Willowgate Park

By Frederick G. Giel

Misfortune and rejection shadowed Eddie Brooks in his early years. His birth parents were swept away in the unruly Susquehanna River during an ice storm that paralyzed Stonington, Pennsylvania, in the winter of 1953. After a brief stay in a distant orphanage, Eddie was placed in a dysfunctional foster care arrangement with a childless couple back in Stonington, but the foster plan imploded after a neighborhood tragedy that took the life of Eddie's pal. Ostracized by his community and rescued by a family in Chestnut Ridge, a town far in the distance on the other side of the wide river, Eddie grew and blossomed, but there were still unsettled issues to confront in Stonington. As a young adult, Eddie finally returned to face his demons, and along the way, he discovered the otherworldly assistance that had been at his beck and call all along.

By first-time author, Frederick Giel, the book is an emotional rollercoaster, having twists and turns that will leave the reader breathless. With its colorful characters, infectious humor, and constant tug at heartstrings, readers will enjoy the ride!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503530225

Frederick G. Giel

Frederick George Giel is a graduate of Saint Josephs College (Rensselaer, Indiana) and the University of Notre Dame Law School. During a legal career spanning nearly four decades, he practiced the profession within corporate law departments in Indiana, Germany, Pennsylvania, and New York. Married to the former Karen Lee Feggeler, he currently resides in South Bend, Indiana. They are the parents of two childrenCourtney Danielle (Giel) Flynn (Granger, Indiana) and Jonathan Nikolaus Giel (Broomfield, Colorado)and the grandparents of Taylor Reese Flynn, Alexandra Reagan Flynn, and James Jonathan Flynn. Giel is also the author of Willowgate Park, a well-received work of fiction released in 2015.

Book preview

Willowgate Park

Frederick G. Giel

Copyright © 2015 by Frederick G. Giel.

Illustration By: Dwight Nacaytuna

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014922749

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-5035-3020-1

Softcover   978-1-5035-3021-8

eBook   978-1-5035-3022-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 02/19/2015

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

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Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

In memory of

Edward E. Kochanowski

1952 – 1963

Acknowledgements

First and foremost, a heartfelt salute to Mary Eckerle and Carly Squadroni, the family’s librarians, for encouraging reading and writing.

Special thanks to Karen Giel, my wife, and Courtney Flynn, our daughter, for serving as a bouncing board in the very beginning of the writing process. Along with Bob Giel, Mary Eckerle, and Rita Reust, my siblings, they served as my early readers of the first draft. Their thoughts and suggestions provided tremendous guidance and encouragement in the initial months of the project and later as the drafts began to multiply.

In addition to my family’s support, I am grateful for the outstanding assistance rendered over several months by the team at Xlibris LLC. Thanks to their contributions, the publication process proceeded smoothly and professionally.

And finally, there is the high school guidance counselor who told me to pursue a career as a novelist. I scoffed at his preposterous suggestion back in the spring of 1967 and eventually went to law school. Following a legal career of nearly four decades, I put aside the law books and powered up my laptop to create Eddie Brooks and a host of other imaginary characters, places, and events. Even in its embryotic stage, when the words, sentences, paragraphs and chapters had barely begun to take shape, this book became my passion. A year after the writing commenced, Willowgate Park was in the hands of the publisher. Regrettably, I can no longer recall the name of the guidance counselor. I hope he’s out there somewhere and happens to spot the book in the window of his neighborhood bookstore. For planting the seed and encouraging my creative instincts, I will be forever in his debt.

Chapter 1

On a winter night, mere hours before his sixth birthday, Eddie Brooks sat motionless on the edge of his tiny suitcase in the living room of a home seeping warmth. There, next to the Christmas tree with its strands of colorful lights mercifully unplugged, Eddie stared intently out the front window into the snowy darkness as he awaited a car. His light brown hair, recently ignored, was matted flat against his head except for the spot in the back where his oily cowlick was beanstalking.

Thick, black-framed eyeglasses were perched on his face and secured by an overstretched rubber strap. Eddie needed his lenses for distance correction, but they weren’t very helpful when covered with several days of neglect. Ordinarily, his foster mother wiped off the smudges once a day; however, in the hectic and confusing week that was coming to an end, the spectacles had been forgotten.

