But each year, it was his gifts that touched her the deepest, because she'd known they came from his heart, not some generic department store.It hardly seemed possible that a man she'd known for less than forty-eight hours, who was more stranger than friend, mystery than confidante, could give her such a gift. But with deep certainty, Miranda knew that even though Sandro had turned his back on her confession earlier that evening, in showing her the wooden statue in his hand, the dog he carried in his pocket, he was showing her something of himself.And that was a gift."It's beautiful," she said, reaching over to run her fingers along the smooth, clearly well-worn wood. It was very similar to the statue she'd found him carving.A faint smile played at the corners of his mouth. "It's Virgil," he said. "All the way down to the slightly crooked tail, which the vet said had been repeatedly broken." Pausing, he pressed the dog into her hands. "My grandfather carved him so I'd always have him with me, even when we were apart."And now, more than twenty years later, the lonely little boy had become a battle-scarred man, but he still carried the statue with him.
