A Time to Forgive

“This should do very nicely.” She couldn’t say that his home had taken her by surprise. This wasn’t a house—it was a mansion. And she didn’t want to say that she’d lived like this once, before her mother’s downward spiral into depression, alcoholism and poverty.

She took a breath. She’d been handling those recollections for a long time. She could handle this reminder. Besides, being here was a golden opportunity to find out what she needed to about the Caldwells. She just had to get Adam to open up.

“Why do you call it a studio?”

He shrugged. “We always have. My mother used it that way. Dad turned the space into a playroom for us kids after she died.” He pointed to a small easel in the corner, the shelves behind it stacked with children’s books, paints and crayons. “Jenny likes to paint in here when she’s in the mood.”

The room seemed uncomfortably full of his family with one notable exception. He hadn’t mentioned his wife. “Was your mother an artist?”

“She painted, did needlework, that kind of thing.” Sadness shadowed Adam’s face for a moment. “I can remember her sitting in front of the windows with some project on her lap. She died when I was eight.”

“I’m sorry.” Tory had been five when her father died. She hesitated, torn. If she told Adam about it, that might create a bond that would encourage him to talk, but she didn’t give away pieces of herself that easily.

She walked to the long table that held the first of the panels they’d removed from the church that morning. Everything she’d asked for was here, ready and waiting for her. She longed to dive into the work and forget everything else. If Adam would leave—

“What about you?” Adam leaned his hip against the table, crossing his arms, clearly not intending to go anywhere at the moment.

She looked at him blankly, not sure what he meant by the question.

“Family,” he added. “You’ve met Jenny and my grandmother, heard about my mother. What about your family?”

It was the inevitable question Southerners put to each other at some point. She’d heard it before, phrased a little differently each time, maybe, but always asking the same thing. Who are your people? That was more important than what you did or where you went to school or even how much money you had. Who are your people?

“I’m alone.” That wouldn’t be enough. She had to say more or he’d wonder. “My father died when I was quite young, and my mother last year. I don’t have any other relatives.” At least, not any relatives that would like to claim me.

“I’m sorry.” Adam’s eyes darkened with quick sympathy. “That’s rough. They were from this part of the world, weren’t they?”

The question struck her like a blow. “What makes you think that?”

He smiled slowly. Devastatingly. “Sugar, you’ve been slipping back into a low-country accent since the day you arrived. You can’t fool an old geechee like me.”

Geechee. She hadn’t heard that word since she’d left Savannah, but it resounded in her heart. Anyone born along this part of the coast was a geechee, said either affectionately or with derision, depending on the speaker. Apparently she couldn’t leave her heritage behind, no matter how she tried.

Tory managed a stiff smile in return. “I’m from Savannah originally, but I’ve been up north so long I thought I passed for one of them.”

“Not a chance.” He pushed himself away from the table, the movement bringing him close enough to make her catch her breath, making her too aware of the solid strength of him. “Welcome back home, Tory Marlowe.”

She wanted to deny it, to say she didn’t have any intention of belonging in this part of the world again. But his low voice, threaded with amusement, seemed to have taken away her ability to speak. Or maybe it was his sheer masculine presence, only inches from her.

Adam wasn’t the boy he’d been at seventeen. That boy had been charming enough to haunt her dreams for a good long time. Grown-up Adam was twice as hard to ignore. He was taller, broader, stronger. The lines around his eyes said he’d dealt with pain and come away cautious, but he had an air of assurance that compelled a response.

A response she didn’t have any intention of making. She wouldn’t let fragments of memory turn her to mush. She’d better get back to business, right now.

She cleared her throat, dismissing its tightness. “One thing about working in the studio concerns me.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Only one?”

She would not return that attractive smile. “Glass slivers fly around when I’m working. And the lead I use is dangerous to children.”

He nodded, face sobering. “I’ve told Jenny she must never come in unless you invite her. To be extra safe, I have a key to the studio for you.” Adam held out a key ring. “And a house key, in case you ever need to come in when no one is here.”

It was as if he handed her a key to the Caldwell family. Everything she was hiding from him flooded her mind. “I won’t need that.”

