by Jacie Floyd
“What do you taste like?” He devoured her again before freeing her mouth to answer.
“Cinnamon?” She let him taste her, tasted him back, and smiled with satisfaction. “I was taste-testing snickerdoodles at the church earlier.”
“Cookies?” He marveled over the thought. “Perfect.” So Gracie. And now he loved cinnamon. He knew he’d never sample it again without thinking of her and this perfect kiss.
The rap of footsteps hammered the stairs from several floors above. Slowly, he released her, but she didn’t move. From the boneless drape of her body, he doubted if she could stand on her own. He’d have a tough time walking.
Gracie’s forehead dropped to his shoulder. “That was what we needed to get settled between us? Is it settled now?”
“Not nearly.” He nuzzled her neck and breathed in her scent. Fresh, sexy. “But the rest can wait until later.”
“Later?” Her voice held wistful disappointment.
“Later.” He turned the word into a promise. His hands on her waist encouraged her to step back, but she clung to him like ivy on a chimney. “We have an appointment to keep.”
A fake cough drew their attention. Clayton stood midway down the flight of stairs, wearing a thunderous expression. “Looks like you started the meeting without me.” He brushed past them and stalked on down the stairs.
“Oh, good grief.” She left Dylan holding nothing but air as she hurried after her friend. “Clay!”
A sharp but indistinct exchange floated back to Dylan. He waited several necessary minutes before following. He didn’t regret the kiss for a moment, but he wished he hadn’t set Clayton off again before they had a chance to talk.
When he joined Clayton and Gracie in the cafeteria, she tapped her fingers in an edgy staccato against a plastic tray. Clayton stood stiff and sullen in the line behind her. While waiting for the cashier to return his credit card, Dylan eyed the other two. Tension swarmed around them like gnats. They all wove their way to an empty table.
Dylan half-expected Clayton to refuse to sit with them, but a quick command from Gracie persuaded the man. He placed his tray on the table and robotically took a seat. Dylan took the space on the other side of her and realized too late the significance of putting her in the middle.
Anger rolled off of Clayton in waves. Palpable disapproval, along with the black eye from their fight the night before, added to his forbidding appearance. But his expression contained something else, too. Something secretive.
“Looks like you need stitches.” Clayton waved toward Dylan’s face with a dinner roll.
Dylan snorted. “So do you.”
Clayton shrugged and dove into his meat loaf and mashed potatoes. An uneasy silence surrounded them. The drab green walls closed in, suffocating Dylan with a sense of hopelessness. The medicinal smells combined with the odors of steamed and fried foods to ruin his appetite. While he could still draw an even breath, he turned to Gracie.
He wanted to caress her cheek or say something to make her smile, but neither gesture was in the cards with Clayton glowering at them between bites.
Dylan’s grilled chicken stuck in his throat like sawdust. He washed it down with a swallow of iced tea. “I wanted to ask you—”
“I have new infor—” Clayton said at the same time.
“What?” they both asked.
“You first,” Clayton insisted.
“I’ve learned a couple of things that weren’t in the report your attorney sent us.” Before continuing, Dylan checked on how many of the nearby diners had their ears tilted in his direction. All of them.
Clayton’s eyebrows shot upward. “What?”
Leaning forward, Dylan spoke softly. “Did you know your mother owned the house you lived in on Cordial?”
Clayton nodded and relaxed back in his chair. “When I was about fourteen and determined to go to med school, David explained my full financial picture. I guess he wanted to reassure me that I would be taken care of if something happened to him.”
“What did he tell you about the house?”
“Just that when Mom’s estate was settled, he sold it and invested the money for me.”
“Didn’t you wonder how your mother came to own a house?”
“I assumed she had a mortgage and insurance like everyone else. Didn’t she?” Clayton frowned as Dylan shook his head. “How do you know?”
“David told me.”
“David told you. My David?” Clayton took his time crossing his fork and knife over his empty plate. His lips disappeared into a thin line. “Why would he tell you something like that?”
