His head shook in frustration. “Maybe you don’t approve of me, but I know you cared about your daughter. Tell me about her. Tell me about Gabrielle. My mother.”
“Jake—” Megan touched his arm and tried to draw him back.
He looked at her and saw her nod toward Estelle. Jake followed her lead, only to find the woman staring at him—sightlessly. His head fell in defeat and he backed away.
“Gabby was too young.” Estelle’s voice cracked. “Too young for that baby. I wanted her to go to university—to leave the Cove and learn about life.”
Jake turned back. “She still had a chance.” He argued with someone who did not even acknowledge him. “Having a baby didn’t mean she couldn’t get an education.”
There was no indication from Estelle’s compressed lips or the now unfocused gray eyes that she even heard him, but something happened to her wrinkled face. Her chin shook, as did her head, in an uncontrollable dance until finally an extraordinary expression took over her. She smiled.
“He was a beautiful baby,” her raspy voice whispered.
She thought she was alone, Jake considered. Estelle thought it was safe to make that admission.
“Gold eyes. Even at birth.” The smile faded. “I’m sorry, Crow.”
Jake nearly tripped backward as her eyes jumped onto him as if the knob of the camera was turned and the focus was back on. There was no question that Estelle was staring at him right now.
“I understand,” he said. If she thought he was Crow Musgrave, who was he to confuse her more?
Megan inched forward. She seemed to sense by the woman’s futile hand gestures that she wanted to move her wheelchair. Megan slipped in behind her and grabbed the handles. “Where to, Mrs. Wakefield?”
A skeletal hand waved toward a dresser in the corner of the small nursing-home room. Megan gently nudged the chair in that direction.
Perhaps the old woman’s hands seemed frail, but they moved industriously, just like her grandson’s. Estelle rifled through the drawer and turned in her seat to offer up an item wrapped in newspaper. She did not hold it toward Megan. She was jabbing it at Jake.
Jake hesitated and then stepped forward to take the thin slab covered in yellowed paper. Briefly, he noted the context of the articles, dating them back over three decades. He peeled the newspaper off and came away with a framed photograph.
He recognized Gabrielle. She might have looked forlorn later in life, but in this photo she glowed with love. About her shoulder was wrapped the arm of a man Jake recognized as Crow Musgrave. He too bore a content smile as he stared down at the infant nestled in Gabrielle’s arms.
“Jake.” Megan’s breath whisked in. “My God, you were beautiful.”
The child had a small hand wrapped around his mother’s index finger. He looked up at her, and though it was black-and-white, Jake could distinguish the golden eyes that mirrored those of the man staring down at him.
“I’m sorry, Crow.” Estelle talked to the picture.
Jake set the photo aside, and crouched down beside the wheelchair. He touched his grandmother’s hand and tried to make eye contact with her. “I know you are. It’s okay. Thank you for this.” He grabbed the picture again and looked at it long and hard until he felt his eyes moisten. “Thank you so much for this.”
On his shoulder he sensed Megan’s tender touch. “Look at them, Jake. Look at the picture,” she whispered. “They were so in love. You were born to a couple so in love.”
His eyes burned again. He turned his head and brushed her fingers with his lips and finally looked up at her. “Can we go to her grave now?”
He caught the brief bob of Megan’s throat as she smiled and whispered hoarsely, “Of course we can.”
Emotion ran strong through his blood as Jake voiced what was most on his mind. “I love you.”
Her smile brightened and her eyes shimmered. She made his whole world feel right.
Jake stood up. He touched the frail hand of his grandmother and turned to the young woman with the eyes of an October sky. It was time to go home.
About the Author
A natural born writer, Maureen Miller was nonetheless taken down a different course by life. As a programmer in an industry that required constant travel, Maureen sought escape by making use of her laptop and writing exotic tales—escapism at its best. Listening to the airport speaker rattle off another flight delay, Maureen rattled off another romantic suspense novel.
Her first book, Widow's Tale, was nominated for a Golden Heart Award by the Romance Writers of America. A fan of gothic romance, Maureen enjoys the formula of danger, romance and inclement weather, although there is no accounting for her third novel, Rogue Wave, which basks in the Hawaiian sun.
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ISBN: 978-1-4268-9161-8
Copyright © 2011 by Maureen A. Miller
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