Holly pursed her lips. “How are we going to get it to Hank?”
“Mail it.” Samantha twirled the pen between her fingers. “With just a Murphy postmark and no return address, it could come from anyone.”
Holly’s brows were creased in thought. Something apparently bothered her about the plan.
Jami frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t get it. If neither of them knows who the notes and gifts are from, how is that supposed to put them together?”
“We drop hints,” Jami said. “Get Bernie thinking about Hank and Hank thinking about Bernie. The rest will happen. I think it’s always been there. Hank’s just too shy to pursue it.”
Holly leaned forward, eyes sparkling with excitement and a little bit of mischief. “If he thinks she’s already interested, it’ll help him work up the courage to ask her out on a real date.”
“And,” Samantha continued, “if Bernie’s been anticipating it, she’ll be more likely to say yes.”
Holly held up both hands, initiating two high fives. “Go, girlfriends. Are we good or what?”
“We’re good.” Samantha closed the notebook and pushed the pen down into the wire spiral. “So what’s up with the boxes? I thought you were done unpacking.”
Jami glanced over at the three boxes lined up against the living room wall. “Those aren’t mine. They’re Grant’s.”
Sam eyed them with interest. “What are you doing with them?”
“Holding on to them. They’re photo albums and things. He wants to throw them away.” But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Family was too important to her to throw away years of rich history. And if she let Grant do it, something told her he was going to regret it later. “I’m trying to keep him from making a big mistake.”
Holly turned toward her, radiating eagerness. “Are you going to go through them?”
“I don’t think he’d appreciate me snooping through his stuff.” Although the thought had been there all along, the temptation stronger at some times than others.
“But he’s throwing it away,” Holly argued. “What would he care?”
“Yeah, but still.” As much as she’d like to know what was in those boxes, going through them without his permission didn’t sit right with her.
But curiosity had been getting the better of her since she brought them into the house several days earlier. By the time Sam and Holly left, curiosity won out over willpower, and she tore into the first box. Grant would never know. And maybe there would be something she could use for her article.
The photo albums were just as he’d said—pictures of the McAllisters before Gary McAllister was born. The second box was more of the same. The third box was smaller and appeared to be filled with letters, lots of them, all signed by Elizabeth McAllister. She removed the top letter from the stack and began to read.
Dear Gary,
I can’t believe you’re gone. I keep expecting you to walk through the door, kiss me on the cheek and tell me it was all a big misunderstanding. Then I realize this is it, you’re not coming back, and we have to somehow go on without you.
Your father doesn’t talk about it much. But he is grieving, too, in his own way. He regrets there was so much conflict between you. You always were a little headstrong, and so is he. That’s why the two of you clashed. He tried to stop you from marrying Anna because he wanted what was best for you. Your decision to marry her anyway broke his heart, and he lashed out. But he didn’t mean what he said, and he’ll always live with regret, knowing the last words between you were spoken in anger.
The next several letters were much like the first, a grief-stricken mother pouring out her sorrow over a lost son. Then there was mention of Grant.
Is it true Anna is carrying your child? I’ve tried to reach out to her, but she wants nothing to do with me. She blames us for your accident. In time I believe she will soften.
It was signed, Your loving mother.
Frowning, Jami looked up from the neat script. Elizabeth McAllister had apparently tried to contact Anna McAllister, and Anna refused. That completely contradicted what Grant believed.
She picked up the next letter and continued to read, page after page. Then the tone changed. It was just one paragraph, inserted into a letter similar to all the others.
Desmond saw you today. Anna picked you up at the babysitter’s house and carried you toward the car. But you wanted to walk and squirmed until she put you down. You’re getting so big. I’m so proud of you. Desmond has promised to send me pictures.
Jami laid the letter in her lap. The paragraphs written to Gary blended smoothly into the single one that read as if Grant were the recipient. Maybe it was just a momentary lapse.
She learned the truth long before she reached the bottom of the box. The letters all began Dear Gary, but more and more, the line between son and grandson blurred until the only reference to Gary was the salutation itself. Apparently, Elizabeth McAllister had slowly lost her grip on reality. Had Franklin then proceeded to protect the secret, and his wife, in the only way he knew, sealing them off from the rest of the world?
Jami took the last letter from the box and laid it on the coffee table with the others. Beneath were envelopes, the top addressed to Elizabeth McAllister from Anna McAllister. Grant’s mother? She probably wrote to ask the McAllisters for help, which, based on what Grant had told her, was denied.
She removed the contents of the envelope, two pages folded separately. When she opened the first, a check fluttered to her lap, and her eyes widened. Ten thousand dollars. Paid to Anna McAllister. But it was never cashed. Instead, VOID blazed across the front in angry black print. Why would Elizabeth McAllister write Grant’s mother a check and then void it?
Her gaze shifted to the page she’d unfolded. As she read, coldness seeped into her core.
Grant had it all wrong.
It was too late tonight, but come morning, she would be on his doorstep. He would be furious with her for snooping through his things.
But now that she knew the truth, there was no way she could keep it from him.
