps of Faith.

  Mistakes? Her radar screamed.

  Had he considered their relationship a mistake? their baby a mistake? Was all of that mentioned in the book? How could such a book not mention a love affair that ended badly and with the birth of an illegitimate child?

  She had to find out.

  The book signing was at two. . . .

  | | | | | | | | | | |

  Roman turned over and looked at the clock: 7:16.

  He was late.

  He rolled out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked as bad as he felt. He had not slept well, fighting variations of the spiritual battle against his son and God. They were conspired against him, against all his hard work to plan how Billy’s life should play out.

  Not his life. Roman wasn’t that presumptuous. Just his football career, which would lead to a good life, with good possibilities, and—hopefully—grand outcomes. To achieve that, Billy had to stay focused. And getting involved with God and church and charity and the needs of others . . . it fragmented that focus.

  That Billy had continued on this path even after knowing Roman’s wishes only added to his anguish. Billy had been his obedient son for so many years. To have to share him now . . . Roman wouldn’t give up without a fight.

  He got dressed quickly, knowing AJ would be over any minute to carpool to work—

  Roman heard a knock at the kitchen door on the floor below. He ran a comb through his hair, grabbed his electric shaver, and headed down.

  When he entered the kitchen, he found AJ with his face pressed to the door’s glass. His eyes were scanning the debris on the floor.

  Oops.

  Roman sidestepped a pool of salt and opened the door. “Don’t ask.” He went to the automatic coffeemaker—which hadn’t overslept—and filled a travel mug to the brim.

  AJ stopped at the foot of the mess. “What’s with the war zone?”

  Roman put a lid on the mug. “I was mad last night. Sue me.”

  “Mad at me?”

  “Among others.”

  AJ poured coffee into his own travel mug. “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings with the ego comment, but we’ve been friends forever. Amigos, blokes, compadres. Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night—”

  “That’s the post office.”

  “I’m male. Get it? Mail? Male?”

  In spite of his determination to remain stoic, Roman smiled.

  AJ took a banana from the counter and started peeling. “Don’t be mad at Billy’s good deeds. Most dads would kill to have a kid who thought of someone besides himself. He’s got a kind heart. That’s a good thing.”

  Roman got a blueberry muffin from the bread box. “And I am glad of it. I just want him to concentrate on football.”

  “And spend his free time with you.”

  Roman shrugged. “I repeat: sue me.” He grabbed his briefcase and keys and headed for the door.

  AJ pulled it shut behind them. “He’s not abandoning you by doing church stuff; he’s expanding his life.”

  Roman pointed his key fob at the car. It beeped a greeting, flashed its lights once, and unlocked the doors. “Billy did it on the sly. That’s what bugs me.”

  “You’re the one who made it impossible for him to do it any other way.”

  Sometimes AJ’s full knowledge was annoying. They both got in. “Isn’t a child supposed to obey his parents? parent?”

  AJ put on his seat belt, his banana half-unfurled. “A more powerful Father figure urged him to be a part of these events. Try as you like, you are a father, Roman, but not the Father.”

  AJ’s mention of God caused Roman to pause before putting the key in the ignition. “Since when did you get all come-to-Jesus about things?”

  “I’m just saying what most people believe, what most people know even if they don’t choose to acknowledge it. There is a God, Roman. Whether we like to believe it or not.”

  Not. “My point remains; Billy doesn’t need any father but me. And I won’t—”

  “He’s twenty years old. Old enough to make his own choices.”

  A truth which made Roman all the more angry. He turned the ignition. The car sprang to life at his command.

  | | | | | | | | | | |

  Roman knew he should have been using his computer for work, but he couldn’t help himself. He alternated between the Web sites of Husker Countdown and Big Red Fever, reading everything about Saturday’s game and the upcoming season. Billy was mentioned often, especially on the community discussion boards. Roman particularly liked the last one he’d read: “William Paulson could be our savior. I’m looking for him to inspire the rest of the team to—”

  “His name’s Billy!”

  “Mr. Paulson?”

  Brian Adams stood in the doorway to his office. Roman flipped off his computer screen. He’d gotten after his workers for using their computers in non-work-related ways. “What can I help you with, Brian?”

  The young man stepped closer to the desk, but in a tentative way, far different from his usual go-to-guy manner. “I need to talk to you about something.” He glanced toward the door. “It’s somewhat delicate.”

  Hmm. “Have a seat.”

  “May I close . . . ?”

  “Certainly.”

  Brian closed the door and sat in the leather guest chair. He leaned his arms on the padded rests and clasped his hands above his lap. “I really hate to bring this up; I know it will probably make me look horrible, and I normally wouldn’t—”

  “Just say it.”

  “You know the award Maya Morano won on Friday night?”

