by Gina Wilkins
He nodded. “The special tonight is meat loaf and creamed potatoes with gravy. Elva’s gravy is the best I’ve ever tasted.”
“Aunt Mae and I would love to have you join us at our table.”
“Thanks. I’d like that. Er—I suppose Cara and Casey will be eating in the kitchen, as usual?”
“I’m sure they will,” Bailey answered gently. “Cara says she likes to share a quiet meal with her daughter when they get the chance.”
“Yeah, but it also makes a nice excuse for her to stay hidden from the guests and diners,” Mark grumbled. “Not to mention me.”
“When are you going to give up, Mark?” Bailey couldn’t resist asking.
He shrugged. “I’m not. I can’t,” he answered simply. “Someday, she’s going to realize she can trust me. I’m making headway, I think. She doesn’t turn pale and bolt in the other direction when she sees me now.”
“She isn’t exactly throwing herself into your arms, either.”
He groaned. “You really are Mae’s niece, aren’t you?”
Bailey wrinkled her nose. “I’m afraid so. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m crazy about that aunt of yours. And I like you, too, Bailey Gates.”
She smiled at him. “Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself, Mark Winter.”
Someone cleared her throat behind them. Bailey and Mark looked around to find Cara standing there, frowning at them. “Mrs. Harper wanted to know if you’re ready for dinner, Bailey.”
Bailey stood. “Yes, thanks, Cara. Mark will be joining us tonight. Wouldn’t you and Casey like to dine with us, too?”
“Thank you, but no. We had an early dinner. Casey wants me to watch something on television with her this evening.”
“Hey, how about if you and I take Casey out for ice cream or something after the program?” Mark suggested, as though on impulse.
Cara shook her head. “Tomorrow’s a school day. She has to be in bed early.”
“Another time, then,” Mark said, seemingly unfazed.
“Perhaps,” Cara murmured, then turned and walked away, leaving Mark staring wistfully after her.
Bailey slipped a hand beneath Mark’s arm, her heart twisting in sympathy at the hopeless look in his eyes. She wished there was something she could do to help him— and Cara, for that matter. Both of them were obviously in a great deal of pain. Unfortunately, Bailey didn’t seem to have any answers these days. For her friends—or for herself.
IAN STOOD UNSEEN at one end of the porch, his fists clenched at his sides. He hated the way Bailey smiled at Winter, hated the easy way she touched him. It was made even worse because he wanted so desperately to be touched by her, himself.
He glowered at the smiling couple, despising Mark Winter with an intensity of emotion he hadn’t felt in a very long time. And knowing full well that his hostility was based on nothing more than deep, aching, burning jealousy.
As far as he knew, Winter was a decent man. And he was a good friend to Dean and Anna. He had helped prove the truth about that long-ago tragedy, even at the risk of his own career and local reputation. There had been a time when Ian had been grateful to him for what he’d done.
Now all he wanted was to make him disappear. Permanently.
Mark Winter could be with Bailey in a way that Ian could not. He could laugh with her, dine with her, be seen with her. Touch her. Hold her.
Ian closed his eyes and tilted his head backward, cursing himself for wanting what he couldn’t have. Hadn’t he wished for Bailey to be happy? Hadn’t he wanted to see her smile? Hadn’t he hoped to encourage her to go on with her life, despite her recent setbacks? Was he truly so selfish that he would begrudge her a chance to spend time with a suitable, respectable man?
Ian had nothing to offer her.
Not even himself.
How long could he go on this way? What did he have to do to bring an end to it?
Even oblivion would be preferable to this.
“ELVA DEFINITELY MAKES the best gravy I’ve ever eaten,” Mark said in satisfaction a while later, pushing away his thoroughly emptied plate. “It’s no wonder the inn is becoming the most popular place to eat around here. Before long, it’s going to be necessary to make a reservation.”
Mae smiled. “I’ll be sure and pass your compliments on to Elva.”
