by Jackie Braun
But late that night, as Brice slept in his crib, Morgan sat at the kitchen table sipping a cup of herbal tea and balancing her checkbook. She’d come home to a message from the mechanic working on her car. The repairs were going to total just a little less than the amount she’d plunked down in Danbury’s, meaning she would have to tap the emergency credit card again.
With a sigh, she ran the numbers a second time. In the very near future she was going to have to get a real job, a full-time position that included benefits and a pension. That made her sad. She really enjoyed sharing her love of music with the kids at the center and she felt they got something out of the experience, too.
Normally, Bryan wouldn’t answer his cell phone during dinner, but when he noted the call-back number he excused himself from the table with an apologetic glance toward his mother and walked to his father’s study. It was Gil Rogers, the private detective he’d hired to look into Morgan’s background. He’d left a message for the man earlier in the day.
“Gil, thanks for returning my call.”
“You said it was important.”
“Yes. I—I decided I don’t need a background check on Ms. Stevens after all. It goes without saying that I’ll pay you for your services so far.”
“Are you sure?” The detective chuckled then. “Never mind. I guess it makes sense. If it weren’t for the baby I’d wonder if the woman wasn’t a candidate for a convent. Other than a couple of boyfriends in college and an occasional date, she doesn’t appear to have been involved in any serious relationships.”
“So she wasn’t seeing anyone else around the time the baby was conceived?”
“Not according to the people I spoke with.” Gil paused. “I did learn something else, not that it has much bearing on her child’s paternity, but I thought you might find it interesting.”
“Go on.”
“Both of her parents are dead.”
“Yes, I know.”
“They died together at their home in Brookside. Carbon monoxide poisoning, according to the news clips I was able to dig up. Investigators blamed it on a faulty furnace vent.”
“God.” The information came as a shock. He sank onto the sofa as he processed it.
“Miss Stevens found them,” the detective was saying. “Her folks were still in their bed. Apparently they’d gone to sleep the night before and just never woke up. The story I read included a photograph of her collapsing in the arms of one of the firefighters who’d arrived on the scene. She looked pretty distraught.”
Bryan closed his eyes, imagining how it must have been for Morgan and aching on her behalf.
I have no one.
She’d said that all those months ago when she’d gone into labor in his office. How horribly true her statement turned out to be.
“When did this happen?”
“A year ago last spring,” Gil replied.
The information jogged Bryan’s memory. More pieces of the puzzle fell into place. She would have been in Aruba just months after burying her parents. Alone, sad…vulnerable.
I was at a low point in my life. A really low point. It’s not an excuse for my behavior. But it is a fact.
Bryan recalled her words that day in his penthouse. Unlike Dill, who had made excuses for everything, Morgan wasn’t willing to fall back on one, even a very good one. Just as she hadn’t claimed to have fallen in love with his brother, nor had she tried to gain Bryan’s sympathy. Rather, she’d taken full responsibility for winding up pregnant and alone.
He thought about the check she’d written him for the use of his penthouse. Although he’d destroyed it, she’d sent him two more since then, presumably to cover each month’s rent. His brother had used Bryan’s name and charged his good time to Bryan’s accounts. Morgan wasn’t even willing to accept his hospitality.
Perhaps because she sensed his reticence.
“No more,” Bryan murmured.
“Excuse me?”
“As I said, I no longer require your services,” he told Gil.
“I understand, sir. But I’ve still got inquiries out with several people. The community where she taught in Wisconsin is pretty close-knit. It’s been hard to get many people to talk. Do you want to wait until I’ve heard back from them?”
“No. As I said, I’ll pay you for your time and trouble.”
“All right.” Gil’s tone was reluctant. “I’ll mail you a written report along with an invoice.”
Bryan flipped his phone closed and tossed it on his father’s desk. Then he poured himself a drink from the decanter of Scotch on the adjacent credenza. He drank it in a single gulp, closing his eyes as the liquor burned its way down his throat.
