He turned to study the paintings more closely. One was a picture of a boy of about four holding a big tabby cat, the other a young man in a band uniform. His jaw went slack, and the room seemed to tilt. What he was seeing was impossible.
Jami stepped up beside him. “This was your dad’s room.” Her tone was low, almost reverent.
He stood motionless, still staring at one of the paintings. “My dad played the trumpet.”
“That’s a French horn.” She gasped and spun to look at him. “That’s you, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “The cat in the other painting is Rusty. That’s my mom’s parents’ backyard.”
“But how . . .” Her voice trailed off, confusion deepening the furrows in her brow.
“I don’t know.” He blinked several times, trying to clear his mind. But his brain seemed to be stuck in neutral. “I never met the McAllisters. My mom said they wanted nothing to do with me.”
“Those two-by-four-foot paintings say otherwise.”
She was right. What he was looking at cast doubt on things he’d believed all his life. But if his grandparents had wanted to see him, why hadn’t they tried to contact him?
Brian stepped forward and held up a set of keys, reminding them of his presence. “Here you go. All finished.”
Grant dragged his gaze from the paintings, then reached for his wallet. “Thanks for coming out so quickly.”
“Glad I could help.”
Once Brian was gone, Grant crossed the room and opened the door on the back wall. The odor of mothballs and cedar assaulted his senses, increasing the air of mystery. This closet had probably sat undisturbed for years. He swung the door wider.
The space was large, a walk-in closet with shelves and rods spanning three sides. Two rows of clothes hung neatly on hangers, arranged by type—jeans, then dress pants, then a couple of suits on one side, and short-sleeved shirts, long-sleeved shirts, sweaters, and jackets on the other. Either the McAllister housekeeper’s duties extended to maintaining closets in tip-top shape, or his father had been extremely organized. Since his own closet looked much the same way, it was probably the latter.
Letting his hand fall from the doorknob, he stepped farther inside. The shelves above the closet rods were empty except for a pair of roller skates, a baseball mitt and a reclining stuffed Tigger. Two stacks of boxes stood against the back wall. He reached for one of the top boxes, then dropped his arms. Was he about to uncover some of those skeletons he’d joked about earlier?
He cast a glance over his shoulder. Jami stood a couple feet from the open doorway, her expression somber. He should tell her to leave. She had plenty of pictures for her story. He opened his mouth to tell her as much, then snapped it shut again. What would be worse, Jami discovering the truth along with him, or having her speculate about it? She couldn’t make anything up or print her own ideas of what might be in those boxes. But she could pose the questions and let her readers draw their own conclusions.
He picked up a box and walked from the closet. He would let Jami stay. If his grandparents harbored secrets, so be it. They were no concern of his.
After setting the box on the floor in the middle of the room, he returned to the closet to carry out each of the others, until all six rested at haphazard angles around the room. He dropped to his knees. The first four held stuffed animals, toy cars and trucks, a train set and some children’s books. He handled each item with care. These were things his father had played with. He fingered through the pages of Tom Sawyer. Had his father shared his own love of reading?
He set the book aside and picked up a stuffed seal. The other plush toys were varying levels of almost new to new, but the seal’s gray fur was worn, its stuffing compacted. It had obviously been a favorite, squeezed and hugged and held. Well loved. He brought the toy to his chest and closed his eyes, the longing to know the man who had owned it almost overwhelming.
A soft rustle drew his attention, and he lowered the stuffed toy, self-consciousness seeping through him. Jami had crossed the room and now sat watching him from the edge of the bed. She was quiet and subdued, apparently unwilling to intrude. It was just as well. He wasn’t up for conversation anyway. He repacked the four boxes but kept one plush toy out. Most of the items he would donate, to be enjoyed by other children. The beloved stuffed seal he would keep.
