Megan sighed. “I don’t need this. I wonder what happened to Michael. Now I have to wonder if this cousin is real, a great pretender or if my mind is playing tricks.”
“Trick or treat,” Lizzie mused. “Oh.” Her green eyes widened. “Let me go with you and see if he’s real.”
But Megan felt she needed to do this alone. She wanted to discover if he was either hiding information about Michael or...hiding Michael.
She showered, dried her hair, fastened it into a ponytail and applied minimal makeup. She wasn’t trying to impress—just get some answers—so she dressed in jeans and a T-shirt.
At 10:00 a.m., although doubting he worked there, she called Fairfax-Nansen Construction and Renovations and asked for Noah Fairfax. The voice said, “Just a moment, please. I’ll put you through to his cell phone.”
After a promotional ad, she heard someone say, “Noah Fairfax.”
She wasn’t prepared to hear his voice. “I wasn’t sure how to reach you.”
“I’m waiting for you.”
“I’m on my way.”
She hadn’t said her name. Did he recognize her voice? She almost laughed at that. He had heard it on the tour and at his house last night.
She would insist on staying outside. She was not about to go inside for whatever he was doing in the house she thought belonged to Michael. A few blocks later, she parked the car like she had last night and realized she’d been here only about nine hours ago. She walked up onto the deck and halted, shocked.
A silver-domed serving dish stood on three lion-paw feet in the center of the round table. Two plates and silverware on cloth napkins were positioned opposite each other.
More appealing was the coffeepot. It sat on a small table adjacent to the wall. Considering her few hours of sleep and only one cup this morning, she could use another. However, she didn’t know if someone lived here with Noah Fairfax. One of those two cups beside the sugar and creamer set might not be for her. Nor the place setting on the table.
She stood at the banister and looked out at the pristine backyard, a private haven with its myriad trees and bushes, and the wrought iron fencing that separated it from neighbors. She’d loved walking along the brick paths with Michael.
Hearing the screen door squeak, she turned. Noah came out smiling and holding a glass of orange juice in each hand. He nodded at the table. “Have a seat.”
If she still read romance novels instead of those thrillers Symon wrote, she might have been tempted by his smile instead of remembering her suspicions of him, even if she couldn’t identify the suspicions. She refused to return the smile that accented his full wide lips that spread over straight white teeth. The smile caused interesting lines at the sides of his eyes.
But of course she’d be comparing his appearance with Michael’s. The thought occurred to her that Michael was an intriguing first sketch, whereas this man seemed more like a finished product. But she refused to let her conclusion linger. Instead she glanced at the table. “What is this?”
“Breakfast.” He gestured to the place settings.
She could pretend he was a cousin of Michael’s and everything was as innocent and appealing as it looked. So she sat. “How do you know I haven’t had breakfast?”
“I don’t. But I haven’t had breakfast,” he said, reminding her of Michael in his playful days. He sat and looked at her with his deep blue eyes. “But Michael said his working evenings had meant sleeping in and having brunch. I thought it might be the same for you.”
It was, but before she could say more he asked, “Shall we pray?”
She bowed her head but kept her eyes on him. The slant of the morning sun was just beginning to touch his hair with a hint of silver. The prayer sounded sincere and brief, thanking God for the food and asking that she and Michael give their burdens to the Lord and let Him work them for their good and His glory.
At the amen, he lifted the silver dome. Instantly permeating the fragrant cool morning air was the enticing aroma of scrambled eggs mixed with cheese, strips of crisp bacon, small squares of diced ham and lightly browned biscuits.
Her mouth actually watered. This was much different from what she might get from the freezer and toss into a toaster or pour from a box. She picked up a hot biscuit and, while buttering it, wondered if that’s what he was trying to do to her—butter her up. If so, why? “Did you make these from scratch?”
“My cook did.” The little lines again fanned out from his eyes. “Her name is supermarket.”
“They smell like Willamina’s.” Seeing his lifted eyebrows, she explained. “She cooks for Aunt B. I call her Aunt B, but she’s really the aunt of my friend Annabelle.”
“Would that be Miss Brandley, Savannah’s most beloved schoolteacher?”
Megan nodded as she filled her plate. “I guess she taught you?”
