Mulberry Park. Judy DuarteЧитать онлайн книгу.
that Claire wasn’t sitting in judgment here, granting loans on a whim? Playing God?
What about yesterday? a small voice quizzed. Isn’t that what you did at the park?
Again, she cleared her throat, hoping to shed the guilt that had settled over her as well as the sense of impotence. “I’m truly sorry, Ms. Rodriguez. We’re in the banking business, but we can’t loan money when the risk to do so is too high.”
“But I’m a hard worker. And honest. You can talk to the priest at my parish, he’ll tell you…”
Again Claire felt the uneasiness, the discomfort. The guilt. “Have you considered selling the house outright and living off the proceeds until after the baby comes and you can go back to work?”
“I don’t want to sell the house,” Maria said. “It’s all I have.”
It wasn’t all she had. She had her children.
Claire would have traded places with her in a snap, if it would have brought Erik back.
Maria slumped back in her chair. “So there’s nothing you can do?”
“I’m afraid not. Fairbrook Savings and Loan has a reputation for being conservative, so you may have better luck at another financial institution in town.” Claire stood, signaling the discussion was over, the judgment made. “Unfortunately, my hands are tied.”
The woman nodded, then touched the boy lightly on the shoulder. “Come along, mijo.”
“Are we done?” the boy asked.
“Yes.”
Maria guided her children out of Claire’s office, her shoulders hunched, yet she held her head high and led her little family to the door.
The boy slipped his hand in his mother’s. “Can we go to the playground now? Please?”
“Yes, mijo. For a little while.”
Claire would have given anything to turn back the clock, to have her son at her side again, asking to go to the park.
Yet that fact didn’t make her feel the least bit better about dashing another woman’s dreams.
Chapter 2
Walter Klinefelter parked his red Ford Ranger at Mulberry Park, then withdrew the worn leather game case and locked the door.
Two spaces down, the old woman and the blond-haired little girl climbed from their white Honda Prelude. They weren’t what he’d call regulars, since they’d just been coming to the park the past couple of weeks, but they showed up about midday. Like he did.
He’d approached them once, trying to make small talk, but the woman snubbed him like he was a dirty old man or something.
Heck, he was harmless. But he supposed they didn’t know that.
“Oh, yay,” the blond pixie said. “He’s here again today.”
“Who, dear?” the granny asked.
“Trevor.” The girl moved the tan-skinned dolly she carried from one arm to the other, then pointed to the child who’d been hanging out at the park a lot this summer, the kid who appeared as though he didn’t have a friend in the world.
In that sense, the boy and Walter had a lot in common.
“I told you before,” Granny said. “That boy is too old to be your friend.”
“He’s not exactly my friend,” the little blonde said. “He just helped me do something yesterday, and I might need him to do it again.”
“He’d better not be helping you climb on those monkey bars. If you fall, you’ll get hurt.”
“I’ll be careful, Mrs. Richards,” Blondie said, as she dashed off. Yet she didn’t run toward the older boy who sat in the shadow of the slide, drawing with a stick in the sand. Instead she skipped toward the center of the park, near the mulberry tree.
Walter probably ought to mind his own business, which he seemed to do a heck of a lot of these days, but sometimes he got sick and tired of hearing himself think.
“I don’t suppose you play chess,” he said to the old woman.
She turned, and the sun glistened off the silver strands of her hair. He suspected she’d been pretty when she’d been younger, but now she wore a pucker on her face that suggested she’d weathered her own share of disappointment over the years.
“No,” she said, “I’m afraid I don’t play.”
“Too bad.”
They fell into step together, walking slowly.
“You’re here all the time,” she said. “And you’ve always got that game with you.”
“My last chess buddy passed on a couple of months back, and I’m hoping to find a new opponent.” There hadn’t been many takers, though. Either they were too young or couldn’t be bothered with an old man. That was to be expected, he supposed. There came a time when folks just outlived their usefulness.
The woman glanced at the midday sun, then reached a hand to her head and patted the springy gray curls as though feeling for something and finding it missing.
He did that sometimes, too. Got absentminded and forgetful.
“Oh, dear.” She clucked her tongue. “Wouldn’t you know it? I left my hat in the car.”
Walter watched as she headed back to the white Prelude. The girl had called her Mrs. Richards, so the two weren’t related. He supposed that made her a babysitter then. But what the heck. None of his business.
He made his way toward his favorite table, the one that sat along the path to the restrooms. He figured that particular spot saw more traffic than the others and would present more opportunities for him to find an opponent. It happened once in a while. Often enough for him to keep hanging out at the park, rather than whiling away the hours at home, which was merely a short walk from Paddy’s Pub. Too short of a walk, actually.
Walter had done no more than set up the game board and playing pieces, when Mrs. Richards approached. “I don’t suppose you know how to get into a locked car?”
So maybe he hadn’t quite outlived his usefulness after all.
“As a matter of fact, breaking-and-entering vehicles is one of several handy tips I picked up while in the pen.”
Obviously not one to appreciate his sense of humor, she placed a hand on her chest and sobered.
“Not to worry,” he said, getting to his feet. “That was just a joke. I’ve never been in prison.”
He had, of course, spent quite a bit of time in the local jail when you added it all up. The last arrest occurred after he’d gotten drunk while the city had held their annual Founders’ Day parade, but he supposed Mrs. Richards, who appeared too prissy to get a chuckle out of it, wouldn’t appreciate hearing the details.
His old buddies at the pub had thought it was a real hoot. They probably still did. But three years ago, Walter had experienced a sobering epiphany when Russell Meredith hit that kid on the bicycle. Russell swore he hadn’t had a drop to drink that day, but had been so distracted that he hadn’t even known that the bump he’d felt had been a child.
At first, before Russell had come forward and turned himself in, most people assumed the driver had been drinking. Why else would the guilty person have left the scene?
Naturally, since the accident had taken place just a couple of blocks from Paddy’s, the cops had questioned everyone who patronized the pub.
For a while, all the regulars had eyed each other a bit suspiciously, wondering whether the guilty driver had been one of them. In fact, Walter suspected they’d all cast surreptitious glances at the vehicles in the parking lot, looking