by Marta Perry
Sammy’s nose wrinkled. “It can’t be my bedtime already.”
“It will be by the time you have your bath and your story. You scoot on up to the house, sugar. We’ll be up in a few minutes.”
The boy scrambled to his feet. “Okay, Momma.” He turned toward Tyler. “Good night…Daddy.”
Before Tyler could respond, he darted off, running full tilt toward the house.
He’d had the wind knocked out of him. “He called me Daddy.”
“Yes, he did.” Her smile shimmered on the edge of tears.
“That’s a pretty decent reward for forgetting my promise.”
“It wasn’t for forgetting. Or even for apologizing. It was because you shared yourself with him.”
He hadn’t heard that gentle, loving note in Miranda’s voice directed at him in a long time. It rocked him nearly as much as hearing Sammy call him Daddy, and it made him grope for something solid to hang on to.
“Believe me, it wasn’t hard to come up with a time when my father let me down. They were too numerous to count.”
“I’m sorry. I wish…”
“What do you wish, Miranda?”
He moved next to her, watching the way the light touched her skin with gold. On the waterway a boat arrowed toward the distant shore, darkening as the sun slipped lower. They were alone.
“I wish I’d understood, back then, about your relationship with your father. I could have done better if I had.”
Regret and guilt showed on her expressive face—regret for the girl she’d been, guilt over whatever she imagined she could have done differently.
“It wasn’t your fault.” He tried to look at their marriage without the anger that had consumed him since he’d learned about her deception. “We were both too young to know what we were doing.”
“We thought we did.”
“You think you know everything at eighteen and twenty. It takes a few years to realize how wrong you are.” Impelled by something he wasn’t sure he understood, he smoothed a strand of auburn hair from her face, letting his fingertips linger against the smooth curve of her cheek.
Her gaze met his, startled and aware. Her lips softened, parting a little on a sigh that seemed to echo the soft shush of waves against the dock.
That sound had accompanied their first kiss. They’d walked barefoot along the beach in the afterglow of sunset, letting the warm waves wash over their feet. He’d stopped, turned her toward him and kissed her, sensing nothing was going to be the same again.
That was then, and this was now. Eight years later, and apparently not any wiser.
“Tyler.” She said his name softly, so softly he seemed to sense it instead of hear it.
His hand moved of its own volition, cradling her cheek, tilting her face to his. Slowly he covered her lips with his.
She was soft, so soft. She turned more fully toward him, and his arms slid around her, holding her as closely as his lips held hers. A wave of longing and tenderness swept over him, strong enough to pull him under.
His heart beat in time with the waves, as if his blood moved to some eternal rhythm he hadn’t ever been aware of. His lips moved to her temple. He felt the pulse that beat there, and it, like the waves, seemed to move in time with his.
Miranda settled against him as if she’d come home. Or maybe as if they’d never been apart.
“Tyler.” She whispered his name against his chest.
Something swelled inside his heart, longing to break free. Emotions he’d denied for years beat against his control.
It’s not safe, he warned himself. It’s not wise. Don’t get involved.
Don’t count on anyone else. They’ll only let you down.
Sluggishly, as if he moved through water, he drew away from her. He watched the light in Miranda’s eyes die.
He couldn’t do this. Not because of what his father had believed, but because of what he suddenly saw so clearly about himself.
This wasn’t about anyone else letting him down. It was about him letting them down.
He’d have to struggle to be the man his son needed. It would be downright impossible to be the man Miranda needed.
Chapter Nine
Miranda pressed the rolling pin firmly, spreading the piecrust dough in a circle on the floured board. She found comfort in the familiar, soothing movements. Doing something routine was a relief from the tensions of the past week.
This old kitchen was equally comforting. At five or six she’d knelt on a stool at the counter, painstakingly rolling out the scraps of dough her mother had given her, trying to be just like Momma. Later, she and Chloe and the twins had sat at the scrubbed pine table in the evenings, doing homework while Momma and Daddy talked over the day’s doings in soft, contented voices.
She looked at the large calendar posted on the kitchen wall. Crowded with notations, it kept track of who was where in the busy Caldwell clan. Today, Saturday, it showed that Tyler and Sammy were at T-ball practice. It also showed her that one week was gone from Tyler’s month.
A burst of panic touched her—one week down, three to go. Tyler probably checked the days off in his engagement book or his electronic organizer, counting down the moments until he could leave Caldwell Cove and get back to his real life.
The life that had no place in it for her. She’d known that for years and had it reinforced since the night on the dock when he’d kissed her. His immediate withdrawal and the efforts he’d made in the days since to avoid her had shown how much he regretted that act.
He’d left for Charleston each day immediately after having breakfast with Sammy, returning scrupulously by the time Sammy got home from school. He’d been pleasant, polite and cooperative. He’d felt as distant from her as if he were already in Baltimore, living the life that didn’t include her.
She fit the crust into the pie pan, fluting the edge with the quick twist of the fingers her mother had taught her when she’d been deemed old enough to start baking real pies instead of playing with the dough. Comforting or not, making pies for Sunday dinner wasn’t enough to distract her mind from the treadmill it had walked since that night on the dock.
