by Karen Kirst
Standing in the middle of the rug, arms crossed, he gave her his frank opinion. “I think the kids are fortunate to have someone who’s willing to give of their time and energy on their behalf.”
Her chin went up. “I enjoy it.” There was force behind the words.
On this point, he didn’t doubt her. He’d seen her nurturing touches, the easy care of the children as if they were her own. Affection like that couldn’t be faked.
“I know you do.”
Surprised relief flickered in her eyes before her lashes swished down, cutting off his view. She began to pluck at the ruffles on her skirt, her trim, shiny nails winking in the light. “I noticed many of the parents made a point to introduce themselves to you. Was everyone...welcoming?”
The hitch in her voice lured him closer. She must be thinking of the Tremains and their guileless comments. He eased down beside her on the cushion, a respectable twelve inches away, and rested his palms on his thighs. “They were indeed.”
Welcoming and genuinely glad to meet him. Effusive in their praise of Charles. He’d had trouble reconciling the man they’d described as good as gold with the cold, unfeeling grandfather he’d envisioned all these years. The discrepancy troubled him. If Charles was the man they made him out to be, why had he ignored his own family? If he regretted the rift he’d created with his pigheaded stubbornness, why hadn’t he come to New Orleans and attempted to make amends? It wasn’t as if he couldn’t afford to travel. And his health problems hadn’t presented themselves until recent years.
He looked up to find her studying him, trying to decipher his thoughts.
“I received several supper invitations,” he continued, “as well as a request to come to church on Sunday.”
Interest bloomed in her expression. She angled towards him. “Will you come?”
“I haven’t been to church in more than a year,” he admitted. “My mother and I used to attend services together. Then she became ill, and I...” He shook his head, reluctant to think of his beloved mère and her swift decline, the bloom of health stolen from her without warning and without mercy. His wealth had garnered her access to the best medical care available, yet in the end, it hadn’t mattered. No amount of money could’ve prevented her death.
His utter helplessness had nearly destroyed him.
“I understand how it would’ve been difficult for you to go, especially since it was something the two of you did together.”
Megan’s compassion threw him off-kilter. He’d gotten precious little of it back in New Orleans. In the face of his grief, his friends and acquaintances hadn’t known what to say, so they’d avoided the subject altogether. And his father, well, he’d been relieved at his wife’s passing. Gerard was finally free of the unsophisticated mountain girl he’d made the mistake of marrying all those years ago. To him, her love and adoration had been a burden. An embarrassment.
His hands curled into fists. Shoving down the familiar anger and bitterness that thoughts of his father aroused, Lucian nodded. “I couldn’t bring myself to go alone. Besides, all those years I’d gone in order to make her happy. After her passing, there didn’t seem to be any more reason to go.”
Megan’s brow furrowed in consternation. “What about deepening your relationship with God? Learning more about His Word?”
“Relationship? With God?”
“Haven’t you ever shared with Him what’s on your heart? Your hopes, dreams, failures? He already knows, of course, but He wants us to express it through prayer.”
He’d prayed before, on occasion, but it had been brief requests for help. Nothing like what Megan was talking about. “You speak as if God cares about the details of your life. I don’t see Him that way. While I believe He exists and that He created this world for our use and pleasure, I find it difficult to imagine He’d bother Himself with our problems.”
“David wrote in Psalms, ‘O Lord, you have searched me and you know me. You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar. You are familiar with all my ways. Before a word is on my tongue you know it completely, O Lord.’ Does that sound like a God who can’t be bothered with us?”
The gentle curve of her smile, the utter lack of judgment in her eyes, compelled him to be truthful. “It sounds like you’re much better acquainted with the Scriptures than I am. In fact, I can’t recall the last time I opened a Bible.” He thought of his mother’s black Bible tucked safely in his trunk, a tentative link that eased somewhat the ache of her absence.
“It’s not too late to start,” she said encouragingly.
