Sandra sighed, poking at the lime wedge accompanying her serving of Carnitas. She harbored doubts about bonding with a foster child, and her heart ached from the knowledge that she and Mark couldn’t have their own children. “Isn’t that Mark over there?” Janet suddenly said, distracting her.
Sandra slid down toward the end of the horseshoe-shaped booth so she could peer past the lush, potted plants that towered above their table. “He might be here on business. I know he sometimes brings clients here for lunch.” “There, Sandra, just past the huge chiminea,” Janet said helpfully.
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