He took her hand and put the ring in her palm, his fingers warm against hers. “Just in case.” We trust you, he seemed to be saying.

You can’t. You can’t trust me.

“Looks as if you’re getting all set up in here.” A tall, silver-haired man paused in the doorway, his interruption saving her from blurting something that would defeat her goals even before she started.

Adam took his hand away from hers, unhurried. “Tory, this is my father, Jefferson Caldwell.”

“Mr. Caldwell.” He came toward her, and she shook his hand while she tried to ignore the voice in her mind.

Jefferson and Clayton Caldwell. Her mother’s words had been disjointed and hard to follow. They were brothers, just a year apart. Her mother’s coquettish giggle had sounded out of place in the hospital room. They were both sweet on me, you know.

Tory could easily imagine that. She’d seen pictures of her mother at fifteen, before alcohol and sorrow had weighed her down. Emily had been a golden girl, far more beautiful than Tory could ever dream of being.

If she mentioned Emily Brandeis’s name to Jefferson Caldwell, would he remember that long-ago summer? Her mother had certainly remembered it. Rational or not, she’d traced everything that had gone wrong in her life to the events of that summer.

Jefferson surveyed the setup that had changed his studio into her workroom, then turned to her. “Welcome to Caldwell Island, Ms. Marlowe. I hope you’re finding everything you need for this project.”

Jefferson’s beautifully tailored jacket and silky dress shirt gave him an urbane, sophisticated air that seemed out of tune with the down-home impression she received from his brother, Clayton, whose family ran the inn.

“Yes, thank you. I hope it won’t inconvenience you to have my workshop here.”

“Not at all.” He waved his hand as if to encompass the entire estate. “Twin Oaks is a big enough place to accommodate all of us.”

“It’s a beautiful house.” She said what he no doubt expected.

“Yes, it is that.” Jefferson smiled with satisfaction at her words.

A cold house, she thought, but who was she to judge? No house could be more frigid than her grandmother’s mansion in Savannah.

The hospital where she’d sat beside her mother’s bed hadn’t been far from her grandmother’s Bull Street mansion, but there’d been no contact. Neither of them had expected it. Amanda Marlowe had long since cut all ties with her embarrassing daughter-in-law. Probably losing touch with her granddaughter had seemed a small price to pay.

Her mother had moved restlessly on the bed, shaking her head from side to side. I didn’t mean for him to take his family’s heirloom. I didn’t mean it, Tory. I didn’t want anyone to get hurt. Tears had overflowed. You have to find the dolphin and put it back. Promise me. Her thin hand had gripped Tory’s painfully. Promise me. You have to promise me.

I didn’t mean for him to take it. Her mother had felt responsible for the disappearance of the carved dolphin from the island church. For reasons Tory would never understand, that guilt had haunted her during her final illness. Someone had been hurt, but who?

I didn’t mean for him to take it. One of the Caldwells, obviously, but which brother? Jefferson or Clayton?

She searched for something to say to drown out her mother’s voice in her mind. “I’m staying at the Dolphin Inn, you know. So I’ve become acquainted with your brother and his family.”

Jefferson’s face froze as a chill seemed to permeate the air. “I suppose they’re making you as comfortable as they can. When the new Dalton Hotel is finished, we’ll be able to offer visitors something better than Clayton’s little operation.”

The spurt of malice in his words silenced her. Had he really just insulted his brother to a stranger?

Luckily Jefferson didn’t seem to expect a response. “I’ll let you get on with your work. Please ask if there’s anything else you need.” He turned and left the room before she could find a response.

When Jefferson’s footsteps had faded down the hallway, she gave Adam a cautious look. “Did I say something I shouldn’t?”

He shrugged, but she could almost feel the tension in his shoulders. “Nothing you could have known about, so don’t worry. My father and his brother have been on the outs for a long time. The rest of us have learned to take it for granted.”

The silence stretched between them, broken only by a bird’s song drifting through the open window. How long a time, she wanted to ask. Since they were teenagers? Since Emily Brandeis came to the island and the dolphin vanished from the church?

But she couldn’t ask because she wasn’t ready for these people to know who she was yet. Until she knew how they’d respond, she couldn’t risk it.