Eddie squinted as he glared out into the night, and he would struggle mightily to recognize the driver of the next car that turned into the snow-covered driveway. He would try nonetheless, hoping the smiling social worker would arrive before the stern foster father, who was as icy as the outside air.

As he manned his post with his diminutive body, Eddie wouldn’t let himself be distracted by the noise from the kitchen. He could faintly hear his foster mother sobbing behind the closed door, and he felt a momentary impulse to rush to her side. Her head was down on the kitchen table that night as rationalizations were crumbling under the weight of guilt and motherly affection.

Helen Olson was a petite woman, ordinarily quiet and deferential, in the mold of her parents, both librarians. Her birth name was Jane, and that had suited her fine until seventh grade, when snickering classmates began to refer to her as Plain Jane. By the time she started high school, she was using Helen, her middle name, to rid herself of the ridicule. It did nothing to erase her plainness, but it brought her peace. Now in her mid-thirties, she was about to give up another name. Losing Plain Jane was easy; shedding Mom wouldn’t be.

Helen’s eyes were ordinarily a shiny green, but on that night, her eyelids were nearly swollen shut from the day’s painful ordeal. The bun in her hair, ever precise and tightly wound, was uncharacteristically loosening and spilling her mousy brown hair sloppily onto her shoulders. Eddie loved his foster mother dearly, but he sensed—well, no, the precocious boy knew—that she wasn’t an innocent bystander in the rejection that was underway. Eddie wasn’t mean-spirited or spiteful, but he was stubborn as hell.

I’m not going in there, he promised himself in a slight whisper. And he didn’t.

The word mom had disappeared from Eddie’s vocabulary after the earlier tragedy, the orphaning one, but it reappeared when he arrived in the Olson household only two summers prior. Helen had connected emotionally with Eddie during the period of foster care, but on that cold winter night, she understood why the arrangement had to be concluded. It would be better for everybody, especially Eddie, she reasoned, parroting her husband. As her husband had explained to her that very morning, there was simply too much baggage, and she knew he wasn’t referring to the contents of that small suitcase; rather, Richard Olson was talking about the little boy resting on top of it. So yes, she understood, but that didn’t make it any easier.

Next to Eddie and his suitcase were several packing boxes containing the young boy’s other possessions. Clothes, toys, shoes, an electric train set, a pair of roller skates, and a baseball glove—it was all there. His entire life was stuffed tightly into a single piece of luggage and six cardboard boxes.

Well, almost everything. The bicycle would stay behind, along with Eddie’s fishing rod; maybe another little boy would use those in the future. And at the top of one of those boxes was a family photo that his foster mother had peeled out from behind the glass of an expensive oak frame. Helen reasoned immodestly that Eddie would enjoy having it someday as a memento. On the day it had been snapped at a professional photographer’s studio, there had been familial bliss. Eddie was smiling that day, flanked between his proud foster parents in front of a bright white backdrop that showered an angelic glow that would later feel undeserved. The occasion was Eddie’s one-year anniversary with the Olsons, and a cheap frame from the local department store would have been unworthy of the photo. Helen spent nearly an hour at a frame shop selecting the wood, matting, and glass that would hold the special picture.

After the photo was extracted earlier that day, the empty frame was replaced on the fireplace mantel, ready to be outfitted one day with a fresh print.

Helen’s mind wandered as she envisioned possible replacements. Perhaps a portrait of a little girl in pigtails and a frilly dress, or maybe a boy wearing a blue blazer with a bright tie. Getting another foster child was admittedly wishful thinking, but it wasn’t impossible to imagine. However, she knew that would be up to her husband.

If we’re talking about a kid, a dog, or a cat, I want to make the final decision, Richard said earlier that day. If it’s just a canary or a goldfish, you can decide.

Helen looked over at the clock on the stove and whispered a prayer that Richard would pull into the driveway before the social worker arrived. Her husband’s long meetings always made evenings difficult.

That’s the insurance business, Richard scolded whenever she complained. A dedicated agent has to meet with clients to seal the deals, to bring home the bacon, to provide for the roof over our heads.

Yes, the man sounded like a broken record at times, but that was better than the alternative. She despised him when he ignored her, when he gave her the silent treatment for hours on end on those moody days and nights. Those glasses of scotch always took him to a dreadful place.

Please, God, she murmured, let Richard get home soon so he can at least say good-bye to Eddie.

