by Irene Hannon
“How will you feel if there’s no response?”
He shrugged. “No worse than before, and possibly better. I’m hoping taking that proactive step will let me put the past to rest so it won’t continue to be a shadow over my future. A future I’d like to think includes you—assuming you can handle all the skeletons in my closet.”
“They can keep mine company.”
Despite the dim light, she caught a sheen in his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “I’m no bargain, Claire.”
“Neither am I.”
“I may always work too hard to prove myself.”
“Maybe not . . . once you realize you don’t have to prove yourself to me. That I already recognize and admire your many fine qualities.”
The breeze picked up, the cool air bringing with it another swirl of lilac-scented air. A chill rippled through her.
“Cold?” He rubbed her hand, cocooned between his.
“A little. We’re barely past April, after all.”
“I think we can fix that.”
He rose, tugging her up with him as the romantic strains of Mozart’s “Concerto for Flute and Harp” played softly on Maureen’s side of the hedge.
He fingered a strand of her hair. “It’s almost as if someone scored this scene, isn’t it?”
“Sort of.”
He touched her cheek, the contact of his fingers feather light against her skin. Her eyelids drifted closed, and she waited. Expecting more.
It didn’t come.
When she looked up, she found him watching her, an unmistakable yearning in his eyes.
But he wasn’t acting on it.
“What’s wrong?” Her question came out in a whisper.
“Nothing. I’m just . . . I don’t want to make a mistake. Rush you. Scare you off, like one of those deer.” He gestured toward the common ground.
“I’m not scared.”
To prove it, she put her arms around his neck, tipped her head back, and stepped close. Closer still, until his arms came around her.
The blatant invitation surprised her as much as it seemed to surprise him.
But he made a fast recovery. The next thing she knew, his lips were on hers in a kiss as gentle and sweet and stirring as the music drifting over the arborvitae and the scent of lilacs suspended in the air around them.
The rest of the world melted away.
Claire had no idea how long the kiss lasted—but it wasn’t long enough.
When at last he broke contact, dipping back down for another brief touch of lips before straightening up, she was glad he kept his arms around her.
Because for the second time tonight, her legs felt as shaky as they did at the rink after a long absence.
“I think we just took a quantum leap forward.” His voice didn’t sound any steadier than she felt.
“Yeah.” The single word was all she could manage.
“It’s a little scary.”
“Yeah.”
“But I have no regrets.”
“Me, neither.” She finally managed to open her eyes. He was looking down at her, and the tenderness and warmth in his gaze turned her insides to mush.
He lifted his hands and framed her face with his palms, gently brushing his thumbs over her cheeks. “Just so you know, I don’t make a habit of kissing women on the first date.”
First date?
Yes, she supposed it was.
“It doesn’t seem like a first date.”
“To me, either. It’s kind of odd, really. I feel as if I’ve known you for a long time.”
“Same here.”
But in truth, it had only been a few weeks—and moving too fast could lead to mistakes, despite the powerful bond growing between them.
She had to remember that.
“We need to be careful, though. I don’t think either of us wants to risk making a mistake.”
“I can’t imagine this being a mistake.” He traced the line of her jaw with one finger. “But I agree. Caution isn’t a bad thing.”
“Right.” Even if it felt wrong. Even if she had to use every ounce of her willpower to keep from melting against him again.
The music from next door ended with a final flourish of harp and flute, and quiet descended.
“I think that’s my cue to leave.”
Yet for a long moment he didn’t move.
At last, with a sigh and a final brush of his thumbs, he removed his hands and stepped back.
She missed his warmth at once.
He picked up his glass, and she followed as he crossed the deck. Once inside, she kept her distance, watching him from across the room. Otherwise, she might succumb to the tide of longing sweeping over her.
“Everything all right?” He scrutinized her as he hoisted his toolbox.
“Yes.” Liar, liar. Just tell the man the truth. “No. You’re very . . . tempting.”
A spark ignited in his brown irises, sending a bolt of electricity surging toward her. “That goes both ways.”
“Will I . . .” Her voice squeaked, and she cleared her throat. “Will I see you soon?”
“The sooner the better. I’ll call you tomorrow after I get home from my mom’s.” He started toward the front door.
Twenty-four hours before she heard from him?
A lifetime.
Rolling her eyes, she followed him to the door. She needed to get a grip.
On the threshold, he turned and reached for her hand, tugging her close. “One more for the road?”
“Sold.”
“That was easy.”
“You’re a good salesman who has an excellent product and obviously understands the value of sampling.”
With a soft laugh, he cupped her neck with his free hand, leaned down, and gave her one more quick but satisfying kiss.
“My product has many line extensions.” He opened the door and winked. “Tonight was the mild variety. Wait until you try the hot and spicy version.”
