The Girl of Sand & Fog

by Ward, Susan

  I can feel the emotion coursing through my husband. “The records had an address for you, but none for my birth mother, Ellen. Do you know where she is?”

  Greg’s eyes cloud over. “She was my high school sweetheart. We married right after graduation. Never had any more children. Just you. My wife died two years ago. A car accident. But I can tell you everything you want to know about Ellen.”

  I stare up at Bobby to see how that one hits him. He purses his lips, nodding and looking dazed.

  “We’ve come a far way to meet you,” I say. “It’s really hot today. Is there someplace cooler we can sit and talk?”

  Greg flushes. “Why don’t we go into the house?” he suggests eagerly. “The entire family will be here later. My brothers—your uncles—and my dad. Please stay. I know everyone will want to meet you.”

  Bobby’s Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. He’s choking back emotion, and I can tell he’s not going to be able to speak anytime soon.

  I shift my gaze to find Greg imploring us with his eyes. “We’d love to stay. We want to meet everyone.”

  Greg’s smile is enormous—exactly the same smile as Bobby’s—as he gestures us toward the front door. “Come on, then. Let’s get you inside.”

  Bobby nods. He looks like he can hardly take in air. His fingers clutching my hand squeeze lightly. I kiss his arm and step ahead toward the house.

  I pause at the front door and look at Greg. “I’m so happy we came.”

  “I’m so happy you’re here,” he says as we step into the house.

  I peek back over my shoulder to make sure that Bobby is following from the yard. God, I’ve never seen him look so overwhelmed, but his expression tells me this is all going to be OK. The room is be filled with that tentative awkwardness of two people in an intense moment not knowing where to start, but the air is also warm with pulsing emotion from both men.

  This is good, really good.

  Bobby needed this.

  I give myself a mental pat on the back.

  “Should we sit down?” Greg says. “There’s so much I want to know. I want to know everything about your life, Bobby, and your beautiful wife here. And I’m sure you have questions. I’ll answer anything you ask me.”

  Bobby nods, and I cross the room trying to decide where to sit. Then I sink down on a sofa and wait for the two men—unable it seems to do anything but stare at each other—to step into this incredible moment with me.

  Finally, Bobby sits in the spot beside me and his dad takes a chair close and facing us.

  Bobby rakes a hand nervously through his hair. “I don’t know where to start.”

  Greg laughs. “I don’t either. Why don’t I start with what I know? I know you grew up in Pacific Palisades. I know you are one hell of an athlete and was your graduating class’s valedictorian. I know who your adoptive parents are, Len and Linda Rowan. I know you’ve been traveling across the US for the past two years. Your mom, Linda, is a good woman. She’s been sending us letters and pictures of you through the adoption attorney your entire life. We never wanted to give you up. We kept you for two months, but we were just too young to do right by a baby. It was the hardest thing we ever had to do, giving you up. But it was the right thing and we felt so blessed that we found Linda for you after we received the first letter from her. It meant so much to Ellen every month to get a letter and some pictures of you. An enormous comfort to know we did well by you, especially since God never saw fit to give us more children. That would have made life impossible for Ellen if we hadn’t known you were happy. Linda is a loving woman and prolific letter writer. I know a lot about you, Bobby Rowan. A lot more than you think.”

  Bobby’s tense face cracks with a smile. “I hope not,” he murmurs and both men laugh.

  Ah. A joke. A good sign.

  I relax into my husband’s side. There are times Linda just floors me. This is one of those times. No wonder she didn’t hesitate or argue when I asked for information to unseal Bobby’s adoption records. She’s been communicating with his birth parents on her own for years.

  Greg is right. Linda Rowan is a good woman and Bobby couldn’t have done better in the adoptive mom department. She not only raised an incredible man, but was the kind of mother who could make days like today possible.

  As I listen to them quietly talk, a part of me wishes Linda was here to see this.

  This would make her happy, too, I think.

  I wonder if I can sneak a video without them noticing.

  I slyly reach into my tote.

  EPILOGUE

  Seven years later

  I hurry through the house to my parents’ backyard to find my dad surrounded by my brothers and sisters.