The formality Richard maintained probably wasn’t helpful. Her stomach churned each time she thought back to the day that Eddie was brought into their home. Several moments after the social worker had departed, Helen—who, like her husband, had never been a birth or a foster parent—suddenly felt a mothering urge pushing to the surface. Although she did not know for certain if the arrangement would ultimately lead to adoption, she could not contain her motherly impulse on that sunny afternoon. She smiled at Eddie then and brushed a soft tear from her cheek.

Eddie, I want you to call me Mom. Would you feel comfortable doing that? she asked excitedly.

Eddie smiled warmly and tried out the greeting; it was a word eager to escape his lips.

In that moment, Richard’s pasty complexion turned fiery red as he glared at his wife. Sweetheart, I think we should have discussed that, he remarked through pursed lips.

Then, scowling at Eddie, he explained that he wanted to be called Mr. Olson for the present time, but he held out hope that that would eventually change.

You know, young man, we believe that this day will be the beginning of a lifetime together for the three of us, and that might mean a formal adoption process in a few years. In the meantime, you should show me respect by calling me Mr. Olson. After a short while, we might be able to change that to Richard. Okay, Tiger?

Tiger? There was that word for the first time, coming out of nowhere with neither a reason nor a choice. It was an ill-fitting nickname to attach to a quiet boy back then, a mere four-year-old in a gawky frame, looking considerably younger and weaker for his age. Nonetheless, Tiger it was.

Richard would milk that moniker relentlessly because it gave him a connection to Eddie that he had personally created. Eddie hated the name but never as much as he grew to loathe the cold man with the outsized stomach and ill-filling hairpiece towering over him that first day, insisting on being addressed so pretentiously, so coldly.

As she waited for Richard’s car to turn into the driveway, Helen could not stop dwelling on that first day from what seemed a distant past. Well, yes, her husband’s early moments with Eddie had been somewhat worrisome, but that was Richard’s way. He was never close to his own parents or his younger brother, a damaged vessel hospitalized for a lifetime beginning soon after birth. Helen knew emotional connections were more challenging for Richard, and over time, she had accepted that. Moreover, in the months that passed, Richard had built a solid relationship with Eddie.

Yes, that’s the word, she mumbled to herself. It’s solid, like polished steel. Or is it more akin to a slab of cold concrete? Whatever. Being solid is surely enough, isn’t it?

Their marriage and home had been childless before Eddie arrived, and they had tried greatly to create a family once Eddie was part of their household. Unfortunately, everything changed on a sunny afternoon several months back in Eddie’s second summer in the Olson household. She winced when she thought back to that day and the eternal pain.

But on that winter night while Eddie stared out the front window, she understood reality. This was for the better. Eddie needed a fresh start somewhere else to begin his healing process. Richard had been right about that all along because her husband was almost always right. Granted, the pastor with the white hair and steely brown eyes over at Saint Bonaventure Church was horrified at the turn of events, but Father George simply wasn’t in a position to understand. Or to judge. He was old and out of touch when it came to families and their difficulties.

Richard was right about that as well, Helen murmured to nobody.

Although he tried to block the haunting sound of his foster mother’s anguish that night, her sobs continued to make their way to Eddie’s ears. Still, he stayed tightly glued to his suitcase as he waited for the social worker’s car to enter Hickory Court, the cul-de-sac that until recent months had felt homey and inviting. He knew that his mom was hurting, but try as he might, he could not bring himself to join her in the kitchen. He was too young to understand the special agony of regret, and he would lament his decision greatly in later years.

The accident, the incident, the mishap, the cruel twist of fate. There was an endless inventory of words and phrases to characterize what happened the prior summer. How was it possible that a momentary event could have so many names and take on so many connotations? And why did it even matter?

Eddie’s foster parents and the therapist assured him for months that none of it was his fault. Despite that, he would suffer banishment, the ultimate punishment. Somehow the innocent interplay of children—yet another characterization that others used for his benefit—required his eviction from a foster family and the small community that had been his home.

As Eddie sat perched on that suitcase, he clutched a twenty-dollar bill that Richard gave him months earlier upon his graduation from kindergarten. It was a sizable amount of money in Stonington, Pennsylvania, back in 1956. Eddie anticipated that he might be sent back to the orphanage across the river and many miles to the south in Hershey. He clutched the money tightly that night, knowing it would buy plenty of chocolate candy in that faraway town.