“Bryan?” His mother stood in the doorway, her concern obvious. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
He was wrong.
He’d felt that way for a while now, but he had been too stubborn to admit it. He’d allowed the lies of the past to blind him to the truth of the present.
He stared at his empty glass in his hand, an idea germinating. Finally, he said, “Nothing that can’t be put right.”
Morgan didn’t expect Bryan to come into the city to collect her and Brice on Saturday, but when he called Friday evening to tell her when he’d arrive at the penthouse, she didn’t argue. Her car supposedly was repaired, but she wasn’t willing to press her luck on this day of all days. Besides, she was too nervous to drive.
When the doorbell pealed, her heart was racing. Then she opened the door, saw Bryan and she swore it stopped beating. She’d always found him imposing and dangerously handsome. Today, in place of the corporate attire she associated with him, he wore tan slacks and a white oxford-cloth shirt open at the throat. He looked younger and far less formidable than he did wearing his usual pinstripes and power tie.
He smiled. She wasn’t sure she’d ever really seen him do that. And the word sexy got tagged on to her description.
“Wow.”
His brows rose in question and she realized she’d uttered the word out loud. As cover for her foolishness, she added, “You’re right on time.”
“I’m always on time.”
“Yes.” But she’d been hoping he would be late.
She stepped back to allow him in. When she turned after closing the door, he was watching her. Indeed, he was looking at her as if he’d never seen her before.
“The outfit is new,” she said, in case that was the cause for his bafflement. “I felt the occasion called for it. Does it look okay?” Before he could respond, she added, “And just let me say, given what I spent on it, your answer had better be yes.”
He didn’t smile at her joke. Instead, he said most seriously, “Turn around, Morgan.”
Feeling a little ridiculous, she nonetheless managed a slow twirl. “Well?”
“You’ve done something different with your hair.” He made a vague motion with his hand.
“I had it cut. I was due for a new style.” The result was a sleeker look that framed her face before flipping up slightly at her shoulders.
“It looks…you look…You’re beautiful, Morgan. Stunning, in fact.”
He said it the way he said everything: definitively and in a tone that allowed no argument. Not that he was going to get one from her. If the man wanted to call her stunning, who was she to quibble? Unlike Dillon’s profuse flattery, Bryan’s statement was all the more touching for its rareness. Something stirred in his dark eyes and for a moment she thought—and God help her, hoped—he was going to kiss her again. But then he took a step backward and glanced away.
“We should be going.”
The Caliborns’ home in Lake Forest boasted more square footage than the elementary school where Morgan had taught in Wisconsin. Given its columned portico and lush landscaping, grand was an apt description for it. At the moment, so was imposing.
Bryan came around and opened her car door. The gesture wasn’t only gentlemanly but practical since she’d made no move to get out. She wasn’t a coward, but she
briefly considered feigning illness and asking him to take her back to the city. He seemed to understand because he offered his hand to help her out and then gave hers a squeeze of encouragement before releasing it.
“They’re good people,” he said quietly. “Good people who have suffered some unbearable losses.”
Losses. Plural. Before she could ask what he meant, a slender woman of about sixty, wearing work gloves and carrying a trowel, came around the side of the house. She let out a squeal of excitement when she spied them and hurried forward. This was certainly a warm welcome from the gardener, Morgan thought.
“Mom.” Bryan’s face softened and he leaned down to kiss her when she reached them.
Mom? Morgan had been expecting a Chanel-wearing, diamond-sprinkled matriarch, not this warm and vibrant woman whose lovely face was finely etched from a lifetime of smiles that she apparently had no interest in erasing with Botox. Her hair was solid silver, not white or gray. She wore it short, in a style that flattered her oval face. Eyes every bit as dark as Bryan’s dominated that face.
“Here are Morgan and Brice,” Bryan was saying. “Morgan, Dillon’s and my mother, Julia Caliborn.”
