Jami had said to go easy on his mother. But she didn’t deserve leniency. What she’d done was unthinkable. For thirty years, she’d saddled him with the yoke of hatred, using him as a pawn in her secret vendetta against the faceless McAllisters. She’d lied to him, kept him from the love of his grandparents and created a life of struggle for both of them. And he wasn’t about to let it go.
He reached for the radio dial and resumed the search he’d given up a few days earlier. After a couple of attempts, soft rock filled the car. It wasn’t Rachmaninoff, but it would help dispel some of the sense of isolation. Once he reached the airport, he’d lose himself in a book. He had three, one he’d brought with him and two he’d confiscated from the McAllister library. They were all in his briefcase, along with his iPad and some files he’d carried south.
Up ahead, a sign announced he was about to cross the state line. On 515, he’d have his choice of small towns. He would pick one, eat some breakfast and mail his boxes. Once that was accomplished, he’d head on to Atlanta, where he’d turn in the car and board the plane.
Then he was going to fly home and sever the last intimate connection he had left.
Jami kicked a small rock that had become dislodged from the packed earth around it and watched it tumble down the slope ahead of her. Dusk was still some two hours away, but the temperature in the McAllister woods was quite comfortable, if a little humid. Some distance ahead, both dogs stood with their noses buried in a clump of ferns, tails wagging while they took one of their frequent sniff breaks.
They’d settled in well. Devotion had replaced the sadness in their eyes, and the pathetic whimpering when she left for work each morning had all but ceased. They hadn’t even made any messes, other than the one puddle that had sent her flying almost a week ago.
She reached the spot where the latest interesting scent had snagged their attention and clapped her hands. They both looked up, eyes full of eagerness, then trotted off ahead of her. She didn’t have them leashed. It wasn’t necessary. They never strayed far. They would run ahead, check to make sure she was still following, then stop to see what fun scents they could discover.
It left her free to roam and think. She’d done a lot of that since her encounter with Grant yesterday morning. Thinking, anyway. She’d known he would be angry. But she’d thought she could placate him. She didn’t expect him to almost throw her out of the hotel room.
She heaved a sigh. “I should never have gone.” If she had kept what she’d learned to herself, Grant wouldn’t be mad at her. That hadn’t been an option, though. He’d harbored so much anger toward his grandparents she couldn’t keep quiet. Of course, in vindicating the elder McAllisters, she’d made his mother the guilty party.
But his mother was still alive. He could mend that relationship. If he was willing. From what little she knew of Grant, it was doubtful. She released a growl of frustration. Over the past twenty-four hours, she’d mentally argued all the pros and cons of her decision until she was ready to scream.
When she wasn’t second-guessing herself about giving the box to Grant, she was stressing over the article. She had photos. And she had a few dry facts—the early history of the McAllisters, the condition of the house, where Grant and Anna went after Gary’s death, Grant’s plans to sell. But to write a really poignant article, she would have to use what was in the box.
She picked up a small branch lying in front of her and tossed it to the side. “I know what Howard would do.” The information was public, in a sense. Grant released it to go to the landfill. It was no longer in his possession. “Howard would take it and run with it. And he’d write an exceptional story.”
She was talking to herself again, a regular occurrence when alone, especially when she had things to sort out. With Grant back in New York, there was no one to overhear her except the dogs.
Unfortunately, it was going to take more than a conversation with herself to sort this mess out. Because doing what Howard would do somehow felt like betraying Grant. In her case, it would be, because she’d made a promise. She’d given him her word she wouldn’t print anything he didn’t want her to use. She’d even finished her vow with no matter what.
“But Grant would never know.” He was eight hundred miles away and not returning to Murphy except for one more short visit. She could publish her story and get her accolades. Then maybe she would stop hearing about what big shoes she had to fill.
No, she couldn’t do it. A promise broken was still trust betrayed, even if the person never found out.
She heaved another sigh and cast her eyes heavenward. “Lord, help me to not make a bigger mess of things than I already have.”
Her gaze dropped to the two furry bodies bouncing along in front of her. Suddenly they both perked up and shot away, short legs pumping as fast as they could. “Bailey, Morgan,” she shouted, “stay!” But they continued their mad pursuit without a break in their stride. She forced her own legs into a run, continuing to call while silently praying she didn’t lose either of her dogs. She should have had them on their leashes. But she never dreamed they’d take chase and ignore her commands.
She lost sight of them, but within moments, a chorus of barking reached her from somewhere ahead. They must have cornered whatever animal had sparked their interest. Hopefully it didn’t have sharp claws. Or long teeth.
When she broke through the last of the trees into a small clearing, she skidded to a stop. They had something cornered all right. And it didn’t have sharp claws or long teeth. A man stood next to a transit atop a tripod. He held up both hands in what she guessed was as nonthreatening of a pose as he could muster.
“I’m so sorry,” she called. “They’re really harmless.” The furiously wagging tails backed up her claims.
“No problem. I heard you calling and knew you couldn’t be far behind.” He squatted down and offered the back of one hand for them to sniff. Once satisfactory introductions had been made, he scratched both of them on the tops of their heads, then straightened as a second man emerged from the trees at the opposite end of the clearing. He wore the same placket shirt with embroidered script that she could now see read Adams Surveying.