He made his way through the orphanage after the earlier tragedy, and despite having very few memories of that massive brick structure and the army of young boys that he befriended with considerable ease, he would be content with another stay in that distant town. Maybe the family thing—a mom, a dad, and a home in a quiet neighborhood—wasn’t meant to be his fate.

In the meantime, the twenty-dollar bill comforted him, but less so with each passing minute. Even Eddie could sense that it was dirty money.

In the kitchen, Helen jerked her head up for a moment and glanced at the clock. Do I have time to find the cage? Eddie would surely want to take it with him if it could be located. Oh, but where might it be? It could be in the garage or maybe up in the dusty attic.

Richard bought the cage to house a hamster that Eddie inherited from a girl in his kindergarten class. The brown-and-white rodent’s name was Jesse Owens, named for the runner because of the hamster’s tendency to run. And run. And run. All the time and especially at night. In and around the tunnel and endlessly on the exercise wheel.

The girl’s family couldn’t handle the loud nocturnal clamor, and Eddie volunteered to give the animal a home. The irony of it—that is, a foster child taking in a foster hamster—wouldn’t be lost on anybody who thought it through, but Helen and Richard weren’t in a thoughtful mood. In fact, they were furious when Eddie came home from kindergarten one afternoon with Jesse Owens in a urine-soaked shoebox.

After taking Eddie to task for not asking permission, Richard drove to a pet store and returned with a cage. Within days, the nocturnally active rodent wore out its welcome in the Olson house but received a reprieve when the hamster, its cage, and the nighttime noise were relocated to the basement.

Several times a day, Eddie made a pilgrimage down those steps to feed, water, clean, and otherwise tend to the needs of Jesse Owens. Eddie never tired of his pet, and the boy was understandably shocked several weeks later to find it missing one morning. A jailbreak by the rodent would have required extraordinary strength and cunning, what with a latch on the cage’s door and a heavy stone pressed against it.

It must have pushed its way out and flown away, Richard maintained with a straight face.

Hamsters don’t have wings, Eddie exclaimed through tears.

Oh, I don’t know if I’d come to that conclusion, Richard replied smugly. That fatty area behind their front legs might house wings. Scientists have debated that for centuries.

As Eddie sobbed, Helen pulled her husband outside. Next to the picnic table on the back patio, far beyond the earshot of the sobbing boy, she became unhinged.

You killed the hamster, didn’t you, Richard? she screamed.

He denied it, but she knew better. Now, many months later on another tense, tearful night, she thought back to the cage. If she could locate it, she would want Eddie to have it, but it was probably too late. Besides, it might bring back unpleasant memories.

As Eddie glanced into the darkness awaiting the arrival of the social worker, he reached into the back pocket of his dungarees and pulled out the tattered baseball card that never left his possession except on the occasion of those every-other-night baths. All of Eddie’s hopes and dreams rested on the shoulders of the baseball player on that card.

Jack Cuffs Brooks, the center fielder (at once famous and infamous) of the Pittsburgh Pirates, was Eddie’s uncle and the lifeline back to Eddie’s birth family. More than anything else, Eddie wanted the baseball player with the blue eyes and bushy mustache to rescue him. That was also what he remembered most about his own dad, those blue eyes and the thick mustache. Ever since the accident that took his birth parents, Eddie was convinced that everybody had lied to him about his Uncle Jack.

You see, Eddie would patiently explain, Uncle Jack never actually rejected me. Cuffs just needed to sort out some stuff to make room for me in his life. It’s just a matter of time.

Maybe the social worker would arrive at the front door with some good news from Pittsburgh. If so, Eddie’s calculating mind told him that his life might take a remarkable turn for the better. With his uncle potentially in the picture, Eddie saw himself in the midst of a rescue, not a rejection.

As Helen’s eyes continued to moisten tissues and Eddie’s mind wandered to distant places, a large, dark automobile slowly crawled up the driveway. The young boy squinted once and then twice as he gazed out the frosty window. A tall woman, distinguished and warm in a heavy wool overcoat, approached the front door.

Jane McFarland, the social worker that introduced Eddie to Helen and Richard nearly two years prior knew them well. Without a husband or a steady anybody, Jane was married to the job that she relished. Slender with long, black hair, and cheekbones perched so high that they nearly rubbed against the wire-rimmed glasses worn so stylishly, she worked with a number of childless couples throughout the county on adoption and foster care options. She brought happiness when she succeeded and hope even when she failed. A profile in the local newspaper a year earlier referred to her as the county stork. Too modest to enjoy it, she waved off the nickname at the time, but she wasn’t disappointed when it stuck.

