by Becky Wade
Even her antique crystal chandeliers had made the trip. Someone had already installed them over the dining table, in each of the two small bedrooms, and the one bathroom.
“What do you think?” Lynn asked when they’d finished the circuit.
“I think that a girl can never have too many chandeliers.”
“Words to live by,” Lynn said dryly. “Is there anything you’d like to have done?”
“No, it’s just right. I’m really happy with it.” From earliest memory, the guesthouse had felt to her like an oversized, cozy dollhouse. During her childhood, she and Sadie Jo had sometimes come here for tea parties and sleepovers. On special occasions, she’d been allowed to bring friends here to play.
All these years later, it still suited her well. Certainly far better than the big house ever had or would. “Well, what do you think, Cashew?”
The cat, who hadn’t budged from the rear of the carrier, emitted a contemptuous yowl.
The intercom system beeped. “This is George,” came a voice, “with Britton Security. Can Lynn Adley please respond?”
Lynn frowned at Meg.
“What do you think that’s about?” Meg asked.
“I don’t know.”
Britton, a private security company, protected everything inside the great brick wall that ran around the boundary of Whispering Creek. They staffed the guard station next to the main entrance gate around the clock.
Both women made their way to the intercom. Lynn pushed a button. “This is Lynn Adley.”
“Ms. Adley, we have a visitor at the gate. A young woman. I’ve checked her ID, and her name is Amber Richardson. She’s traveling with a child.”
“Do you know her?” Lynn asked Meg.
“No.”
“She’s not expected,” Lynn said. “You can send her on her way.”
“There’s just one other thing. She says that she knows Stephen McIntyre. She’s asking to speak to Ms. Cole about him.”
That name. Stephen McIntyre. It struck Meg with disastrous force, like the tail of a whip straight to her chest, an awful shock. Weakly, she moved to the nearest dining room chair and lowered into it.
Lynn, who’d known Stephen, regarded Meg with a grave expression.
Stephen.
Meg tried never to think about him, let alone say his name out loud or hear it spoken. What could this Amber Richardson want? Surely nothing good. If she was a friend of Stephen’s, she was no friend of Meg’s.
“Give us a moment,” Lynn said into the intercom.
“Yes, ma’am.”
In the background behind the guard, Meg could hear muffled wailing. “Is that a child crying?” she asked.
“What’s that noise behind you?” Lynn asked the guard.
“The woman’s baby is crying.”
Meg’s stomach, already shaky these past weeks, clenched into a tight ball. She grew very aware of her breathing. In. Out. In. Out.
If she sent the woman away, she’d have to wonder about her, the crying baby, and why they’d come. She’d have to push all those concerns into a trunk in her heart marked Stephen, a trunk already full to bursting with stuffed-down memories, scars, and furies.
She met Lynn’s gaze and recognized that once again, right at the moment when she needed someone, God had placed His person beside her. Meg drew on Lynn’s sturdiness, using it to help her gather her nerve.
“I’ll meet with her,” Meg decided. “Have him frisk her and search the car for weapons.” If Amber Richardson meant to hurt her, the wounds would only be emotional. “If she’s clean, ask him to accompany her to the front door. While I’m speaking with her, I’d like him to run a background check.”
Meg waited on the threshold of the big house, the light from inside spilling out onto the flagstone landing and the pots full of ivy topiaries and flowers. Gas-lit flames from the two decorative lanterns flanking the front doors danced and whipped inside their glass cages.
For privacy’s sake, she’d asked Lynn to wait in the nearest of the indoor sitting rooms. Close by, if Meg needed her. But not so close that she’d overhear.
The guard’s car pulled up first; a plain white unmarked vehicle. Then came a maroon Sentra that looked to be on the downhill side of its life expectancy.
The woman driving the Sentra parked and hurried around to open one of the car’s rear doors. As soon as she did, the sound of angry sobbing filled the air. The woman lifted a little boy—more of a toddler than a baby, really—out of the car and into her arms. Blessedly, his weeping began to calm.
The guard escorted Meg’s visitors up the walkway toward Meg, who waited at the top of a bank of shallow stone steps. “Thank you, George,” Meg said to him.
“You’re welcome, ma’am.” He moved off as the woman and baby closed the remainder of the distance.
Meg held her body still, her face expressionless, and struggled to brace herself emotionally.
The woman—medium height, pretty face, perfect body—couldn’t have been more than twenty-three. She had on a tight white cotton shirt, pink hipster sweat pants, and flip-flops. Her long dark hair, currently pulled back into a jumbled ponytail, had been striated with several big strips of blond. “I’m Amber, Amber Richardson.” Her mascara had smeared. It looked like the baby hadn’t been the only one in the car who’d been crying. “Are you Megan Cole?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I’m real sorry to show up out of the blue like this and disturb you.” She released a shuddering breath. “Real sorry.”
“It’s all right.” Though, of course, it wasn’t.
The little boy clutched at his mother’s shirt, his expression apprehensive as he took in the night sky, the house, and then Meg. He had a broad forehead, big eyes, cheeks slick with tears, and a gently curling cap of light brown hair. His navy T-shirt and mini jean shorts looked faded, his chubby feet bare.
