“I was thinking,” I said, “about naming him after your grandfather.

Christopher Holt.”

Rosalie’s eyes brightened at the mention of the man who had raised her after her parents died — a humble carpenter in North Carolina who had believed, above all things, that a man’s word was worth more than any amount of gold.

“Christopher Holt Callahan,” she murmured, and a real smile finally reached her tired face.

“I think that’s perfect.”

And as she watched our sleeping son, my phone buzzed in my pocket — a message from Theresa, my assistant, asking whether she should reschedule my dinner meetings due to a temporary family issue. I looked at that phrase, family issue, and something in it snagged against what Rosalie had told me about calling my office.