His gaze fell on a small portrait on the side table, one he hadn’t noticed before. Standing, he stepped around her and picked it up, fingers tight on the gilt frame. His grandparents, Charles and Beatrice, in the prime of their lives. And his mother, who looked to be about eight years old, dressed in a simple dress and her dark hair in pigtails. She wasn’t smiling. No one really did for portraits. But her eyes were clear of the familiar shadows, and curiosity marked her rounded face. How might her life have been different—better, freer, happier—if Charles had handled the whole situation differently?
“Tell me something,” he said quietly, still staring at the images. “Did my grandfather believe as you do?”
“Charles loved the Lord,” she answered, matching her tone to his, perhaps sensing the turn of his mood. “He tried to model his life after His teachings, a life pleasing to Him.”
Replacing the frame with a bit more force than necessary, he pivoted to glower down at her, unable to mask the cold fury surging through his veins. “Then surely God wasn’t pleased with his coldhearted treatment of his own daughter. And what of his only grandchild? He didn’t even acknowledge my existence! Isn’t there something in there about loving your neighbor as yourself?”
Surging to her feet, Megan adopted a fighting stance—shoulders back, chin up, hands fisted. A not-so-friendly pirate. “And what of your mother’s behavior? She refused Charles’s numerous pleas to return. He desperately wanted to meet you, Lucian. How could she deny him that? How could you?”
He snorted. Sliced the air with his hand. “What are you talking about? What pleas? The night before she married my father, Charles warned her that if she went through with it, not to bother coming back. Ever.”
“Charles apologized more than once for his past behavior. He sent letters begging her to come and visit. To bring you so that he could spend time with you. Show you around town, introduce you to all the townspeople, take you fishing. She flat-out refused. Charles didn’t tell me why.”
Lucian turned away, shoved a frustrated hand through his hair. No. No, this couldn’t possibly be true. His mother wouldn’t have hidden such a thing from him.
“I don’t know anything about any letters,” he ground out.
He startled when her fingers curled around his biceps, a slight pressure. “Lucian—”
The chime of the doorbell derailed her train of thought. “Would you like me to get that for you?”
“No.” He straightened, and her hand fell away. “I’ll get it.”
He didn’t recognize the brown-haired, green-eyed man on the other side of the door. “Good evening. May I help you?”
He looked to be about the same age as himself, maybe a year or so younger, and was dressed like the local men in casual pants, band-collared shirt and suspenders. While his expression was pleasant, his eyes were assessing, his fingers crushing the brim of his hat he held at his waist.
“Evenin’. The name’s Tom Leighton. I own the barbershop on Main.” He stuck out his hand. “You must be Charles’s grandson.”
He shook his hand. “Lucian Beaumont.”
“Pleased to meet you.” His gaze searched the entryway. “Is Megan still here? I came to walk her home.”
“Yes, she is.” Lucian stepped back and motio
ned him inside. “She’s in the parlor.”
Following Leighton, Lucian ignored a twinge of dislike. He had absolutely no grounds for such a reaction. He didn’t even know the man. It bothers you that he appears to have a relationship with Megan. The banker let slip earlier that Tom Leighton saw Megan as a prospective wife. Question was, how did she feel about that? Did she want to marry the barbershop owner? Were they courting?
As the two exchanged greetings, Lucian watched her expression carefully. Was her smile a bit forced? Her eyes a little tight? Or was he being ridiculous? He puffed out an irritated breath. Definitely ridiculous.
He had absolutely no romantic interest in this woman. Or any other woman, for that matter. The misery of his parents’ mockery of a marriage had carved deep scars on his heart, creating within him an aversion to anything resembling an intimate relationship. He would not repeat their mistakes. He would marry because it was expected of him to produce heirs and further the Beaumont legacy. For duty and social connections, not fickle emotions or fleeting attraction.
He’d had a near miss with Dominique. Had begun to entertain the notion that perhaps pure love could exist for him, that he wouldn’t have to endure a marriage that was more business arrangement than anything else. Thank goodness she’d revealed her true nature before his heart had succumbed.