  Jeez, Krystal looks agitated and annoyed, but then again this is her high school graduation trip before she moves to New York to attend Juilliard.

  I avoid her stare, the angry sister stare, pinning me as I cross the patio.

  Fine.

  I’m late.

  Deal with it.

  It’s not like the plane is going to leave the airport without us, and if she had half a clue what a chore it was getting out of the house with a husband and two boys, she wouldn’t be so darn petty about waiting an extra twenty minutes.

  Mom’s not even here yet.

  See, I’m not late.

  “Where’s Mom?”

  My dad whirls toward me. “There’s my princess. Chrissie is still packing. We were starting to think you were going to cut out on us.”

  I kiss him on the cheek. “I wouldn’t do that. I love our annual family trips. I’m sorry I’m late. I was sick all morning. I’m pregnant again.”

  My dad’s jaw drops. “You’re joking, right?”

  I shake my head. “No. Did a stick test. Pretty darn sure grandchild number three is on its way.”

  Those black eyes burn. “Where the hell is that son-in-law of mine?”

  “Well, that was a little mean, Alan,” I chide, mimicking my mom.

  “What is wrong with that boy? You’ve just launched a start-up independent film company. That should be your focus. Two kids. Enough. Why can’t he listen?”

  I bite back a smile and do a pout instead. “Well, that’s not the reaction I expected. And stop pretending you don’t like Bobby. I know that you do.”

  Alan rakes a hand through his hair. “I’m not going to like him if he keeps this up.”

  Krystal starts laughing. “You’re so ridiculous, Dad. A man with five kids can’t be critical of a man soon to have three. It doesn’t work that way.”

  He gives Krystal the stare. “Stop. You girls are not allowed to gang up on me. Not when Chrissie is not here.”

  She only laughs harder.

  My dad searches the backyard.

  “Where is Bobby?” Alan asks again.

  I sink down on a chaise.

  “He’s not coming. I told mom that a week ago. He left this morning with the boys for Lodi to see Greg. Bobby’s been learning about grapes. Making wine. The business. We’re thinking about starting a winery.”

  “A winery?” More displeasure on my dad’s face. “Terrible idea. They bleed money. Only good for the tax advantage. Bobby is just full of winning ideas, now isn’t he?”

  I pout again. “I think so. He married me.”

  Alan’s gaze softens. “Yes, you are definitely a winning idea. Unfortunately, you were Bobby’s only winning idea.”

  Krystal scrunches up her face. “I’m never getting married.”

  Alan rummages in his pocket for his phone—no doubt to call Bobby—as he drops a kiss on Krystal’s dark curls. “Perfect. Now all I have to do is convince you not to go to Juilliard, stay home and study dance here.”

  Krystal groans. “Will you leave off about Juilliard? Why do you have such a problem with me going there? It’s becoming unbearable you trying to change my mind. Why don’t you just tell me why you don’t want me to go?”

  Jeez, did my dad’s face just flush?

  “No r
eason,” he says quietly. “I just want you here.”

  “Not buying it, Dad,” Krystal says pointedly.

  He shrugs. “I don’t like the thought of you living in New York alone, Krystal. That’s my reason.”

  I lock eyes with my sister, her expression mirroring mine. Alan’s cheeks reddening—a definite dead giveaway.

  What don’t we know?

  Chrissie rushes across the patio. “Alan, stop giving Krystal a hard time about Juilliard. We should both be thrilled she’s going there. And there’s only one you. There’s not a chance in the world our daughter is going to run into a guy like you there.”

  My eyes widen in disbelief. “That’s why you’ve been so difficult about the Juilliard thing, Pop? You don’t want Krystal to live in New York because you’re worried she might meet someone like you? Like Mom did when she went for her Juilliard audition? Just for future clarification, would that be worse than marrying someone like Bobby?”

  My dad’s expression is priceless.

  Krystal and I explode into laughter.

  Alan frowns. “Thanks a lot, Chrissie. Way to be a team player.”