When he lifted the flaps on the fifth box, his breath caught in his throat. Delicate script danced across a padded silver-and-blue cover—My First Year. He lifted it from the box, exposing a photo album. Below that were more albums. His heart began to pound. Finally, what he’d been looking for, pictures of his father.
He dragged the box toward the bed, then eased down next to Jami and opened the book. Inside was a birth announcement. Photos followed, interspersed with lots of stats—length, weight, favorite things, dates and descriptions of each small accomplishment. He tilted the book toward Jami, finally breaking the silence. “Check out this boat.”
A grinning young boy looked back over one shoulder, clutching a smooth metal wheel taller than he was. In the background, white fiberglass and sleek wood trim stretched on and on. Someone had penned the words First Sailing Trip over the top.
Jami whistled. “That’s not a boat. It’s a small cruise ship.”
His chest tightened. His grandparents’ financial success just made their refusal to help sting that much more.
He thumbed through the pages and studied the pictures, emotion swelling in his chest, love for the father he’d never known. The books beneath were more of the same, album after album devoted to nothing but his father’s childhood. He hadn’t just found a key to his past. He’d hit the mother lode.
He pulled another album from the box. His father was much older in that one, probably in high school. Jami pointed to a photo of a teenager dressed in a band uniform and holding a trumpet.
“Your dad played in the band.”
“I know. My mom did, too, flute. So I come from musical parents.”
“How come you don’t play anymore?”
He lowered his eyes to the album in his lap. His father stared back at him, proudly holding his instrument. His own was tucked away in its case at the back of his closet.
“Just busy.” It was the same excuse he’d given her for quitting cooking. And judging from her frown, she wasn’t buying it any more this time than she had before.
The truth was he’d given them both up together. After his marriage blew up, it just wasn’t the same. Gourmet meals prepared and served alone, performances without Bethany in the audience. They were like banners announcing his failure. And he’d never tolerated failure well.
So he’d quit entertaining, quit the orchestra and thrown himself into the one area he would always be a success—work.
He turned to find Jami studying him, a sympathetic smile curving her lips. “I’m sorry you stopped.”
Yeah. Sometimes he missed it. Just not enough to push himself to pick it back up, to go face all those people he’d spent so much time with and see the pity in their eyes. Too many private details of his life had been made public, some true, some Bethany’s form of revenge. There’d been plenty of anger on both ends—his for suffering the ultimate betrayal, hers for the perceived wrongs that had led to that betrayal.
He dropped his gaze to the book and turned the page, pushing the thoughts from his mind. Next was a group picture, the entire band.
Jami shifted beside him. “I studied both piano and clarinet in junior high.”
“Oh? I didn’t know you played.”
“I don’t know if played is the right word for it. But I had really encouraging teachers. My piano teacher encouraged me to pursue the clarinet, and my clarinet teacher encouraged me to stick with piano.”
He laughed, the gloominess burning off like early morning fog. “That’s bad.”
“Wait till you hear me sing. I make babies cry.”
Still smiling, he closed the book and reached for another one. “I bet you’re not
half as bad as you think you are.”
“Stand next to me in church sometime and you’ll be changing your tune.” She grinned. “No pun intended.”
He closed the last book, then returned everything to the box. This one would definitely go back to New York. He stood and dragged over the final one while Jami watched from her place on the side of the bed. This box was larger, its top mashed in from the weight of the others. He bent over and raised the flaps. A scrapbook lay on top, another take-back-to-New-York item, as treasured as the photo albums. He placed it in his lap and opened the front cover. Inside was a short article and picture of a kindergarten graduation clipped from a newspaper—a New York newspaper.
Blood pounded in his ears, gradually building to a roar as he flipped through the book. This wasn’t his father’s scrapbook. It was his own. His grandparents had watched him, or someone had. The pages were filled with newspaper clippings, graduation bulletins, concert programs, every accomplishment he’d ever had, at least the publicly recognized ones. Interspersed throughout the book were photos, probably taken at a distance with a zoom lens.
