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Chapter Two

THIRTY-ONE-YEAR-OLD Assistant Superintendent of Schools Rick Kraynick was slowly getting used to eating alone. Living alone.

Thinking alone.

What he didn’t usually do was drink alone. Or drink, period. He’d seen firsthand what substance abuse could do to a person. And while there were days, too many of them if he was honest with himself, when he didn’t much care about his health and well-being, he wasn’t going to be a burden to society.

So he should have felt right at home at the Castro Country Club Friday night. On 18th Street, the club wasn’t far from Twin Peaks, one of Rick’s favorite jogging spots in his younger days. And a favorite picnic place for him and Hannah…

Look out there, Daddy. You can see the whole world from here!

Nodding to the folks—mostly men of varying ages—hanging out on the faux marble steps leading into the old white Victorian mansion whose first floor housed the Castro Country Club, Rick tried not to let

his mind wander. To think beyond the moment. The current goal.

He’d spent the afternoon trying to find the woman who’d given birth to him. She wasn’t at the address he had for her. No one had been home in the place where she supposedly rented rooms. Her phone service had been shut off—again.

He had no idea where she was working. If she still was. Just because Nancy Kraynick had had a job last week didn’t mean she’d still be employed today.

The older woman who’d been hanging clothes out at the house next door had eventually suggested he check “the club” for his mother. After some prompting, and a five-dollar bill, she’d remembered the name of the place.

Turned out Castro House was a coffeehouse that held substance abuse recovery meetings. And offered former addicts a place to hang out and talk, to bond with others fighting the same battles.

What she hadn’t told him was that it was largely a gay men’s establishment. Which might be fine for his female mother. Rick, on the other hand, was pretty certain, by the glances he was receiving, that he was raising false hopes. His instincts telling him to get the hell out, he approached the espresso counter and ordered a mocha he didn’t want.

Luck would have it that this Friday, because he’d taken the day off and was on a mission, he was sporting a pair of worn, close-fitting jeans. With a long-sleeved cotton baseball shirt that had seen too many washings.

He’d been going for comfort. And no flash.

In this place, tight-fitting clothes—no matter how old, were flash.

Paying for his coffee, pretending not to see the smile the volunteer barista bestowed upon him, Rick turned, taking in as much of the room as he could without making eye contact.

As far as he could tell, his mother wasn’t here.

But then, it’d been years since he’d seen her. Would he even recognize her?

“Have a seat…” A man about Rick’s age pulled out the second chair at a table for two.

“Uh, thanks, but…I’m looking for someone,” he said, sipping too quickly. He burned his tongue.

“Who?” the casually dressed man asked. “I might know him. We’re all pretty friendly around here.”

“Nancy Kraynick. You know her?” Not that she was probably going by that name now. After all, it was only her legal designation, which didn’t seem to compel her to actually introduce herself that way. Growing up, he’d heard her called many different things. Some not so nice labels.

“Yeah,” the guy said, surprising Rick. “She’s been a regular around here, on and off, for the past couple of years.” Rick had to wonder, was Lothario telling the truth or just looking for an opening?

“Have you seen her today?” Rick asked.

“No. But then I just got here. You a friend of hers?”

He couldn’t bring himself to claim even that close an association. “No.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “You aren’t some john, are you? Because I have to tell you, she’s through with that. Has been for some time. So if you’re looking to get something from her, you’d best try looking someplace else.”

Protectiveness? From a man…toward Rick’s mother?

This guy must not know her well. He hadn’t had time to see that her lies were only skin-deep.

His mother always had been able to spin the most believable yarns. Especially believable to a young man who’d adored her and needed badly to believe she would straighten herself out and make a home for him. With her.

Problem was, Nancy Kraynick’s yarns had always become tangled in the knots of drug abuse, and in alcohol stupors that went on for months.

“No, I’m not a john,” he said now, biting back his disgust at the woman his mother was—a woman who’d had johns to ask about.

The pretty man frowned. “She’s not in trouble, is she?”

“Probably, but that’s not why I’m here.”