“Hello, Mrs. Caliborn.” Morgan shifted the baby to the crook of her other arm so she could extend her right hand.
“Call me Julia, please.” She extended the trowel before drawing it back with a flustered laugh. “Oh, my. I’m afraid I’m not making a very good first impression. Forgive my appearance,” she said to Morgan. To Bryan, she accused, “You’re early.”
He shook his head, looking mildly amused and all the more attractive for the smile lighting up his eyes. “We’re exactly on time, Mom. You just got caught up in your garden again.”
“Guilty as charged.” She sent Morgan a smile. “I find playing in the dirt a good way to relax. I’ve been out pulling weeds and pruning plants since breakfast. Being abroad, I missed almost the entire growing season this year. I had someone looking after things here, but my flower beds are in a shambles.”
“Unlikely,” Bryan said. To Morgan, he added, “My mother is being modest. She’s a master gardener and the estate’s grounds have been featured in a couple of national publications.” His pride was obvious.
Julia waved away his compliments and smiled at Morgan. Then her gaze lowered to the sleeping baby. Her voice was barely above a whisper when she said, “I’d ask to hold him, but I’m a mess at the moment.”
She wasn’t only referring to her stained clothes, Morgan realized, when Julia’s eyes began to fill with tears. One spilled down her cheek and she swiped one away, leaving a smudge of dirt in its place. Morgan’s own eyes grew moist. She’d expected this encounter to be emotionally charged for her, but she’d failed to realize how much more so it would be for the Caliborns, given Dillon’s death.
“Let’s go inside, Mom. Dad can keep us company while you…clean up.” He handed her his handkerchief before putting an arm around her shoulders and hugging her to his side as they walked to the front door.
“Your father is probably in his study. Go visit with him while I freshen up. I won’t be long.”
After Julia excused herself and disappeared up the staircase that curved off from the foyer, Bryan led Morgan through the house, past the living room and formal dining room. Both rooms were every bit as lovely as she’d imagined they would be. They were filled with fine furnishings and stunning artwork, most likely pricy originals rather than reproductions. The rooms didn’t appear to be showplaces, but actual living spaces. They exuded comfort and warmth and, Morgan suspected, reflected the home owners’ personalities. Very different from Bryan’s sterile penthouse.
More of her uneasiness melted away, but it was back in an instant when they entered the study. A man stood at the window with his back to them. He was every bit as tall as Bryan, though not quite as broad through the shoulders. Still, he was physically fit for a man in his sixties. His hair was steel gray and, when he turned, his eyes were the same tawny color Dillon’s had been.
“Dad, this is Morgan Stevens. Morgan, my father, Hugh Caliborn.”
“It’s nice to meet you, sir.”
“Morgan.” The older man nodded as he stepped forward awkwardly as if not certain whether he should shake her hand or kiss her cheek. Ultimately, he did neither. To Bryan, he said, “Does your mother know you’re here?”
“Yes. She came around the side of the house just after we pulled up. She’d been gardening.” The two men exchanged knowing looks. “She’s upstairs now changing her clothes.”
Hugh nodded. Then his gaze dropped to the infant in Morgan’s arms. “Bryan tells us that you named the baby Brice Dillon.”
“Yes.” She held her breath, waited for what, exactly, she wasn’t sure.
“It’s a nice name.” He swallowed.
“I thought so, too.”
One side of the older man’s mouth crooked up. “He’s just a little thing, isn’t he?”
“Not so small that he hasn’t already managed to take my heart hostage,” Morgan mused. She still felt awed by the unprecedented wave of love she’d experienced the first time she’d held him…and every time after that.
“You’ll never get it back, you know.” Hugh’s smile was tinged with the sadness of a father who has outlived a child.
“No,” Bryan agreed. The source of his sadness had her puzzled. He cleared his throat then and suggested, “Why don’t we all sit down?”