Jane took special joy in the placement of Eddie, but she was acutely aware that Richard had initially been cold toward both adoption and a foster care arrangement.

A man shouldn’t be expected to raise somebody else’s child, he’d often blurt in earlier years.

When he and Helen were unable to conceive after years of effort, he quieted down considerably, but Jane’s misgivings about his paternal instincts were never dispelled.

Before Jane could even ring the doorbell, Eddie jumped up smartly and zipped his coat shut. Mom, I’m leaving now, Eddie shouted in a tone of excitement and resignation.

He pulled a stocking cap tightly down over his ears and swung open the front door.

The tall woman greeted him. Eddie, you probably no longer remember me. My name is Miss McFarland, and you and I became pals nearly two years ago when we first met. It is so nice to be with you again, she exclaimed uncomfortably through a forced, tight smile. I am going to take you someplace special tomorrow morning. Would you like that, sweetie?

Eddie’s heart nearly jumped from his chest. Are we going to Pittsburgh tomorrow? he asked excitedly. Is Uncle Jack ready for me?

Jane frowned. Her lips were stretched as she measured her response. I am so sorry, Eddie, but we are going someplace else. Someplace with other children who are very anxious to meet you.

Hearing that, Eddie glared blankly at the carpet and pulled his gloves onto his hands.

Their conversation was interrupted when Helen, clutching a wad of moist tissues, walked into the room.

Eddie, I think you should say good-bye to Mrs. Olson now, Jane said softly. After that, you can sit quietly in the car while the adults talk.

Helen didn’t hear a single word after Mrs. Olson. She knew she would be stripped of motherhood, but did it have to happen so suddenly, so coldly, so decisively? And in front of the boy?

Eddie walked over to Helen and murmured a gentle Love you, Mom as they embraced for the last time. Jane looked aside and then pulled Eddie away.

As she gathered the young boy and his suitcase in her grasp, Jane’s eyes darted wildly about the room. Helen, isn’t Richard here tonight? she asked incredulously.

Eddie interrupted, muttering, Mr. Olson is at work.

Thank you, Eddie, Helen responded. Eddie is correct, Jane. Richard had a meeting tonight. It was an unexpected emergency.

Okay, Helen, Jane responded, rolling her eyes noticeably. Give me a few minutes to get Eddie and his things situated in the car, and then we should talk.

Eddie handed the twenty-dollar bill to Helen. Mom, can you give this to Mr. Olson and tell him that I said good-bye?

Helen replied in a quivering voice, Sure, Eddie. I’ll do that. You know, he loves you very much. We just want what’s best for you. You do understand that, don’t you, sweetheart?

Jane leaned forward and whispered forcefully, Helen, that’s enough. Please, no more.

A moment later, Eddie walked out of Helen’s life and headed into the suffocating darkness of the winter sky.

When the boy was situated in the warm car with a tiny flashlight and a stack of comic books to keep him occupied, Jane stepped into the house again to remove the packing cartons to her trunk. After a few minutes, all traces of Eddie had been meticulously swept from the home that was now just a house.

As Jane reentered for the last time, Helen, nervously clutching a pen and spiral notepad, sat poised in a chair. Jane, can you give me a telephone number where I will be able to reach Eddie? Helen asked in a fog of sweetness, guilt, and delusion. I’d like to check on him from time to time just to make sure he’s okay.

The request stopped Jane dead in her tracks. Helen, you know I can’t do that. And even if I could, I wouldn’t. Suffice it to say that my agency worked hard over the past three weeks to put something together for Eddie. I can’t say anything about his destination.

Helen turned pale. Wait? Did you say three weeks? I only called you this afternoon! How could you have known for three weeks?

How could I have known? Seriously, Helen? Your husband called me three weeks ago and told me that you and he were nearing a decision to terminate the custodial arrangement. He said that Eddie’s behavioral problems were worsening, and in view of your own mental health issues—his words, by the way, not mine—the foster relationship was crumbling. I was told that you asked him to call me.