“You do that.”
Bailey was just finishing her own dinner of grilled chicken and steamed fresh vegetables. The menu of the Cameron Inn’s twenty-table dining room was limited but excellent. The selections rotated so that neither the guests nor the local diners would grow tired of the choices, and Elva was always on the lookout for a new recipe. She was particularly renowned for her desserts, especially her pies, with their “mile-high meringues.”
Dean had chosen well when he’d hired his head cook. As he had with his other staff, Bailey thought in approval. She’d always known her brother would be a success at anything he put his mind to. She had no doubt that he would be as good at being a father as he was at innkeeping.
“I can’t help envying Dean,” she mused, hardly aware that she’d spoken aloud, her voice just audible over the cheerful clatter of the dining room.
“Why is that, dear?” Mae asked gently.
Bailey shrugged, slightly embarrassed. “Well, he’s found a place for himself. A business he enjoys, a permanent home, a wife he adores. Now they’re going to start a family. He’s a very lucky man.”
“He is that,” Mark agreed, a bemused expression crossing his face. “I would say that destiny played a major role in his good fortune.”
“The town, or the philosophy?” Bailey asked with a smile.
“Both,” Mark replied cryptically.
“How did you end up here, Mark?” she asked.
“I worked as a political reporter in Little Rock for a few years. Then I burned out. The Destiny Daily was owned by a friend of my father’s. When Harold decided to sell, he called me to see if I was interested. I was. My associates in Little Rock thought I’d lost my mind. They pointed out how risky it was to buy a small-town daily at a time when newspapers were folding all over the country due to heavy competition from cable-TV news. I knew a small-town daily could offer something CNN couldn’t provide—local gossip. If I was to put photos of the local kids in the pages, along with stories of their accomplishments, their parents and grandparents would keep me in business.”
“I’ve read your paper,” Bailey reminded him, chiding him for his self-deprecation. “It’s an excellent small-town daily. You have just the right mix of local color and national news. And your feature stories are particularly well done.”
“Mark won a state press award for his article on the Cameron twins,” Mae bragged.
Mark shrugged. “It was a hell of a story. Anyone who could string a sentence together would have won an award with it.”
“I don’t think so. I read the article,” Bailey argued. “It was brilliant, Mark. You took the story of a seventy-fiveyear-old tragedy and made it fresh and gripping, I was crying for the poor twins long before I finished reading your account of what had happened to them, and the unwarranted damage that had been done to their reputations ever since. I felt such satisfaction that you vindicated them. You really should consider writing a book.”
“Maybe I will someday,” Mark murmured. “But not about that. Dean has made me promise I’d let that story drop now that we’ve cleared the twins’ names.”
Bailey wondered why Dean was so adamant about letting the story be forgotten. It really was an interesting tale. “I guess he’s reluctant to involve Anna,” she said.
Both Mark and Mae seemed to stiffen.
“What do you mean, Bailey?” Mae asked.
Mark only watched her, his eyes searching her face in a way that made Bailey wonder what on earth she’d said.
“I only meant that since the twins were distant relatives of hers, curious people might annoy her with a lot of questions. Or maybe Dean’s afraid the inn will
be invaded by a mob of New Age types hoping to contact the twins’ tormented spirits or some garbage like that. Why? What did you think I meant?”
Mae and Mark exchanged a glance. To Bailey, it seemed as though they were both trying to decide how much the other knew. She wished she had even the faintest idea what lay behind their odd behavior.
Not for the first time, she had the feeling that there was something about this inn and its history that everyone knew except her. She felt very much the outsider at that moment.
Would she, like Dean, ever find a place where she truly belonged? she wondered with a wistfulness she tried to hide from her dinner companions.
Mark stayed late, talking in the sitting room with Bailey and Mae. Bailey suspected that he was hoping Cara would join them eventually, but she never did. When Mark had delayed returning to his lonely apartment as long as he could, he stood with a sigh. “Guess I’d better go.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Bailey offered, rising. “I need to finish writing my résumé tonight.”