Her pulse tripped into double time, and she had a sudden urge to fan herself.
“I see I’ve piqued your interest.” He propped a shoulder against the door frame and grinned.
She gave him a small shove out the door. “Go home, Keith.”
“I’m going. But I’ll be back.” With a jaunty salute, he strolled down the walk. At his car, he turned and gave one final wave.
She waved back—and stayed at the door as he backed down her driveway and drove away.
Only after his taillights disappeared did she close the door and wander back to the kitchen. She picked up his glass, swirling the ice that was quickly melting in the heat of the house.
Warmth could melt so many things.
Including hearts.
Who’d have guessed a simple skating outing would end up with a toe-tingling kiss—and the promise of more to come?
She emptied the glass. Ran her index finger around the rim. Brushed it over her lips.
A quiver rippled through her.
Keith might have a lot of issues, but the man sure knew how to kiss.
As for the insecurities and peccadillos that were the legacy of his traumatic past—he’d persevered and succeeded despite them. And now he was trying to put that past to rest and pave the way for a future with her, searching for answers to a lot of tough questions.
That kind of risky quest took guts. Based on the story he’d told her, the odds for any positive contact with his mother weren’t great. Best case, he’d know more about the circumstances of those first three years. Worst case, his ego and self-esteem would take another beating.
So as she put the glass in the dishwasher, flipped off the lights, and climbed into bed, she prayed that any answers he might find would lead to closure rather than more angst.
But it would take a lot of prayer and God’s mercy to make that happen.
And as she bunched the pillow from the empty side of her bed in her arms and stared at the dark ceiling, she hoped that in the event of a worst-case scenario, t
he love of his adoptive parents—and the new love growing between the two of them—would compensate for any more hurt that might be lurking in his future.
20
As Keith juggled the two cheesecake brownies from his mother in one hand and fitted the key in the door of his condo with the other, his cell began to vibrate.
Might it be Claire, so anxious to talk to him she couldn’t wait for his promised call?
Grinning, he shook his head. Man, he had it bad.
And why not? After her sympathetic response to his story last night, he was feeling optimistic about the future—which his mom hadn’t failed to notice. Despite his dodging and weaving as she peppered him with questions, she’d jumped to all kinds of conclusions.
He hadn’t tried too hard to temper them, either.
Because they were accurate.
Carefully nudging the door open with his bruised hip, he stepped inside, put the brownies on the small table in his foyer, and pulled the phone off his belt.
It wasn’t Claire’s number—but the Boston area code was familiar.
Might more good news be in store?
He pushed the talk button and put the phone to his ear. “Keith Watson.”
“Mr. Watson, this is Delores Kohler, Father Ryan’s sister. Is this a convenient time to talk?”
“Yes.”
“Well, despite the long odds, I think we have a match.”
His pulse took an uptick, and he strode to the kitchen. “One of the couples you kept in touch with adopted a baby about the time my friend gave birth?”
“Yes. And he was born at the same hospital where your friend had her son, on the same day. Plus, both of the adoptive parents were teachers. I was able to find their telephone number from the address on their last card, and I spoke with the mother this afternoon. She also recalled the agency telling her the baby’s birth mother was a highly educated woman, which wasn’t the norm for our expecting clients.”
It all fit.
Still, it was best not to get carried away, just in case this turned out to be a dead end.
“That sounds very promising—but I have no experience with things like this. Could two clients at the agency have adopted children born the same day at the same hospital?”
“I volunteered there for more than six years, and I never heard of that happening.”
Yes!
They had a match.
He was sure of it.
“Does their son know he’s adopted? And are they willing to talk with my friend to verify the link?” He stopped beside the counter and pulled a notepad and pen out of a drawer.
A few beats of silence ticked by.
“They told their son at a very young age that he was adopted. Apparently, he never expressed any interest in meeting his birth mother, though his parents offered to try and make the connection for him if he ever changed his mind.”
Not so good.
Maureen wouldn’t want to disrupt her son’s life if he preferred not to meet her—but perhaps learning about him would be enough.
“I can assure you of my friend’s discretion. She wouldn’t impose herself on the family unless they were receptive. But I think it would give her great comfort to at least have a few details about his life, if the parents would be willing to talk with her.”
“They are—but there’s another piece to this story that I need to tell you before we take this any further.”
As Delores began to speak, Keith groped for the stool at the small island in his kitchen. The painful pressure against his bruise hardly registered as the woman’s words began to sink in.
This wasn’t at all the outcome he’d expected. Nor did he have a clue how to deal with it.
But David might. And since his boss had started this whole thing—and become friends with Maureen along the way—who better to decide on next steps?
