Fay Robinson - The Notorious Mrs. Wright

“I never met anyone I liked well enough to spend my life with. And I have a son to consider. His welfare and happiness always come first with me.”

“He’s a lucky kid.”

She smiled. “I’m the lucky one. Being both mother and father has been hard at times, but having a child has been the best part of my life.”

“Can I ask how your husband died?”

“His unit was training off the coast of California at night. The navy said his equipment must have malfunctioned, because he didn’t make the rendezvous. They never found his body.”

“Damn, that’s rough.” He smoothly put one arm around her shoulder and reached over with the other to take her hand, entwining his fingers with hers. Emma didn’t mind.

“How old was your son when his father died?”

“Tom wasn’t born yet. I’d only just found out I was pregnant.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“Tell me about your son. How old is he and what’s he like?”

“He’s talented, smart, handsome and inquisitive, but I guess all mothers think that about their children. For a seventeen-year-old, he’s also remarkably self-sufficient. I guess he’s had to be, with me working nights most of his life. Thankfully, I don’t have to worry about leaving him alone anymore, now that we live above the restaurant.”

“His name is Tom? Isn’t that what you said?”

“Yes, John Thomas. He’ll be a senior in high school this year.”

“So you named him for his father?”

The question confused her for a moment. Memories of her little brother nearly closed up her throat. She wondered if J.T. thought of her as often as she thought of him.

“No, my husband’s name was William. I named Tom for…well, a little boy I cared very much for as a child.”

“A relative?”

“No, a friend.”

“Where’s Tom tonight? Will he worry about you not being at work?”

“No, he’s with his friend Tony Parker. I’m sure they’re off somewhere attempting to woo women. That seems to be their primary mission this summer.”

He chuckled. “I remember those years well. Wooing women was always my goal on a Saturday night.”

“How old are you, Whit?”

“Thirty-six.”

Oh, dear. He was even two years younger than her real age.

The carriage finished its loop and dropped them off at eleven-thirty on the bay front across from Illusions. Whit walked her around back, where the double doors were still open and the light barely illuminated the small parking area for staff. The restaurant had closed at eleven but, from inside, the clash of dishes and voices signaled that everyone was still cleaning up.

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