Jami shook her head, her jaw slack. “Did your grandparents hire a PI to follow and photograph you all these years?” Her voice was the softest whisper. “If they didn’t want any contact with you, why would they do that?”
He sat in silence, his mind spinning. He didn’t have an answer. The scrapbook in his lap was proof they’d done exactly that. What he couldn’t guess was why.
He laid the book aside and looked into the box. Several smaller ones were stacked inside, all sealed, as if ready for shipping. He picked up the first and read the label. It was sent to him in Raleigh, North Carolina, from Elizabeth and Franklin McAllister. Stamped next to the address was return to sender in red capital letters. The date on the postmark was a week before his first birthday.
He stared at the package, conflicting thoughts tumbling through his mind. That gift was contrary to everything his mother had told him. His grandparents hadn’t ignored him. They had reached out with a gift. But he’d never received it.
He pulled another package from the box, this one sent in December, and then another, mailed around the time of his second birthday. Three gifts, all from his grandmother, addressed to him and returned unopened.
Jami drew in a deep breath. “Were they sent to the wrong address?”
“I don’t know.” He laid the packages aside. “We lived with my mom’s parents in Raleigh until I was four, but I don’t know the address.”
Apparently it was different from what was on those packages. His gut tightened as a wave of unease swept through him. It had to be the wrong address. The alternative was unthinkable—that the one person who’d been his constant all his life had deceived him from the start.
Jami rested a hand on his forearm. “I’m sure there’s a logical explanation. The address is probably wrong, and since your mom didn’t have her own place at the time, they had trouble locating you.”
“Thanks.” He put his hand over hers and met her eyes. They were filled with sincerity and a warmth that touched something deep inside him. His foundation was shifting, leaving him scrambling for a foothold. But Jami was there, offering stability and encouragement. His hand tightened over hers, and an odd longing filled him, the desire to connect, to draw strength from someone and to offer his in return.
To no longer be alone.
He mentally shook himself. What was he thinking? He’d been alone all his life. In childhood, while his classmates excluded the new kid and his mom worked two jobs, he found his company in books. And in adulthood, while he focused on success, he hadn’t taken the time to intimately connect with anyone except his wife. And he hadn’t even done that right. While he’d poured himself into his career, she’d filled her time with her charitable fundraising activities and sought comfort in the arms of his best friend.
No, alone was what he knew.
He wasn’t cut out for anything different.
Credits rolled on the big-screen TV. Three paper plates and an empty Papa’s Pizza box sat on the coffee table beside a half-finished two-liter of Coke. Jami released a sigh and scratched Bailey behind the ears.
Samantha grinned over at her. “That sounded like a sigh of longing.”
“She’s missing her man.”
Jami frowned at Holly. “Robert’s not my man anymore.” In fact, the way they’d left things, he probably wasn’t even her friend. He hadn’t tried to contact her since the awkward proposal at Downtown Pizza. No phone call, no text, no e-mail. No pleas to give their relationship another chance. Either he was taking the breakup exceptionally well and had already moved on, or he was so hurt and angry he wanted nothing to do with her. More than likely, it was the latter.
Holly shook her head. “Robert’s not the man I’m talking about.”
“Well, Grant’s not my man, either.” Although she was missing him. She’d spent a good bit of the day yesterday taking pictures and talking to him. Then today she’d followed through with her promise of lunch at Murphy Chophouse.
She was no longer on edge around him. The sense he was in a whole different realm had disappeared somewhere between warm chocolate chip cookies at his place and scheming at the Grind. She liked being with him—that dry sense of humor, the unexpected teasing, even the brooding.
Yesterday she’d seen a side of him that surprised her. Actually, it had done a whole lot more than that. As he’d knelt among the open boxes, eyes closed, the worn-out stuffed seal held tenderly against his chest, she’d almost cried. There was so much more to Grant than the cool, hard exterior he presented to the world.
She looked over at Holly again, who was watching her, a knowing glint in her eyes.
