what? He was good and quiet. I fell in love with him. And I read to him all the time now.”
Years later, that story still reminds Karen that books have power far greater than any one sentence on a page. They transform the soul and encourage readers to embrace the world so they can make a difference, too.
And while she admits that fundraising is always tough, finding the time to take the organization to the next level and tend to her personal life is even more of a challenge some days.
“I’m a reader so I need lots of time to read and write,” she says with a laugh. “But I don’t feel that we’ve fulfilled our whole mission yet. There’s more to be done.”
Pamela Morsi is a bestselling, award-winning novelist who finds humor in everyday life and honor in ordinary people. She lives in San Antonio, Texas, with her husband and daughter.
To readers: young, old and everything in-between. May there always be a good story in your future.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Letter to Reader
Chapter One
Calla stepped off the bus on Canasta Street and made a quick stop at the Korean grocery before walking the three blocks to her home. Typically this time of year she made the walk all bundled up and with her head down against the wind. But this fall was gorgeous in Chicago and the city was, for a brief time at least, a place of bright sunshine and vivid autumn colors. Only the slightest nip in the air foretold of the cold winter to come.
She’d lived on Canasta Street for sixteen years. She and her husband, Mark, had moved into their house when their son was still just a toddler. Now, Nathan was in his last year of high school and had just completed his early action application to attend Northwestern, his first choice for college, next year. Calla smiled to herself. She couldn’t help but be proud. She just wished that Mark had lived to see it.
As she approached her block, all the tiredness of the long workday seemed to lift. There was something about a home surrounded by neighbors and friends that just buoyed a person. Every step she took along the well-worn sidewalk was as familiar to her as the back of her hand.
From his porch, old Mr. Whitten waved to her. Next door to him, the Carnaby children, along with their cousins, friends and assorted other stragglers, were noisy and exuberant as they played in their front yard. Two houses past them, Mrs. Gamble sat on her steps, her daughter Eunice at her side.
“You’re home early,” the older woman called out.
Calla just smiled. She was home at exactly the same time she was home every day.
“Did you buy something at the store?” Mrs. Gamble asked.
“Just milk,” Calla answered. “And a half dozen apples. You know Mr. Ohng’s produce is hard to resist.”
“Come and sit a spell with us,” the older woman said. “We haven’t had a good visit with you in ages.”
“Oh, I’d better get home and see what Nathan is up to.”
“He’s sure up to nothing at home,” Eunice said with just a hint of superiority in her voice. “He’s across the street in 2B with Gerty’s wild grandniece.”
Calla kept her expression deliberately blank. Eunice undoubtedly wanted to get a rise from her, but she wasn’t about to give the woman the satisfaction.
“Oh, come up and sit,” Mrs. Gamble pleaded. “That way you can see him when he leaves.”
Calla wouldn’t have walked across the street to talk with Eunice. But Mrs. Gamble was a genuinely sweet older lady who was trapped all day with the bitter unhappiness of her daughter.
So she opened the gate on the Gambles’ chain-link fence and made her way to the porch. Setting her little bag of groceries beside her, Calla tucked the hem of her skirt behind her knees and seated herself on the fourth step, just slightly below Mrs. Gamble and directly across from Eunice.
“How was your job today?” Mrs. Gamble asked.
Calla shrugged. “Fine,” she answered. She knew the woman was eager for details. Calla had been a nurse in Dr. Walker’s ear, nose and throat practice for over a decade. Mrs. Gamble loved stories about diseases. Especially ones where the patient had to overcome great odds to recover.
There’d been no such dramatic cases today. With the coming of fall, the office had been full of allergy sufferers fighting off sinus infections. Calla was not sure how entertaining the stories would be when all the characters were blowing into tissues.
“It’s been pretty routine at the office the last few days,” Calla told her.
“Well, there’s nothing routine about the goings-on around here,” Eunice piped in. “That girl has got her hooks in Nathan and no good is going to come of it.”
Calla couldn’t stop herself from casting a nervous glance in the direction of the apartment building across the street. Gerty Cleveland had lived there for twenty years at least. She was about Mrs. Gamble’s age and had a large family scattered across the city. Less than a month ago, Jazleen—or Jazzy, as Nathan called her—had come to live with her. Calla didn’t know the whole story, but there were plenty of rumors swirling about.
The girl’s mother was on drugs. Or maybe she was in jail. Jazleen herself had been in trouble. Or maybe she just was trouble. Gerty was Jazleen’s last chance. Or maybe she was the only chance the teenager had ever had.
Calla had heard what everyone was saying. But what resounded with her louder than all the neighborhood whispering were the words of her son, Nathan.
“She’s okay, Mom,” he assured her. “She’s a good person.”
Calla trusted her son, but she worried, too. Young men could often be blinded by a pretty face or a good figure. Jazleen was no great beauty, but she had sweet features and the requisite number of teenage curves.
“Once you get to know her,” Nathan said, “you’ll like her.”
That was slow going so far. Jazleen had been in their house many times. She was mostly silent and slightly sullen. Those were hardly traits to win the heart.
“I don’t think we should jump to conclusions about the girl,” Calla told Eunice. “Nathan says she’s nice.”
Eunice sucked her teeth. “Yes, well, I’m sure that’s what the boy would tell his mother.”
Calla was very tempted to remind Eunice that since she obviously didn’t know one thing about mothers and sons, it might be best if she just kept her opinions to herself.
She was saved from making any comment by the now familiar tap of shiny shoes coming down the sidewalk.
“It’s him!” Eunice breathed, barely above a whisper.
Calla didn’t need to ask who she meant. Every woman on Canasta Street, single, divorced, married or widowed, like Calla herself, knew the only man who would attract such attention.
Deliberately Calla kept her gaze on Mrs. Gamble. She flatly refused to turn and look, though she could see the man perfectly in her imagination. Landry Sinclair had moved into the house next door to her just weeks ago. He was polite and friendly, but so far no one had really gotten to know him.
What Calla and the other women did know was that he was tall and trim, with a strong jaw, a handsome smile and thick, arched brows. He went to work every morning and returned every evening dressed in impeccably tailored suits. And, so far, there had been no visitors at his place. No wife or girlfriend, not