SIX
Grant slipped his shaving kit into the corner of his suitcase. The gray seal was stuffed in at the other end. Everything was ready to go, including the photo albums and scrapbooks. He would drop the boxes by the post office for shipping. Then he’d have a leisurely breakfast at the Blue Mountain Grill, drive to the airport, return the rental car, and head back to New York.
One week ago, he couldn’t wait for his stay in Murphy to end. Now he faced leaving with mixed emotions. His time there hadn’t been nearly the drudgery he’d expected when he first arrived. Most of that he owed to one auburn-haired, green-eyed newspaper reporter who wouldn’t take no for an answer. She’d turned what should have felt like relentless pursuit into a lighthearted game.
She had a radiance about her, a sense of carefree innocence. Exuberant, quirky and quick to smile, she seemed to carry sunshine with her wherever she went. But she had depth, too, an inner strength, a calm confidence that no matter what happened, everything would be all right. He’d seen it several times, during those glimpses into her serious side. The way she’d put her father’s leaving behind her. The encouragement she’d given him when he discovered those suspicious packages. Even her earlier admonition against remaining angry with his grandparents. He hadn’t appreciated it at the time, but he had to admit she was right.
He zipped his suitcase and rolled it across the suite. When he swung open the door, Jami stood there, fist poised to knock. His pulse rate kicked up a couple notches, and the start of an involuntary smile tickled his cheeks. As early as he had to leave, he hadn’t expected to see her again. He wasn’t disappointed.
Then his eyes dipped to the floor. His smile died before it could fully take form. If he hadn’t recognized the shape and size of the box sitting at her feet, the word trash scrawled across the top would have left no doubt what was inside. She’d promised to throw it away, along with the ot
her two. So what was it doing at his door?
“Grant, please don’t be mad.”
His chest tightened. Any conversation starting like that couldn’t turn out well. “Do I have reason to be?”
“Maybe. But I had to see you. May I come in?”
He crossed his arms and studied her as she shifted her weight and clasped and unclasped her hands. The tightness intensified, spreading into his shoulders and neck.
“Please? I have to show you something.”
He let her wait another long moment. There was nothing in that box he cared about. He’d already seen it. Jami apparently had, too. Her offer to take the boxes to the landfill was nothing but a way to get her hands on something belonging to the McAllisters. A pretty deceitful way, considering she’d intentionally misled him. Why was he surprised? She was a reporter, for Pete’s sake.
Finally, he stepped aside, jaw tight. She picked up the box and carried it to the table against the wall in the sitting area of the suite. Thick black letters marched across its top, marking it for what it was. It should already be in the landfill by now. Instead, it sat proudly on the table, mocking him with its presence.
“Why do you still have this?”
“I couldn’t bring myself to throw everything away without knowing what was there. I was afraid you would regret it later.”
“That’s my concern, not yours, don’t you think?” His tone was hard, and he didn’t try to soften it. Whatever warm thoughts he’d had for Jami moments earlier had congealed into a cold lump. She was nothing but a nosy reporter, eager for some juicy tidbit she could use for her story.
She rested her hand on the top of the box. “You need to see these letters.”
“I already have. They’re written by my grandmother. So they don’t interest me in the slightest.”
“Did you read all the way to the bottom of the box?”
“I read enough.”
“No, you didn’t.” There was a surprising amount of force behind the words.
He crossed his arms in front of him. “Look, if it bothers you so much, leave the box here. I’ll throw it away myself.”
Jami popped open its top. She’d tucked the flaps under one another, as he had Saturday. Maybe if he’d taped it shut, she would have stayed out of it. Not likely. Anything for a story.
She reached into the box, pulled out a stack of pages and shook them in his face. “Stop being so stubborn. If you’re determined to stick your head in the sand, I’ll tell you what’s in here, because you need to know.” She laid the handful of pages on the table and turned to face him. “You saw the first ones, written to your dad. By the end of the box, the letters are still addressed to your father, but everything in them applies to you. It appears your grandmother slowly lost her mind, which might be why they became recluses for the last thirty years of their lives.”
He stood staring down at her, arms still crossed, his mood no better than when she’d walked in. Nothing was going to justify her snooping through his things. “So the old woman went nuts. What does that have to do with me?”
In response, she reached into the box and placed a stack of envelopes on the table. After removing the contents from the top one, she handed him a check.
He looked at it before handing it back to her. “My grandmother wrote my mom a check, then voided it. I guess the rare moment of generosity passed before she could get the envelope sealed.”
“That’s what I thought, until I read this.”
He looked down at what she handed him, a sense of dread settling over him. He didn’t want to read the letter. Something told him it contained information that would shake his very foundation. For anything less, Jami wouldn’t be there, her presence silent testimony she’d violated his trust.
He should hand the letter back and refuse to read it. Then he could keep believing what he had all his life. But that wasn’t an option. His eyes seemed to have a mind of their own as they roved back and forth over the note.
I am returning your check as well as your letter. My answer is the same as when you tried to pay me to quietly walk out of Gary’s life. I don’t want your money. I would beg on the streets before I would take anything from you.