Tyler didn’t want anything from her except cooperation in their joint parenting. His kisses had been a fluke, perhaps a reaction to some faded memory of the people they’d once been. He must have been horrified at the mistake he’d almost repeated.
Unfortunately those moments had shown her the truth she could no longer avoid. She still loved Tyler. She’d buried those feelings in family and work and her son, but a few kisses and a moment in his arms had brought the flame blazing to life.
At some level, she’d known that would be inevitable from the moment she’d walked into the hall and seen him. She pressed a floury hand against the front of her T-shirt, as if that would ease the hurt. Her relationship with Tyler was beyond repair. All she could do was concentrate on making the changes in Sammy’s life as smooth and easy as possible for all three of them.
The screen door slammed, and Sammy raced into the kitchen. He sported a streak of dirt on one cheek, and his T-shirt looked as if he’d rolled around in the grass, but he was smiling.
“Hey, Momma. I smell pies. Did you make some cinnamon crust for me?”
“What’s cinnamon crust?” Tyler stopped inside the door.
Miranda swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. It ought to be illegal for a man to look that good in jeans and a T-shirt.
“Leftover pieces of piecrust. We always bake them with cinnamon sugar for hungry little boys.” She held the baking sheet out to Sammy, who grabbed one. “And big boys.” She offered them to Tyler.
He dropped the ball glove he carried onto the kitchen table, broke off a piece and popped it into his mouth. His eyes widened.
“Wonderful. Why haven’t America’s baking companies started putting these on the supermarket shelves?”
Tyler would be easier to ignore if he weren’t there, filling up her kitchen, an errant crumb clinging to his lips.
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br /> “Because they’re only good if they’re homemade crusts, fresh from the oven. One of those things that can’t be mass produced.”
Would there be homemade goodies in Sammy’s life when he went to visit his father in Baltimore?
Three weeks, a little voice in her head reminded her. Only three weeks, and then you’ll have to make plans for your son to spend some of his days far away, living a life you can barely imagine.
Sammy grabbed another crust. “I’m going to find Granddaddy and tell him about practice.” He got to the door, then glanced at Tyler. “Thanks, Daddy.”
Then he was gone, and she was right where she didn’t want to be—alone with Tyler.
“He enjoys saying that, you know.” She picked up the bowl of apple slices and started filling crusts.
“I have to say it feels pretty good to me, too.” He leaned against the counter, keeping a careful foot of space between them.
“You don’t look very glad. What’s wrong?” It was scary how well she could still read his expression after all this time. Something had put that brooding look in his dark eyes.
He shrugged, pointing toward the glove on the table. “I bought a new baseball glove for Sammy, gave it to him when we went to practice. He didn’t want it.”
She pressed her hands against the counter, not sure what to say. If only he’d asked her first, she might have foreseen the difficulty. “I hope he was polite.”
“Oh, very polite.” His eyes were stormy. “But very definite. He’d rather use his old one.”
She heard the hurt under the annoyance in his voice. This was the first gift he’d given his son, and Sammy hadn’t wanted it.
She had to try to make this right, if she could. “Did he tell you why?”
“No.” He frowned at her. “What do you know about it?”
She wiped her hands on a tea towel, then turned to face him. “I’m sure he appreciated your thoughtfulness. It’s just that the one he’s been using was Theo’s. And before that either David or Daniel’s.”
She smiled, remembering the squabble between her brothers. “One of them lost his, and they both claim the remaining glove is his.”
“So Sammy would rather have an old glove because it belonged to Theo.” He obviously didn’t care which twin had lost his glove. He only cared that Sammy had rejected his gift.
“It’s kind of a tradition. Your younger brother would feel that way about something you passed on to him.”
Or didn’t people like the Winchesters pass things on from one child to the next? Maybe she was making this worse by bringing up his family.
“I doubt it. My brother and I aren’t very close. And knowing Josh, I’m sure he’d prefer something new to something I’d already used.”
She was probably getting in deeper, but she had to contest that.
“Younger brothers always look up to older ones. Josh probably feels that way about you, even if he’s never said it. He followed your footsteps into the company, didn’t he?”
“I suspect that had more to do with getting a large salary for doing very little than from any idea of being like me.” He shook his head, an errant lock of dark hair tumbling onto his forehead. “Why are we talking about my brother, anyway?”
Did he really not understand?
“Because he is your brother. Sammy’s uncle.”
Tyler folded his arms across his chest. “Don’t go running away with the idea that Josh will be the kind of uncle your brothers have been. He wouldn’t know how.”
“Sammy will see him when he comes to visit you, won’t he?” She tried to make that eventuality sound as routine and everyday as a trip to the grocery.
“I suppose so.” He searched her face. “Are you worrying about that?”
“Not about your brother, no. But about what Sammy’s life will be like.” A lump constricted her throat. “When he’s away from here.”
“I’ll take good care of him.” His voice softened. He reached toward her, almost but not quite touching. “You must know that.”