“Wow, what a house,” Amber said weakly, glancing at the facade.
The ranch house had been built to impress even the most jaded millionaire, with beige stonework and brickwork, darkly stained wooden beams that soared to tremendous heights and stretched from the eaves, and iron double doors complete with hand-forged scrollwork.
“I’ve never seen anything like it.” Amber bit her bottom lip. “I had no idea when I set out to find you that I was coming to a place like this, that there’d be a guard and all. . . .”
“How can I help you?”
Amber swallowed hard. “I need to find Stephen McIntyre. Were . . . were you married to him once?”
The answer stuck in Meg’s throat. Hard to voice. Hard to admit. “Yes, I was.”
“I only know because I’ve been online searching for him, and I came across the information there.”
Meg nodded.
“Stephen was my boyfriend, and this is his son, Jayden.”
Meg stood still, thinking everything and nothing at the same time. A sound, like a rushing north wind, filled her ears.
“Not that Stephen’s been a daddy to Jayden, because he hasn’t. He took off as soon as he found out Jayden was on the way, which makes me so angry every time I think about that I could just—” She frowned, jerked a chunk of hair behind her ear. A thousand despairs raged in her eyes, and Meg knew them all well. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay. I understand.”
“Well, Jayden and I were doing fine without him, really fine. I was working a couple of jobs and managing to pay for day care. But then my roommate moved out and I lost one of my jobs, and I couldn’t hold on to the apartment by myself. So, see, I need to find Stephen now. He has to help me support Jayden.”
The rushing wind in Meg’s ears howled louder.
“I’ve been looking and looking for him, but no luck. I’m kind of about to lose it, you know? I can’t think who else to ask, so I decided to come to you because I’ve been hoping that—that maybe you know where he is.”
“I’m sorry. I haven’t known Stephen’s whereabouts for five years
.”
Meg could sense Amber’s hope escaping like air hissing from a balloon.
Jayden started whining. Amber rocked him, but in her agitation the motion looked more like a jostle than a rock. His little lips started to tremble.
Compassion turned within Meg. “Have you had dinner?”
“Not yet.”
“Come inside and let me get you something to eat.”
“You don’t have to do that—”
“I insist. Come on in.” Meg ushered them into the house and introduced them to Lynn. Lynn guided them toward the kitchen, murmuring about whipping together a meal of bread, salad, and leftover spaghetti.
Meg made her way past the sunken den with its three-story-tall stone fireplace, seating areas, cowhide ottomans, and massive antler chandelier. She shut herself inside the library and called George at the guard station. He’d already run a background check and was able to tell Meg that Amber had a few minor parking violations and speeding tickets, but nothing more sinister on her record. He’d pulled up a list of her past residences and employers.
“Can you call her most recent employer for me?” Meg explained the details Amber had given to her, about Stephen’s abandonment before Jayden’s birth and how she’d worked to support them both. “I’d like to know if her boss can confirm her story.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And is it possible to get a look at her son’s birth certificate to see who’s listed as the father?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’d like to know that information, too.”
“You bet.”
“I appreciate it.” Meg disconnected. She didn’t think Amber had lied to her, but she’d feel better once she had proof. She recognized her own tenderheartedness for what it was: her best quality and also her greatest weakness.
While she waited to hear back, Meg clicked on one of the room’s lamps, perched on the edge of an aged leather chair, and stared at the nap of the carpet. The shock of Amber’s unexpected arrival had sent her anxiety skyrocketing. Why didn’t she carry Tums with her wherever she went? She should carry Tums.
Her father had paid Britton Security to be fast and thorough, so it didn’t surprise her when George called back just minutes later. He reported that Amber’s employer at the restaurant where she’d been waitressing had known Amber since before Jayden’s birth and been able to confirm every detail of her story. And the individual listed as Jayden’s father on his birth certificate? Stephen McIntyre.
It appeared that Amber had indeed been telling the truth.
Meg’s emotions tangled together like vines, writhing and difficult to pull apart. There was the tension of having to think about Stephen. Concern for a mother and a little boy, both so young and in need of protection. Anger at Stephen. Guilt, because if Meg had done what she should have done five years ago, then Amber might not have met Stephen in the first place.
A soft knock sounded, and Meg looked up to see Lynn lean into the room. “Can I come in?”
“Of course.”
Lynn shut the door behind her and handed Meg a steaming mug. “I thought you could use this.”
“Thank you.” Meg recognized the beverage by its smell. Sleepytime tea, her old friend. She blew on it and took a sip that tasted like chamomile, spearmint, and relaxation. Flavors in absolute contrast to the turmoil within her.
Lynn took a seat on the sofa across from Meg. “Amber and Jayden are squared away for the moment. I got a meal in front of them, and they’re in the kitchen working on it.”
“I’m sorry that I’ve put you to work on a Saturday night.” When Lynn had come to Whispering Creek, she and her bookish English teacher husband had moved into their own private semi-attached wing of the big house. Even though she lived on-site, Lynn strictly divided her work schedule from her private life.