“I guess he thought it would strengthen your claim.”
Gracie took an impatient swat at his arm. “Would you tell him what you know and quit acting like Midas dispensing gold coins?” She took over the story. “Your mother had the deed in a safety deposit box along with a letter from a big-time Hartford attorney who worked for the Bradfords.”
Even in the taut atmosphere, Dylan had to suppress a smile. He’d known she wouldn’t remain a silent partner for long.
“And you knew about this, too?” Clayton accused Gracie.
“Not until this morning, but don’t you see what this means? It’s another link between you and the Bradfords.”
His negligent wave swept the information aside. “Is that all you’ve got?”
Clayton’s lack of enthusiasm surprised Dylan. “I talked to the realtor who negotiated the sale. He said your mother paid for the house with a cashier’s check.”
“And she didn’t borrow the money from a bank?”
“Nope. The realtor remembered because he wondered where someone so young and ‘feisty,’ as he put it, could’ve gotten that kind of money.”
“That does seem like a possible link,” Clayton admitted. “And here’s another one for you.” He face gave him away like a novice poker player with a royal flush. “David told me this morning that someone has been depositing money in a trust account for me ever since my mother’s disappearance.”
“Who?” Gracie asked.
“An anonymous benefactor.” Clay turned pointedly toward Dylan. “Any guesses?”
Now Dylan understood Clayton’s odd mood. As angry as the young doctor had been about discovering Gracie in his arms, he’d also been savoring his anticipation of dropping this little bombshell. And it did succeed in sending a few tremors through the foundation of Dylan’s already shaky world.
“There’s nothing in that to indicate my father.” He hoped. “There wouldn’t have been time for him to set up something that intricate. He died right after your mother disappeared.”
“The details of the trust could have been established any time after Clay’s birth,” Gracie pointed out.
“Maybe, but I’d need to see some proof linking that to my father before I’d believe it.”
“Do you have a copy of his will?” she asked.
“What law firm handled his personal affairs?” Clayton smirked at his word choice. “Was it the same one that transferred the house to my mother?”
“Yes.” He’d recently looked over his mother’s and father’s wills to see if his mother had neglected to reveal any surprises besides the cabin. Clayton had not been referenced, but Dylan’s father could have made separate arrangements for any number of outside interests. “I’ve already got someone working on getting more information about the house.”
Even if Uncle Arthur came up empty on that score, Dylan had set his personal assistant to work on the situation. Gilmore was a wizard when it came to hacking, and deeds and trusts were the kind of tangible transactions that left a clear trail for someone with the patience to follow it. An attribute that Dylan clearly lacked.
“This could be it.” Gracie reached over to squeeze her friend’s hand. “This is the kind of evidence you’ve needed all along.”
“This or DNA testing,” Clayton said. “That would have settled the issue when I raised it. Are you still opposed to that?”
&nbs
p; Dylan had known since he’d seen the picture of Lana at Gracie’s that he couldn’t deny the possible any longer. He still didn’t believe his father would fail to acknowledge a child of his own, no matter what the circumstances surrounding the birth. But there were too many coincidences piling up to ignore.
“Set up the testing, and I’ll submit to it.” He just wished the agreement didn’t seem like a betrayal of both his parents.
The breath whooshed out of Gracie in a gasp of surprise. She looked at Dylan with dazed admiration, like he’d single-handedly colonized the moon and patented calorie-free chocolate all in the same day.
Clayton looked more puzzled than elated. “What are you up to now?”
Now that he’d gotten a taste for fighting, Dylan would have liked nothing better than to blacken Clayton’s other eye, the ungrateful jerk.
“I spoke with my sister this morning.” Dylan swallowed the fifty-pound boulder lodged in his throat. “We agree that it’s the best way to settle the situation. One way or another.”
“But you still don’t believe you have a bastard half-brother, do you?” If a look could be used as a steamroller, Clay was attempting to flatten Dylan with a glare.
