Once again Bill watched in amazement as Danny stood calmly before her with his hands clasped behind his back. No hand holding this time; no contact at all. Yet he stood still and answered all her questions, even going so far as to elaborate on his friends and some of the games he liked to play.

And Sara…

Bill saw the light in her eyes, the warmth in her expression as she focused on Danny and made him the center of her world for those moments. He sensed the deep yearning within her and allowed himself the possibility that he had made a match—a miraculous one.

Danny turned to him.

"I like her. She's nüüce."

"Yes, Danny. Sara is very nice."

"Can I live with her?"

The question took Bill by surprise. The title of an old song flashed through his brain: "Am I That Easy to Forget?" But he ignored the hurt and concentrated on Danny. He had to be very careful here.

"I don't know, Danny. We'll have to look into that."

"Can I pleeease?"

"I don't know yet, Danny. I'm not saying no and I'm not saying yes. There's lots of things to be done before we come to that."

"Can I visit, maybe?"

"We'll look into that too. But Sara and her husband and I have many things to discuss first. So why don't you get washed up for dinner and let us get to work."

"Okay." Hope shone like a beacon behind his eyes as he turned back to her. "See ya, Sara."

She gave him a hug, then held him out to arm's length.

"See ya, Danny."

He trotted off down the hall.

"I think you've got a friend," Bill told Sara.

"I think so too," she said, smiling warmly. Then she gave Bill a level look. "But will that friend be allowed to become my son, Father Ryan?"

"If I've learned one thing in this job, Sara, it's never to make a promise I'm not absolutely sure I can keep—not to the adult applicants, and certainly never to the boys. But we're off to a good start. Let's see where we can go from here."

Her eyes widened, her voice was suddenly small and husky. "You mean you've reconsidered?"

When he nodded she lowered her face into her hands and began to sob. The sight of her tears moved Bill and confirmed his growing conviction that he was doing the best thing for Danny. Only a tiny squeamish part of him remained unconvinced.

SEVENTEEN

The reference checks went smoothly. Both Herb and Sara had excellent academic records at U. of Texas, he in accounting, she in early education. Their credit record was excellent. The home inspection was perfect—a two-story center-hall colonial in a quiet residential neighborhood in Astoria where the Loms were active in the local parish. Bill went so far as to call Sara's old pastor in Houston. Father Geary knew Sara Bainbridge—her maiden name—and remembered her as a sweet, wonderful young woman; Herb came from a wealthy family and wasn't quite the churchgoer Sara was, but the parish priest considered him a good man.

The whole process went swimmingly. The weekend visits came off without incident, and Danny's stays were stretched to a week at a time. He loved it. And he loved Sara. He seemed totally taken by her, completely infatuated. He'd still visit Bill's office on a daily basis, still sit on his lap, still disrupt the Saturday night chess games. But-all he talked about was Sara, Sara, Sara. Bill thought she was a fine woman, exceptional even, but God he was getting sick of hearing about her.

By late fall Danny was no longer the same Danny who'd torn around St. F.'s all summer. It wasn't apparent at first, but slowly, in fits and spurts, Bill could see a definite change taking place. Over the course of the investigative and processing procedures Bill had noticed a gradual deceleration in Danny. Not a slamming on of the brakes; more like a racing truck whose driver was slowly, systematically downshifting as he progressed from the freeway toward a school traffic zone. The motor was still revving high, but the speed was falling off. The nuns who taught him in second grade said he was much less of a discipline problem these days, and that his lengthened attention span was resulting in improved schoolwork.

It was almost miraculous. Almost too good to be true.

And that bothered Bill a little. In his two decades with St. F.'s he'd rarely seen an adoption go so smoothly. And so when he lay in bed at night, alone with the dark, the lack of glitches would wake that nagging little voice and spur it to whisper its nebulous doubts in his ear.

That was why he was almost relieved when the first little glitch reared its head during the week before Christmas.

Herb had been pushing to finalize the adoption by Christmas, his reasoning being that he wanted to usher in the new year with the three of them together as a family. Bill didn't doubt that, but he had an inkling that with Herb's background in accounting he was well aware that Danny was good for a full year's deduction as a dependent if the adoption became official anytime before midnight December 31.

Which was okay with Bill. Raising a child in New York City was hellishly expensive and parents deserved any financial break they could get. That wasn't the glitch.

The glitch was Danny. The boy was having second thoughts.

"But I don't want to go," he told Bill one evening during the week before Christmas.

Bill patted his lap. "Why don't you hop up here and tell me why not?"

"Because I'm scared," Danny said as he settled into his usual spot.

"Are you scared of Sara?"

"No. She's nüice."

"How about Herb? Are you scared of him?"

"No. I'm just scared about leaving here."

Bill smiled to himself and gave Danny a reassuring hug. He was almost relieved to hear of the boy's misgivings. They were common, perfectly normal, and expected in Danny's case. After all, St. F.'s had been his home longer than any other place in his lifetime. The residents and staff were the only family he'd known for two and a half years now. It would be cause for concern if he weren't suffering a few pangs of separation anxiety.

"Everybody's a little scared when they leave, Danny. Just like they're scared when they come here. Remember when Tommy left last week to go live with Mr. and Mrs. Davis? He was scared."

Danny twisted around to look at him.

"Tommy Lurie? No way! He's not scared of nothing!"

"Well, he was. But he's doing fine. Wasn't he back just yesterday telling everybody how great it was?"

Danny nodded slowly, saying, "Tommy Lurie was afraid?"

"And don't forget, you're not moving far away. You can call me whenever you want."

"Can I come back and visit like Tommy did?"

"Sure can. You're welcome here anytime you want to come and the Loms can bring you. But pretty soon you'll be so happy and busy with Herb and Sara you'll forget all about us here at St. F.'s."

"I'll never do that."

"Good. Because we love you too. The Loms love you. Everybody loves you. Because you're a good kid, Danny."

That was Bill's message to all the boys at St. F.'s, most of whom were basket cases in the self-esteem department when they arrived. Bill began pounding it home from the moment they stepped through the front door: You are loved here. You have value. You are important. You're a good kid. After a while a fair number of them came to believe they were worth something.

The message was more than mere rote in Danny's case. Bill was going to miss him terribly. He felt as if he were giving away his own son.

So he sat there with his heart breaking as he held Danny on his lap and told him of all the wonderful times he was going to have with the Loms, of how Bill was going to send a message to Santa Claus to let him know Danny's new address and make sure he brought Danny lots of extra good stuff for Christmas.