He wore the cap at the trolley stop, although he felt it was contrary to his personality. When he stopped near her as each one in the group stepped up into the trolley, he knew he was not disguised. Her reaction was like it had been in the restaurant—surprised. Her lips parted slightly, and she inhaled audibly. Then her brown eyes, darker than honey, maybe like dark chocolate, first held a question and then something akin to a warning.
He felt like saying, “No, I am not Michael.” He didn’t have that so-called boyish charm. He was much more reserved than Michael and to prove it, he simply said, “Good evening,” handed her his ticket and stepped up into the big red trolley. The hot, humid late-summer afternoon wasn’t the only thing making him sweat.
Now he realized this excursion was not the thing to do. But what was? Keep showing up where she might be and hope she thought nothing of it? That was stupid. Go up to her and say that Michael asked him to make sure she was doing all right? That would be worse.
Maybe he should reenlist and return to Iraq. He was out of touch with relationships. Never been too good with them, come to think of it. That was Michael’s department.
Here he was, finding a seat near the back of the trolley, feeling like an idiot and having no idea where to go from there. He should go home, but if he rose from his seat and approached her now she’d probably have him arrested for harassment.
After everyone boarded, she stepped inside, leaned over and spoke to the driver. About him, probably. He looked out the window, feeling the summer wind and viewing the lush green of Spanish moss-laden trees. A few weeks ago the azaleas lining the street had been a brilliant array of color, the red particularly dazzling. Quite a contrast to the bland Iraqi sand. However, without staring at her, he was very much aware of the young woman in black pants and white short-sleeved shirt bearing the circular historic tour logo. Her dark-honey hair was slicked back from her face and fastened in a ponytail.
“Welcome to the historic tour,” she began, each word distinct and warm. “I’m Megan Conley, and I’ll be relaying much of the history of Savannah, one of our nation’s most popular vacation spots.” She briefly established her qualifications for leading the tour. She’d minored in history at college, led tours during summer vacation and after graduating last year had become a full-time guide.
She relayed that in the 1950s, a group of women had organized to save and preserve the city’s historic charm and structures. By 1966 the historic district was designated a National Historic Landmark, one of the largest in the country.
Seeing her glance at him, Noah had the feeling that look meant he should be aware that this woman wasn’t one to be toyed with. He did his best to appear as stoic as the statues in the squares, lest she think he had any ulterior motives. Reminding himself he had every right to be there, he smiled at the pleasant-looking middle-aged man next to him and relaxed when the trolley began to roll. A welcome breeze blew in through the window as he listened to her tell about General James Edward Oglethorpe, who established the colony of Georgia in 1733 at the age of thirty-seven.
Thirty-seven.
Eight years older than Noah. A brief thought crossed his mind as he wondered what he would have accomplished by the time he reached thirty-seven. His attention was drawn to Megan again. He felt like a man with a divided mind. A part of him could not help but wonder how Michael could have abandoned her.
But he knew why, even if he couldn’t imagine how. At the same time he heard the words coming from her intriguing, full, expressive lips. “Oglethorpe laid out the city of Savannah in a perfect pattern of squares,” she was saying. “The Trustees adopted the Latin motto ‘Non Sibi Sed Aliis.’ It means, ‘Not for self, but for others.’” She smiled and added, “Others, like you.”
Looking around, Noah knew she endeared the tourists to her with her manner and words. When the trolley stopped for the group to walk along the sidewalk for information and then go inside a historic mansion, Noah decided to hop off the tour.
He’d done what he intended by letting her see him out in the open with nothing to hide. “Thank you,” he said, stepping down in front of her. “I have another appointment.”
He was faced with the questioning expression of a lovely woman. But this was not the time or place for explanation, so he hastened from the group gathering on the sidewalk waiting to go inside the building.
He knew he needed to summon her to the house, but he had no idea what he’d say when she arrived. To her, he’d likely be a mere unwelcome reminder of the man she’d loved who had mysteriously departed.
Chapter 3
Megan didn’t realize how uptight she was until after she watched the jeans-clad, platinum-haired man in the baseball cap stroll along the square, away from the group. Any other time she might consider him just another tourist. He’d looked all right and had been polite. But you couldn’t judge a person by that. Many times after someone committed a terrible act, those interviewed said they never would have suspected it.
She never would have suspected Michael would desert her without an explanation. And someone showing up who reminded her strongly of Michael had to be more than coincidence.
But what was it?
Forcing herself to let go of thoughts about the man, she continued the two-hour tour, hoping she didn’t sound as mechanical as she felt. After it ended, not wanting to go home and be alone with all her unanswered questions, Megan accepted Carl’s invitation to go for ice cream. He was a beloved member of the church she attended and a retired history teacher who loved Savannah. He and Aunt B had taught at the same school. His wife had died a few years ago, so he began leading tours to fill his empty hours. He preferred leading the carriage tours.