  Krystal exhales loudly. “Why don’t you ever set me up with any of Bobby’s hot surfing buddies? I’d like to find a guy like Bobby. I might be willing to stay in southern California for that.”

  I slowly shake my head, smiling. “Sorry, Krystal. Not going to happen. There is only one Bobby and he’s mine.”

  The End

  Continue the Parker Family Saga with the next generation, Krystal, Ethan, Eric & Khloe. Their books releasing 2016. For all my current and future releases visit my website:

  http://susanwardbooks.com

  Or like me on Facebook:

  https://www.facebook.com/susanwardbooks?ref=hl

  Or Follow me on Twitter: @susaninlaguna

  Enjoy one of my current contemporary romance releases:

  Broken Crown

  The Girl on the Half Shell

  The Girl of Tokens and Tears

  The Girl of Diamonds and Rust

  The Girl in the Comfortable Quiet

  The Signature

  Rewind

  One Last Kiss

  One More Kiss

  One Long Kiss

  One Forever Kiss(Releasing Fall 2015)

  Or enjoy one of my historical romance releases:

  When the Perfect Comes

  Face to Face

  Love’s Patient Fury

  Love me Forever: Releasing Fall of 2015

  Enjoy Chrissie and Alan’s story from the beginning with The Girl on the Half Shell, The Half Shell Series Book One:

  The room is so quiet it is deafening.

  I find Alan on his bed, casually reclined against a stack of pillows, dressed only in flannel pajama bottoms, and reading—of all things—the Wall Street Journal. There is a fire lit, the silver candlesticks flicker with flame, the bedcovers invitingly turned down as if in preparation for some sort of romantic scene. But he is focused on the Journal.

  He doesn’t look at me and I feel stupid hovering by his door, so I start to wander around the bedroom, trying to still my frantic pulse. It’s a good thing that it’s an interesting room, otherwise my deliberate study would seem silly.

  Even Alan’s bedroom is something I find weird and demands a certain amount of mental analysis. It looks like something from a nineteenth century English manor, elegant to the point of being almost a touch prissy. There’s an antique mahogany king-sized bed facing the fireplace; floral wingback chairs with pillows positioned before the hearth; and high-tech conveniences camouflaged in antique furniture. There’s a Monet on the wall; tall, polished sterling silver candlesticks; crystal; and fine, leather-bound, first edition books of classic literature. I sink down before a small, mahogany table where I find a stack of newspaper: Barons; the New York Times; the Washington Post; and the Daily Telegraph.

  The warmth of the fire surrounds me like a caress, but I am quaking like a leaf. I wasn’t sure what Alan expected after he walked out of the kitchen. It would have been logical to assume that I would leave. But he knew I’d follow him. I don’t know why he’s ignoring me now. I look at the lit candlesticks—he wanted me to follow him.

  I bite my lower lip and stare at my knotted fingers. I stayed alone in the kitchen for what seemed like ages, and now that I’ve done exactly what he expected me to do, nothing.

  I struggle for something to say to break the silence. “You do have seven bedrooms. I counted them twice. But there are seven only if I include yours.”

  He folds the Journal, tosses it on the table and fixes those penetrating, mesmerizing eyes on me. “Is this the room you want?” he asks, his voice gentle. “I meant it when I said you could have any room. It doesn’t have to be my room for you to stay.”

  Does he not want me in his room? A ragged breath forces its way from deep in my lungs. “Do you want me to go?” I murmur.

  “Of course not. I want you here.” His voice is husky and his eyes are wandering in a leisurely hold that is tender and oddly comforting

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Susan Ward is a native of Santa Barbara, California, where she currently lives in a house on the side of a mountain, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. She doesn’t believe she makes sense anywhere except near the sea. She attended the University of California Santa Barbara and earned a degree in Business Administration from California State University Sacramento. She works as a Government Relations Consultant, focusing on issues of air quality and global warming. The mother of grown daughters, she lives a quiet life with her husband and her dog, Emma. She can be found most often walking at Hendry’s Beach, where she writes most of her storylines in her head while watching Emma play in the surf.

  Spare a tree. Be good to the earth. Donate or share my books with a friend.