“Dorothy would love that.” His daughter was yet another complicated female, one he adored with every bit of his heart. Her blurted admission—I hate my parents’ divorce—still haunted Peach like a lingering echo. His chief goal in life had always been to give Dorothy a life that she loved, all day every day. He could put a roof over her head, teach her to sing, take her to the doctor for vaccines and checkups, buy her shoes and books, listen to every word she spoke. But he could not give her the thing she missed most—her family of origin.

Despite the care he’d taken to live close by and to share in every aspect of parenting, his little girl knew her world would never be the same. She carried a sadness around, an unspoken yearning for the three of them to be together in a way they could never be, in a house full of love.

He and Regina had set out to create exactly that, the way people did every day, every time they said I do. But life was a pathway of twists and turns, and cracks appeared. They started out as invisible fissures deep in the foundation, unexamined until the damage was too great to repair.

Regina’s discontent had hidden behind a mask of ambition—crave more, strive more, achieve more—and his behind long days at work followed by writing and recording and practice sessions. By the time either of them glanced up from their preoccupations, they were looking across a gulf too wide and deep to cross. Eventually, they both agreed that the marriage was over.

But Dorothy. The kid had zero say in the matter. Her world had been rocked by an earthquake and the pieces would never again be put back in place.

The one thing she wanted was the one thing Peach couldn’t give her. And the one thing he wanted was … complicated.

“What kind?” Suzzy asked.

“Sorry, what?” He had lost track of the conversation.

“What kind of dog?”

“A rescue, I suppose,” he said. “Not too big. No emotional baggage.”

She laughed. “So, a puppy, you mean.”

“A puppy is a blank slate.”

“Puppies are a lot of work. Ever raise a puppy from scratch?”

“I have, actually. When I was a kid, just a bit older than Dorothy, somebody had a litter of pups in a Publix parking lot, and I brought one home. I caught hell from my parents, but my sister and I convinced them to let us keep him—Buster was his name.” His mother had engaged a professional trainer, and his father had hired a contractor to construct a doghouse and dog run on their Buckhead estate.