“You have to admit you’re attracted to him.”
“I’m guessing so are ninety percent of the other women he meets. Even Bernie says he’s hot.”
Sam grinned. “With Bernie, that doesn’t mean anything.”
Jami pushed the pizza box out of the way to rest her feet on the coffee table. “I just broke things off with Robert. I don’t need to add another failure to my already-poor track record.”
“Your track record’s not that bad.” Holly paused. “Well, maybe it is.”
“It’s okay to make mistakes,” Sam said. “You just have to try to learn from them. First off, stay away from the guys who seem to eat up attention from women.”
“Like Steve?”
Holly rolled her eyes. “He played on the Michigan State football team. Everyone knows athletes are major players.”
Yeah, Steve was a player, all right. She’d been surprised when he’d taken an interest in her in algebra class. Over the next few weeks, he’d had her walking on air as he took her places and introduced her all over campus as his girlfriend. When she found out he’d slipped one of the cheerleaders into his dorm room, she’d crashed back down to earth in a ball of fire.
Sam continued. “And don’t date guys who are too into themselves.”
Holly nodded. “That’s good advice. When they constantly talk about themselves, bragging about their accomplishments, those are instant red flags. They tend to be selfish. You want a guy who’s into you.”
Yep, she’d had her share of guys who thought way more of themselves than they should. Those relationships hadn’t lasted long. When a man was more interested in himself than her, she lost patience fast.
“What about Jerrod?” Not all of her exes were jerks. “He wasn’t conceited and selfish or a player.”
Sam leaned forward to refill her plastic cup with Coke. “Your mistake with Jerrod was dating a guy who was still trying to get over his ex.”
Everything her friends said made sense. In fact, she could see it herself. But hindsight was always twenty-twenty. Spotting all the negatives was a lot harder in the midst of the excitement of a new relationship. What she needed was supernatural wisdom. “I think I need to pray harder.”
“Yeah,” Holly agreed. “That, too.”
> She crossed her arms. “You know, I haven’t always picked duds. Pierre was a nice guy.”
Sam raised her brows. “Are you talking about our senior year of high school? He was a foreign exchange student and went back to France at the end of the school year.”
And she’d been heartbroken. He’d promised to come back and continue his studies in America. She’d never heard from him again.
“Sam’s right,” Holly said. “If they have to move mountains to be with you, while that sounds romantic, it’s not really practical.”
“Trust me, expecting anything serious to develop between Grant and me isn’t practical, either.” New York wasn’t as far away as France, but it might as well be. His life was there. Tomorrow he’d be flying back. He would make one more short trip. Then she’d never see him again. The emptiness stabbing through her was something she didn’t want to admit to herself, much less her friends.
She leaned over Bailey to retrieve a spiral-bound notebook and pen from the coffee table. Time for a change of subject.
“We’ve got flowers being delivered for Bernie. Anybody have any ideas for Hank?”
She handed the notebook to Samantha, the only one with an empty lap since Morgan had claimed Holly’s legs. Sam folded back the cover and wrote Hank across the top. “It can’t be too mushy.”
Jami nodded. Anything Bernie might write to Hank would likely have a touch of sarcasm.
Samantha tapped the end of the pen on the paper several times. “I have an idea.” Moments later, she held up the notebook.
Holly read the words aloud. “I can hardly believe no one has snatched you up, a man of few words but great depth, strong yet gentle.”
Jami eyed the page with a frown. “That doesn’t sound like Bernie.”
“How do you know?” Samantha asked. “When have you ever seen Bernie in love?”
“You’ve got a point.” She studied the page some more, then nodded. “It might work. I’ve got to type it, though. I’d never be able to imitate Bernie’s handwriting.” Her signature was as unique as Bernie herself, the capital B a heavy vertical line with a series of loops and curves extending through the letters that followed, the capital H identical except with two vertical lines instead of one.
Trust My Heart Page 7
