“I need to go, Mom. I’ve got work to do after I drop off Stella.” He strained to hide the catch in his voice on work. How many times had he said that to Cate, to Stella, thinking there would be time later? Then Cate was dying, and there were no more laters.
“Daddy!”
He turned. Stella had her arm through the head of the shirt.
“And Stella needs help with her shirt.”
“Okay, and as I said, if you want to go work on the restaurant this afternoon, I’ll be here for Stella.”
“Thanks, Mom.” But he was the one who ought to be there for his daughter. “I’ll let you know. Bye.” He turned to Stella. “Hang on, sweetpea. I’ll give you a hand.” He pulled her arm out of the head hole, and she slipped her arms in the sleeves.
“Stella do it.”
“Yep. Good job.” Edginess fired through his veins. He could only hope he was doing as well.
“Church. Singing,” Stella said a few minutes later when he pulled into the church parking lot and stopped in a space near the church hall.
Marc hopped out and released Stella from her car seat. “I don’t know about singing today.”
His wife’s beautiful voice singing “On Eagles’ Wings” with their church choir floated through his head. Stella had loved Cate’s singing; so much so that he’d avoided taking Stella to church after Cate’s death for fear the music would set Stella off. Regret squeezed his chest. But he couldn’t avoid church services here. Nor did he want to. And Stella had been fine when they’d attended church with his parents last week.
The corners of Stella’s mouth turned down.
“But we’ll see. There might be singing.” He lifted her from the car.
“Stella walk.”
He set her down and took her hand. “Okay.” Slowly, they made their way to the hall door. Marc opened it.
“London Bridge is falling down, falling down...” A group of preschoolers was playing London Bridge in the hall.
“See, Daddy, singing.”
“You’re absolutely right.” His heart lightened. “Let’s go talk with Aunt Andie about school.”
“’Kay.” Stella’s voice lacked the enthusiasm of a minute ago.
Andie walked over to them. He held his breath when she crouched to Stella’s level.
“Hi, Stella. We’re coloring our class banner.” Andie pointed across the room to several kids Stella’s age sitting at a table with a long sheet of white paper. “Want to help us?”
Stella looked up at him. “Daddy color?”
“Remember, Daddy has to work this morning.” He planned on talking with his partners. “You can color with Aunt Andie.” The counselor had told Marc that the little girl might feel more secure with him telling her what to do, rather than asking—at least for a while.
Stella stared at him silently for so long his heart stopped. Then she nodded and took Andie’s hand.
“She’ll be fine,” Andie said.
“Right.” He resisted looking back at Stella as he left the hall. Stella knew Andie. Andie was great with kids of all ages, and she had his number if there was any problem.
Marc dragged his feet walking out to the car. He needed to occupy his mind with something more than concerns about Stella. That fixation wasn’t good for her or him. He’d taken his first reluctant step yesterday toward an opportunity he would have jumped at in a New York minute two years ago. Marc wanted that excitement back. For too long, he’d been plodding through life placing one foot in front of the other.
He made his decision. He needed to get in the race again, call Fiona and let her know she could write up a consulting contract for La Table Frais. His partners would probably celebrate his taking the initiative to make the decision, rather than waiting for their approval.
Sitting in the driver’s seat, he thumbed to the Cornell Research Farm’s number on his phone, picturing Fiona, her coppery curls, wide-set hazel eyes and vivacious mannerisms. She was a stunning woman, and the first woman he’d noticed since Cate had died.
If he were honest with himself, that scared him. He closed his eyes. His main focus still had to be Stella, but to be what his daughter needed, maybe he needed something for himself.
He didn’t have to throw himself into the new restaurant 24/7 as he had with his work in New York. And having an adult relationship, a nonpressure business relationship that had nothing to do with his daughter, might give him a balance between family and work.