“My disbelief has more to do with my opinion of my father than of you.”
Clayton seethed, probably preparing a verbal attack, if not a physical one, until Gracie jumped in. “How long will it take DNA results to come back from the lab, Clayton?”
He shrugged. “A couple of days, depending on how busy the lab is.”
“Is there any way to speed that up? We can keep searching for something definitive in the meantime, Dylan.”
“We?” Clayton’s eyes filled with hurt and anger. “All of a sudden you and Dylan are ‘we.’”
“In this one instance only.”
“Gracie, come on.” Her friend circled her wrist with his fingers. “You know you can’t trust him. We’ve already talked about his reputation, but there’s more that you should know.”
“If there’s more to know about your mother and Dylan’s father, then you should tell us.” She removed her arm from his grasp. “I’ll always value your opinion and take it into consideration before I make up my own mind.”
Dylan waited for Clayton to reveal any other secrets he harbored behind those steely blue eyes. Bradford blue, damn it.
Clay opened and closed his mouth like an asthmatic fish, but said nothing. Before Dylan could decide what it would take to get him to spill whatever he knew, Tanya sashayed up and made herself at home.
“Jeezo Pete.” She set her tray down and gingerly poked the swelling around Clayton’s eye then glanced at Dylan. “You two look like you were run over by the same truck.”
“Or motorcycle gang,” Dylan suggested.
“I know Clay’s too stubborn to accept help, Gracie, but I thought Dylan would be smart enough to let you take care of him.” Tanya dropped into the empty seat.
“I don’t need anyone to take care of me,” Dylan objected. “I’m in perfect physical condition.” He flexed his arm to show off muscles that bulged like a bodybuilder’s.
Tanya tested for firmness. “God, you’re right. It’s like concrete. You’re lucky to still be walking, Clay.”
Clayton relaxed his clenched fist with visible effort and pushed away from the table. “Talk to you later, Gracie. I’ll check into requesting DNA tests when I go back to the office.” He turned on his heel and stalked away, avoiding eye contact with Tonya and Dylan before he left.
“Was it something I said?” Tanya looked the picture of wide-eyed innocence.
“Isn’t it always?”
“No, it could’ve been something Dylan said. Besides, even though you were the only one Clay actually spoke to, I had the impression you weren’t exactly on his good side either.”
“Does he have one?” Dylan asked.
“Oh, yes,” the two women said in unison.
“Where does he keep it?”
“Behind that grumpy exterior,” Gracie said.
“And he wears that lab coat like a magic cape to hide his vulnerabilities and fears,” Tanya added. “He’s never had it easy, you know.”
Who has? Most people would think Dylan had. Almost everyone but Wyatt and Ryan thought so because no one bothered to look beneath the surface. Of course, he never invited anyone to. And on the surface, he looked like one lucky son of a bitch.
“He’s really a good man at heart.” Gracie pressed her hand to Dylan’s arm.
He covered her fingers with his. She looked down at their entwined hands for a moment before peeking up at him with a look that went straight to his heart.
“Oh, ho!” Tanya’s attention bounced between them like a ping-pong ball. “It’s like that, is it?”
“Like what?” Gracie should never try to play poker. Bluffing was obviously not her strong suit.
“You know.” Tanya’s voice held a world of implication. “No wonder Clay was upset.” Then her face fell. “Poor Clay.”
Dylan had heard enough about ‘poor Clay.’
Chapter Sixteen
Dylan looked at his watch and spared Gracie from making a response. “Do you think your grandfather’s ready for company? I have an appointment at three.”
“Something you need my help with?” Gracie perked up.
He’d like to have her assistance if that meant spending the afternoon blocking out everything else, but he refrained from suggesting it. She had plenty of things to do besides keep him company.
“Nothing interesting.” He pushed his chair back and stood. “I’m meeting a plumber and an electrician at the cabin.”
Gracie jumped to her feet. “I thought you couldn’t get anyone lined up until next week.”
