by Неизвестно
I chuckled, and he leaned in and kissed me. It was a soft, teasing kiss, and the pull I felt toward him was irresistible. I moved closer, but it wasn’t close enough. Not nearly close enough. I wanted him. I wanted to feel—.
Tia cleared her throat. Loudly. "Um…I’m still in the room here, guys."
I started, and Fletcher came up for air. "So what do you want?" he grumbled. "A medal?"
"No!" she protested, whacking him on the shoulder. "I want to give my childhood playmate and newfound friend a hug for myself. Now let go of her before I tell her that nickname of yours."
He released me with a grumble, and Tia hugged me tight. "I’m glad you’re feeling better about everything, Meara," she said over my shoulder. "Very glad."
We pulled back, and I saw that the jocular spark in her eyes was back full force, despite the wetness around her lids. "Now," she said brightly. "I know you two will be really crushed to hear this, but you’ll have to manage without me for a while, because I’m starving to death, and I have a craving for buffalo wings. And when I want buffalo wings, no one gets in my way." She grinned at me. "And to think that we could have been sisters." She picked up her purse from the counter and headed toward the front door, talking to herself—at a very high volume—as she went.
"It’s a shame really, because I would have liked a sister. Can’t think of how I could acquire any other family members now, though. I mean, what kind of sister might a woman look forward to at my age? I’m pretty sure I can’t think of any other kind of sister—"
"Goodbye, Tia," Fletcher called firmly. "Don’t forget to lock the door."
We heard an overblown sigh. Then the door closed with a click.
I threw my arms around his neck and held him. So much unexpected joy was inside me, it seemed as though the feeling couldn’t possibly hold up, couldn’t possibly be legitimate. We would all continue to feel sorrow over Sheila and Mitchell’s deaths, but the questions, the hovering blackness, seemed finally to have been vanquished—both for me, and for Fletcher.
I had always considered myself lucky to have been adopted by two people as wonderful as the O’Rourkes. Now I knew that I was lucky enough to have a loving birth mother, too. And for that I was truly thankful.
A thought assaulted my brain, and my hold on Fletcher slackened.
"What is it?" he said, noticing.
I drew back enough to look at him. "I just realized," I said weakly. "I have no idea who my real birth father was."
His eyes flickered with alarm. "No," he said softly. "I don’t suppose you do."
I stiffened. I had been so happy to learn that Jake Kozen was no relation, I had given no thought whatsoever to an alternative.
"Meara," Fletcher said pointedly, catching my eyes. "I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but I don’t know who my own birth father was. Tia found out, but all she told me was that he wasn’t from the area. And I only asked her that," he said with a sly smile, "because I wanted to make sure the local girls were fair game. I don’t know anything else about him. And the truth is—I really don’t give a damn."
I looked into his light, beautiful eyes, and understood. It wasn’t a question of biology anymore. Not for me. I wanted to know how I came into the world, how I spent my early years, and why I was given up. I knew that now. I also knew that my birth mother had loved me, and that she had made an incredible sacrifice to keep me safe and whole.
The man who had gotten her pregnant wasn’t part of that story. He hadn’t known me, hadn’t raised me, hadn’t been there for Sheila, or for me, when we so desperately needed help. True, he might not have been told he had a child, but he had to have known that pregnancy was a possibility. A possibility he had chosen not to follow up on.
Did I really even care who he was?
I envisioned Sheila as a twenty-one-year-old woman, broke, motherless, and alone. When she met Jake, she must have seen a handsome, charismatic older man with a steady job—someone who could offer her stability. But he had offered her only misery. It wasn’t surprising that she would have reached out to someone else. Perhaps anyone else—any man who would listen with a sympathetic ear, offer a comforting touch.
It wasn’t difficult to picture. But whoever the man had been, Sheila had chosen, for whatever reason, not to seek his help, even after Jake discovered the truth. She could have told him about me; he could have staked a claim when I was put up for adoption. But either she hadn’t wanted him to raise me, or he had declined.