Megan could be honest with Carl about her confusion concerning Michael. Carl was sweet and kind. She didn’t need to rant and rave to him. She’d vented to Annabelle and Lizzie until she felt rather rusty. She and Carl sat in the little corner restaurant and soothed their concerns with hot-fudge sundaes.
She didn’t mention the man who kept appearing; she tried to forget him and just enjoy Carl’s company. They talked about the weather with its seasonably hot and humid days, topped off with lovely warm evenings. They exchanged a couple stories about tourist incidents.
But she knew his question would come. And it did, right after he licked the fudge from his spoon, turned it over and licked the inside. His kind blue eyes stared into hers and he spoke softly. “You doing all right?”
She was ready for that. Annabelle’s Aunt B had encouraged her to do something different that appealed to her instead of focusing on Michael. The tours helped, but many times Michael had been with her on them and now she was always aware of his absence.
After licking her spoon, she took a sip of water lest she talk with a smudge of chocolate on her lip, like Carl had. With a tilted chin she informed him, “I have a new interest.”
“See?” He leaned his gray head toward her. “I told you—”
She shook her head. “No. Not a man.” Her lifted hand warded off that notion. “No more men for me.”
The laugh lines appeared around his eyes as he smiled. “The right one will come along.”
A man simply was not on her agenda. But someone like Carl would be a consideration if one was. That is, if he were about thirty years younger and just as wise and mature as Carl.
“Watercolors,” she said.
His brows shot up and he gave a nod. “So you’re an artist.”
She took another spoonful of ice cream and let it cool her throat as it slid down. “I’ve dabbled in it and have taken a few art courses. Annabelle is writing a children’s book about a cat’s bad hair day. It’s based on Aunt B’s cat, SweetiePie, a beautiful white Persian.” Megan laughed. “It’s really hilarious.”
“I’d love to see it.”
“Okay.” She grabbed a paper napkin and, a
lthough she usually sketched with a pencil, took a pen from her purse and quickly sketched the cat’s face with pen marks indicating the hair in disarray. She pushed it over to him. “That’s how the cat looks after being in a muddy creek.”
Carl’s hearty laugh delighted her. “That’s great. Kids will love it.”
An element of doubt laced her words. “Annabelle’s fiancé, Symon, says the editor has to love it first.”
“I’ll bet he will.” He almost convinced her.
Her head turned toward the window. The sky had darkened. “I might work on that for a while tonight.”
Not liking the idea that her hastily sketched cat would be wadded up and tossed into the trash—or become a clean-up device for spills and splatters—she folded the napkin and tucked it into her tote bag. She would dispose of it properly or determine if she could use that flow of artistic impulse. Sometimes the best results came with little effort instead of by struggling to get a sketch just right.
Carl insisted the sundaes were his treat. After walking the couple blocks to their cars, parked near each other on the street where the tours ended, she thanked him, jumped into her car and locked the doors. She did that automatically most of the time, but tonight she was acutely aware of the unknown. She watched as Carl ambled down to his car. A few people were strolling along the sidewalks. She saw no lone person.
Out on the street, she looked into the rearview mirror more than she looked ahead, wondering if the fair-haired man might follow her. No one seemed to be. But he was the same man she saw at the restaurant. And if he was the man on Michael’s porch when the rain fell so heavily, he likely knew where she lived. Lizzie wouldn’t be home from her work at the Pirate’s Cave until after ten. That meant Megan would be alone at the house for about an hour.
She’d be careful.
After she left the main road, she was more aware than usual of the dark houses and deserted streets. The moon kept hiding behind scattered clouds. While on the trolley, she’d watched carefully for any inadvertent move by the man. He hadn’t given her any reason to fear him. Not even a sly look or an ogle. Had he not reminded her of a Michael imposter...
She almost laughed at that half thought, despite the ominous things going on around her. But reason, as much as she could make of this unreasonable situation, told her he had been at Michael’s house. He did know who she was or he wouldn’t have left the restaurant when he saw her. Then he showed up at the tour so she would see him. Was he up to no good and becoming braver? Had he harmed Michael?
Like the shock of a giant flashlight being thrust into the darkness, the lights around Michael’s house blazed like a neon sign flashing “come into my lair, said the spider to the fly.” A car parked on the street in front of the house seemed a sure signal he wanted her to come there.
Instinct told her to call someone. Maybe Symon. But his publisher had come to town. He and Annabelle would be at Aunt B’s. She might call Lizzie’s brother, Paul. Or even have the police come. But what would she say? That a man who resembled Michael had joined her tour and now the lights were on at Michael’s house?
He hadn’t threatened her in any way. The police would probably arrest her for being a threat to society. Her friends would at least suggest she see a counselor of some kind. Maybe she had fabricated him like children do with imaginary friends.
If this fellow meant any harm, she might as well go ahead and face it. She had to know what was going on. She turned into the drive, drove around the house and pulled into the back. Looking up, she saw the porch light was on and lights glared from the kitchen windows. Of course, that could change with the flick of a switch.
In case she needed a quick getaway, she made a sweeping curve, pointed the front of the car toward the driveway and parked with the side of the car in front of the garage.