Fiona adjusted and readjusted the blinds on the small window in her work cubicle to block the glare from the afternoon sun and checked her email—again. Nothing from Marc Delacroix. She knew he’d received the copy of her presentation she’d sent him. She had the return receipt email. Had he shared it with his partners? It wasn’t a make-or-break situation, but getting Marc and his partners in New York City involved in her new program would be a great start toward making the program—and her job—secure.
She minimized her email. Marc had seemed interested in what she’d presented. Although he hadn’t taken many notes and had asked only a few questions, he’d been intent on the presentation, focused on her.
She pictured Marc, his dark, thickly lashed eyes, the all-masculine planes of his face. Claire hadn’t been exaggerating with her clichéd tall, dark and handsome description of her twin. In fact, she may have been underplaying his attractiveness.
Fiona blinked away the picture. This was work. Although from the glowing report Claire had given of her brother’s experience, his business connections in New York City and his personal attributes, Fiona couldn’t help but think there was more behind Claire’s push to get them together than simply business. Especially given Claire’s emphasis on how much she thought Marc and Fiona had in common—essentially their dedication to their work and interest in promoting locally produced food. Neither was anything to build a personal relationship on.
Fiona put a halt to the odd direction her thoughts had taken. If Claire knew more about her, she wouldn’t have given a thought to putting her and Marc together. But they had only met recently, new coworkers.
Fiona rubbed the side of the mouse. She was trying to put the unhappy parts of her past behind her by taking the position here, near Ticonderoga. The place where she’d had an intact family—at least for a while. The only place she remembered being truly happy. She hoped to find the peace she’d been searching for most of her life, and closure for her younger sister Mairi’s senseless death. She refused to believe all her efforts to hold her family together had been in vain, despite the fact that the sister she’d mostly raised had turned to drugs as their mother had.
Fiona’s desk phone rang.
“Hey, Fiona, you have a delivery you need to sign for,” the staffer at the front desk said.
“I’ll be right out.” As she walked to the front desk, Fiona searched her memory for anything she’d ordered that she’d have to sign for and came up blank.
“I’m Fiona Bryce. You have something for me?”
“Fiona C. Bryce?” the deliverer asked.
“Yes.” How many Fiona Bryces could there be here? “Do you need ID?” She tapped her employer badge hanging from the lanyard around her neck.
The man glanced at it. “That’s fine. Please sign here.” He handed her a clipboard and pointed to a line.
Fiona signed and accepted the cardboard envelope. The return address was the attorney in Glens Falls she’d hired to help her settle Mairi’s estate, what little there had been of it anyway. Her heart thumped. That had all been taken care of nearly two years ago. She hadn’t thought to give him her new address or phone number. He must have tracked her online to the Willsboro farm.
On her way back to her cubicle, Fiona tore open the cardboard. Settling in the chair behind her desk, she pulled out the attorney’s letter and read it.
“...the new owners of the cabin where y
our sister died were refinishing a desk there as part of renovations to rent it and found the enclosed stamped envelope addressed to you caught behind one of the drawers. They knew about your sister, so they passed the letter on to the local authorities. The chief of police, my brother-in-law, forwarded it to me, thinking I’d have your address. All I could find was the address of your business.”
Fiona’s heart slammed against her chest as she reached inside the cardboard mailer and withdrew a white business envelope with her name and the address of the USDA experimental farm in Guam where she’d been working when Mairi died. It was in Mairi’s handwriting, scribbled but definitely Mairi’s. Fiona drew deep inside herself for strength that was beyond her own.
Dear Lord, be with me now.
She carefully slid her finger under the flap and ripped through it with a sharp jerk. Closing her eyes and doing her best to take a cleansing breath, she unfolded the pages. The letter was dated the day Mairi had died.
I’m sorry I failed you, the letter read in the same scribbled handwriting as the envelope. I’m weak like Mom. I tried to call and tell you, but I couldn’t do it. I tried to take care of her like you would, but I couldn’t.
