had never been what you’d call an animal lover, but for some crazy reason, he’d followed the truck to the shelter. A dog as ugly as Roscoe wasn’t likely to be adopted soon, and Eddie’d had a feeling the dog’s days were numbered.
He’d had one last sobering thought about heading back to work and leaving the shelter alone, but when Roscoe had peered at him through that cage, as if saying, “Hey, buddy. How’d you like to be in here?” Eddie had given in and put down a deposit to hold him until he’d been cleaned up, neutered, and deemed adoptable.
So here he was, a reluctant dog owner.
Eddie snapped the leash onto Roscoe’s collar, then opened the door only to see two men walking up the sidewalk.
Roscoe strained to rush forward—to greet them warmly, no doubt—but Eddie held him back.
“Going somewhere?” the taller of the two men asked.
Eddie stiffened at the sound of his parole officer’s voice. “Just taking my dog for a walk.”
“We were in the area and thought we’d stop by for a visit,” Dale Kingsley said.
Eddie would never get used to the “visits” of virtual strangers who would rifle through his drawers and closet, usually leaving his house in shambles.
“I don’t suppose you’d like to make yourself at home while I let the dog take care of business,” he said, but he’d been out of prison long enough to know the routine. He’d be cuffed while the men searched his house, looking for anything that might be a parole violation.
They wouldn’t find anything, though. He’d hated every second behind bars, and he wasn’t going to risk ever going back again.
“We’ll wait,” Dale said. “And I’d rather you kept that dog outside. I got bit by a Rottweiler once, and I’m not about to take any chances.”
Dale didn’t need to worry about Roscoe doing anything other than licking him to death, but Eddie clamped his mouth shut.
It was one of the lessons he’d learned at Donovan Correctional Facility.
It was best to keep to yourself.
The next morning, Amy sat in front of Ron Paige’s desk at Fairbrook Realty, a small, storefront office just two doors down from Parkside Community Church.
Ron had already run a credit check, and as expected, Amy had passed with flying colors. But she’d known she would. If there was one thing to be said about Brandon, it was that he was not only driven to succeed at the office, he was also determined to keep their FICO scores high.
“So far, so good,” Ron said. “The only thing I need to do now is to check on your rental history.”
“I own the house I’m currently living in. If you take a closer look at the credit report, you’ll see the mortgage has always been paid on time.”
Ron glanced at the pages in front of him. “Oh. You’re right.” He furrowed his brow, then looked up. “If you own a home, why do you want to lease the Rucker place?”
As a child, Amy used to tattle on herself, so she’d never been good at deception. Yet she managed a truthful response that would satisfy his curiosity without revealing her real motive. “I’m going through a divorce.”
He nodded, as though that answered everything. Then he glanced back down at the paperwork in front of him and added, “You’re lucky.”
She didn’t feel very lucky and couldn’t help asking, “How so?”
“I’ve worked with people in the past who were in your situation, and their credit scores were usually a disaster.”
Yeah, well, he didn’t know Brandon.
And he didn’t know Amy, either. She hadn’t wanted a big fight; she’d just wanted out. And since she’d heard horror stories of year-long litigations in family court, she’d suggested they get one attorney and divide things right down the middle.
Not wanting a divorce in the first place, as well as the expense and hassle of one, Brandon had agreed to her terms.
All of them, actually. But then again, she’d tried hard to be fair.
“I gotta hand it to you,” Ron said. “It sounds as though you two are dealing exceptionally well with your split.”
Amy supposed they were. Yet again, her efforts to tiptoe around the truth and her hope that Ron would buy her explanation warmed her cheeks.
Apparently, she’d been able to pull off the deception, because by eleven o’clock she’d signed a six-month lease and had been handed the keys to the Rucker place.
“I’ve contacted a landscaping company to mow the lawn and trim the bushes,” Ron said. “Mrs. Davila said her mom had always prided herself in a beautiful yard, but the place has been going steadily downhill for years.”
Amy supposed she’d talk to the landscaper about staying on while the lease was in effect. Something told her she’d be too busy inside the house to worry about the yard.
Fifteen minutes later, she arrived on Sugar Plum Lane. She parked her car in the drive, removed several empty cardboard boxes from the backseat, and carried them down the walkway to the front door, intending to follow through on her part of the bargain. Somehow, that made what she was doing seem right.
The lockbox had yet to be removed, but she used the key she’d been given to enter.
Once inside, she inhaled the scent of dust and age, along with the hint of stale sugar and spice. She was tempted to open up the windows and air out the old Victorian, yet she also felt compelled to leave everything just the way it was.
She was reminded of the dozen or so two-story clapboard houses that had been relocated from various sites in San Diego to Heritage Park and refurbished, the interiors decorated and furnished just as they’d been a hundred years ago, with a rope stretched across the doorways of the rooms to block people from entering or touching the displays.
But Amy was free to walk through the rooms of the Rucker place, to touch each item that had once passed through the fingers of the great-grandmother she’d never known.
She dropped the boxes onto the floor in the entry, then placed her hands on her hips and scanned the living room, with its faded blue walls edged with a floral wallpaper trim. Her gaze was drawn to a soot-stained red brick fireplace, where several framed photographs were displayed on a carved oak mantel.
Curiosity urged her to take a closer look at the people who’d meant something to Mrs. Rucker, and she crossed the room. As she lifted each frame, she studied the smiling images in an effort to see her mother in one of them.
There was, she supposed, a family resemblance. Or maybe she just wanted there to be one.
She lifted a brass frame that held a black-and-white photograph of a smiling young couple. The man had on an Army uniform, and the woman, an attractive blonde, was wearing the style of clothing worn in the 1940s.
There was something about the woman
