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college scholarship worth a lot of money. They d like that.
JoBecca stood away from the doorframe and gave her daughter
a look of wry consent.
* * *
Trinity kept at the Bach for an hour, until eight-thirty.
As always, she swabbed out the flute, swabbed it dry. She saw
Bailey had left the unused valentines on her desk in one heap. The
top one pictured a school girl, blonde, pigtails, not unlike herself,
clutching a long-stemmed rose in one hand and said,  Roses are
roses, blues are blues. Inside,  And there s only one of yous. Be
my valentine, please!
Trinity liked it: funny but sincere. She flipped through the rest
and didn t find another she liked as well.
Tomorrow was really Valentine s Day and she still could give it
to someone. JoBecca? Mom needed a valentine with the rough day
she d had.
Or Steve? Her brow furrowed at that idea of her father alone
somewhere, beer in hand, maybe watching TV, something like
Frasier, but definitely not happy.
She would give both JoBecca and Steve valentines. But the one
for Steve came first.
She grabbed a ballpen from the desk drawer. The one that
wrote in red. On the envelope front, she printed DAD. Big well-
formed letters. He would know at a glance it was from her, not
Bailey. Then inside the card, she wrote  Dear Dad, and below,
 Be my valentine, please! I miss you terribly, hope you come back
real soon. Love, Trinity.
She shut the card, began slipping it in the envelope and paused.
The girl clutching the single yellow rose reminded her of enormous
beds of roses in Riverpark back in Chattanooga and something with
Steve that happened when she was only eight.
She was playing on a merry-go-round in Riverpark overlooking
the Tennessee River where it runs through the city. A hot May
afternoon, the busy cicadas in the tall cottonwoods could be heard
everywhere.
On that merry-go-round, at one time, were at least six kids, all
taking turns running beside it for more speed, jumping back on like
Trinity had for the thrill: hanging on the outside vertical bars, her
skinny frame leaning out, her blonde braids dangling, her eyes
dancing in a world gone upside down with a stomach-turning
centrifugal charge. When Trinity had enough, when she decided to
jump off, she was so wobbly she couldn t walk straight.
The grass and all else spun. She didn t know where to find her
mom and dad and Bailey. She lurched this way, then that.
Suddenly, partly hidden in the thick blades of springy St.
Augustine grass and she was about to step on it a lifeless, huge
crow, its ruffled wings spread funny.
She screamed.
A scream to anyone anywhere to help, please. The crow s eye
socket was empty and small brown ants streamed in and out of its
open, shiny beak. She choked trying to scream again.
Then suddenly, without a word, Steve was there, his big
powerful hands pressed her ribs and lifted her straightaway, so her
head nestled safely against his.  That s nothing t worry about, he
said as calmly as if teaching her to throw a baseball.
Her heart ran wild. She was breathless. But the world no longer
spun.
Across the springy grass, back to the wooden picnic table, he
carried his rescued daughter.  Our Trinity, she was about to trip on
a poor dead bird. She knew then Steve would help with the awful
things in the world.
She looked again at the card she d written and began to cry.
Her dad was still strong for her. She would ask her mom about
seeing Steve tomorrow, Valentine s Day, to give him the card. She
missed him already.
Besides, he needed some cheering up. She couldn t think of
what else to do. The rest of the unused cards she would show
Bailey, who was in the family room with the TV on. See if she
wanted to send a valentine too. But first, she had to give the tears
time to stop.
She looked at the card again and saw a tear marked the
valentine for Steve. The tear would dry but leave a stain. She
choked back fresh tears: She would have to do a new valentine. But
if Steve saw a tear from sadness on the card, he d know she missed
him. She could leave it. A smile flickered across her lips.
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