In addition to an expansive desk built of the same wood as the cherry-paneled walls, the room offered seating clustered around a fireplace. Bryan selected one of the oversize armchairs; his father took its twin, leaving Morgan to the sofa. For the next fifteen minutes they talked about inconsequential things such as the weather until Julia, fresh from a shower, joined them.
“Hugh, goodness’ sakes, haven’t you offered our guest anything to drink?” she chided.
Morgan shook her head. “Oh, no thanks. I’m fine.”
“I wouldn’t mind a glass of iced tea,” Bryan said.
“A fresh pitcher is in the refrigerator. Why don’t you bring enough glasses for the rest of us just in case Morgan changes her mind.”
Morgan blinked and it took an effort not to allow her mouth to fall open when Bryan rose to do his mother’s bidding. Her shock must have been apparent, because after he was gone Julia turned to Morgan and said, “Everything all right, dear?”
“I didn’t think anyone told Bryan what to do.” She felt her face heat and she cleared her throat. “I mean, it’s just that he’s so adept at giving orders, I never thought—”
God, she was digging herself a hole. But Bryan’s mother was smiling as she sent Hugh a knowing look.
“Bry is much better at giving orders than taking them, which is why I try to give them on a regular basis. Someone has to keep him from becoming too dictatorial.” She plucked at the buttons on her blouse as her tone turned nostalgic. “He’s always been like that. Not Dillon, though. Instead of making demands, he charmed people to get what he wanted.”
Didn’t Morgan know it.
“Bryan and Dillon were such different personalities,” Hugh agreed. “Sometimes Julia and I wondered if they’d made a pact to be polar opposites just to drive us insane.” He chuckled. “Despite their differences, they were thick as thieves. There wasn’t anything they wouldn’t do for one another.”
“It’s still so hard to believe Dill’s gone.” Julia fell silent.
They all fell silent, except for Brice. Before the mood could become too maudlin, he began babbling happily and pumping his fists.
“Looks like you might have a prizefighter on your hands,” Hugh said with a chuckle.
“He’s an active baby.”
“Can I…Would you mind if I held him?” Julia asked.
“Not at all.”
Bryan returned to the room just as Morgan was placing Brice in his mother’s arms. Morgan wondered what he was thinking as he watched Julia press her cheek to the baby’s and close
her eyes with a sigh. A moment later, his father was leaving his chair to perch on the arm of the sofa.
“God, it’s like looking at Dill all over again, isn’t it, Jule?” Hugh’s voice was rough with emotion.
“Right down to the little swirling cowlick on his crown.” She traced it with a fingertip.
They believed her. Their voices held no doubt, only awe and excitement. Morgan’s relief was immense. She’d worried about coming here today and encountering skepticism or at the very least a cool reception. They’d welcomed her and Brice. And now they were accepting them.
From the doorway, the cook announced, “Lunch will be ready in fifteen minutes. Will you still be eating outside?”
“Yes. Thank you, Mae,” Julia said. “Bryan, bring the tray of iced tea. It’s too nice outside to stay cooped up in here.”
She and Hugh set off with the baby, leaving Morgan and Bryan to follow. On the patio, a scrolled wrought-iron table was already set for lunch with fine china and cloth napkins. Shrubs and plants, many of them past their flowering stage, bounded the sides of the patio and spilled out into the yard. Flagstone paths led from one lush oasis to the next, as well as to a large in-ground pool. Morgan guessed the building beyond it to be the guesthouse where Bryan was staying.
“Your home is beautiful, but this—” She motioned with her arms. “This is breathtaking.”
“Thank you,” Julia said. “Too bad you missed it when my plants were at their peak.” She shot an accusing look in Bryan’s direction.
“There’s next year,” he said quietly.
“Yes. Next year.” Julia nodded. “Do you garden, Morgan?”
“No. I lived in an apartment back in Wisconsin. I tried growing geraniums in a pot on my balcony one summer, but they only lasted until the end of June.”
“I killed my share of plants, too, before I got the hang of it,” Julia commiserated. She shifted Brice from one arm to the other.