My mental health issues? I asked him to call you? Oh God, I’m going to be sick. Helen collapsed into a chair. Things have been tense in our household for weeks, maybe even months, but the final blowout only occurred last night and this morning. She paused and stared again at Jane. Her eyes pleaded to learn more. He contacted you three weeks ago?

Tiring of the histrionics, Jane gathered up her handbag as she streaked toward the door. Yes, Helen, it was three weeks ago. And Eddie’s behavior shouldn’t have been unexpected. Don’t you see that it was provoked? Your husband instigated it, and I’m sorry that I have to point that out to you. Jane pulled the door open and began to step outside.

Please stop, Jane! Helen exclaimed through her tears. Can’t we talk about this? Will you give me the weekend to talk to Richard before you take Eddie? Really, there must be some kind of misunderstanding.

Jane turned and gazed at Helen. A misunderstanding? No, in fact things couldn’t be clearer, Mrs. Olson.

Jane joined Eddie in the automobile to begin the next chapter in the little boy’s life.

Helen was still crying an hour later when Richard’s car pulled up the driveway and into the garage. He walked in, glanced tentatively at his wife, and sauntered past her on his way to the liquor cabinet in the corner of the kitchen.

Good evening, dear, he said with a bounce in his voice. How was your afternoon?

Chapter 2

Some thirteen years earlier, Molly Fallon leaned in close, lowered her voice to a whisper, and asked her girlfriends about the blue-eyed admirer seated at a nearby table. In recent days, she noticed him in the hallway between classes, and she found him handsome in a casual, not-so-rugged way. He smiled at her near a water fountain the previous day and now seemed to go out of his way to seat himself at a lunch table facing her own. His buddies were lost in a rowdy conversation, while he appeared to be distracted.

When their eyes finally met, she realized that she was his distraction. It was only a momentary connection in the cafeteria, this eye-to-eye dance, but he made the most of it with another smile and something that looked like a nod of the head, slight but most assuredly intentional.

Although Molly was a senior, her world was a collection of strangers. She had transferred into Stonington High School right after the Christmas break, and with Valentine’s Day only a week away, her acclimation was still a work in process. She thought she was making progress, but her day got off to an unsettling start. During her first-period class, she said something to the girl next to her, thinking she was talking to somebody she met at a pep session the previous day.

Oh, yuck! You just called me Roberta! I’m not Roberta Corbett, the girl complained in a snit. We don’t even look alike. And she’s a bitch. Just don’t tell her I told you.

The freckles on Molly’s Irish face always came to life when she was embarrassed, and even without a mirror, she knew they were neon bright during the morning put-down. Now, sitting at lunch in the cafeteria, all of that was behind her. The guy at the other table was her only concern.

His name is Tom Brooks, a friend named Sandy replied in a giddy voice. He’s a senior, and he was definitely staring in our direction yesterday. He dated an underclassman a few times last year. She was sort of chunky with a crooked smile, not much to look at if you ask me. From what I could see, it wasn’t anything special. Maybe four or five weekends in a row. Anyway, do you think he’s cute?

Cute? As in puppy dog cute? Molly replied playfully.

No, no, not like that, Molly! I mean it as in let’s-make-a-baby cute, Sandy said with a nudge.

Oh, great! I ask an innocent question, and you already have me married to him! Molly replied, faking exasperation.

Who said anything about marriage, Molly? We’re talking about making babies! Come on and get with it! Geez, it’s 1943 already! Okay, maybe this is too much for you, Miss Catholic Princess! But in answer to your question, we all think he’s pretty hot, even if that doesn’t qualify as cute. What do you think?

Molly didn’t have to respond. Her grin and giggle were more than enough.

Molly Fallon was a blonde-haired beauty, somewhat rosy in complexion with a slender, athletic build. Her green eyes sparkled like emeralds, and her high cheekbones amplified the infectious smile that seldom disappeared. There were freckles, lots of them when the sun was bright, and she wore them well, Irish lass that she was.

Molly had been unattached at her previous high school, and that never troubled her. She had plenty of girlfriends back in Delaware, and for an only child, those relationships were important lifelines, especially during the recent divorce that fractured her family.

Now, in a strange town, with her studies filling her evenings and weekends and new girlfriends to cushion her during the transition weeks, she didn’t really need or want a boyfriend. Still, it was senior year, and it seemed a good time to have somebody special in her life, especially in a new school in a new town.