As he read, his mother’s voice rang in his head, bitter and shrill, dripping with venom. A single name ended the short paragraph. But the signature wasn’t necessary. He knew that heavy, jagged script. Even her handwriting looked angry.
He moved the page aside to view the one behind it. It was his grandmother’s letter, begging forgiveness and offering financial assistance. He laid both letters on the table, his mind reeling. Why would his mother tell him the McAllisters wanted nothing to do with him when the opposite was true?
He snatched the other envelopes from the box and, one by one, pulled out their contents. They held letters like the first and one more attempt to send a check. Then there was a single sheet, the letter written by Elizabeth McAllister, and across the bottom, the jagged script he knew so well—Don’t bother trying to write again. Future letters will be returned unopened. As promised, the last five envelopes were still sealed.
He put everything back into the box and closed the lid, shock still coursing through him. His mother had lied to him. The realization was like a steel-toed boot to the gut. The life she’d built for them was a sham, their struggles brought on by her own pride and bitterness. What else had she lied about?
A hand on his shoulder brought his spinning thoughts to an abrupt stop, and he turned to see Jami staring up at him, eyes filled with pity. Fire shot through his veins, fueled by humiliation. The foundation had been ripped from under him, and she was watching the whole thing. He didn’t want her pity. In fact, he didn’t want her there at all.
He twisted away from her touch, sweeping her with a disdainful glance. “You sure lucked out.” Sarcasm dripped from the words. “You’ve got all the elements of a sensational story—tragedy, grief, hatred, bitterness, deception, insanity. The high-and-mighty McAllisters, brought to their knees when tragedy strikes. The angry, bitter shrew who denied them their only source of comfort. And the poor schmuck who at age thirty learned his whole life was a lie. Pretty sensational stuff for Murphy.”
Jami didn’t respond, just continued watching him, except now her eyes were filled with pain. His sarcasm had hurt her. But everything he’d said was true. She was a reporter, and he’d given her quite a story.
“I won’t print anything you don’t want me to print.” Her tone was soft but sincere.
He gave a derisive snort. “What happened to ‘A reporter will do anything for a story’?”
“Not this reporter. When I say I won’t print something, I won’t print it. No matter what.” She looked up at him, silently pleading with him to trust her. But trust for him didn’t come easily. Every time he tried, it came back to bite him in the rear.
Like when he’d believed Bethany’s promise to love and to cherish, forsaking all others. And trusted his best friend to escort her to her events when he’d been too busy to go himself.
“I’m sorry, Grant.” Jami’s soft words pulled him back to the present. The pity in her eyes was still there. “I had to share this. I couldn’t let you go to your grave hating your grandparents.”
Instead he would hate his mother.
“You can leave now.” His tone was low, with a hard edge. He didn’t do angry outbursts. Even when he’d walked in on Bethany and Craig, he’d thrown them out of his bed with an icy calmness that had left them scrambling into their clothes and running for the door. But the calmness had been a facade, a paper-thin wall hiding the storm of emotion swirling inside him, his own silent shouts of denial and the echo of a thousand what-ifs.
Jami once again placed a hand on his forearm. “Don’t be too hard on your mother. Remember, she’s all the family you’ve got.”
His hands tightened into fists. “Get out.” He didn’t need to hear any more. Dishing out nice-sounding platitudes was easy when life was sunny and the biggest concern
on the horizon was what to make for dinner. Yet as soon as the thought passed through his mind, he knew he was being unfair. With an alcoholic father who’d deserted her at a young age and a mother fighting cancer, her life hadn’t been easy.
She moved toward the door and, after opening it, cast one pain-filled glance over her shoulder. A cold lump settled in his gut. He was being harder on her than he should. It wasn’t her fault he’d been duped.
He pushed the remorse aside. Whatever hurt she felt wouldn’t last long. She had what she wanted. All he was to her was a good source for a story. And she was . . . what? A temporary friend, someone who’d made his stay in Murphy a little more enjoyable. Even that was more than he’d been looking for. He wasn’t in the market for a romantic fling, and anything long-term was out of the question, regardless of Bernie’s wacky schemes. Because no matter how sweet someone seemed, how honest and wholesome, he would eventually find his trust betrayed.
He wheeled his bag to the car, the box Jami had brought propped on one hip. He’d stop at one of the small towns he’d passed on his way up from the Atlanta airport and mail it back to New York with the others. The sooner he could leave Murphy behind, the better.
If he was smart, he’d tell Vanguard to make him an offer on the property with all the furnishings and be done with it. Most of what he wanted was sitting in the backseat. Whatever was left, Vanguard could have. Then he wouldn’t even have to come back. He would wrap things up at work, tie up a few loose ends at home and embark on his two months of freedom.
A few minutes later, he cruised down 60, through several miles of nothingness. Woods encroached from both sides, thick underbrush hiding the forest floor. A heavy layer of clouds blanketed the sky. To his left, the sun hovered over the treetops, the only evidence of its presence a section of the horizon not quite as gray. The scene matched his mood—sullen and bleak.
Trust My Heart Page 8