The guy studied him and then pulled out the empty chair. “You look troubled,” he said. “Have a seat. Maybe Nancy will show.”

“No thanks.” Rick couldn’t even pretend he had an appointment, pretend he’d stay if he could. Five minutes and he’d had enough of this place.

There were other ways he could find out what he needed. He had a name and address of someone who could probably help him, thanks to Chenille Langston, the young black girl who’d stayed behind after Christy’s small funeral. The name and address of a woman who apparently had another Kraynick in her care…A name and address he shouldn’t use. And he had official options, too, which would inevitably involve red tape—and probably require evidence of things that might take a while to prove.

If what he’d been told at the cemetery this morning was true, his whole life was about to change. Again. He needed information. Confirmation. His mother had seemed the obvious source. Stupid of him to think his mom would ever—ever—have answers for him.

An hour later, standing in his en suite shower in the Sunset district home he’d shared with Hannah, Rick scrubbed until his skin stung.

Then he stood, leaning an arm against the wall, head bowed, as he let the hot water cascade over his back.

A year ago, life had been great. He’d been the single dad of a great kid, with a world of possibilities ahead for both of them. Tonight he was the son of a druggie; the older brother of a dead sister he never knew about; a grieving father.

They’d told him it would get easier. That as time passed, the violence of the grief raging through him would lessen.

They’d lied.

MOST OF THE CROWD WAS gone by nightfall. Sue slipped upstairs, to call Barb, from the bedroom she’d always slept in on visits to Grandma.

“I’m finished sooner than I thought,” she said, keeping her voice low, for no logical reason. Old habits, conditioning—a need to keep her private life private—died hard. “I’d like to swing by and pick up my brood.”

Emily and Belle were in the kitchen, overseeing the caterers. Uncle Sam was downstairs, too, probably in the living room, cataloguing his take. Or checking that no one had taken anything yet. Not until he directed who would get what.

“Wilma called. She told me to keep them all night, no matter what you said. You need this night to yourself.” Barb’s tone was sympathetic. “Besides, they’re already asleep.”

Glancing at her watch, Sue realized it was after nine o’clock. Far too late to be making this call. Wilma, a foster care supervisor, was right. Sue wasn’t ready to take up motherhood again tonight.

“I’ll be there first thing in the morning,” she said, missing the young charges in her care. Missing the busy-ness, the unconditional acceptance of love. “Don’t worry about breakfast. I’ll get them early enough to feed them at home.”

Closing her cell phone, sliding it back into the case at her hip, Sue took the deep breath necessary to go back downstairs—but stopped. Someone was upstairs. Crying.

Following the sound down the hall to Grandma’s room, Sue pushed open the door. Her mother, sitting in the off-white Queen Anne chair in the corner by Sarah’s bed, had her face buried in a nightgown she’d given Grandma for Christmas.

“Hey.” Sue fought her own tears as she knelt at her mom’s feet. “Come on, you shouldn’t be up here alone.” She’d said the first thing that came to her mind, though there was no reason why Jenny shouldn’t be visiting her own mother’s room.

Jenny started, clutching the hand Sue placed on her knee. “I…she was…I loved her so much,” she said.

“I know.” Tears filled Sue’s eyes and she could hardly speak as her throat closed up. “Where’s Dad?” she managed to ask after a moment.

“In the bathroom.”

Sue’s gaze followed her mother’s around the room, taking in the long dresser covered with tiny antique perfume bottles on top of doilies Sarah had stitched herself. The collection of miniature porcelain animals. The tall bureau that had been her grandfather’s, still holding his key valet and an encased Giants baseball he’d caught on a fly at a World Series game.

“Not once in all my years growing up did they ever make me feel as though I didn’t belong to them,” Jenny said.

And that’s when Sue realized. “You heard Uncle Sam, too.”

“It’s not like he’s ever tried to hide how he feels,” Jenny said. “I love my brother, Sue. I see the insecurity behind all of his blustering. I just wish he’d see that I’m not and never have been a threat.”

“I can’t stand to be in the same room with him,” Sue said. “He’s just plain cruel…”

“Everything he says is true.”