She exited the car, shut the door and pushed the remote. She emitted a light snort as she remembered the remote button could cause an alarm loud enough to awaken the dead. But she’d heard alarms before and done nothing, and most people seemed to tolerate the sound until someone turned off their offending signal. Everyone would probably ignore it.
She ascended the steps, crossed the deck and rang the doorbell. Then she backed away to the banister.
He opened the door immediately, and they stood on opposite sides of the screen. He’d removed the ball cap and for a moment she could only study him. He stood unmoving, as if wanting her to know he was no threat. His beautiful hair looked like someone had mussed it, as she’d often done to Michael’s. His face was more serious than Michael’s, a smooth, deeper bronze, and his eyes didn’t dance. They looked like he might have bad news.
But she had to remember his strange actions. If he had something to tell her, he could have contacted her and made an appointment. So she kept her finger on the alarm button and asked, “Are you stalking me?”
He replied, as seriously as he looked, “You’re the one standing on my doorstep.”
“Your...doorstep?” she said.
She stepped back farther as if to escape those words. This was Michael’s house. But...had she assumed too much? She called her own house on Jones Street her home, but it had really been her grandmother’s until she died and left it to Megan.
Only six weeks ago. That hurt so much. She needed to grieve for her grandmother. She had needed Michael to help her grieve. But now she had to keep her thoughts on this moment.
He opened the screen door. She shifted her weight to her right foot, ready to run. He didn’t step out, however—he just stood there without the screen as a barrier. “It’s late. Would you like to return in the morning and we can talk?” He grimaced slightly. “Midmorning would be best.”
He sounded tired—and kind. For an instant she forgot to be afraid. “Are you...his brother or something?” Michael had said he was an only child.
“Cousin,” he said, although she hadn’t said Michael’s name. Maybe he was being kind, knew that sometimes it was difficult saying the name of a person who hurt you or trampled your emotions. Another thought occurred to her. “He never mentioned a cousin.”
She wondered if his downcast eyes meant she had caught him in a lie. Then he looked directly at her again. “Do you know of Fairfax-Nansen Construction and Renovations?”
She gave a single nod. Michael’s last name was Nansen. He’d said his mother was part owner of the company.
“I’m the Fairfax side of that. Or his son, anyway. I’m Noah Fairfax.”
Maybe, she thought. Michael had never mentioned him. If he were a cousin impersonator, he would certainly know of that company. She took a deep breath and realized the air had turned quite cool. A moth flew around the porch light. She switched her attention back to him. “Do you know...” she shrugged, wondering which question to ask. “Is he okay? Where is he? Why?”
“I really can’t tell you.” His voice sounded sincere. He looked concerned. “Those are questions for Michael to answer.”
Well, this was useless. She reverted to her suspicions, not even knowing what all they were. Her adrenaline began to act up. He said Michael should be the one to answer. But where was Michael? “What should I do? Call out like I’m calling a dog?”
“Not a bad idea,” he said as if serious. He opened the screen further and stepped outside, holding on to its frame. She walked sideways to the steps, ready to go. What was with this guy? Was Michael inside?
She intended to push the alarm and run if he made a move. But he stood still.
“Sorry,” he said. “I made a bad joke, responding to your calling out. Or maybe not. Call out to God. Pray.”
Where did that come from? Was he a weirdo or what? She tried to form the words, but they got stuck behind her puckered mouth. Then it opened and she squeaked. “P-pray?”
He nodded. “Yeah. You know.” He turned enough for his shoulder to prop op
en the screen open and folded his hands together in a prayer position in front of his chest. He ducked his head and closed his eyes for an instant.
Just as quickly, she turned and descended the steps, saying, “I will definitely be praying tonight.”
“I will pray for you,” he said. “See you in the morning.”
On the sidewalk she turned and saw that he stood at the banister, gazing down at her. She hastened to the car, pushed the unlock button and reached for the handle. “If you’re going to be as secretive as Michael, what would we have to talk about?”
Her hand halted when he called down his reply. “My...doorstep.”
Chapter 4
Megan waited for the single-cup brewer to finish gurgling so she could have her morning wake-up coffee.
After it finished and she took a sip, she sat at the island and told Lizzie about Noah joining the tour and her going to the house. “Maybe I’m crazy.”
Lizzie got up and poured water into the machine. “Well, frankly, I’d opt for crazy if I could meet a man similar to Michael.” She put the pod in and punched the blue button, which turned to orange. “Or, just a man who’s halfway decent.”
“But it’s so weird.” Megan’s thoughts were as gurgled as the coffee machine. “Michael vanished. Now this guy appears like a revised version.”
Lizzie brought her coffee over and sat across from Megan. “Ohhhh. You mean healthy, wealthy and wise?”
Megan had to laugh. “I think that comes from early to bed and early to rise. Something I’m not too knowledgeable about.”
Lizzie moaned. “I don’t know why all the intriguing men come to you and Annabelle. Every time I meet a new man and he’s a dud I question why, why, why.”
Lessons in Love Page 2