Watching Megan, he reminded himself of his charted course. She was a diversion, and, albeit delightful and intriguing, one he didn’t want or need.
* * *
“Tom!” Megan wasn’t sure why his arrival had disconcerted her. It wasn’t unusual for him to show up to walk her home. She’d been so immersed in the conversation with Lucian, deeply attuned to his turmoil, that the interruption had thrown her.
“I had a couple of late customers. I wasn’t sure if you’d still be here.” He seemed a touch nervous, which was unlike him. He lowered his voice. “How’d it go?”
“Wonderful.”
Surprise flitted across Tom’s face. “Really?”
Movement beyond his shoulder meant Lucian had entered the room, holding himself back, his dark gaze hooded.
Stepping to the side in order to include him, she touched Tom’s arm in a silent request for him to turn around. “You’ve met Lucian already?”
He nodded curtly. “Yes.”
The two men regarded each other in silence. She glanced askance at her friend. He was normally talkative and friendly, even with strangers. Why was he acting like this?
She cleared her throat. “Tom is a close friend of the family. We’ve known each other practically from birth. He and my cousin Josh used to take great pleasure in tormenting me.”
Laughter erupted from Tom, and, ignoring her arched brow, he slung an arm around her shoulders. “Like hiding frogs in your lunch pails.” Tucking her close to his side, he grinned at Lucian. “Made her so mad, she could hardly speak. But she’d eventually cool off and talk to us again. Megan and I know each other very well, almost as well as an old married couple. We have a lot in common.”
“Sounds like it,” Lucian responded drily.
Stunned and irritated by Tom’s familiarity, his insinuations, Megan shrugged off his arm as unobtrusively as she could. “Well, I believe we should be going.” Before he embarrassed her further.
She paused before Lucian, wishing they could’ve finished their conversation. Hating to leave him to deal with his confused anguish alone. Longing to reach out and comfort him. He seemed in desperate need of a hug. “Thank you for everything.”
He stared at her for so long that Tom approached and took hold of her arm.
“Ready?”
She jumped, having forgotten for a split second that there was anyone else in the room besides the two of them. “Y-yes, I’m quite ready. Good evening, Lucian.”
His nod was almost imperceptible, his low drawl a caress. “Bonne nuit, mon chou.”
It wasn’t until they’d reached the end of the lane that she rounded on Tom.
“Why did you do that?”
He held up his palms. “Do what?”
“You know perfectly well what.” She jammed her hands on her hips. “Why did you try to make Lucian believe something about us that isn’t true?”
Grasping her upper arms, he peered down at her with an intensity he rarely displayed, making her stomach clench with dread.
“I can’t deny that I want it to be true. Surely you know by now how I feel about you, Megan.” His green eyes blazed with conviction. “I would like to court you properly.”
Megan squeezed her eyes tight. What could she say that wouldn’t hurt his feelings? She’d been so careful not to encourage him!
“If you don’t open your eyes, I’m going to take it as an invitation to kiss you.”
“Don’t you dare!” Her eyes popping open, she wriggled out of his grasp and strode briskly down the lane. He easily kept pace with her but didn’t speak, allowing her time to sort through her response.
When she stopped at the split-rail fence that signaled the beginning of her property, he stopped, as well, expectant.
“I can’t think about this right now.” She took the coward’s way out, opting to delay what would be an extremely difficult task, one that would alter their friendship forever. Feeling lower than pond scum, she rushed ahead to explain, “I’m in charge of my sisters while Momma is away, you know. This is the first time in the twins’ entire lives that they’ve been apart, and Jane is having a tough time of it. Nicole is even more unpredictable than usual, and now I have the issue with Charles’s house to contend with. I’m sorry, but I—”
“It’s all right.” He held up a hand. “This wasn’t the best time to spring my feelings on you, but I’m not sorry it’s finally out in the open. Take all the time you need.”