“That everything here belongs to him?”

“That he’s the only true Carson child.”

“Mom! I can’t believe you’re saying that! We belong here as much as he does.”

“And what we care about, the things that were dear to Grandma and Grandpa, the pictures, the things that hold memories, Sam won’t want, anyway. It’s going to be fine, honey. I can’t let him upset me like this.”

“Who’s upsetting you, Jen?” Luke came into the room and Sue stood, giving her father a hug. Her parents had flown in from their home in Florida two days before. They’d been in town over Christmas, but she’d missed them more than usual this time around.

“Sam,” Jenny answered.

“Well, then that makes three of us he’s getting to, huh?” Luke pulled his wife to her feet, an arm around her and one still around Sue. “How about the Bookmans go face the dragon together?”

HEART POUNDING Monday morning, Rick listened to the phone ring. Once. Twice.

Come on, he willed Ms. Sue Bookman—the faceless woman who, at the moment, meant more to him than anyone else in the world.

A third ring. And a fourth.

Answer your phone.

He didn’t know her age, her race or her marital status. He just knew she held his future in her hands.

And that she lived just outside the Bay Area.

The Internet phone listing matched the address he’d been given at the cemetery.

“Hi, it’s me. I’m probably changing diapers. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

She was changing diapers.

“Sue, my name is Rick Kraynick. I’m assistant superintendent of Livingston schools…” He wanted her to know he was a good guy. Trusted around children. “I have an urgent matter to discuss with you. Please call me as soon as possible. Thank you.”

There. That should do it.

Sitting back at the huge, glass-topped desk in his corner office on the fourth floor of the district building, Rick almost smiled. He’d made the call. Nothing was going to stop him.

Chapter Three

GRANDMA’S ASHES WEREN’T even in the vault before Sue’s uncle arranged the meeting for the reading of the will. He ’d said his urgency was out of respect for Jenny and Luke, who had a home in Florida to return to, but Sue didn’t buy that for a second.

Sam Carson, in an impressive gray suit, paced the foyer of the high-rise building that housed the lawyer’s office more like an expectant father than a grieving son.

“Mom said he’s been chomping at the bit all weekend,” Belle whispered to Sue as the two stood together on Tuesday morning across from the reception counter, much more casually dressed, in good pants and blouses, in a quiet corner of the high-rise entryway. They were sharing a cup of bad coffee neither of them wanted while they waited to be called to the first-floor office. Sue held the cup while Belle gently bounced Camden up and down, soothing the little guy back to sleep.

Baby Carrie was good for another hour, snoozing in the pack on Sue’s back.

Jenny and Luke had not yet arrived from their hotel a short walk down the street.

“Thank goodness Stan Wilson’s not here yet,” Sue whispered back when Sam stopped to say something to his wife, who was sitting on a chair in the opposite corner, reading a magazine. “At least Mom and Dad won’t be blamed for making your dad wait.”

Stan Wilson had been handling Grandma’s affairs for only a couple of years. Their longtime attorney, Mitch Taylor, had retired shortly after Grandpa’s death.

Sue wondered if Mr. Wilson had met Sam Carson yet.

“Dad makes me sick,” Belle said. “It’s not like he needs any of Grandma’s money.”

“Maybe he’ll relax a bit when he’s officially God Carson,” Sue said, then bit her tongue. After a long talk with her parents Friday night at their hotel—where she’d opted to sleep over rather than have them drive all the way out to her place—she was supposed to try her best to love her uncle. Her mother had always insisted that Sam loved all of them. He just had…issues.

Well, so did the rest of them.

Of course, it was a little easier for Jenny to be understanding these days. She had Luke as a buffer. And they lived in Florida. Out of Sam’s reach.

Sam didn’t mess with Sue, either, but she sure hated to see how much grief he gave Belle.

And Emily.

Sue’s phone vibrated against her hip. Juggling the coffee in one hand and the stuffed diaper bag on the opposite shoulder, she checked to see who was calling.

