screeched and threw her arms around Amelia, pulling her as close as her baby bump allowed.
“Hey! What’s going on?”
At Will’s voice, they both looked toward the house. He stood on the front stoop, clad in his typical carpentry clothes of blue jeans and a dark green shirt. He balanced eighteen-month-old Timothy on one hip while he held the screen door closed with the edge of a battered work boot. Toto, the paycheck-eating Scotch Terrier, jumped against the other side of the door in a bid to get out.
Jenny broke off the hug. She got as far as saying Will’s name before she started to sob.
He shifted Timothy under one arm and leaped down the stairs. “Baby, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”
Jenny wiped her eyes. “Amelia.”
“Auntie Mia, Auntie Mia,” Timmy chorused, squirming in his father’s hold. He wore only a T-shirt and diaper, which was loosening with each wriggle. The dog slipped past the screen door and bounded toward them, adding his high-pitched yapping to the commotion.
Will glowered at Amelia. He was protective by nature, especially when it came to his wife. Although at five foot nine he was only an inch taller than his sister, his frame was packed with solid muscle earned from a lifetime of working with his hands. He could be an imposing figure to someone who didn’t know what a marshmallow he was inside. He raised his voice over the din. “What did you do to her?”
Amelia laughed. “Down, boy. Those are happy tears.”
“That’s right.” Jenny hiccupped. “Your sister won the lottery.”
“What? Come on.”
“It’s true,” Amelia said. “I played our birthdays like I always do. 1, 3, 4, 17, 23, 29. Those were last night’s winning numbers.” She withdrew the scrap of newspaper from her pocket and held it up to him, just as she had for Mae. “See for yourself.”
Will caught her wrist to steady her hand. He looked at the paper, then at her, then back at the paper. His face paled beneath his freckles. “Is this for real?”
“As real as fifty-two million and change.”
“You’re rich.”
She shook her head. Not for a second had she considered keeping the winnings for herself. Her family had stood by her through the bad times, and there was no way she wouldn’t share the good ones. “We’re rich, big brother,” she corrected. “Stinking, filthy, ridiculously, never-worry-about-a-job-again loaded.”
He released her wrist to pass his hand over his face. His fingers shook. Then he tipped back his head and whooped. So did Timmy. Laughing, Will swung the toddler over his head and spun in a circle. “We’re rich, Timmy. There’s a new word for you. Rich. What do you think of that?”
Timmy chortled and kicked, his entire body expressing his glee. Will pulled him back down before the diaper fell off completely. Owen and Eric, drawn by the noise, ran around the house from the backyard. At ten, Owen was a miniature version of his father, right down to the thatch of red hair. A leather catcher’s mitt engulfed his left hand—he was on a baseball kick this month. Six-year-old Eric had his mother’s coloring as well as her nurturing instinct—instead of a baseball mitt, he held the neighbors’ marmalade cat. Momentarily anyway. It streaked off as soon as it spotted Toto.
The boys needed no convincing to join the celebration. Seeing the adults happy for a change was reason enough.
It wasn’t only cars she could buy the boys. She could get Owen season tickets to the Jays games and send him to a baseball camp. She could put Eric through veterinary school. There would be no limit to whatever dream they wanted to follow.
This continued to get better and better.
Amelia wiped her eyes as she led the way to the house. At first, she assumed the place looked different due to her excitement. Having a life-changing experience would give anyone a new perspective. Then she noticed the old sunburst-shaped clock was missing from the living room. So was the ugly wooden floor lamp with the lopsided base. The shelf above the computer held far fewer knickknacks than it had when she’d left for work this morning.
Apparently, Jenny had added more items to her yard sale that hadn’t been limited to the junk in the basement. That was good, since the sunburst clock lost five minutes a week, and the lamp tended to fall over at the slightest bump. This also meant there would be less to move when Amelia bought their new house.
She wouldn’t wait that long to move out of here herself, though. There was hardly enough space for her now.
In a fancier house, the room where she slept would be called a den, but here it was known simply as the back room. The door was ajar when she reached it. That wasn’t unusual, so she wasn’t alarmed. Everyone in the family was in and out of this room on a regular basis, since Jenny’s sewing machine was set up in here, and the kids often played on the futon that served as Amelia’s bed. She hadn’t minded because she’d had no right to complain. There were no spare bedrooms, and as the saying went, beggars couldn’t be choosers.
But now she allowed herself to think about it. Even though she adored her nephews, she was looking forward to the time when she could sleep on a real bed again and not need to check for toy cars and stray Lego blocks when she opened out the futon. She would enjoy regaining the little luxuries she used to take for granted, like privacy, and having a closet all to herself, and taking a long soak in the bathtub whenever she wanted without causing a lineup outside the door. Once she cashed in that ticket she could choose where and how she lived. She would never, ever, need to depend on anyone’s charity again.
The sound of Jenny’s voice came from the direction of the kitchen, along with Toto’s yapping. “Timothy, put the bone down,” she ordered. “It’s Toto’s.”
“Mine.”
“It’s full of germs.”
“Mom, I’m hungry,” Owen whined.
“Me, too,” said Eric. “Can I have a cookie?”
“How about an apple?” Jenny offered.
“Ugh!”
“Or some raisins—” Jenny groaned in exasperation. “Timmy, no! Get that bone out of your mouth!”
Amelia chuckled. Quiet was another luxury that was rare around here, although she was getting used to the daily circus and would probably miss it when she was gone. Once she cashed that ticket...
Uh-huh. The ticket. It was high time to actually hold it in her hand. She pushed the door of the back room completely open, then turned toward the wall at the end of the futon.
The space was empty. The painting that normally hung there was gone.
Her smile dissolved. The room spun. For the second time in an hour—could it only have been an hour?—she stumbled from shock. “No,” she whispered.
There had to be a simple explanation. Maybe the wire that held the painting had broken. It could have bounced and ended up behind the futon. She grabbed one corner of the futon frame and slid it away from the wall, but nothing was there.
Heavy
