Ginna Gray - Building Dreams

Dear Reader

We’ve all heard that pregnant women “glow.” I’ve actually heard some men say that they thought their wives were even more beautiful and sexy when pregnant. Thinking about that, I wondered if a man could fall in love with a woman who was expecting a child.

From that point, what I call “the what ifs” kicked in. What if he was a man who loved kids and had wanted a big family? A man who had been raised in a large, happy family? What if he’d been married before and had a son, but his wife had run away with another man, abandoning him and the boy and leaving him bitter—against women and marriage? What if circumstances (with a little help from his son) throw the heroine and hero together?

From such thoughts, dear reader, a book begins to take shape. I hope you enjoy this one as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Happy reading!

A native Texan, Ginna Gray lived in Houston all her life until 1993, when she and her husband, Brad, built their “dream home” and moved to the mountains of Colorado. Coming from a large, Irish/American family, in which spinning colorful yarns was commonplace, made writing a natural career choice for Ginna. “I grew up hearing so many fascinating tales, I was eleven or twelve before I realized that not everyone made up stories,” Ginna says. She sold her first novel in 1983 and has been working as a full-time writer ever since. She has also given many lectures and writing workshops and judged in writing contests. The mother of two grown daughters, Ginna also enjoys other creative activities, such as oil painting, sewing, sketching, knitting and needlepoint.

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Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

It was too quiet.

The thought struck Ryan McCall halfway up the stairs, and he paused, his expression puzzled. Normally by that point he could hear rock music rattling the walls of his apartment. Or, at the very least, the television blaring. His son rarely did anything in moderation.

Ryan trotted up the remaining steps, curious but not particularly alarmed.

The first vestige of the latter feeling came a moment later when he unlocked his door and opened it to a dark apartment. Stepping inside, Ryan flipped on the living room lights and checked his watch. It was only nine—too early for Mike to be in bed. Maybe he had fallen asleep watching television in his room.

“Mike! You here?”

There was no answer. Frowning, Ryan tossed the mail onto the coffee table and strode across the room, heading for the door that led into the bedroom hallway. “Hey, Mike! Where are you?”

His son’s room was empty. The bed, on which the boy wallowed periodically throughout the day, was made up in Mike’s usual haphazard manner but it showed no sign of having been touched.

The room was crammed with a thirteen-year-old boy’s clutter. A catcher’s mitt and a bat and ball lay on the desk, along with dozens of baseball cards, two crushed soft drink cans, a deflated football, a pair of dirty socks, a pocket electronic game, and an assortment of candy wrappers, rocks and scraps of paper. A squadron of model airplanes hung from the ceiling and another half-finished aircraft sat on a sheet of newspaper in the middle of the floor. In a pile in the corner, where Mike had tossed them, were a torn kite, a Frisbee and a skateboard. A ratty sneaker with a hole in the toe lay on its side beside the bed. Yet, for all its messiness, the room had an undisturbed air.

Real alarm began to spiral up inside Ryan. Where was Mike?

The front door slammed. “Hey, Dad. I’m home!”

Ryan whirled, his relief so great his knees nearly buckled. The debilitating emotion lasted only an instant, just long enough for parental ire to override it. Dammit, where the devil had that boy been? No matter what, he was damned well supposed to be home by dark with the doors locked.

Ryan stalked toward the living room. Mike was heading for his room, and father and son nearly crashed into one another when Ryan stormed through the door.

“Oh, hi, Dad. Wait’ll you hear—”

“You’ve got some explaining to do, young man.”

“Huh?”

“Where the devil have you been? You know you’re not to leave without permission.”

“I didn’t leave! Well…not really. I was next door.”

“Next door?”

“Yeah. I’ve been helping our new neighbor move in.”

Ryan stared at his son, taken aback. Mike was a good kid. He was responsible and cooperative, but like most teenage boys, when it came to things like household chores or anything that involved physical labor, he groused long and loud.

“Well, hey, that’s great, Mike. I’m proud of you.” Ryan hesitated. “Uh…you did volunteer to help, didn’t you? I mean…they’re not paying you, are they?”

“Heck no! I wouldn’t take money from someone like Mrs. Benson,” Mike declared, affronted. The next instant he brightened, his young face lighting up with enthusiasm. “Wait’ll you meet her, Dad. She’s really great. She’s a high school teacher—or she was until school let out last week for the summer. She says she’s not going back next fall. She’s going to take a real long sabba…sabbat…”

“Sabbatical?”

“Yeah, that. Man, I bet it’d be cool, having a teacher like Mrs. Benson. She young. Well…sorta…for a teacher, anyway. And she’s real friendly and all, and she laughs a lot. And guess what else, Dad? Amanda Sutherland…you know, that lady who does the news on television? Well she’n Mrs. Benson are best friends. Ms. Sutherland is helping her move.”

One corner of Ryan’s mouth kicked up in a faintly scornful twist. “Is that right?” he replied without a trace of interest. Women were far from his favorite topic of conversation.