A Time to Forgive

A rush of anger threatened to overwhelm Adam. Tory was talking to his daughter about Lila. He clenched his fists. He’d avoided her questions so she’d turned to his child. How dare she?

Jenny’s stubborn pout reached through his anger to sound a warning note. Careful. Don’t make too much of this in front of her.

“We’re talking, Daddy.” Jenny tilted her chin. “About Mommy.”

“I see.” He crossed the sand toward them, put one foot on the bleached log, tried for a casualness he didn’t feel. “That’s nice, sugar, but Miz Becky’s looking for you. She has your snack ready.”

“But, Daddy, I don’t want to go yet. I’m not done telling Ms. Tory about Mommy.”

He pushed down another wave of anger at Tory, took Jenny’s hands and swung her off the log. “Maybe not, but Miz Becky’s waiting for you. Get along, now.”

Jenny pouted, then glanced at Tory. “I’ll see you after a while. We’ll talk some more.” At his warning look, she darted toward the path.

The smile Tory had for his daughter slipped from her face once Jenny was gone. She planted her hands against the log on either side of her, seeming to brace herself for battle. “Is something wrong?”

“I think you know something’s wrong.” Anger drove him, so intense he almost didn’t know where to begin. “First off, Jenny’s not supposed to go to the beach without asking, even with a grown-up.”

Tory lifted her level brows. “Miz Becky gave her permission. Surely you don’t think I’d take Jenny anywhere otherwise.”

“I don’t know what you’d do.” Being blunt might be the only thing that would work with the woman. “You were probing Jenny for information about her mother.” He flung the words at her like missiles. He wanted her to admit she’d been wrong. More than that, he wanted her gone.

She didn’t give any sign of being struck. “I wasn’t probing. Jenny brought it up. She wanted to talk.”

His heart seemed to wince at that, and for a moment there was no sound but the rustle of sea oats bowing in the wind. Then he found his voice. “That’s ridiculous. Jenny was only four when her mother died. She barely recalls her.”

“Maybe that’s the point. She wants to remember.” Passion flared in Tory’s face, vivid and startling. “Don’t you realize that?”

Her question flicked him on the raw edges of emotion, and he wanted to hit back. “I realize it’s none of your business.”

Her mouth tightened, as if acknowledging his right to say it. “You can’t stop the child from remembering.” Her voice softened, and she put up one hand to brush windblown hair from her eyes. “Why would you want to?”

It was safer not to stare into brown eyes that seemed to know too much about loneliness. He looked beyond Tory, focusing on the inexorable movement of the waves rolling into shore. A line of sandpipers rushed importantly along the wet sand. He struggled, trying to find the right words.

“I don’t. But I don’t want her to be stuck in grieving. Jenny needs to look forward,” he said. “There’s nothing to be gained by dwelling on the past.”

“Are you talking about Jenny or about yourself?” The question was like a blow to the stomach, but before he could react, she was shaking her head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No.” He had to force the word through tight lips. “You shouldn’t.” She had no right.

“I just want…” She let the words trail off, then held her sketch pad out to him. “Look. This is what I’m trying to do.”

He took the pad, frowning at a sketch of beach morning glories trailing along the page. “You’re drawing flowers. What does that have to do with questioning my daughter?”

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