“I’m sorry for putting my foot in it,” she said carefully. “Family feuds can be devastating.” Nobody knew that better than she did.

“I’m used to it.”

Was he? Or was that merely a convenient thing to believe?

One thing was certain. Her job on the island wasn’t just another commission or a step toward the independence she longed for or even a chance to keep her promise.

Like it or not, her history and Adam’s history were interwoven in ways he couldn’t begin to imagine.

What was she thinking? Adam leaned against the heavy oak table, watching Tory’s face. Light from the bank of windows made her hair glint like a raven’s wing.

He forgot, sometimes, how odd the Caldwell family feud must seem to an outsider, especially since he had no intention of telling this particular outsider anything else. She didn’t need to know that his father’s drive for success at any cost had created a wedge between him and the rest of the family, who thought he’d left his honor behind along the way.

She also didn’t need to learn that Adam’s peacemaker role had grown increasingly difficult over the years. He’d been peacemaker between his father and brother, between his father and the rest of the family—maybe the truth was that the buffer always ended up battered by all sides.

“It must bother you.” Her eyes went soft as brown velvet with sympathy.

That look of hers would be enough to melt his heart if he didn’t watch out. “I suppose it does, sometimes.” She was a stranger, he reminded himself. Furthermore, she was a stranger whose presence here threatened his secret.

Get through it, his brother had said. Matt charged at problems headlong, shoving barriers out of his way. Adam wasn’t Matt.

He’d come up with another way of dealing with the trouble represented by Tory Marlowe. His gaze was drawn irresistibly to her. What was she thinking?

Apparently assuming he wasn’t going to say anything else, she bent over the window panel, her fingers tracing the pieces as lovingly as he’d touch his daughter’s hair. Her dark locks were escaping from the scarf that tied them back. They curled against her neck as if they had a mind of their own.

Deal with her, he reminded himself. Not gawk at her as if you’ve never seen a woman before.

He didn’t want her wandering around Caldwell Cove, digging into a past that was best forgotten. So the best solution, until and unless he could find a way to derail this memorial window altogether, was to move Tory into Twin Oaks.

“I’ve been having second thoughts about this arrangement.”

She looked up, startled. Apparently while he was watching the way her hair curled against her skin, she’d forgotten he was in the room. “What do you mean? I thought you wanted me to work here.”

Would he ever get things right with this woman? He reminded himself that it didn’t matter—all that did was her leaving Caldwell Cove.

“Of course I want you to work here.” He almost put his hand on her shoulder, then decided that would be a bad idea. “In fact, I think you ought to stay here at the house while you’re in Caldwell Cove.”

A frown line appeared between her brows. “Is this because of the feud between your father and his brother?”

He should have realized she’d think that. “Absolutely not,” he said. “I get along fine with Uncle Clayton and everyone else in the family.”

“Well, you would.” Her lips curved in the slightest of smiles. “Miranda says you’re everyone’s friend. That everyone in town relies on you.”

“I wonder if she meant that as a compliment.” That was him, all right. Good old reliable Adam.

“Of course she did. Anyone would.”

“Sounds sort of stodgy, don’t you think?”

“It sounds good.” She looked startled, as if she hadn’t intended to say that. “Anyway, if it’s not that, then why should I move here from the inn? I’m comfortable there, and I can drive over every day.”

Because I want to keep tabs on you. He could give her any reason but the real one.

“We have plenty of room for you.”

“They have room for me where I am.”

“Yes, but you won’t have to pay for a room here.”

She blinked at that, face suddenly shadowed. The look opened up a whole new train of thought. Was money a problem?

“I don’t know what advance my mother-in-law has paid you,” he said cautiously. Tory obviously had an independent streak a mile wide. “But it stands to reason we should pick up your expenses while you’re here.”

“That doesn’t mean I should be your houseguest.”

“It doesn’t mean you shouldn’t.” He suspected he sounded the way he did when he tried to coax Jenny into eating her collard greens. “If you move into Twin Oaks, you’ll be close to your work. That will certainly be more convenient.”

Her lips pursed as she considered, and he found himself wondering how it would feel to kiss those lips. He shook off the speculation. Not a good idea, Caldwell.