“I hope you find a job close by,” Mark said with a warm smile. “We would all enjoy having you here.”
She returned the smile, knowing that her brother’s friend had become hers, as well. It was nice to make new friends—whether she could help them with their problems or not.
Bailey kissed her aunt’s cheek on the way out. “Good night, Aunt Mae. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Good night, dear. Don’t work too late on your résumé. There’s no great rush, is there?”
Bailey smiled, moved by the loving concern in her aunt’s voice, a poignant reminder of her childhood. “I won’t be too late,” she promised.
It was starting to drizzle when Bailey and Mark walked outside, a cold mist laden with the promise of winter. Bailey burrowed into the baseball-style jacket she wore with her sweater and jeans. “The weatherman said we’d have this rain last night. Looks like they were about twenty-four hours too early.”
“The weather’s a lot like a woman—very hard to predict.”
Bailey laughed and slid her hand beneath his arm. “The old country philosopher,” she teased.
He shrugged. “Maybe I’ll become the next Mark Twain.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being Mark Winter.”
He sighed. “Tell Cara that.”
“Maybe I will.”
He stiffened. “I didn’t mean that literally,” he assured her hastily. “Don’t get involved in this, Bailey. It wouldn’t do any good.”
“Maybe not,” she said, her chin lifting stubbornly. “But someone should do something. The two of you are both so obviously miserable, it makes me itch to get involved.”
“It isn’t that I don’t appreciate the thought, I just want to try to handle this myself, okay?”
“Fine. When were you planning to start?” she asked politely.
He sighed gustily. “Okay, I get the hint. It’s time for me to change tactics, I suppose.”
“It is unless you want to spend the rest of your life asking and being turned down for dates.”
“I’m not sure my ego, secure as it is, can take that much longer.”
“Then maybe you should sit her down for a serious talk, whether she likes it or not.”
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I will. Someday. Hey— what was that?”
Bailey jerked her head in the direction he was pointing, toward the edge of the inn’s property.
“I thought I saw a light over there,” Mark said. “A flashlight, maybe. I don’t see anything now.”
Still looking hard in the direction he’d indicated, Bailey wiped a drop of rain off her nose. “I don’t see anything, Mark.”
He shook his head. “Neither do I now. I must have been mistaken.”
“I guess you were still thinking about Mr. Carmette’s trespasser.”
“Maybe. Still, you lock your doors tonight, you hear?”
She chuckled ruefully. “Now you sound just like Bran.”
Mark cocked his head curiously. “Bran?”
She winced. “A, er, a friend.”
“Oh. C’mon, I’ll walk you to your cottage.”
“Don’t be silly. The cottage is in the opposite direction of the parking lot. You’d get soaked walking there and back. Go on to your car. I’ll make it to the cottage on my own.”
“I was only trying to be chivalrous,” he said with teasing sanctimony.
She smiled. “I know. And it was sweet of you. Good night, Mark.”
“Night, Bailey. Hurry inside now, or you’ll catch cold.”
“Go,” she ordered, giving him a slight shove in the direction of the parking lot.
“I’m gone.” Grinning, he turned and loped toward his car, his head bent against the light rain.
Bailey glanced once more at the woods, contented herself that there was nothing there, then headed for the cottage. Just as she reached the gazebo, the rain began to fall in earnest. She briefly debated between dashing for the cottage or ducking beneath the shelter of the gazebo.
Something made her decide on the gazebo.
The structure’s open-woodwork walls provided little warmth, but the peaked roof kept her dry. Tiny decorative white bulbs lined the Victorian roof and provided soft, festive lighting. She sat on one of the built-in benches, her feet drawn up in front of her, hands locked around her knees, and watched the rain fall. Her thoughts were far away, and she was hardly conscious of the damp chill of the evening.
