Part 64 (2/2)

and Marge had made. The thick dark hair he'd inherited from his mother

was tousled around his face. His skin was tanned, but still had the

dewy softness of first youth. His nose was crooked, giving character to

what might have been a face too pretty for a boy. He had a firm,

compact little body that was already beginning to sprout. Bruises and

sc.r.a.pes colored it.

Six years and two miscarriages, Lou thought now. Then finally he and

Marge had been able to unite sperm and egg into strong, vital life. And

he was the best and brightest of both of them.

Lou remembered Brian McAvoy's face. The stunned grief, the fury, the

helplessness. Yes, he understood.

Michael stirred when Lou stroked a hand over his cheek. ”Dad?”

”Yes. I just wanted to say good night. Go back to sleep.”

Yawning, Michael s.h.i.+fted and sent cars clattering to the floor. ”I

didn't mean to break it,” he murmured.

With a half-laugh, Lou pressed his hands to his eyes. He didn't know

what it was, and didn't care. ”Okay. I love you, Michael.”

But his son was fully back to sleep.

IT WAS BRIGHT, almost balmy. The breeze from the Atlantic ruffled the

tall green gra.s.s. Emma listened to the secret songs it whispered. Over

its music was the low, solemn voice of the priest.

He was tall and ruddy-faced with his white, white hair a shocking

contrast to his black robes. Though his voice carried a lilt very

similar to her father's, Emma didn't understand much of what he was

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