In her business, she never knew. The state might have someone who wanted to see one of her charges. More importantly, they could have an emergency and need someone to take a baby immediately.

Which was why she had her home phone calls forwarded to her cell anytime she was away.

She didn’t recognize the number.

But because she didn’t want to get stuck making small talk with her uncle, who was heading toward Belle, Sue listened to the message.

She didn’t know any Rick Kraynick, assistant superintendent of Livingston schools.

Had never heard of him.

He wasn’t from child services…

The revolving door from the outside spun around. From behind the pillar practically blocking her from the cold air, Sue could make out two people, not her parents. Both were tall. And broad. And…

“Joe?” she called out, sliding her phone back into its case. She walked over, taking in the man at her boss’s side. He was older, in his fifties, Sue would guess. Gray hair. With eyes that, while not the same dark blue as Joe’s, seemed equally impenetrable. Another strong, silent type?

“What are you doing here?” she asked. Weird that he’d show up on the very morning she was waiting to hear Grandma Sarah’s last requests.

“Business,” Joe said, guiding her away from the other man without any acknowledgment whatsoever. As though he wanted to make sure they didn’t meet. “A nine o’clock appointment. How about you?”

“Me, too,” she said, feeling awkward standing talking to him with a baby on her back. Joe didn’t seem to notice. “Nine o’clock.”

Even after several years of working for him, of being peripheral acquaintances, she still had trouble with the new Joe. She missed her friend. More this week than usual. “Grandma’s will is going to be read.”

He frowned. “I’m here for a will, too.”

“Oh!” Sue’s hand found its way to his arm before she could worry if she’d offend her employer. “I’m sorry,” she told him. “Who died?”

“It’s not for me.” Joe glanced back to the man who’d come in with him. Dressed in a beige trench coat, with shoulders hunched up to his ears, the older gentleman had spoken to the receptionist and was standing alone in the foyer, apparently in a world of his own. “I’m just here with him.”

“Who is he?” she asked. But she thought she knew. The eyes might be different colors, but there was something so…alike…

“My father.”

The infamous Adam Fraser. “He’s a lot more muscular looking than I pictured him,” she said, trying not to stare. There’d been a time when she’d wanted five minutes alone in a room with that man.

A time when she’d thought about writing to him, begging him to come home to his son.

A time when she’d hated him for all the pain and rejection he’d put Joe through.

“Comes from years on a fishing boat,” Joe said drily. He had his back to the man. “Who’s that?” he asked, nodding to her right.

Sue turned. Smiled at her cousin’s curious stare. Sam had moved on. “Belle.”

“Your cousin. She’s a couple of years younger than you.”

He’d remembered. “Right.”

“Is the baby hers?” Camden was sleeping, snuggled against Belle’s chest as though he belonged there.

Infants had an uncanny ability to adapt.

Especially ones who’d been passed from one pair of arms to another since taking their first breath.

“No.” Sue shifted her weight from foot to foot. “Belle’s not married. That’s Camden. He’s mine, too.”

With one last pointed look, Belle moved over to join her mother. Uncle Sam had disappeared. Probably to go check on Stan Wilson himself since the receptionist hadn’t yet produced him. Had he really been waiting for his mother to die so he could take over the Carson dynasty?

A dynasty of six.

“She’s cute.”

Joe’s words brought Sue back to the slight chill of the high-ceilinged foyer. She glanced over at Belle again, and then realized Joe was staring at the baby on her back.

“That she is,” she said, remembering the changing table that morning. She’d rubbed her face against the baby’s belly and Carrie had chortled out loud. The sound, one she’d heard countless times from more than fifteen babies over the past four years, had calmed her. Reminding her that everything would be okay. It always was. If you held on long enough.

“What’s her name?”

“Carrie.” Chosen by her mother.

“How long have you had her?”

“Since she was twelve hours old. Almost five months, now.”

“What happened to her parents?”

“There was no father named. Her mother’s young, has no means to care for her.”

The room was cold. The day was cold. Not even the memory of Joe’s friendship could warm her.

Grandma was gone. For good.

“I thought there was always a waiting list for newborns.”