Before the bell sounded to end the lunch period, Tom had already decided to ask the new girl on a date. He just wasn’t sure when, where, or how he would make that happen, but he was a math wizard, adept at solving vexing problems. He’d figure this one out as well, and he wouldn’t need to rely on a pencil, paper, or slide rule to do it.

Tom initially noticed Molly as he passed by the registrar’s office weeks earlier. In fact, he walked back and forth three times as she sat on the metal chair in a plaid skirt registering for her classes at the start of the winter semester. He held his breath after that, hoping they’d share a class or two. Unfortunately, her academic pedigree and interests placed her in honors courses separate from his own. More troubling for Tom were his nagging feelings of inadequacy.

Once he discovered that she was a combination of beauty and brains, Tom was quick to conclude that she might be out of his league. In fact, she was, and decidedly so, but she didn’t measure friendships or relationships in leagues.

***

Tom was a local product, born in Stonington some seventeen years earlier to a career soldier and a telephone operator. He fashioned himself as a jock, but his athletic prowess was unexceptional. On the high school football team, he mostly rode the pine, but he was satisfied with the limited role. Truth be told, he only tried out for the team to be with his friends, and he had no interest in being on the receiving or giving end of a hard tackle. He was just tall enough to serve as a reserve guard on the varsity basketball team, but he scored infrequently, played porous defense, and wouldn’t have been able to set a workable pick if his life depended on it.

However, baseball was something else altogether. He was an up-and-coming infielder on the high school baseball team, and the coaching staff believed that the spring of his senior year would finally be Tom’s opportunity to shine.

There was a familial reason for the coaches’ optimism. Tom’s older brother, Jack Brooks, was already ensconced as the starting center fielder on the varsity baseball team at Notre Dame. Some even gave Jack a shot at the major leagues if he concentrated more on baseball and less on distractions.

In addition to his emerging baseball proficiency, Tom was an above-average student and an occasional presence in high school theater productions, all with a personable demeanor, a tall but not gawky frame, and chiseled facial features. Without question, Tom had something to offer a young lady, even the mysterious one with the sparking eyes who transferred into Stonington High School weeks before.

***

Molly was an only child from a marriage that began in New York City and ended in Wilmington, Delaware. Molly’s father, an Irish immigrant named Patrick, was trained as an engineer but eventually found a path into the business world, where he earned a good livelihood managing a manufacturing plant. Veronica, her mother, came from a well-heeled family from Bucks County, Pennsylvania. There was never a need for Veronica to work outside of the home, and that suited her fine. However, she stressed the importance of a nose-to-the-grindstone work ethic to her daughter and routinely farmed Molly out to mothers throughout the neighborhood for babysitting services. Watching over babies and toddlers energized Molly, and in short order, she was on page seven of her Bank of Delaware savings book as the cash deposits became weekly events.

Trent Morrison was an accomplished attorney, debonair in dress and smooth-talking in court, who lived in Wilmington with his wife Abigail and a six-year-old daughter named Emma. Molly lived directly around the corner, and whenever Trent and Abigail needed somebody to watch Emma, Molly got the first call. Molly treasured her time with Emma, and the little girl rewarded her with a special invitation to her first piano recital.

We’ll go as a group, Molly, Abigail said, and you can join us for dinner afterward.

As it happened, both Trent and Abigail found other activities on the night of the recital, Trent with a female client and Abigail with the gentleman two flights up. Molly was Emma’s sole audience at the music school.

Later that night, Abigail feigned disappointment. Oh, Molly, I am very happy that you saw Emma’s first recital, but Trent and I are so, so sad that we weren’t able to be there with you! Abigail sputtered unpersuasively as she brushed a fake tear from her plump cheek.

In fact, Molly spent considerable time in the Morrison apartment until the night that Trent rubbed against her and tried to push his hand up her skirt. Molly pushed him away, grabbed her coat, and ran home. Trent was in hot pursuit for a short while, but with Abigail gone that night and Emma suddenly alone, he quickly returned to his apartment.

Trent guessed that Molly wouldn’t tell anybody, but he knew she might. He handled divorces and criminal cases for a living, and he knew a thing or two about alibis. He began to concoct one the moment he stepped back into his apartment. When Veronica knocked on his door twenty minutes later, demanding an explanation, he was ready.

"Oh my goodness! There’s been a horrible misunderstanding! I slipped on the