For now, that was all I needed to know.
"I can’t believe I’m saying this," I responded. "But at the moment, I don’t give a damn, either."
Fletcher’s smile warmed me like sunlight. "You don’t have to decide now," he said softly. "If you think later that you want to find out more, I’ll help you, and so will Tia. But if you’re happy leaving well enough alone—"
"Well enough," I interrupted, "seems pretty darn wonderful to me."
His eyes were dancing with happiness, and I knew mine looked the same. Here, on this ridge, in Fletcher’s arms, was exactly where I wanted to be. It was where I was supposed to be. It was where I wanted to stay.
He leaned in to kiss me again, but this time I drew back. I had resolved to build my own happiness, and I was going to do it right. It was happening fast, but I knew that my feelings for Fletcher were already stronger than anything I had ever felt for my ex-fiancé. With Todd, I had been trying too hard. But loving Fletcher was effortless. He was good, and I trusted him. We had the same values; we wanted the same things out of life. But there was still a piece missing. I had sworn I wouldn’t lure him into anything his damaged heart wasn’t ready for. And I had to hold myself to that. Anything else would be unfair to both of us.
"Fletcher," I asked solemnly, watching his eyes. "Tell me the truth. Do you trust me?"
He hesitated. It wasn’t a long pause, but even a split second was enough to send a pang of anxiety through my chest. His eyes looked back into mine with a gaze that was unflinchingly honest.
"Almost," he answered.
I drew in a ragged breath, anxiety surging. I pulled myself in closer and caught his eyes. "I would never hurt you," I said softly. "You have to know that."
He let his own breath out with a shudder. "It isn’t that."
I dropped back. "Then what is it?" I asked, frustrated. "What can I do?"
His eyes held mine. "Don’t go back to Pittsburgh," he answered, his deep voice beseeching. "Stay here with me. I mean—at the inn."
In a flash, I remembered the question that had puzzled me so last night—how he had asked me if I was surprised that Rosemary would want to commit herself to living and working here. He was afraid I wouldn’t want to stay. Afraid that I, like every other woman he’d fallen for, would eventually ask him to chose between this place and me.
Before I could answer, he pulled away.
"I didn’t tell you before," he began, his words rapid, and nervous. "But—I do have plans to fix up the old campground, hopefully by next spring. I want to operate my own camp in the summers. I’ve always wanted to teach kids about forestry—give them an appreciation of trees so they won’t go back to the suburbs and hack down oaks just to avoid raking leaves. But I can’t get a decent camp up and running by myself. I wouldn’t know where to begin, and even if I did, I don’t have the time. I need someone with experience at that sort of thing to take the idea and run with it—to brainstorm the development, handle the planning, and hire a really wonderful staff so that all I’ll have to do is walk in and work with the kids." He paused. "You wouldn’t know anyone who’d be interested in something like that, would you?"
My eyebrows rose. Whether he knew that he had just described my dream job, practically to the letter, I didn’t know. I couldn’t remember mentioning it. I had told him I was a camp director, but I hadn’t told him how much I had always longed to make my living doing something completely creative—like writing children’s curricula, or doing educational theater, or both. I had gone in
to classroom teaching because it was my mother’s dream. She had wanted me to have a respectable job with a steady paycheck; I had wanted to make her happy.
Now it was time to make me happy.
"You could incorporate drama as a teaching tool," I suggested, the wheels in my head spinning. "All you’d need is a barn, or an amphitheater. Wildlife, forestry, survival skills, natural history…it wouldn’t have to be just a summer camp. You could set yourself up to host school field trips in the spring and fall. Weekend workshops. Overnights. And if you’re willing, a woodcarving workshop could be a big draw…"
His face broke into a smile. "So," he said, his eyes shining. "You’re interested?"
I wrapped my arms around his neck again. "Fletcher," I said sincerely, "I would be happy with you anywhere. But as for this mountain spread of yours—"
I broke off with a grin. "I promise you, there’s no place on earth I’d rather be. You haven’t gotten me off of it yet, have you?"