“Her mother won’t give her up. She has six months to complete a state-ordered program as part of the process of getting her back.”

“How long until she regains custody?”

“Depends on the mother. Could be months. A year or two. Never. In the meantime, because she can’t be adopted, I keep the baby.”

“You could have her for years?”

“I could.” Sue couldn’t allow herself to consider the possibility or she’d get too attached. “It’s not likely, though. I’m sure her mother will come through. She wants this baby more than anything. In all my years of fostering, I’ve never had a baby for more than nine months.”

And in all the years she’d worked for Joe, he’d never asked her a single question about the kids in her care.

“And you had no problem giving it up after all that time?”

Now he was trespassing. “Having problems is relative,” she said. Her last long-term baby had been with her seven months. Dante’s mother had loved her son enough to straighten out her life. She’d visited every single day those last couple of months. Handing him over to her had been as much a celebration as it had been a loss.

“There’s always another one,” she said now, hoping that Dante’s mom was still as dedicated to her boy when he was three and four and into everything as she’d been when he was a cuddly little baby.

The revolving door at the front of the foyer turned again, admitting a middle-aged man with a briefcase and a cell phone pressed to his ear who disappeared through one of many identical doors.

Where were her parents?

And then something else dawned on Sue.

“I thought you and your dad’s half brother, your uncle Daniel, were your dad’s only family.” Joe had said so when his grandma Jo had passed away several years before.

“We are.”

“Your uncle didn’t die, did he?”

“No. He’s still here in San Francisco. Still in construction.” Though she’d never met Daniel Kane, Sue felt as though she knew him. Joe had idolized him.

Only nine years older, Daniel had been there when Joe was young, and hadn’t seemed to mind him tagging along. Adam’s and Daniel’s mother was Joe’s Grandma Jo—the woman who’d raised all three.

Daniel had given Joe his start in the construction business.

“So who passed away?” Sue asked again, staring at the man who’d fathered—and then abandoned—her onetime best friend. “Someone from his dad’s side?”

Adam Fraser’s father had been a soldier in World War II. He’d made it back from the war only to be killed in a car accident before Adam was even born. But apparently no one from his dad’s family had ever tried to see Adam. Or be a part of his life.

“He says he doesn’t know what’s going on.” Joe sounded more bored than anything. “He claims he got a call from some attorney and was told he needed to be here this morning for the reading of a will.”

“Surely the guy gave him the name of the deceased.”

“Yeah, but he says he doesn’t have any idea who the woman is.”

“That’s odd.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“You don’t believe him. You think he knows?”

“How many people get calls out of the blue telling them they’re supposedly named in a will of someone they’ve never met?”

“It happens.”

“On TV.”

“So what reason could he possibly have for lying?”

“Because he has something to hide?”

“Then why bring you along?”

“How do I know? I barely know the man.”

Hard to believe she’d once been privy to Joe’s every thought.

“You’re here.”

“He’s my father.”

That sounded like the Joe she’d known.

Uncle Sam strode back down the hall toward the foyer just as the revolving door turned again. Sue’s parents had arrived. Belle, still cuddling a sleeping Camden, stood with her mother to greet them.

And Sue’s cell phone vibrated against her hip. She recognized the number. Please God, she prayed silently as she turned from Joe to take the call. Let my third crib be filled. Not another one emptied…

Sue barely had time to finish the call—and certainly no time to digest the information—as her parents moved toward her. She forced a smile, keeping her news to herself, trying not to look at the little guy in Belle’s arms—a baby she’d cared for, almost exclusively, for five months. She had only six more hours to keep him close to her heart before she had to hand him over. And never see him again.

“I’M SORRY, MR. KRAYNICK. I appreciate your candor and your intentions here. I understand your situation, but unfortunately, I can’t give you access to the baby. It does appear, by these documents, that you and the mother’s baby could be half brother and sister, but…”

Frustrated beyond belief, Rick already knew what the woman—State Worker Number Four—was going to say. He’d been hearing the same news, in various versions and from various people, for the past three days, which was why that morning he’d finally used the information he’d been given at the cemetery.