Fiona unsuccessfully tried to blink away her tears. Take care of who? She refocused on the sheet.
I love you. She’s safe with the people at Precious in His Sight. I couldn’t wait until you came back. Find her. I have to go now. I’m going to put this out in the mailbox. Mairi.
Fiona choked, her mind flooding with questions. I have to go? Did that mean Mairi had OD’d on purpose because of whatever her letter was talking about? Either before she’d written the letter or right after, and become disoriented or passed out before she could mail it? Or had she decided not to send it? Struggling to draw a breath, Fiona shuffled to the next sheet and dropped it as if it were a burning ember, her gazed fixed on the words “Fiona Elsbeth Collins, born...”
A baby? Her breath left her lungs in a sudden rush. Hand shaking, Fiona picked up the birth certificate and read the remainder of the information. Mother: Mairi A. Collins. Father: Unknown. Date of Birth: March 3. Place of birth: Town of Ticonderoga. Mairi had a baby.
Fiona muffled her sobs. She might never know all that happened with Mairi, why her baby was born in Ticonderoga rather than in the central New York village where she had worked as a nurse. Why Mairi had never sent this letter. But there was a precious piece of Mairi remaining in the world—a three-year-old niece. Maybe this was God’s path to closure on her sister’s death. The opportunity to make up for not being able to keep her family together, for her failing Mairi. All she had to do was find the little girl.
* * *
Marc pushed open the door to the church hall, still debating whether tonight was a good idea. But Claire had sounded desperate, texting that several members of the Twenty-/Thirtysomethings group had bailed on her. The group was supposed to be spending its usual Thursday night meeting time helping set up for the winter bazaar and book sale Saturday.
He’d been resisting his sister’s urging to join what had been the Singles group at church, but was now made up of a mix of marrieds and singles. Marc wasn’t looking to meet anyone for a romantic relationship—which his attraction to Fiona contradicted. From the disastrous months following Cate’s death, he knew juggling work and being a single parent was more than enough for him to handle.
“Daddy, school,” Stella said when they stepped into the hall.
Marc tensed. After refusing to take a nap at his mother’s—he’d taken Mom up on her earlier offer to watch Stella this afternoon while he went down to Lake George to look at the restaurant property—Stella had zonked out on the couch right after dinner and woken up cranky. She’d still been out of sorts when they’d left the house. Maybe they should have stayed home. What if she was getting sick? He talked himself down. She wasn’t running a temperature, had eaten a good dinner and hadn’t complained about not feeling well.
He unzipped her coat and took her hat and mittens off. “Not school. Playtime with Aunt Andie’s big girls, Aimee and Amelia.”
“Stella big girl.”
“Yes, you are.” At times, he wondered if she said that because he babied her or to affirm it to herself. He scanned the room for his teenage nieces or Claire, and stopped at a tumble of red curls. Fiona. Did Claire’s call for help have an ulterior motive? The bigger question was, did he mind if her motive had been more than getting his assistance?
“Uncle Marc!” His niece’s shout drew his attention away.
She hurried over. “Hi,” she said breathlessly. “We’re watching the kids in the preschool room. We’re going to make snowflakes with silver and gold glitter.”
“Stella help?” She looked up at him.
“Definitely. I’m sure they can use your help.”
Stella smiled and walked away with his niece. That was easy. He shoved Stella’s hat and mittens into his jacket pocket. A bit of him wanted to see Stella’s hesitation to leave him that he’d come to expect, but most of him was relieved that Stella was becoming more comfortable with other people. His family, at least.
“You made it. I wasn’t sure from your text if you would.” Claire appeared beside him.
“I’m here. What do you have for me to do?”
“Table setup. You can put your coat on the table by the door with the others. And a truck full of books is coming that needs to be unloaded.”
“Who else do you have to bring the tables down from upstairs?”
“Pastor Connor. Then he has an appointment. The rest of the guys bailed, as I said in my text.” Claire looked around the room. “Fiona can help you set up the tables and unload the books.”