His face beamed with pleasure, and he swept me in for a kiss. But once again—and with considerable effort—I held back.
I had not completely forgotten my resolutions. I might be on the verge of getting everything I’d ever wanted, but I would not let my soft heart get the best of me, even now. I had vowed that the new Meara would be nobody’s doormat. And I meant nobody’s.
"Mr. Black," I said formally, "are you offering me a full-time position, with a salary and benefits comparable to what I’m earning now?"
He blinked, then smiled at me. "Of course."
My heart leapt. I leaned into him, so close our noses touched.
"Is that all you’re offering?" I whispered.
His eyes gave a devious flicker. "No."
"In that case," I replied, moving closer still, "I accept."
Epilogue
Eighteen Months Later
I stared down at the soft cotton blanket, watching its folds rise and fall with the movement of the tiny chest swaddled beneath. She was perfect. I couldn’t stop looking at her.
Anna Elizabeth Black lay sleeping peacefully, nestled deep within the safe confines of the O’Rourke family bassinet. I knew my mother and father would be happy about that, since I had never actually slept in it myself. Its aged wicker was frayed here and there, but the linens were fresh, and it was beautiful.
Even more beautiful was the walnut crib that stood waiting nearby—a crib which, if auctioned on the open market, could probably pay for her college education. It was an extraordinary sleigh-style crib, hand-carved from top to bottom with a parade of forest animals to watch over and delight her. Chipmunks, squirrels, raccoons, rabbits, possums, and mice played peek-a-boo through the bars. Birds lighted on the headboard and rails; two fawns converged at the foot. From below, one could just spy a skunk hiding beneath the mattress.
I stretched out a tentative hand, daring to stroke her satiny temple with the back of my finger. She had a fine down of hair—auburn, like mine. Her eyes were blue, but I knew that could change. She was only two days old.
Footsteps sounded behind me. I didn’t move as Fletcher’s arms wrapped around my waist, then pulled me gingerly against him. He leaned down and rested his cheek against mine. "You should be in bed," he whispered. "She’ll wake up soon enough."
"I know," I replied. "But I can’t help watching her. I still can’t believe she’s real."
He chuckled. "She’s real all right, and she’s healthy as a horse. But you won’t be if you don’t get some sleep."
I relaxed against him further, having no desire to move. The moment was perfect, and I wanted to freeze it. I was happier than I had ever dreamed—more in love than I ever knew a person could be. I was able to give Fletcher everything I wanted and needed to give him, because he not only took, he gave back as well. And gave, and gave.
Anna startled, her little limbs jerking suddenly outward, straining against the blankets. I jumped.
Fletcher chuckled again, tightening his hold. "Will you relax? Newborns always do that. It’s perfectly normal. See? She’s already asleep again."
He was right. She was.
"Maybe I’m too nervous to be a mother," I said, only half joking. I had barely slept a wink since she’d been born—I couldn’t go five minutes without making sure she was still breathing.
"You’re going to be a wonderful mother," he assured me patiently. "You already are. Besides, you have to be. I owe Tia seven more, remember?"
I rolled my eyes. There had been much discussion between siblings over the relative attributes of my pies versus Rosemary’s, as well as over the question of whether Tia had played an instrumental role in our union. In the end, Fletcher had relented, insisting that there were far worse fates in the world than raising eight children with a woman he was certain would remain sexy well into her nineties. Of course, I had assumed he wasn’t serious.
"Seven?" I repeated dubiously. "I’m thirty-one years old now. I’ve only got one good decade left, you know."
"Don’t underestimate yourself," he said lightly, kissing me on the cheek again. Then he released me, leaned over the bassinet, and caressed his daughter’s temple himself. "Grandma and Aunt Susan are coming down next week," he whispered. "They can’t wait to see her."