She was thinking of Bran. Perhaps that explained why she wasn’t really surprised to hear his voice from close beside her. “You shouldn’t be out here alone at night,” he said.
She looked over her shoulder, saw him standing there looking at her with that dark, brooding expression of his, and she smiled. “I was waiting for you.”
6
February 5, 1903
As I expected, Gaylon asked me to marry him last evening.
I haven’t yet given him an answer. He says he understands that I need time to consider his proposal, though we both have known for some time that he intended to ask. He’s being very patient with me.
I am greatly tempted to accept his offer. Sometimes the responsibilities I face alone are overwhelming. If I could turn over the daily operation of the inn to Gaylon, I would have more time for the children, and they do seem to need more and more of my time of late. Ian, particularly.
He isn’t a bad child. Just the opposite, in fact. He loves us so deeply that he can’t bear to think of anything changing. He is jealous, and feels threatened, and that makes him rather sullen, I’m afraid. He fears that Gaylon and Charles will disrupt the happy lives we have made for ourselves. I’ve tried to make him understand that I will have more time for him and Anna if I marry Gaylon, not less, but it is difficult for him to comprehend at his age.
I can’t really tell how Mary Anna feels about the situation. She tends to parrot Ian, but she is generally more accepting of change than he is. More tolerant of the weaknesses of others. She isn’t close to Gaylon, nor to Charles, but she doesn’t seem to actively dislike them.
Ian asked me if I still love his father. His question broke my heart. I did not know how to explain to him that my love for James will never waver, that I still love him so desperately there are times I wonder if I can go on without him. Even after all these years alone, there is not a day that goes by that I do not miss him, or see him in our children’s faces. Not a day that I don’t grieve for him.
How does one explain to a child that love is not always the foundation for marriage? I have not pretended to Gaylon that I love him, though I have assured him with complete honesty that I am fond of him. He doesn’t seem to mind. He told me he hopes my feelings for him will deepen with time. Perhaps he is right, though I have my doubts.
He will be a good husband to me. A father for the twins. Even for Ian, if the boy will allow it. Gaylon continues to assure me that Ian will come around when he realizes that he has no choice. I hope he is right. I coul
dn’t bear to hurt my son when all I want is what is best for him. Everyone is urging me to accept Gaylon’s proposal. Everyone says Ian needs a man’s influence. They all believe it is the right thing for me to do.
If only there were some way for me to know without doubt that they are right.
Oh, James, can’t you help me? Is there no sign you can give me of what you would have me do? I desperately need your guidance.
WITHOUT TAKING his eyes from Bailey’s face, Ian sat on the bench, careful not to touch her. “What do you mean you were waiting for me? How did you know I would come tonight?”
She shrugged, still smiling. “I just did.”
His attention focused on that gentle curve of her lips, the glimpse of white teeth between them. She had a beautiful smile. He thought of the way she’d smiled at Winter, and he scowled. “Who was your friend? The one who just left?” he asked, feigning ignorance of Mark’s identity.
She tilted her head. “You saw us?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you say something? I would have introduced you. He’s a good friend of Dean and Anna’s.”
“You looked quite friendly with him, as well,” Ian muttered, disregarding her question.
“He’s a very nice man. His name is Mark Winter, and he’s the editor of the local newspaper.”
Ian’s scowl deepened. “Oh.”
“He’s also very much in love with Dean’s housekeeper, Cara McAlister,” Bailey added deliberately.
Ian squirmed on the bench, wondering if his irrational jealousy had really been so transparent. “Is he?”
“Yes. Not that it’s getting him anywhere,” she added with a slight sigh. “Poor Mark.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Cara isn’t giving him the time of day. There are times when she seems interested—at least, to me, she does— but every time he gets close to her, she seems to put up an emotional wall. She’s afraid, I think. Dean believes she’s been involved in an abusive relationship, and now is wary of getting too close to anyone. That makes sense. It wouldn’t be easy to trust again, especially if the guy had been a violent jerk.”