“If you’re worried about propriety, you needn’t be. As my father said, it’s a big house. Miz Becky, the housekeeper, lives in, and we often have business colleagues of my father’s staying.”

“That isn’t what I’m worried about.” She looked up, eyes dark and serious. “I might even find it helpful—giving me a better sense of the kind of person your late wife was.”

It felt as if she’d punched him, and he could only hope his expression didn’t change. Naturally she’d think living in Lila’s house, talking with the people who’d been closest to her, would help her know Lila.

Nobody here will tell you the truth, Tory, because nobody knows it but me.

Well, Miz Becky might have guessed some of it. The Gullah woman who’d taken care of the family since his mother died often knew things no one had told her. But Miz Becky would never betray his trust, no matter what Tory asked. She understood loyalty.

He managed a smile. “What’s holding you back?”

“Your father.”

“Dad?” That startled him. “Why on earth?”

“I didn’t get off to a good start with him. I can’t imagine that he’d want me living under his roof.”

“Now that’s where you’re wrong. He’s the one who suggested it.”

Get her out of Clayton’s place, for pity’s sake, his father had said irritably. That’s the last impression we want to make on the woman—that Caldwells are back-country hicks with no more ambition than to rent out a few rooms and go fishing.

“Is that true?”

“Cross my heart,” he said lightly. “Dad would like you to stay here.”

“And you would like me to leave the island and never come back.” Her eyes met his.

She wouldn’t be convinced by a polite evasion. His natural instinct was to say as little about Lila as possible. As long as he didn’t talk about her, he could forget. At least, that’s what he told himself.

Tory’s gaze was unwavering. He felt a surge of annoyance. No one else in his life pushed him on this. They respected his grief and kept silent.

Or maybe that was the pattern of his relationships. He was the listener, the shoulder to cry on. He wasn’t supposed to have tears of his own.

“All right.” He blew out a frustrated breath. “I’m not crazy about this idea of Mona’s.”

“That’s been clear all along. But I don’t understand why. A memorial to your wife…”

“Exactly. A memorial. Something that brings back memories.” He swung away from her, not wanting her to discover what kind of memories they were.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice softened, filled with sympathy for the grief she imagined he was expressing. “I don’t want to hurt you, and I’m sure that’s the last thing on your mother-in-law’s mind.”

“Thank you.” She shamed him with her quick sympathy. For an instant he imagined the relief he’d feel at telling her the truth.

Horrified, he rejected the thought. He couldn’t tell anyone, least of all a stranger working for Lila’s mother. Mona, like Jenny, would never know the truth from him. He turned toward her.

“Look, this will work out. Just give me time to get used to the idea. All right?”

Tory nodded. Her dark eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and he felt like a dog for accepting the sympathy he didn’t deserve.

“All right. And if you’re sure about this, I’ll take you up on your offer of a room.”

Relief swept through him. “I’m sure.”

Tory squeezed his hand, the gesture probably intended to express sympathy. He felt the touch of her fingers right up his arm.

His eyes met hers. Her dark eyes widened, and her lips formed a silent oh. She felt what he did. And she didn’t know what to do with it, either.

This is a mistake. The voice inside his head was deafening. You won’t risk feeling anything for a woman again. And if you wanted to, it wouldn’t be Tory. She’s complicating your life enough just by being here.

Good advice. That was his specialty, giving good advice to other people. Why did he feel that following his own advice was going to be next to impossible where Tory Marlowe was concerned?

If she’d thought living at Twin Oaks would bring her any closer to her goals, Tory had been wrong. She hadn’t found out a single thing about Lila or the disappearance of the dolphin in the three days she’d been there.

She leaned against the back porch post, sketch pad on her lap. The lawn, greening again after summer’s heat, stretched under live oaks draped with Spanish moss that looked like swags of gray-green lace. Bronze and yellow chrysanthemums spilled over the flower beds along the walks.

Jenny lazed away a Saturday afternoon, pushing herself back and forth in a wooden plank swing suspended from a sturdy branch. Her sneakers scraped the ground with each arc, and her curls bounced.

Tory looked from the child to the sketch that had grown under her fingers. Jenny swung on the page, face lifted to the breeze she was creating.

