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Greg had never seemed the least bit interested in money or success.
    Six years ago, Greg had started in on Sam again. He’d told him that he still had an eat-drink-and-be-merry attitude and that his parties had merely gotten classier, the drinks more expensive.
    Greg, who’d always found fault with Sam’s self-reliance and drive, had criticized him to no end, preaching about the importance of placing one’s trust in God.
    A lot of good that had done Greg. With all his lofty ideas about the hereafter, he’d neglected to consider the present by drawing up a will or naming a guardian for his child.
    Trusting God to the very end, Sam supposed. But who was looking out for Greg’s daughter now?
    Sam was.
    Greg would be rolling over in the casket Sam had purchased for him if he had any clue that his hell-bent, self-centered brother was the one answering Analisa’s questions about Heaven. Answers Sam didn’t have and couldn’t quite bring himself to fabricate.
    “ Welllll ,” his precocious niece had told him that day, “then I’ll just have to ask God .”
    Sam had been happy to pass the buck to whoever would take it, but he hadn’t meant to send her on some quixotic quest nor expected her to strike up a one-sided correspondence.
    Or to offer God pictures she’d colored.
    This evening she’d sketched an angel who looked a lot like the drawings she made of herself. The blue-eyed cherub—a boy—had glittery wings and wore a gold halo perched on blond, spiky hair. She’d even named him Erik.
    Again, concern niggled at him. For a man who’d prided himself on his ability to solve any problem, he wasn’t used to feelings of inadequacy, even when he was clearly out of his league with this sort of thing.
    The angel was just artwork, he told himself. An innocent childish creation. That’s all. But he would talk to Hilda about it in the morning.
    That’s why he’d hired the woman, although he had to admit being a bit apprehensive about her age. She had to be nearly as old as God himself, and, quite frankly, a good sitter ought to be able to keep up with the kid she was watching.
    Jake had sworn up and down that Hilda was the best nanny in California. Not that she wasn’t, but Sam hadn’t seen anything to impress him to the point of singing her praises yet. Still he knew he ought to be thankful she’d come out of retirement and taken the job. His law practice was busier than ever, and even if it hadn’t been, Sam didn’t know squat about parenting, about what was normal for kids to do and what wasn’t.
    Struggling with the urge to shake it all off and retire for the night, his compulsion to step inside Analisa’s room and study the artwork on the table won out.
    He peered again at the drawing of the angel, then turned the picture over. On the back side she’d written God a note:
    Thank you for Erik. Can you give unkel Sam a angel to? He needs one to help him get his work all done so he can be home more.
    A knot the size of a fist formed in Sam’s chest, but before he could ponder what was going on in the little girl’s mind or whether he ought to find a child psychologist for her, the telephone rang.
    Who could be calling him at this time of night?
    In an effort not to let the noise wake Analisa, he hurried into the hall and quickly answered.
    It was Jake Goldstein.
    “Hey,” Sam said. “What a coincidence. I was just thinking about you a couple of minutes ago.”
    “Oh, yeah? I hope you were also thinking about golf. I called to ask you to play in the member-guest tournament we’re having at Costa Serena.”
    Sam hadn’t played golf in months, and Jake belonged to a prestigious club that boasted a challenging course that overlooked the ocean. There wouldn’t be much arm-twisting going on. “I’d love to.”
    “Great.”
    That knot in his chest throbbed.
    No, Sam realized, it wasn’t great. He had a niece who was writing notes to God and asking for more of Sam’s time and attention.
    What kind of