The Christmas Campaign

Overhead lights lit up the concrete pad and goal. When he bought the property for the shelter, one of the first things he did was have the pad built and a hoop installed so the kids could at least shoot baskets. He bounced the ball a couple of times and sank the first shot from ten feet away.

“Is that your best shot?” Tyler hooted and easily dropped the ball in the hoop.

Peter backed up a few more feet and missed.

“Too bad.” The teenager dribbled the ball to the edge of the concrete pad and shot from twenty feet away, easily sinking the ball.

Now Peter had to make the same shot. Which he missed, earning himself an H. Grinning, Tyler hooked the ball over his head, once again making the shot. And once again, Peter missed.

The boy was good, no doubt about it. Peter knew Dawson, had gone to school with him. It wouldn’t hurt to talk to the coach and ask if he’d give Tyler a chance, since he’d arrived too late for the tryouts.

“How are things going at school, other than the pepper shaker incident?”

Tyler half shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”

The kid was the king of half shrugs. Peter made a mental note to check his grades tomorrow. “You’re a freshman, right?”

“Yeah.” He bounced the ball back and forth in front of him, then made another three-point shot.

Once Peter had the ball, he took his time and pictured himself making the goal. Swish. He grinned at Tyler.

“See if you can make this one.” Tyler dribbled in and executed a layup shot.

When Peter tried, the ball rolled around the rim and bounced out. “That puts you up to R. Two more and you’re out.” Tyler hooked another shot over his head, using his left hand this time.

“I’ll catch up.” Peter bounced the ball, getting a feel for it, focusing. No way could he make that shot. “What are you planning to do after high school?”

“I don’t know. I want to get a basketball scholarship to State, but I don’t figure I’ll stay at any school long enough to play on a team. I’m too short anyway.” He cocked his head. “You going to shoot or not?”

Peter arced the ball over his head, and it landed behind the goal.

The teen retrieved the ball. “Good try. One more miss and you’re out.”

Tyler bounced the ball and stood a little taller, his shoulders a little straighter, and for the first time since the boy had come to the shelter two months ago, he actually looked happy.

“You’re pretty good,” Peter said. He’d like to see what Tyler could do on an actual basketball court. Too bad the youth center was still just a dream. If Peter won the contest, though, it’d be a reality, and the building that went with it would house a gym with a basketball court and a workout area.

Tyler moved to within ten feet of the basket and bounced the ball off the backboard and through the hoop. He handed the ball off to Peter. “Think you can do that?”

It was a throwaway shot. The kid had purposefully handed him an easy shot—he wasn’t sure if it was to prolong the game or for Peter to save face. He took his time and completed the throw. Tyler high-fived him, and then the teenager turned around and made a perfect three-pointer.

“You really handle the ball well.”

“My dad used to practice with me.”

He nodded, not quite sure whether to pursue the subject. Tyler’s parents had been killed in an automobile accident two years ago, and he had shifted from one foster home to another until he landed at the children’s shelter in Cedar Grove in September.

“He taught you well,” Peter said, and just as he shot the ball his cell phone rang. He missed by a good three inches.

“H-O-R-S-E!” The teenager pumped his fist in the air. “You lose.”

“I would’ve made that one if my phone hadn’t gone off.” He fished his cell from his pocket and glanced at the ID. His office. He’d call them back when he left.

“Yeah, right.” Tyler bounced the ball a couple of times, then put it under his arm. “Anytime you want a rematch...”

“I definitely want one, but I better get back to work.”

As he walked away, Tyler said, “Thanks, Mr. E., and I won’t be doing any more stupid stuff.”

Peter looked over his shoulder. “Good. And I’ll talk to the principal and see if you can go back to school tomorrow.”

Tyler rewarded him with a groan.

* * *

PETER STARED AT the envelope with his name scrawled on it in his grandfather’s handwriting. He’d purposely left reading the letter until bedtime and smiled, imagining Grandfather penning the words.

Richard Elliott had always been “Grandfather,” never “Gramps” or “Granddad”—those names simply didn’t suit him. He’d had such a strong personality, although the death of his only son a few years ago had tempered it some.

His father’s death had been a blow to Peter as well, and it’d been hard to withstand his grandfather’s insistence that he join Elliott Manufacturing. He was certain Grandfather devised the contest for the sole purpose of drawing Peter into the company, and he was equally certain the letter would confirm his suspicions.

He unfolded the paper and began reading.

Dear Peter,

By now you have learned what is in the will and are probably scratching your head. I hope you’ll take the contest seriously. I know how much you want the youth center, and I’m sure you don’t like the strings attached, but I hope you will take the challenge.

You probably are thinking I could have just given you both the money, but there is one last lesson for you to learn.

On a personal note, I want you to know how proud I am of you. You are a lot like your father, and that’s quite a compliment. While I don’t agree with your desire to serve the citizens of Cedar Grove in your capacity as director of Social Services, I see what a wonderful job you are doing. You are to be commended. Still, I would rather that you had joined the family business.

It was a joy to be a part of your raising. And never forget, winning isn’t the most important thing—it’s how you win or lose that matters—it all comes down to honor. Remember that whenever you look at the pocket watch I gave you.

I love you, Grandson, and I realize I didn’t say it often enough.

Your Grandfather

Peter stared at the last sentence. His grandfather had only told him one other time that he loved him. The day his father was buried.

A lump settled in his throat. He was going to miss them both.

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_17a08515-f996-568b-aa3d-b6e81702a82d)

TUESDAY MORNING JAKE slowed to make the turn into the Montgomery and Sons Construction Company. He’d looked up Nicole Montgomery in his high school yearbook last night. The girl in the photo was rather plain, and he couldn’t place her at all.

He parked his Lexus in front of the brick building and went in, the bells over the door making Christmas sounds. The Christmas effect didn’t end there. “Frosty the Snowman” played from stereo speakers, and he smiled, thinking of the seventy-degree weather outside.

“May I help you?”