“Mayor Thompson put me in touch with some guys this morning. I started cleaning the place yesterday. Once the plumbing and electricity are working, I can make more headway.”
“That’s great,” she said, already on the move. “See ya later, Tanya.”
When they reached her grandfather’s room, Gracie checked her step in the doorway, forcing Dylan to stop behind her.
Amid a jungle of potted greenery and bouquets of flowers, with the sun shining brightly on her silvery hair, Mrs. Lattimer read aloud from The Old Man and the Sea. Her husband had his head tilted toward her, but his gaze focused on the block of wood and knife in his hands. A newspaper with the wood shavings curled over its surface covered his lap.
Dylan waited behind Gracie for the weathered face to look up. Deep brown, intelligent eyes, just like Gracie’s, crinkled with pleasure.
“Come on in if you’re comin’.” He waved them into the room. “If I’m gonna be stuck here another day, I might as well have company.”
“And not just me, Granddad.” Gracie crossed the room to kiss the top of his bald head. “I’ve brought Dylan Bradford to meet you.”
“Excellent idea, Gracie.” Mrs. Lattimer laid her book aside. “Hello, Dylan.”
“Hello, Mrs. Lattimer. How do you do, sir?” With his hand out, Dylan advanced through some steely scrutiny.
Luckily for Dylan, the old man put down the knife before clasping hands. “Clay says I could be better, but I won’t be until I’m home.”
“I understand your eagerness to get back to Liberty House,” Dylan said.
Gracie’s grandfather ran practiced fingers over the sailboat he’d carved. Even while studying Dylan, he managed to scrape the sharp-edged blade along the miniature hull with flawless expertise. “Bradford, huh? You’ve got the look about you, all right.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Dylan noticed Gracie sneaking a peek at the medical chart on the door.
He moved forward to stand at the foot of the old man’s bed. “I understand you know some of my family, sir.”
“Ay-uh.” Mr. Lattimer used the down-eastern affirmative. “Worked at Old Maine for your grandfather, your father, and your uncles. Fine men.”
“Thank you, sir. They thought a lot of the people of
East Langden, too.”
Mr. Lattimer shook his head while pushing the knife’s edge along the sail. “Carpentry was more than work to me, but the factory was just a business to them. Leastways, they closed it when it suited them and never looked back.”
“I always believed your father would have acted differently if he had lived.” Mrs. Lattimer settled her glasses more firmly on her nose. “But Arthur lost heart for furniture-making after Matthew died.”
“He told me the factory was losing money and closing it down was merely a business decision.” Dylan watched their reaction to his uncle’s version of the story.
The couple exchanged skeptical glances, and the old man scowled. “Did he now?”
“Do you know differently?” Dylan asked. “How much did you know about the financial end of the business?”
“Not much, but I know we were turning a profit up until the day they closed the doors on us, leaving a lot of good people out in the cold.”
“Fact or speculation?”
The knife blade passed slowly along the slope of the wood several times before Mr. Lattimer answered. “Nora’s cousin, Edwin Moss, was the plant manager.”
Dylan’s gaze searched out Gracie. She tucked the chart under her arm and drew near the bed.
“Where is Edwin Moss now?” he asked. “Would he be willing to see us?”
“He took a job down in Portland after the factory closed. When he retired, he moved back here. I doubt he’d be much use to you.”
“He’s been in Rosewood Nursing Home with Alzheimer’s for the last few years,” Mrs. Lattimer explained. “We go to visit him once a month, but he seldom recognizes us.”
“Who was the local bookkeeper or accountant?” Gracie asked.
“Shannon Morrisey.” Mr. Lattimer looked to his wife. “She was a friend of Marlene’s who went to work for Old Maine right out of business school. Only worked there for a few years before they closed. Do you know what became of her, Nora?”
“Oh my, Shannon Morrisey. I’d forgotten about her.” Mrs. Lattimer worried her bottom lip before continuing. “I believe she married an insurance salesman and moved out west. Denver, maybe. Is it important?”