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terrible sense of emptiness and loss, the agony of that first night when he’d come back to Blackstone to find that his son had been born dead had already begun to dull.
    He knew he was going to survive it, and that somehow he would carry Elizabeth through the loss as well.
    As if the loss of his son were not enough, it seemed the gods were somehow conspiring against him. He had raced home from Port Arbello thinking he’d won the condo project. But yesterday he’d received a call from the developer to tell him that the contract—the contract he’d counted on to carry him through until the Blackstone Center project came back to life—had gone to an outfit from Boston, which came in with a late bid that Bill knew he couldn’t possibly undercut. In fact, he was certain the Boston firm had no intention of staying within the bid they’d submitted, and planned to make up theirlosses on change orders. He’d argued with the developer, but the man would not be convinced. So now he was back at the bank on the slim hope that Jules Hartwick might have some good news for him. As he pulled his car into a parking slot, however, he saw Ed Becker going into the bank. A preoccupied scowl on the lawyer’s face was enough to tell him that whatever news might be coming out of Jules Hartwick’s office would not be good.
    Instead of entering the bank, Bill veered off the other way and walked down the street to the offices of the
Blackstone Chronicle
. An old-fashioned bell tinkled as he pushed the door open, and all three people in the office looked up.
    Angela Corelli, the young woman who served as receptionist and secretary, and Lois Martin, who had been Oliver Metcalf’s assistant editor and layout artist for fifteen years, greeted him with embarrassed smiles and quickly downcast eyes. Only Oliver immediately got up, came around from behind his desk, and took his hand. “I’m so sorry about what happened,” he said. “I know how much you and Elizabeth were looking forward to the new baby.”
    “Thanks, Oliver,” Bill said. “I’m just starting to think maybe I’m going to make it, but Elizabeth’s taking it pretty hard.”
    The older of the two women in the office finally seemed to recover her wits. “I was thinking I should call her,” Lois Martin offered. “But it’s just so hard to know what to say.”
    “I’m sure she’d appreciate hearing from you,” Bill told her. “But you might want to wait a couple of days.”
    “If there’s anything any of us can do, just let us know,” Oliver said. He gestured to the wooden chair in front of his desk. “Got time for a chat?”
    “Actually, I was hoping I might be able to pick up some news,” Bill said. “About the bank.”
    Oliver shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Ikeep calling Jules Hartwick, but I always get steered to Melissa Holloway instead.”
    Bill sighed. “Well, at least I no longer feel like I’m the only one. How can someone who looks that sweet be that efficient? And how’d she get to be second in command at her age?”
    “Takes after her father,” Oliver replied. “One of the smartest men I ever met, except when it came to picking a wife. Charles Holloway’s a terrific lawyer, but his second wife was a terror. Hated Melissa. Melissa got through it, though.”
    But Bill McGuire had stopped listening, his mind already focusing on what to do next, calculating how much money he had in the bank—assuming the bank wasn’t about to collapse—and how long it would last him. The numbers gave him no comfort. The fact of the matter was that the odds of finding a construction job that could carry him through till spring were pretty much zip. If he was going to avoid going broke, he was going to have to get to work on a new line of credit. He rose to his feet. “If you hear anything—anything at all—let me know, okay?”
    “You’ll hear it before I even start to write the story,” Oliver promised.
    As they walked toward the front door, it