  “The Top Seller award.”

  “She shouldn’t have won it.”

  Ah. Jealousy. “I assure you, the accounting department did an accurate count of everyone’s earnings and—”

  “She stole my clients.”

  Roman jerked back an inch. The accusation didn’t make sense. Maya Morano was a good employee, always working hard, always attentive. He didn’t know what to say.

  Brian added detail. “She got her sales by taking mine, taking my clients away from me.”

  Roman felt his inner tension ease a bit. Brian sounded like a little kid who’d lost a toy to a playmate. “Clients are free to buy from anyone they—”

  “I agree. But when a salesperson contacts my clients and woos them away . . .” He pushed his glasses into place. “It’s not kosher. If she worked for another company, everyone might consider it a part of doing business, but to take clients from someone within her own company? That’s not ethical. Is it?”

  The playmate analogy faded away. This sounded serious. “I’m sure there’s an explanation.” He hoped there was an explanation. A good one.

  “There’s more. She offered kickbacks. I know that’s not ethical. And I know in one case she virtually bribed a city official to get them to order from us. Her.”

  Roman inwardly sighed, the joys of the morning fully shattered. This could get nasty. “You have proof?”

  “I do. Back in my office.”

  “Why didn’t you come forward before we gave Maya the award?”

  “I didn’t have the proof until yesterday.” He took hold of the armrests and pushed himself straighter in the chair. “I know this looks like I’m mad because I didn’t win. It’s not that. I’m not one of the company’s top sellers. I know that. I’m working to become one of the top sellers. But I can’t get ahead if someone within the company is working against me, or working . . . illegally.”

  Roman did not like that word. Not just for Maya’s sake but for his own. As the sales manager, Roman was in charge of ten salespeople, with their emphasis on selling to government agencies. But there was a protocol for such work. Hoops to jump through and red tape to navigate.

  But he also knew there were ways around the hoop and under the tape—ways he had perfected at Efficient and . . . before. Ways that, in the hands of someone with fewer skills and finesse, could be botched. Noticed.

  Documented.

  Speaking of . . . “Well then,” Roman said, “I suppose I need to see the documentation.”

  Brian was quick to rise. “I’ll be right back.”

  Roman disliked his eagerness but understood it. It wasn’t every day a mediocre salesperson had the chance to bring down a top seller.

  Roman knew.

  Firsthand.

  He looked at the poster that hung on the wall directly across from him: Unless you’re the lead dog, the view never changes. Long ago he’d taken the sentiment to heart and had worked hard, done things to make certain he was in a position of power—with its perks. He hadn’t done it for himself. He’d had a son to raise, a son who needed football camps, gym memberships, special shoes and equipment, and fees for extra leagues and tournaments, not to mention the cost of Roman attending all the games.

  Brian reentered Roman’s office, out of breath. A bit too excited, he tripped over his own feet as he traversed the distance between door and desk but managed to hand over a manila folder. “Here. Here it is.”

  Roman was not eager to see. He didn’t want Maya to be guilty.

  He noticed the index tab on the folder had been innocuously titled: SALES INFO. Thus named, it was a file Brian could have in his desk, or even on his desk, without raising any red flags. At least the man had been discreet.

  Brian returned to the chair. “You’ll see on the top sheet I’ve made a list of clients and—”

  Roman didn’t open the file but offered Brian a supportive smile. “Let me take a look at the information.” Alone.

  Brian looked as confused as a child who’d been told Santa wasn’t going to listen to his wish list. “But I would be happy to walk you through—”

  “I think it’s best if I view the information with a fresh eye. If I have any questions, I’ll be sure to call you.” He suffered a sudden fear. “You haven’t shared this information with anyone else, have you?”

  “No. I didn’t want people to think . . .”

  That you were doing it out of jealous envy?

  “I wanted to be sure. I wanted to handle it right. Correctly.”

  “Good for you.” And perhaps good for me. Roman clasped his hands on the file. “I want to thank you for your diligence on the part of the company. I’ll get back to you.”

  When Brian’s countenance fell, his glasses slipped lower on his nose. He rose from the chair and pushed the glasses into place simultaneously. Reluctantly. “Uh . . . thanks for your time, Mr. Paulson.”

  “No problem.”

  Big problem.

  When Brian left the office, he closed Roman’s door. It was not Roman’s policy to go through the day with a closed door, and yet . . .

  He did not correct the error.

  Which, he feared, was the core of the issue at hand.

  Roman was proud of the way he pushed his salespeople to achieve. He even remembered a few one-on-one meetings he’d had with Maya Morano when she was struggling to get the hang of the job. There’d been something familiar about the woman’s desperation, her need to get in control of her life, her need to achieve certain goals and earn, earn, earn. She was so eager to do well.