His consideration made her feel even worse. “Thanks, Tom,” she murmured, toeing the grass with her boot.
“Just remember, I’ll be waiting.”
With a slight smile and a tug on his hat’s brim, he turned and walked back the way they’d come, headed to his farm on the opposite side of town. Sagging against the fence, she watched until the shadowed lane swallowed him up. I don’t know what to do, God. I need to be clear with him about my feelings, but I can’t bear the thought of wounding him. He’s been such a dear friend.
Friend. That’s all he’d ever be. All she’d ever want him to be. Tom was easy to be with, funny and interesting, as well as dependable and an all-around great man. But he wasn’t the man for her.
Thoughts of Lucian crowded in, prodding her. Sure, he could make her tremble with merely a look. Release a storm of butterflies in her tummy with the slightest touch. Stir her heart with emotion. Despite all that, he wasn’t the one for her, either.
Chapter Six
Lucian missed his predictable life. His comfortable routine. Coffee and croissants in the estate gardens, mornings at the waterfront overseeing his family’s shipping offices, afternoons devoted to social responsibilities and evenings dining and dancing with the upper crust of society. Every day was pretty much the same, and he liked it that way.
The inactivity here was killing him. Too much time on his hands. Time to think.
Megan’s assertions had circled through his mind like ravenous vultures until the wee hours of the morning. The prospect that his grandfather hadn’t been indifferent, had actually yearned to meet him, weakened the grip of resentment in his soul. But it also brought heartache and disillusionment. For if Megan was right, that meant his mother had lied to him. He couldn’t bear to entertain such an idea, so he forced his thoughts elsewhere...to another tangled coil.
Tom and Megan. Megan and Tom.
He kept picturing them in his parlor, tucked together like two peas in a pod, all the while wanting to protest that he should be the one holding her—not some backwoods
mountain man. Okay, that wasn’t exactly fair. Tom Leighton seemed nice enough, appeared to honestly care about her.
These feelings have nothing to do with Megan, specifically. You’re accustomed to women throwing themselves at you, and now that you’ve encountered one who doesn’t, you don’t have a clue how to react. She’s a challenge, that’s all. One he wouldn’t pursue, for both their sakes. Not only were they from disparate worlds, they had different expectations where relationships were concerned. A man would have to be blind not to know Megan O’Malley craved what many other women in the world craved—love and romance and happy-ever-after. He’d seen it in her eyes, that starry, hopeful light not yet dimmed by betrayal or misfortune. She wanted it all...adoring husband, bouncing babies and a cozy home. He wasn’t prepared to give that to anyone, especially her.
He still hadn’t made up his mind about her. Whether she was the genuine article or an exceptional counterfeit.
His fingers closed over her reticule.
He’d noticed the lacy, beribboned article lying on the entryway table this morning. Megan had left in such a hurry last evening that she’d accidentally left it behind. He’d toyed with the idea of allowing his valet to return it to her, but in the end, his curiosity about her home and family had won out. Getting directions had been a simple task. As Charles Newman’s grandson, the locals accepted him more readily than he expected they would a complete stranger.
Now on his way to the O’Malley farm, he found himself wondering what he’d find there. He knew nothing about her family, except that she had a cousin named Josh. Had her parents grown up with his mother? Did they, like Megan, think he was heartless for staying away all these years?
This lane was unfamiliar, the forests on either side thick and endless yet somehow welcoming.
Amid the sea of coarse bark and lush green leaves, splashes of vivid pink caught his eye. Phlox. The delicate flower blanketed the forest floor in this particular area, a pleasing respite from the verdant landscape. Farther on, yellow lady’s slippers decorated a mossy slope. And later, white-and-pink painted trillium. The peaceful, majestic beauty reminded him of his estate outside New Orleans. Not that these mountains could compare to his beloved lowlands, but he felt the same sense of serenity here, of freedom and completeness, that he did there. Curious.