Why was Grant having the property surveyed? There was no way his Realtor could have sold it already. She turned to the first man, who still held the attention of both dogs. They looked up at him eagerly, probably hoping for more pats on the head. “Come,” she called, clapping her hands twice, and they bounded over to stand at her side.
She turned her attention back to the surveyor. “Were you hired by Grant McAllister?”
“No, Durham Vanguard.”
Her heart sank until it wobbled to a stop somewhere between her kneecaps. How could he? He’d sold to Vanguard without even giving the Realtor a chance.
Jami closed her eyes, struggling to compose herself. He knew how important it was to her, how desperately she wanted to preserve the beauty and tranquility of her surroundings.
And maybe that was why he’d done it.
Maybe Grant McAllister wasn’t only slow to forgive. Maybe he was vindictive. There was no other explanation. She’d snooped through his possessions and learned things he didn’t want anyone to know. Now he was striking out, hitting her where he knew it would hurt.
Had her forthrightness come at a cost higher than his friendship? Was it going to destroy her and her neighbors’ peace for years to come?
Oh, Lord, what have I done?
Grant stood in the hallway of the upscale condo complex, cold fury flowing just beneath the surface. He hadn’t phoned ahead. He hadn’t needed to. The bellman downstairs knew him.
For almost three days, he’d searched for some way to understand why his mother had lied to him all his life. There was none, no explanation, no excuse. If she’d wanted to refuse contact with the McAllisters, that was her prerogative. But forcing that hatred on him was beyond wrong.
He rang the bell, and moments later, the door swung open. Homey scents drifted out and wrapped co
mforting arms around him. His mother’s place always smelled of some food-scented oil or potpourri—hot apple pie, cinnamon rolls, French vanilla roast. This time it was a pleasant spicy-sweet scent, like spice cake ready to come out of the oven. But he didn’t even need to step inside to know the kitchen was cold. That tantalizing scent was nothing but an empty promise, a bald-faced lie. Like the tales of hatred and rejection she’d spoon-fed him all his life.
“You lied to me.”
Concern flashed across her features, but it didn’t last long. Whatever faults his mother possessed, she was always composed. “That’s no way to greet your mother after a trip. Come on in, and let me get you a soda.”
He followed her into the almost-new two-bedroom condo and waited while she hurried to the kitchen for the promised drink. The money to purchase the place had been his, but the décor choices were all hers and had nothing to do with location or heritage. Terra-cotta tile flowed throughout, set off by pale stucco walls. Area rugs stood vigil at strategic places around the unit, their russet and sage-green geometric patterns striking against a background of warm beige. Metal wall art and various Native American–themed accessories added a Southwest flavor to the setting—Santa Fe in the middle of New York City. Not his style, but it was what she’d wanted.
The clink of ice against glass sounded in the kitchen, followed by the pop and hiss of two sodas being opened. Moments later she returned to press a cold glass into his hand.
“Can I get you anything else?”
He shook his head. No more delays. “I had a very interesting trip, learned a lot.”
“Have a seat, dear.”
“No, I think I’ll stand.” Or maybe pace. He crossed the room to where a long, narrow table stood against a wall of glass. The lights of Manhattan stretched out before him, congested streets some fifteen stories below. He took a long swig of his drink, then dropped his gaze to the table, which held a display of candleholders, vases and figurines. For several moments he fingered the rim of the hand-painted clay vase in the center. Three colorful geckos chased one another around its circumference, lighthearted and fun. The scene was out of place in a room so thick with tension.
He dropped his hand and turned to face his mother. “I found out my grandmother, who was too high and mighty to have anything to do with either of us, tried to make contact . . . several times.”
His mother settled into one of the two leather recliners and took a long sip of her drink. “You can’t believe everything you hear. Rumors fly around these small towns like swarms of locusts.”
“That may be. But seeing the proof for yourself is pretty convincing.”
He studied her closely, especially her eyes. Blue with underlying hints of aqua, like his own. Except hers were filled with concern. “What are you talking about?”
“Packages, three of them, addressed to me. My grandparents sent me two birthday gifts and a Christmas gift, all of which you refused.”
Her gaze darted from one object to another until it came to rest on a watercolor on the opposite wall. It was one of her own, saguaro cacti against the flaming backdrop of an Arizona sunset. But judging from the tension lining her face, she wasn’t admiring her work. “I never saw any packages. They were probably sent to the wrong address.” She motioned toward the other recliner. “Have a seat, Grant. You’re a bundle of nerves. You need to relax.”
“No, I don’t need to relax.” She needed to own up to what she’d done. “The address was right. I had it investigated. But that wasn’t the only thing I found.” He crossed the room and stood in front of her, willing her to look at him. “I found letters. Lots of them. Even a couple of voided checks.”
She drew in a shaky breath but still kept her eyes averted. When she lifted her drink to her mouth, the ice cubes rattled against the glass, and she steadied it with her other hand. Finally, her eyes met his. They held insecurity and a whole lot of regret. “I wanted to tell you.”
