Marta Perry - Promise Forever

If I stay. The words whispered in his mind as the Caldwell women vanished down the hall.

His cell phone rang, and he flipped it open. Probably Henry, responding to the message he’d left at the office. But it wasn’t his assistant—it was his brother.

“Henry’s secretary passed your message on to me. He’s out of the office. What’s going on?” Curiosity filled Josh’s voice.

“Out of the office where?” What was reliable Henry doing out of the office when he’d left him in charge?

“Didn’t tell me.” He could almost see Josh’s shrug. “Something you want me to take care of before he gets back?”

His first instinct was a prompt no, but someone at the office had to know where he was. And why. And how long he intended to stay.

“Not exactly.” He hesitated. His brother would have to know. As irresponsible as Josh was, he wouldn’t spread the news if Tyler asked him not to. “I have a…situation here, and I don’t want anyone else to know the whole story. You can tell Henry, but no one else. Understood?”

“Got it.” He could almost see Josh leaning back, propping his feet on the desk. “What’s up?”

“You remember Miranda Caldwell?”

A pause, but Josh would remember. After all, their father’s death had rocked both their worlds.

“Your ex-wife.”

“Yes. Turns out there was something she neglected to mention when we got divorced. I have a son.” He waited for an explosion of questions.

Instead Josh whistled softly. “I assume you’re sure he’s yours.”

“I’m sure.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

The very question he’d been asking himself. Apparently he already knew the answer. “I’m going to stay here for a while to get to know him.”

He expected an argument. He didn’t get it. “Okay. I’ll tell Henry. What about Mother?”

“Not yet.” He thought uneasily of their mother, honeymooning in Madrid with her new husband. She wouldn’t be happy that Miranda was back in his life. “Thanks, Josh.”

He hung up, realizing why he didn’t want to tell anyone. The possession of a son had made him vulnerable. He didn’t like to be vulnerable. Miranda’s image presented itself in his mind and refused to be dismissed. Look where vulnerability had gotten him eight years ago.

Several hours later, he sat back in the chair and stretched, congratulating himself. He had a reasonable facsimile of an office set up, he’d been in touch with Henry about his plans and he’d contacted the Charleston subsidiary of Winchester Industries and arranged a meeting there, since it was only a couple of hours away. Almost as much as he might have accomplished in Baltimore.

At corporate headquarters, though, he wouldn’t have been quite so distracted by the view from the window. There, he’d look out on the Inner Harbor. Here, he looked out at Miranda, busy putting sheets on the clotheslines strung across the yard.

He stood, frowning at the photo of Sammy he’d propped next to his computer. The reason had nothing to do with sentiment, he assured himself. He’d put it there to remind himself that he had to find out who’d sent it, and why.

He picked it up, gaze straying again to Miranda. The chances he’d learn the truth about that without her help were slim and none. Therefore he needed to enlist her aid. He glanced at his watch. He’d better do it now, before Sammy came home from school.

Tucking the photo into his shirt pocket, he headed for the backyard and Miranda.

When he pushed open the screen door, Miranda was bending over an oval wicker clothes basket. She looked up at the sound, and her face went still at the sight of him.

“I thought you were busy with work.” She shook out a damp sheet and began pinning it to the line, as if to show him that she was busy, as well.

“I’ve made a good start.” He approached her, then had to step back as she shook out another sheet. “Don’t you have a dryer?”

“Of course we have a dryer.” At his raised eyebrow, she shook her head as if in pity. “We like to sleep on air-dried sheets. So do our guests.”

“Why?” He caught the end of the sheet she was manhandling. For a moment he thought she’d yank it free, but then she handed him a clothespin.

“They smell like sunshine.”

You smell like sunshine. He dismissed the vagrant thought. “Wouldn’t it be more efficient to use a laundry service?”

“That’s not how we do things here.” She snapped out the words as if he’d insulted her. Sunlight filtered through live oaks and dappled her face.

He reminded himself that he wanted her cooperation, not her enmity. “So you’re helping to run the inn now.”

“That’s right.” She pinned up another sheet. “My college plans were derailed.”

She’d been saving money that summer, he remembered, waiting tables at the yacht club so she could attend the community college that fall. Both their lives had gone in an unexpected direction, but hers had obviously been skewed more than his.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it.

She looked at him for a long moment, then nodded in acceptance. “I don’t regret anything.” A smile blazed across her face. “I have Sammy.”

He nodded, the photo seeming to burn a hole in his pocket. Maybe he’d better get to the point before he brought up any more touchy subjects. “I’ve been thinking about that picture of him.”

“I’ve already told you, I didn’t send it.” She snatched the basket and ducked under flapping sheets to the other end of the yard.

He followed, evading damp linen. He needed her on his side in this. “I know you didn’t send it. Don’t you want to know who did?”

“Yes, of course.” She stopped, eyes clouded. “I’ve worried and worried, and I still don’t have an idea.”

“There has to be a way to find out. Why don’t we talk to Sammy about this?”

“Absolutely not.” She shot the words at him, shoulders suddenly stiff.

“But he may have noticed who took the picture.”

“I mean it, Tyler.” Her soft mouth was firm. “I don’t want him questioned about this.”

“That’s ridiculous. If we can find out—”

“It’s not ridiculous,” she snapped. It looked as if they were back on opposite sides. “If we talk to Sammy, he’s going to ask how you got a picture of him.”

“We can say—” He stopped. What would they say?

“I don’t want him thinking that some stranger is going around taking pictures of him, manipulating his life.” A shiver seemed to run through her. “It’s bad enough thinking that myself.”

“All right.”

Miranda looked at him suspiciously, and he raised his hands in surrender.

“I promise. I won’t say anything to him.”

The tension went out of her, and she reached up to unpin a dry sheet. He caught the end of it, and she let him help her fold it.

“Why? That’s what gets me,” she said. “Why would anyone want to interfere in our lives like that?”

“I wish I knew.” He had to hurry to keep up with the deft way she flipped the corners together. “No one’s said anything to you about it?”

“Nothing.”

He finished the last fold, then put the sheet into the basket as Miranda moved on to the next one. She was right—the sheet did smell like sunshine.

“Stop a minute and look at it again.” He drew the photo from his pocket and handed it to her.

She studied the picture, absently twisting a strand of hair around her finger. Her gaze lifted, startled, to him. “This looks like—”

“What?”

“Come with me.” She dropped a clothespin into the basket and started around the inn at a trot. He had to hurry to keep up with her.

“Look.” She stopped at the corner of the veranda, pointing.