Starlight (The Morgans of New York)

“Yes,” I answer softly.

He reaches into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, tugs out his wallet, and slides a few bills from it. He drops those in the jar. “Consider this a tip for that rendition of Happy Birthday you sang to Lester yesterday.”

I glance at the three hundred dollars he deposited in the jar. “You know Lester?”

“We met today.” His lips curl into a smile. “I went back to that subway stop to find you and recognized Lester as the birthday fellow you serenaded.”

I’ll have to thank Lester for sending Berk my way. Even if all I get from this is the chance to have a short chat with him, I know it will stay with me.

He’s by far the best-looking man I’ve ever crossed paths with.

“Thank you for the donation.” I tap the rim of the jar. “It’s very generous.”

He tilts his chin. “Thank you, Astrid, for saving this key. My little girl and I are forever grateful to you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He pats his palm on the counter. “I need to get home. It was good meeting you.”

“It was good to meet you too,” I say just as he turns to leave.

I watch him walk away feeling satisfied that, in a roundabout way, I brought some joy to the life of a nine-year-old girl today.

Chapter Five

Berk

As soon as I enter my home Sully greets me.

The six-year-old feline has a sixth sense when it comes to knowing when I’ll set foot through the door.

She rushes over to rub against my suit pants, dragging her body across them, leaving a trail of white hair in her wake.

This is the reason I have a half dozen lint rollers hidden throughout my home.

“I’m here,” I call out to anyone within earshot.

This townhouse, with its five bedrooms, large kitchen, and music room, has become home. It was all funded by an inheritance from my late grandfather and decorated by Layna’s hand. It’s filled with memories and the kind of sorrow that settles in your bones.

A strange, twisted comfort came with that level of grief. I could walk into any room and picture Layna smiling and laughing. Those images are less vibrant now, replaced with the joy I see on my daughter’s face when she rounds a corner or belts out a made-up song when she’s doing her chores.

“Daddy!” Stevie screams as she comes running at me. “You’re home!”

It’s the words that I long to hear all day.

I drop to one knee and take her in for a hug. This one rivals the one I got this morning when her world was shattered. I get to piece it back together for her starting right now.

“Guess what I have?” I ask as I spot my sister on the approach.

Sinclair’s brown hair is tied high on her head in a ponytail, and her pink sweatshirt is dotted with red spots.

“I made dinner,” she says before I can ask. “Spaghetti with tomato sauce.”

My sister is twenty-four and has spent a good part of the last few months learning to cook. She mastered scrambled eggs first and has steadily added to her repertoire since.

“Daddy has something for me.” Stevie steals a glance at her aunt. “I hope with my whole heart and all my wishes that it’s the key to my diary.”

“That’s not a secret anymore?” Sinclair’s blue eyes widen. “I thought we pinkie swore that the diary was a secret.”

I laugh. “It was until someone lost the key.”

“I have an extra,” Sinclair says, wiping a hand over her forehead leaving behind a bright red smear. “It came with two. I kept one just in case the original went missing.”

Stevie spins around to face her. Her hands drop to her hips. “I had no idea, Auntie.”

Sinclair plants a kiss on Stevie’s forehead. “Now you know.”

I tap my daughter on the shoulder to draw her attention back to me. “I have the original.”

“You do?” she screams as she turns to face me. “You found it?”

“I did.” I stand to reach into the front pocket of my pants to grab the key. I fish it out and hold it up. “See.”

My daughter’s face lights up with a smile. “Daddy! You’re my hero.”

If there are sweeter words to be spoken, I’ve yet to hear them.

I place the key in her hand, gently closing her fist around it. “Take good care of it.”

She rests her fist against her chest. “I’ll guard it with my life.”

Sinclair glances at me. “Where was it?”

I brush past Stevie to make my way to my sister. I wrap her in a hug and press a kiss to the top of her head the way I always do when I see her. “I dropped it in the guitar case of a singer along with some change.”

“A busker?” she questions. “Were they any good?”

“Very good.”

“He or she was good?” she questions with the perk of both of her eyebrows.