“I know.” Somehow that wasn’t as reassuring as it should be, not when she tried to imagine those spaces in her son’s life that wouldn’t include her. “What about church?”
“What about it?” The softness disappeared.
She lifted her chin. This was one thing she’d go toe-to-toe over if necessary. “Church is an important part of Sammy’s life. I want your assurance that won’t change when he’s with you.”
“I’ll see that he goes,” he said shortly.
“With you.” She pressed the point. “You can’t just drop him off as if he has to go but other things are more important to you.”
A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Sounds as if you’re making all the decisions about Sammy and expecting me to go along with them.”
“About this I am.” Standing fast in the face of Tyler’s irritation wasn’t as difficult as she’d expected. Maybe she’d grown up a bit.
“Fine. I promise I’ll go to church with him when he stays with me.” He stalked to the door, annoyance filling his voice and his movements. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
An annoyed Tyler wasn’t as much of a threat to her vulnerable heart as he was when he said her name in that soft, masculine rumble. Maybe, if she could annoy him enough, she could learn to harden her heart against him. But that didn’t seem very likely.
If his church in Baltimore was like this one, he might be less reluctant to attend. Tyler leaned against a pew back the next morning, waiting for Miranda to finish talking with all the people who had something to say to her after the worship service.
What was it that felt so different about the Caldwell Cove church? He glanced around the sanctuary, small enough to fit four or five of them into the vast nave of the church he normally attended a few times a year.
This simple, whitewashed structure boasted plain oak pews and a slightly faded carpet runner down the center aisle. The sanctuary’s only claim to elegance was the ancient stained-glass windows that glowed in the spring sunlight.
An old-fashioned church, it had an old-fashioned charm. The minister had been neither profound nor philosophical, but the love he projected to his parishioners glowed as much as the windows did. The warmth filling the small sanctuary had nothing to do with the temperature.
He didn’t have to continue attending the same church in Baltimore just because his parents had been long-time members. He could find someplace else to go when Sammy stayed with him. Miranda had certainly made it clear that going to church wasn’t negotiable.
Across the length of the pew, Miranda continued to talk, apparently in no hurry. She tilted her head in response to some comment, her hair brushing the shoulders of the cream dress she wore. Her profile was serene and lovely.
Beautiful, in fact. He suspected the simple dress was several years out of date, and no professional stylist had touched her hair, but Miranda didn’t need polishing to shine. Her light came from within.
Uncomfortable at the direction his thoughts had taken, he moved to the dolphin window.
“Pretty thing, isn’t it?” Miranda’s grandmother came toward him, nodding at the window.
“It’s lovely.” He tensed, half expecting her to take him to task for his presence on the island. Everyone knew Gran Caldwell was the matriarch of the clan. He was surprised she hadn’t tackled him before this.
The elderly woman didn’t seem to have battle in mind as she stared at the dolphin. Whatever she felt, no emotion showed. The clean, strong lines of her face had elegance, too, like the windows. She was what Miranda would be in fifty or sixty years.
“My grandson Adam’s fiancée did that window. I reckon you heard that.”
“Miranda told me.”
“Told you the story of the first dolphin, too, I suppose.” She nodded toward the bracket behind the pulpit where the wooden dolphin had once stood.
“Yes. Well, Sammy told me most of it. He wrote a story about it for school.”
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He thought of what Miranda had said—that her father and his brother had been at odds for years after the incident with the dolphin and her father’s injury. That must have been hard on their mother.
“Should have the dolphin here for weddings, at least.” She continued to stare at the shelf, filled with flowers.
“Why weddings?”
She switched her gaze to him, and he had the odd sensation that those wise old eyes saw right through him. “Thought you said you’d heard the story.”
“Maybe Sammy left something out. I don’t remember anything about weddings.”
She shook her head. “That boy’s at the stage where he thinks love and such is foolishness. That’s probably why he didn’t say anything. The first Caldwell carved the dolphin out of love for his bride. Folks always believed it brought special blessings on those who wed under its gaze.”
An uneasy feeling prickled along the back of his neck. Special blessings? He and Miranda hadn’t married under the eyes of the dolphin, and the only blessing that had come of their marriage was Sammy.
“Hasn’t been right, having Caldwells marry without it,” she said firmly, as if he’d argued.
“No, I guess not.” Was she thinking of him and Miranda, their marriage broken before it began?
His uneasiness intensified. Was that what lay behind Sammy’s determination to find the dolphin? Could he possibly imagine that restoring it would bring his parents together?
If Sammy thought that, he was setting himself up for disappointment. Tyler tried to tell himself the idea was nonsense, but the uneasiness clung like a burr.
“Reckon I’ll see you over to Jeff’s for dinner.” Miranda’s grandmother didn’t offer to shake hands. “I’d best get my salad ready to go.” With another glance toward the dolphin shelf, she made her way toward the door.
Trying to shake oppressive thoughts about the dolphin and Sammy from his mind, Tyler moved along the pew toward Miranda, who was concluding her conversation.
She gave him a quick smile. If appearing in church with him had bothered her, she wasn’t letting it show.