“That’s good, that is.”

Tory glanced up. Miz Becky, the woman who ran Twin Oaks and apparently everyone in it, settled in the bentwood rocker.

“Thanks.” Tory flexed her fingers and stretched, lifting damp hair off her neck. Even in fall, the air was sultry here. “I can’t sit without doodling.”

Miz Becky’s smile warmed her elegant, austere face. With her hair covered by a colorful scarf wound into a turban, she looked like royalty. “Know what you mean about that.” She lifted the strainer of fresh green beans. “I got to keep my hands busy, too.”

It was the first time she’d been alone with Miz Becky, her first opportunity to ask her about Lila Caldwell if she wanted.

“How’re those windows at the church coming along?” Miz Becky asked.

“Not bad.” Tory wrapped her arms around her knees, wishing she could find a tactful way to broach the subject. “The repairs are moving along. Unfortunately, the new window isn’t.”

The woman popped the ends off the beans with a decisive snap. “Why’s that?”

“I really need to find out more about Mrs. Caldwell’s life if I’m going to come up with a design to honor her. So far—”

“So far Adam’s not talking.” Mix Becky tossed a handful of beans into a sweetgrass basket.

“That’s about the size of it.” She thought of the darkness that crossed Adam’s open, friendly face whenever the topic was raised. “I don’t want to intrude on his grief, but I’m afraid I’ll have to.”

“Grief?” Miz Becky seemed to consider the word. “I’m not so sure that’s what’s keeping him close-mouthed about her.”

Tory glanced up, startled. That almost sounded as if…

Before she could respond, Jenny ran toward them.

“Miz Tory, could we go for a walk on the beach?” The child hopped onto the first step and balanced on one foot. “Please?” She gave Tory the smile that was so like her father’s. “I can’t go by myself.”

She couldn’t resist that smile. “If Miz Becky says it’s okay.”

“Get along.” Miz Becky flapped a hand at them. She held Tory’s gaze for an instant. “Just might answer a few questions for you.”

Was the woman suggesting that Jenny could be a source of information? Adam would definitely disapprove of that.

Jenny grasped Tory’s hand and tugged her off the step. “Come on. I’ll race you.”

Grabbing the sketch pad, Tory followed. She wouldn’t ask the child. If Jenny volunteered anything, that was different.

They crossed the lawn. Jenny skipped ahead of her down the path toward the beach. Palmettos and pines lined it, casting dense shadows littered with oversize pinecones and palmetto fans stripped by the wind.

They emerged from tree shadows into bright, clear light, the ocean stretching blue, then gray, then blending into the sky at the horizon. Tory tilted her head back, inhaling the tang of salt and fish and seaweed washed up by the tide and baking in the sun. It filled her with an irrational sense of well-being, nostalgic for a time she could barely remember.

Jenny trotted across beige sand and hopped onto a fallen log, bleached white by the sea. She patted the smooth space next to her. “Sit here, Miz Tory. I want to talk to you.”

Smiling at the serious turn of phrase, Tory sat. The log was smooth, sun-warmed, a little sandy. “About what?”

“My mother,” Jenny said promptly. “I want to talk about my mother.”

“Listen, Jenny, I don’t think your daddy would like that.”

Jenny’s frown resembled her father’s, too. “The window you’re making is for my mommy. I can tell you lots of things that will help.” She pointed to the small purple and white flowers blooming close to the ground among the sea oats in the dunes. “See those?”

“Beach morning glories, aren’t they?” She hadn’t expected to, but she remembered the tiny, trumpet-shaped flowers from those early childhood holidays when her father was alive and the family summered on Tybee Island. Her fingers automatically picked up the pencil.

“Those were my mommy’s favorite flowers.” Jenny said it firmly, as if to refute argument.

“They’re very pretty.” Beach morning glories began to grow on the paper under her hand.

“I remember lots of things.” A frown clouded her small face. “Like how Mommy smelled, and what she liked to eat. And—”

“What are you doing?”

Tory’s heart jolted into overdrive. Adam stood at the end of the path, glaring. There wasn’t any doubt that his sharp question was aimed at her.

Chapter Four