Maybe that was passing the buck . . . but the minute he hung up, he was handing off the latest development to David.
Because it was way out of his league.
“That was the finest lasagna I ever had.” David set his napkin beside his plate and smiled at Maureen across her kitchen table.
“Then you’ve led a sheltered life culinarily speaking . . . if there is such a word.”
“On the contrary. I’ve eaten in some of the finest Italian restaurants on The Hill. This ranks right up there with the best of them—and that’s not an empty compliment.”
A soft flush suffused her cheeks, adding to her beauty. Funny how the first thing he’d noticed the day they’d met was her stubby hair. Now he saw stunning eyes and model-like cheekbones and a smile as warm as a toasty fire on a cold winter night.
“In that case, thank you. I’m flattered to have my efforts favorably compared to the best Italian-food enclave this side of Italy. Would you like some coffee with dessert?”
“Dessert?” He groaned and patted his stomach. “I can see that spending time with you is going to cost me—in calories.”
“You’re in great shape. I don’t think indulging your sweet tooth once in a while will hurt your boyish figure.”
As she rose to clear the table, he captured her hand and winked. “I can think of far less fattening ways to indulge my craving for sweets.”
She gave a soft laugh, her eyes twinkling. “I haven’t been flirted with in years.”
“And I’m pretty rusty at it.”
She squeezed his fingers. “You don’t sound rusty to me.”
“I’m more than half serious, you know.”
“I know. But let’s not rush things, okay? I’m out of practice with this dating thing.”
“I am too. As for being patient—one of the virtues of age is learning that good things are worth waiting for. On the flip side, however, another virtue is learning to know your mind and to go after what you want. But I’ll be happy to bide my time . . . as long as my intentions are understood.”
“Understood—and accepted.”
“Excellent.” He released her hand and rose. “I’ll help clear the table.”
“There isn’t much to clear.”
“Still, many hands and all that. This way, we can get to dessert—”
His cell began to vibrate, and he checked caller ID. Frowned.
“Something important?” Maureen picked up the empty bread basket.
“Could be. It’s Keith, and he generally doesn’t bother me on weekends for trivial things.”
“Go ahead and take it. I’ll get the coffee started.”
Moving to the side of the room, he put the phone to his ear. “Hi, Keith.”
“Hi. Sorry to bother you on a Sunday night, but I had some news I wanted to share. Do you have a few minutes?”
“Yes. I just finished having dinner at Maureen’s house, and we haven’t yet moved on to dessert. What’s up?”
A few beats of silence ticked by.
“Keith? Are you there?”
“Yes. Look . . . it might be better if we talk later. I have some news about her son that I’d rather share in private.”
“Positive or negative?”
“Some of both.”
“Hold on a minute.”
He glanced over at his hostess and muted the phone. “I’m going to step onto your patio for a minute, if that’s okay.”
“Sure. Chase away the deer if you see them eating my hostas.”
“Will do.”
But deer were the last thing on his mind.
Once on the patio, he closed the door behind him and faced the woods at the back of her property. “I’m outside. What do you have?”
As he listened to Keith recount his conversation with Delores Kohler from a few minutes ago, David suddenly lost his appetite for dessert.
“So based on everything she said, I think it’s very likely we have a match. I’m sure if Maureen talks to these people, they’ll be able to verify that.” Keith paused. “I thought it might be better if this news came from you.”
Yeah, it would.
David pulled a pen out of his pocket and dug around for the small notebook he always carried. “Give me the names and phone number again.”
As Keith complied, David sat at the patio table and jotted down the information. “Does Maureen know you made contact with the woman at the Catholic church?”
“No. I didn’t see any reason to raise her hopes until I had some concrete information.”
“All right. Thanks for your diligence with this. I’ll share the news with her tonight.”
“Is there anything else I can do?”
David gazed into the shadows at the rear of the property. “Pray.”
And as he severed the connection and tried to psyche himself up for the conversation to come, he took a moment to follow his own advice.
Maureen set a cannoli on each place and poured their coffee, keeping one eye on David through the sliding glass patio door. His back was to her, but his call was over. The phone was resting beside him on the glass-topped table.
So why hadn’t he come back in?
She waited another sixty seconds, then opened the door. “Dessert’s on, if you’re ready.”
He stood slowly—with an almost palpable reluctance—and turned toward her.
At his grave expression, her heart faltered. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Why don’t we sit out here for a few minutes?”
Trying to tamp down her growing trepidation, she stepped through the door and closed it behind her, all thoughts of dessert fleeing.
She perched on the edge of the chair he pulled out for her, gripping the arms. Once he retook his seat, he pried one of her hands free and folded it in his.
But even his firm, steady grip didn’t reassure her.