“This isn’t work. This is me helping a friend. So fill me in. What’s going on?”
Meg outlined everything that Amber had told her. “She’s driven all this way with her little boy, and it’s getting late. I don’t think she has a lot of money to spare for a hotel. I’m thinking I might ask them to . . . to stay here for the night. Is that crazy?”
“Why would that be crazy?”
“Well, my father would never have done something like that.”
“No, he wouldn’t have.”
As a young man, her father had been burned a few times when he’d loaned money to friends and family members who’d never paid him back. From then on, no matter how close or distant the relationship, when people had come to him asking for help, he’d always responded by offering them jobs at Cole Oil. The hundreds of charities who courted him were always promptly referred to a company employee who handled his sizable charitable giving budget.
Her father had cautioned her numerous times not to be swayed by the sob stories of others. She’d always agreed privately and vocally, promising him that she wouldn’t get sucked into other people’s dramas.
Easily done in theory. Over the past five years, when she’d been living on nothing more than her own income, she certainly hadn’t been confronted with dilemmas like Amber’s. Maybe some people could look into the face of a young mother worried about providing for her child and turn her away, but Meg Cole wasn’t one of them.
On the other hand, she had to be sensible! She’d been on the job for less than a week, and she’d already agreed to continue hosting ninety racehorses and their keepers. Now she was considering taking in her ex-husband’s discarded child and ex-girlfriend. Who’d she be saving next week? A family of arctic seals?
She was either generous or the most massively gullible pushover alive. She honestly didn’t know which.
She took a few more sips of tea, hoping to drink in some clarity right along with it. “I let Bo Porter keep his horse farm open. Now I’d like to invite Amber and Jayden to stay here, even though they’re complete strangers, and even though they’re going to need a lot more than a place to spend one night.”
“That’s true.”
“I’m worried that I’m making bad decisions, that I’m letting myself get drawn into things I shouldn’t.”
Lynn regarded her with a knowing expression. “And?”
“And I’m worried that I’m letting people take advantage of me.” There it was, out loud: the epicenter of the issue.
For a long moment, Lynn seemed to roll the situation around in her mind. “What would be so wrong with that? With letting people take advantage of you?”
Meg’s brows lifted. “Wrong with it? Well, I . . . I don’t want to be taken advantage of.” Ever again. “It would make me feel weak, to let people walk all over me and manipulate me.”
“Huh.”
“Well?”
Lynn shrugged. “Well, what?”
“This is when you’re supposed to give me wise advice.”
“You want my advice?”
“Of course I do.”
“Your father was totally different than you are, Meg. He couldn’t forgive or forget when people took from him without giving back. But you’re not that way, I don’t think. You have the ability to forgive people some hurts.”
“I don’t know,” Meg said doubtfully.
“You do. So give yourself permission to help anyone and everyone you want. If a few of them take advantage of you, then so be it. Forgive them and move on. But don’t let worry or mistrust stop you from helping people. You can afford to be generous. In fact, if anyone on earth can afford to be generous, it’s you.”
Meg nodded. Her thoughts and all those vines of emotion began to settle.
They walked to the kitchen and found that Amber had cleared the table and was rinsing off the dishes at the sink. Jayden stood at her feet, hugging one of her legs. She glanced back at them and smiled. “Thank y’all for dinner. It was delicious.”
“Good, I’m glad.” Lynn moved to the sink and opened the dishwasher to lend a hand.
Meg watched them from further back, struck by the s
cene and the Bible verse that it brought to the front of her mind.
For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in. . . .
For better or for worse, her father’s fortune belonged to her now. She didn’t have to manage it the way he’d taught her because his ways and opinions no longer bound her. The only Father she had left was of the heavenly variety. And that Father? She knew the counsel He’d give.
I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.
“Amber,” she said. “Let’s go get your suitcases. You guys are going to stay here with us tonight.”
Chapter Five
In the feeble morning light filtering through the bathroom window shade, Stephen McIntyre studied his reflection. He brushed his dark blond hair into place until every strand fell exactly as his last hair stylist had intended. With a crisp tug, he straightened the sleeves of his pale blue Brooks Brothers shirt. Critically, he brushed a nearly invisible piece of lint from his dress pants.
As soon as he was satisfied, he let himself out of the bathroom and into the bedroom of the girl’s second-rate condo. The room smelled of perfume and stale sheets.
He swept his change off the top of the dresser and slid it into his pocket. The girl in the bed roused at the sound. He collected his wallet and keys and made for the door.
“Aren’t you going to say good-bye?” she asked sleepily.
He turned and regarded her, hesitating for a split second while he considered his options. Was what she’d given him last night all that she was worth? Or could he play her for more?
He’d met her last night at a bar. Based on her clothing, shoes, and handbag, he’d classified her as richer than her condo proved her to be. Still, he could run some kind of a simple scam on her. He’d told her he was a stockbroker. Without too much effort he could likely convince her to write him a check for a few thousand dollars, so he could invest it for her on a supposed “sure thing.” “I didn’t want to wake you, honey. I was doing my best to be quiet so you could get some rest.”