“Tell me what—that you’d lied to me all my life?”
She lowered her gaze to stare at her drink. “For a long time, I was angry. I blamed them for your father’s death. I didn’t want you to meet them. I told myself that I was trying to protect you, to spare you the rejection that I’d received.”
Heat swept through him, centering in his chest. “You weren’t trying to protect me. You had nothing in mind but your own private vendetta.”
“I know that now. But by the time I was ready to admit that to myself, you were a teenager. I knew I needed to talk to you, but I didn’t know where to begin.”
“A good starting point might have been the truth.” Hardness underlay the words, but he didn’t try to soften them. The apology in her eyes wasn’t moving him. Neither were the pitiful excuses.
“I should have told you. But the longer I let you believe the lie, the harder it became to tell you the truth. I knew you’d be angry, and I was so afraid of losing you.”
“Knowing I was headed to Murphy, don’t you think that would have been an ideal time to come clean? Odds were good that I’d find something in that house that would expose your lies.”
She released a heavy sigh, and her shoulders slumped. “Believe me, I worried about that the entire time you were gone.”
“And you left me to find out on my own.” In front of Jami. A reporter, of all people. “You had no right to lie to me all those years.” He slashed his hand through the air to underscore his point, and she flinched as if he’d struck her. “Whether or not I met my grandparents should have been my choice.”
“I know, and I’m so sorry.”
“Thirty years of lies aren’t fixed by a simple apology.” He put his almost-full glass on the end table and stalked toward the door.
“Grant? Where are you going?” Panic laced her tone. The rustle of leather told him she’d gotten out of the chair.
“Home.”
She closed the gap between them and grasped his arm. “Please don’t be angry. You’re all I have.”
He hesitated. The words were so eerily reminiscent of Jami’s.
“Grant, please talk to me.”
Without turning around, he shrugged loose from her hold and opened the door. Maybe Jami could shut off the anger and offer instant forgiveness. But he wasn’t Jami.
One final plea followed him down the hall. When he reached the elevator, he pressed the button, then cast a glance back. His mother stood leaning against the doorjamb, shoulders stooped. The anguish rolling off her reached out to him, and a sense of tenderness tried to nudge its way into his heart. Jami was right. They were each the only family the other had left. He would forgive her eventually. Just not tonight.
The elevator doors opened, and he stepped on. He’d taken a cab on the way over. Now he would just catch the subway. For the stretch of city between his place and his mother’s, either mode of transportation was easier than taking his car.
He stepped from the building and turned right, headed toward the nearest subway station, eight or ten blocks away. The walk would do him good. It might even help work out some of the agitation boomeranging through him.
The woman who’d voided the checks and penned the notes to Elizabeth McAllister had been filled with bitterness. Maybe his mother wasn’t that person anymore. Or maybe she was and had simply decided it was wrong to impose those feelings on an innocent child.
But it was too late. The damage was already done. Her cold anger had left its mark on him. His attitude toward his grandparents. The resentment he felt toward Bethany that colored his view of every other woman. The way he stuffed in his feelings and closed off his heart. He was a master at hiding what he felt behind a facade of cool control.
An image intruded into his thoughts—soft features molded into an expression of perfect contentment, beautiful green eyes that could see past a multitude of faults and a smile so open and warm it could melt the polar ice caps. His complete opposite. Jami had something, something that was lacking in his own life. If he didn’t take the time to exp
lore what that something was, he was going to regret it later.
Next week, he had to get things wrapped up at the firm. But come Friday, he would be on a plane headed south. He had to make the final trip back to Murphy.
When Jami had shown up at his motel room with that box of letters, she’d knocked his world off its axis. But taking out his anger and embarrassment on her was uncalled for. He had to beg her forgiveness.
He turned the corner, a smile curving his lips. Knowing Jami, begging wouldn’t be necessary. Her words circled through his mind—Life’s a lot better when you let it go.
He understood that now.
He just wasn’t sure how to get there.
SEVEN
That Hank Dorchester is going to be the death of me.” Bernie flung up her hands and plopped into the chair at her desk. She was on the warpath, which, for Bernie, just meant a little more volume.
Jami looked up from her work. “What did Hank do this time?”
“It’s his ad. Every week he has a whole bucketload of changes. And when I make one teensy-weensy mistake, I can’t even finish breakfast and get out of the Grind without him raking me over the coals.” She heaved a sigh. “One extra little number, and he acts like it’s the end of the world.”
“What kind of extra number?”
“Wayne’s Wednesday special. They’re offering ten percent off all feed.”
“And?”
“Weeellllll,” Bernie began, cocking her head to the side and hoisting both shoulders, “I sort of got two zeros instead of one.”
Jami nodded. “So according to Hank’s ad, Wayne’s Feed Store is letting all their feed go at a hundred percent off. Bernie, that’s free.”
“I know. And Hank’s afraid people are going to come in to get their free feed and be mad when they have to pay for it. I told him people in this town have enough sense to know it’s a misprint. He told me I’m getting old and senile and too much red dye has gone to my brain.”
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