Ever since he’d heard from that young girl that his sixteen-year-old sister had had a baby, he’d been unable to think of anything else.

The city’s social services network had verified that the infant existed. But they couldn’t possibly expose a baby girl to a complete stranger on his word that he was family. It didn’t help matters that he’d admitted he’d never even met his sister.

He’d hoped producing his birth certificate, to compare with the one they could get for Christy, would verify their relationship. Would change things.

Turns out birth certificates were pretty easy to duplicate. And alter.

“What about DNA testing?” he asked now, as he faced the middle-aged black woman who at least smiled with compassion, as opposed to state worker numbers two and three. “If I prove I’m her biological uncle, then I can start adoption proceedings, right?”

State Worker Number One, on Saturday morning, had been too new at his job to do anything other than worry about getting things right.

Monday’s worker had given Rick nothing but repeated explanations about the way San Francisco’s system worked. Yes, the city was the official guardian of the child. The city had custody. But the child’s welfare and care were given over to a private organization.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Tuesday’s worker replied with a slow shake of the head. “We don’t have the money to provide DNA testing and—

“I’ll pay for it.”

“Do you have any idea how far backed up the state’s labs are?” she asked. “They’ve got criminal evidence waiting to be tested. It could take months before you get any results. Certainly weeks.”

“And how long will the baby be in foster care?”

The woman scanned the file for a moment. And looked up at him, eyes filled with sympathy. “Probably not long.” She didn’t elaborate. But Rick had a feeling she knew more than she was saying.

“So how do I get them to hold off doing anything with her? At least until I can prove we’re blood related?”

“You could go to court. Petition for a hearing. That might put a stay on an adoption. If you’re interested in adopting her, I’m fairly certain they’d give you some time. Would you like to fill out an adoption application?”

“Yes. Please.” He didn’t ask himself what he was doing. There was no question here. If the orphaned child was a member of his family, she belonged with him. He’d take care of her. Period.

The kind woman handed him a sheaf of papers. “You can start here,” she said. “But there’s no guarantee of anything. While it’s true the state of California always tries to place children with family if at all possible, even if it’s proved that you’re the child’s uncle, it’s possible that someone else equally qualified could step forward.”

Equally qualified? As in, also blood related?

Was that what the woman had read in the file? Was there someone from the baby’s father’s side?

“It would help so much if you’d known the baby’s mother. If you’d spent time with the child…” If you’d been around to help your sister when she’d been pregnant and struggling, Rick figured the lady was thinking. “But walking in cold like this, after the fact, it’s hard to believe you’ve suddenly developed the kind of love it takes to raise a child.”

His mother was the reason Rick had never known about Christy. Okay, so he hadn’t been in touch in years. He had been in touch since Christy’s birth. A couple of times.

His mother. She’d seen the baby. Was that what this woman had just read? That Nancy Kraynick was petitioning for custody of Christy’s little girl?

Surely not.

Pray God, not.

“Or if you were her father…”

He’d been a father. A damn good one.

“Our emphasis has to be on the children. On their long-term well-being. And really, the decision at this point isn’t even ours. You’d have to contact WeCare Services. They’re the organization in charge of Carrie’s case.”

His fight wasn’t with this woman. She’d done more to help him than anyone else in the past four days. She’d just given him the name of the organization that employed Sue Bookman.

Another official contact.

Taking his paperwork, he thanked her and left.

He had to find a way to see the child. Not to convince a court to let him adopt her because he’d seen her, but because he had to see his little sister’s baby. Especially if she could be adopted out before he had a chance to petition for her himself. He had to know she was okay.

And to promise her that, somehow, whether she was adopted or not, he would not abandon her. He was not going to take any chances that another life would be lost.

According to Chenille Langston, his sister’s fifteen-year-old friend who’d talked to him at the grave site, Christy had loved and wanted this baby enough to “stay off the junk” during her entire pregnancy.

Out in his car, Rick checked his cell phone again, waiting to see if the Bookman woman had called him back. Seeing the empty message box, he dialed his lawyer.