3

Carol could hardly believe her eyes. She had been struck by the young priest's good looks—the short collegiate cut of his thick brown hair, the clear blue eyes, the broad shoulders and trim body that even the dresslike cassock couldn't hide. And then she suddenly realized she knew him.

Billy Ryan from Monroe.

Seeing him now gave her a flash of heat reminiscent of the first time she had laid eyes on him in high school, standing by himself in a corner at the year's first Friday night CYO dance at Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow, an echo of the intense warmth that had propelled her across the floor at the start of the next ladies' choice—a slow tune, of course—to ask him to dance. She even remembered the song: the ethereal "Been So Long" by the Pastels. He turned out to be the shiest boy she had ever known.

And now he was staring right back at her.

"Carol? Carol Nevins?"

"Stevens now. Remember?" she said.

"Of course I do. Even if I couldn't make the wedding." He pumped Jim's hand. "And Jim! Is that you under all that hair? You really look like the Wolfman now. God, it's been so long!"

"Four years at least," Jim said, smiling.

Bill slapped his hand against Jim's belly. "Married life seems to be agreeing with you." He turned to her. "And you, too, Carol. You look great!"

Carol resisted an impulse to embrace him. It had been almost a decade since their last date. They had hugged and kissed a lot in the months after they had met at that CYO dance, but Billy Ryan was a priest now. Father Ryan. She wasn't sure how proper that would be, or how he'd react.

"What on earth are you two doing here?" he said.

As Jim gave him a quick run-down of his life story, Carol studied Bill. The even teeth, the quick smile, the sharp cut of his nose, the way his hair curled just a little at his temples, the way the unbuttoned top of his cassock hung open to reveal the white of the T-shirt underneath—God, he was still gorgeous!

What a waste!

Carol was startled by the thought. That wasn't like her. Bill was doing what was most important to him, living the life he had chosen, dedicating himself to God. Why should she put him down for that?

But she couldn't escape the realization that in a way it was indeed a shame that this big, virile man would never marry, would never father children. And she couldn't deny the stir his very presence caused deep within her.

"I'm proud of you," Carol blurted, a bit too loudly perhaps, at the end of Jim's monologue. "I mean, working here with these homeless kids. It must be very rewarding."

Bill turned his serene blue eyes on her, and Carol thought she saw them cloud for an instant.

"It… has its moments." He turned back to Jim. "So you were abandoned as a newborn right here in the foyer of St. Francis?"

Jim nodded. "Right. January fourteenth, to be exact. They estimated I was a little over a week old, so I was assigned January sixth as a birthday."

"I never knew any of this," Bill said, shaking his head. "Never even knew you were adopted."

"Well, it's not exactly the sort of thing you discuss in the locker room."

"I guess not."

As Carol idly wondered about what boys did talk about in locker rooms, Bill led them inside a small room with a desk and chairs. She knew from previous trips to St. Francis with Jim to search the adoption records that this was where they conducted initial interviews with prospective adoptive parents.

"So what can St. Francis do for you now?" Bill said.

Carol watched the intense animation in her husband's eyes as he filled Bill in on his invitation to the reading of the Hanley will and the conclusions he had drawn from that.

"So I guess what I need now is a chance to go through your old financial records and see if Dr. Hanley was ever a contributor to St. Francis."

"We don't allow anyone to go through those," Bill said.

Carol couldn't help noting the we—Bill was really part of something else now, something that excluded her and Jim and the rest of the world.

"It would mean a lot to me."

"I know. I'll make a quick search for you myself, if you'd like."

"I'd really appreciate that, Bill."

Bill smiled. "What are old friends for? What year was that again?"

"Forty-two. I arrived here January of Forty-two."

"I'll see what I can find. Sit down. This shouldn't take too long."

4

"Imagine… Bill Ryan," Jim heard Carol say when they were alone.

He gave her a sidelong glance and put on a lecherous stage whisper. "Still got the hots for him?"

Carol swatted him on the arm. Hard. It stung. She meant that one.

"That's not even funny! He's a priest!"

"Still a good-looking guy."

"You can say that again," Carol said with a wink, smiling.

"I'll pass. Once was enough, thank you."

Jim closed his eyes and listened to the old building around him. St. Francis Home for Boys. The last of its kind, as far as he knew. He'd been here many times since his teenage years but had no memories of the place as a child. Why should he? He'd spent only the first few weeks of his life here before Jonah and Emma Stevens adopted him. Quite a coincidence. Within hours of his being found on the doorstep, the Stevenses were there, looking to adopt a male infant. The U.S. had entered World War II about six weeks earlier, and already applications for adoption had fallen way off. The foundling found a home and became James Stevens before he was two months old.

Lucky.

Even luckier now that he was a rich man's heir.

What about all the other not-so-lucky ones? What about all the other homeless kids, parentless by fate or design, who had to spend years here, shuttled in and out of strange homes until they finally clicked somewhere or got old enough to move out into lives of their own? He ached for them.

What a rotten life.

Granted, a kid could do a lot worse. The nuns from Our Lady of Lourdes next door taught the kids in the parish school, changed their sheets, and did their laundry, while the priests provided father figures. It was a stable, structured environment with a roof overhead, a clean bed, and three squares a day. But it wasn't a home.

Somehow Jim had lucked out in 1942. He wondered how lucky he'd be at the reading of the will next week.

If I get a couple of those millions, I'll adopt every kid in St. F.'s, every one of the poor little bastards.

He couldn't resist a smile.

Yeah. Bastards. Like me.

"What are you grinning at?" Carol asked.

"Just thinking," he said. "Wondering how much I'll get from the Hanley estate. Maybe it'll be enough to allow us to get away for a while and do some serious work on starting some little feet to patter around the house."

Carol's face was troubled for an instant as she slipped her hand into his. "Maybe."

He knew how worried she was about her ability to conceive. They'd been over the territory hundreds of time. The fact that her mother had had fertility problems didn't mean Carol would follow. Every doctor she'd been to had told her she had no reason to worry. Yet he knew it haunted her.

And so it haunted him. Anything that bothered Carol bothered him more. He loved her so much it hurt at times. A cliché, he knew, but sometimes he'd stare at her as she read or worked in the kitchen, unaware of the scrutiny, and he'd feel an actual pain deep inside. All he wanted to do was someday be able to make her feel as fortunate to have him as he felt about having her.

Money wouldn't do it, but at least with this inheritance he could buy her everything, give her the kind of life she deserved. For himself, he had everything he needed, corny as that sounded. But Carol… money couldn't buy her what she needed and wanted most.