““My train! This is the train Papa promised me!” He pulled a little red engine from the branches of the tree. “And it’s red. Just like I wanted!” Confused, Aletta joined him, and Andrew held up the toy, a tag bearing his name hanging off the smokestack. “All really good trains are red, Mama,” he said, as though everyone should know that. The train was hand carved, not nearly as detailed as the one she’d ordered from the Nashville mercantile, and it had no railcars and certainly didn’t make any sounds. But when she turned the train over and saw the writing on the bottom, she felt the prick of tears. I love you, buddy, Jake. She read the inscription aloud, and Andrew’s eyes lit. He raced over to Jake, who knelt and hugged him tight. “I love my train!” Andrew drew back. “Does this mean I get to call you Jake now?” Jake looked across the room at her, much like everyone else, and Aletta smiled. “I imagine that would be just fine.” Andrew gave a loud shout and went to show Winder his red engine. Aletta joined Jake, who stood quietly off to the side. “How did you know?” She searched his gaze. “That was the kind of train he wanted? And that he wanted red?” “I didn’t. But that’s the kind of train I had when I was his age. Besides . . . aren’t all really good trains red?””
