Page 87 - Wake Up and do Your Thing

NICHOLAS BOOTHMAN
five or six years old in an oversized Benfica shirt, tugged at my sleeve.
“Excuse me, this is for you?”
She was waving a small white envelope. Her English was impeccable.
“It is?” I got up unsteadily and took it. “Thank you.”
Her face pure, innocent and heartwarming radiated love and happiness. It was as if she could see right through me.
“What kind of innocent angel is this in the midst of such joy and lights and gaiety?” I asked, trying in vain to sound like Thomas.
“My father wants you to have it.”
A fleeting moment of sobriety made my jaw drop.
Could this be Thomas’ daughter? “Are you Lara?” By the time I’d steadied myself and tried to connect the dots she’d gone.
The town hall clock struck once. “Oh jeepers.”
I slumped back down and put the envelope on the table in front of me and stared at it. Francisca squeezed in next to me. “Senhor Nick, I just want to thank you for everything you have done for my mother and for me.”
Suddenly tears welled up in my eyes and ran down my cheeks. I put my head in my hands and sobbed. I was happier than I could handle. I couldn’t remember the last time anyone thanked me for helping them.
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