Marc pinned his twin’s gaze, questioning the possibility of a different type of setup. “I didn’t know Fiona was a member of the group.” He hadn’t seen her at church service in all the time he’d been here.
“She’s not, but I’m working on it as I am with you. Fiona helped her landlady, Mrs. Hamilton, the other evening, sorting items for the rummage sale.”
Marc wasn’t sure what that had to do with tonight.
“Mrs. Hamilton was going to supervise the work tonight, but her hip is acting up, and she asked Fiona to step in for her.” Claire stopped. “What’s with the face? It’s like you want to avoid Fiona. Didn’t your meeting yesterday go well?”
“It went well enough.” What was with him was that he wanted to spend time with Fiona, and that put him on edge. Fiona belonged in the business part of his life, not the social one. He raked his hand through his hair. He didn’t have a social life anyway. Not anymore.
* * *
Fiona stopped dead, her gaze glued to the red-haired toddler holding Marc’s hand. The copper curls. Her profile. The little girl’s button nose. She looked so much like a photo Fiona had at home of Mairi as a toddler. Fiona’s lungs burned, reminding her to take a breath.
It couldn’t be. Claire hadn’t said anything about her niece, Stella, being adopted. Fiona pushed her hair back from her face. Her emotions were worn raw from reading and rereading her sister’s letter, trying to fully understand. She’d hoped busying herself with the bazaar setup would give her mind and emotions a rest for a few hours. Fiona watched the toddler walk out of the room with a dark-haired teenager. She couldn’t let her desires distort reality. She’d only be setting herself up for disappointment again.
Fiona started when Claire touched her shoulder.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” her friend said. “Are you okay? You’re so pale.”
Fiona waved her off. “I’m fine.” As fine as she could manage at the moment.
“Marc and Pastor Connor are bringing the tables down from upstairs. Give them a few minutes and they should be ready to help you arrange them.”
“Okay.” Fiona waited until Claire had taken a few steps in the opposite direction and fled to t
he ladies’ room. She splashed water on her face and stared. The smattering of freckles across her nose popped against her still pale skin. She had to get a grip on herself, work out a systematic plan for finding her niece. Otherwise, she’d be seeing Mairi in every red-haired little girl she saw on the street, in the store...
Fiona returned to the hall and approached Marc and a man she assumed was Pastor Connor, who were adding a table to a stack leaning against the wall.
“Hi, I’m Fiona Bryce. You must be Pastor Connor.”
“Yes. Nice to meet you. I read about your program at the Research Farm.”
“Speaking of which,” Marc said, “did you get my voice mail?”
“No, sorry. I didn’t check it. I had meetings all morning and left the office early.” After reading Mairi’s letter, she couldn’t concentrate on work, so she’d gone home to research and contact Precious in His Sight and to rehash where she’d gone wrong with Mairi. She’d tried to give her the support and direction their parents hadn’t given them.
“Go ahead and write up a contract proposal for La Table Frais,” Marc said.
“Great. I’ll get to work on it tomorrow.” She tried to force the enthusiasm she should be feeling for her program’s first major client. “Your partners agreed, then?”
“They will.” Marc’s dark eyes sparkled.
This Marc jibed more with the description his sister had given Fiona of a man who could have won their high school’s most-likely-to-succeed award when he was in kindergarten than the quiet, intent man she’d met with at the farm.
“I’ve got to get ready for my meeting,” Pastor Connor interrupted, tilting his head toward the outer hall and his office. “You two should be able to handle setting up without me.”
“Where do you want the tables?” Marc asked as Connor walked away.
Fiona showed Marc the diagram Mrs. Hamilton had given her, unsettled by the awareness of him close beside her, looking over her shoulder at the paper she held. Sheesh! She’d stood next to attractive men before. Mairi’s letter had her nerves totally on edge about everything.
“Simple enough,” he said, and they went to work.
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