45 

Juliet’s fingers moved to the handle on her car door. After taking a deep breath, she unlatched the door, grabbed her bag, and moved to get out, placing her running shoes squarely on the pavement.

With her bag flung onto her shoulder, she gently closed the door and surveyed the arthritic-limbed oaks lining the street, the manicured lawns and carefully tended flower beds. The mounds circled in decorative stone were filled with oxblood lilies with their spiky red blooms, and large yellow-to-orange African marigolds that measured nearly five inches across, a favorite of San Antonian gardeners.

The warm air carried a slight aura of mown grass, and the sky overhead was dappled with lavender. A graceful prelude to morning.

She followed the cement pathway that wound to the steps leading to the brick landing, wishing she could stand there for hours, absorbing the peace of it all, but her chest was too tight to truly absorb such beauty.

Before her stood a large arched wooden door, surrounded by coping made of southwestern tiles decorated with a blue and white design. To the right was a small adobe banco, its mission-styled bench seat trimmed with similar tiles.

With a deep breath, she considered perhaps it wasn’t too late to turn around, to just return to her car and drive away.

She fingered the open zipper on her running jacket, knowing she really had no choice.

Unable to steady her trembling hand, she placed her finger on the doorbell. She pressed . . . and waited.

Her heart thumped in her chest. After several long seconds of standing there fidgeting, she considered pressing the bell again when she heard noise on the other side. Suddenly, the door opened.

She saw him then, standing there in pajamas and a robe. He inventoried her rumpled clothes and hapless ponytail, her sleep-deprived face with no cosmetics, and frowned.

She swallowed and forced herself to look him in the eye.

“Dad, I need your help.”