I smiled. Marrying Fletcher had been reward enough in itself, but becoming a certified member of the extended Black family was glorious. My Irish grandmother-in-law, in particular, had been spoiling me quite rotten, delighted to find someone who not only took an interest in her family recipes, but also enjoyed the retelling of her parents’ immigration tales.
A slightly censored version of my story had been shared with the family’s neighbors and friends, and all had received me warmly, including David Falcon, who made a point of insisting how delighted Mitchell would have been with the way things turned out. Only Estelle had greeted my moving into the inn with suspicion. But after a few months of seeing how clean I kept the kitchen, and probably also noting how incredibly happy her precious Fletcher had become, she had deigned to pronounce me worthy.
Tia, as promised, was ecstatic to have me as a sister-in-law. Though she still flitted about the country showing her work at art galleries and doing whatever it was she did with her large pool of equally jet-set friends, it appeared to both Fletcher and me that her time at the inn was steadily increasing. Not only had she painted every interior room in the new house, as well as the theater and other outbuildings at our developing camp, but she had outdone herself with the murals in Anna’s room—creating a fanciful forest scene in shades of baby pink.
When she showed up the week that Anna was due with eight suitcases and a kitten, we began to wonder if her maternal side had finally caught up with her. A state patrol car had taken to appearing in the inn’s parking lot whenever Tia was in town, and though Ben would admit to nothing, Fletcher was of the opinion that there was a new spring in his friend’s step.
Only rarely anymore did my thoughts stray to Jake Kozen, who had been convicted on multiple felony charges and was now safely incarcerated. We had learned during the course of the trial that several area prosecutors had been champing at the bit for another shot at the man—apparently, he had escaped charges on more than one previous complaint of assault, due to lack of evidence. The prosecutor in my case tore into him like a pit bull, and the sentence rendered was harsh. Jake would not be in prison for life, but the prosecutor assured us that when he did get out, he would more likely be toting oxygen than a switchblade.
I still had no idea as to the identity of my birth father. And to my surprise, I still didn’t care. I couldn’t say that I would never get curious—that I would never again feel a yearning to know whose genes my body carried. Maybe I would, someday. But for now, I was content. I was at peace with my past, and I was happy.
Fletcher adjusted Anna’s blankets slightly, and she began to stir.
I grinned. "And you tell me to leave her alone," I scolded. "You’re worse than I am."
He grinned back, then bent over to drop
a soft kiss on his daughter’s head.
"I’m glad at least one of us has experience with babies," I said warmly. Then my tone turned teasing. "Momma Bear."
He glowered. "You promised you were going to forget about that."
I chuckled. "I know I did. But it’s so darned cute."
"Someday," he said with a growl, "I’m going to get that pesky sister of mine." He stepped behind me again, cradling me in his arms. "But, a promise is a promise. Seven kids in ten years is doable. So, how long do you need to recover in between pregnancies? A couple of weeks?"
I elbowed him in the ribs.
He groaned in mock agony. "Okay, okay. I’ll settle for two more the fun way. We can become foster parents—maybe adopt some older siblings down the road. What do you say?"
"The fun way?" I protested. "Did you just go through nine months of pregnancy and eighteen hours of labor?"
He didn’t answer. He just turned me around and kissed me, the way he always did, the way he was so blasted good at.
I leaned into him, relishing the face-to-face contact my pregnant belly had prevented for the last few months. "You know I’d love to be a foster mother, and to adopt. But as for having two more children the fun way—"
I broke off and kissed him softly.
"I’d rather shoot for four."
***
Enjoy all three of Edie Claire's classic romantic suspense novels: Long Time Coming, Meant To Be, and Borrowed Time, available now as e-books! If you're a mystery lover, please also check out the Leigh Koslow Mystery Series: Never Buried, Never Sorry, Never Preach Past Noon, Never Kissed Goodnight, and Never Tease a Siamese. To find out more about these and other works by Edie Claire, including her comedic stage plays, visit www.edieclaire.com , or email the author at [email protected]. Thanks for reading!