“Challenged us to learn,” he said affectionately, then grinned as he grabbed a piece of bacon. “Too bad nobody taught me to cook. To be honest, the bacon is precooked and the ham came in those little packets already diced.”
In case the food was poisoned, she waited until he took a couple bites, then she did, too. “Still good,” she said while chewing. Then she swallowed. “And speaking of being honest, what can you tell me about Michael?”
He chewed, swallowed and took a sip of juice. “We talked. He said he had to leave for a while and asked me to make sure you’re all right. That’s why I’ve—” He paused and grimaced. “Why I...checked on you.”
She laid her fork on her plate, feeling her defenses rise. “How much checking did you do?”
His skin deepened in color as he admitted, “I watched you go to work. I mean, if a person goes to work it’s a sign he or she is handling things all right. I didn’t mean to be at the restaurant in the mall when you were there. I felt guilty when I saw you, and that’s why I turned and left.” He sounded contrite and his eyes seemed to plead with her. “That’s why I took the tour—so you could see that I meant no harm and you could talk to me if you wished.”
She lifted her chin. “What if I hadn’t come here last night?”
He took a deep breath and exhaled. “I would have gone about my business and told Michael I’m not a private detective or an intermediary.”
“You know where he is?”
He shook his head. “He said he’d let me know.”
At least it sounded like Michael hadn’t been harmed. Or wasn’t ill somewhere. And she was hungry, so she picked up her fork and stabbed a square of ham. When that was down, she asked, “Do you know what his problem is?”
“To a great extent.” He paused, looking down, poking at his food. “But I only returned from Iraq six months ago. We were at odds when I enlisted several years ago.” He seemed to choose his words carefully, thoughtfully, then met her gaze again. “In the past weeks we’ve tried to get back to the way we were years ago. Very close.”
“Have you?”
“No. It’s a process.”
“What was the problem?”
“He can’t trust me if I betray his confidence. This is a crisis period for him. I want to help, not hinder.”
She thought about that. “So,” she said slowly, after her mouth was clear again. “Is his problem with you or with me?”
“With himself.” He leaned forward. “It affects you and me, obviously. But it’s not a problem with you.” His voice softened. “He thinks you’re the most wonderful woman in the world.”
Trying to cover the irritation welling up inside, Megan reached for the silver dome. He beat her to it and lifted the lid. “That’s just ducky.” She took a biscuit, opened a tight-lidded jar, picked up her knife and began to slather apple butter on the biscuit. “He walks out on the most wonderful woman in the world...” She didn’t try to keep the sarcasm from her voice. “And leaves her hi
gh and dry without an explanation.” She scoffed at that and at too much apple butter. “Imagine what he might have done with someone...less wonderful.”
She slapped the two sides of the biscuit together and took a big bite. Chewing, she tried to think of how to redeem herself. Just like the sudden sweep of grief when she’d think of her grandmother, she sometimes felt the sweep of Michael’s abandonment and didn’t know how to describe it. Hurt. Disappointment. Confusion. But it inevitably manifested itself in anger.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I shouldn’t take it out on you. Seems we’re both, like you said, affected.”
He began to slather apple butter on a biscuit. “You’ll be all right,” he said, as if he were some kind of counselor she should listen to. “Just bear with Michael and let him work through this crisis period and pray for him. Have faith that he will be that great guy he used to be.”
She wasn’t sure what “great guy” that was. They’d only been in the process of getting to know each other. Or that’s what she’d thought. She picked up her glass of orange juice.
“Michael said you’re a fine Christian woman.”
She put her glass down and stared across at him. “What did he mean? That he can be as secretive and missing as he wants and I’ll sit around waiting until he—” Her gaze lifted to the porch ceiling for a moment. “Until he finds himself?” Sarcasm again.
He sighed. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask to be in the middle of this. But my role is to help Michael in any way. And you, if I can.”
“You’re going to cook for me?”
He grimaced. “This is the best I can do, and don’t even ask what happened to the first batch of eggs.” He sounded so pitiful she almost laughed. Then he leaned forward, his blue eyes gazing into hers. “But I could learn.”
Just as she thought he might be flirting, he leaned back again and blew out air between pursed lips. “Sorry. I don’t mean to give the wrong impression of my intentions. I don’t have any. I mean—”
“Don’t worry,” she snapped. “I wouldn’t be receptive, anyway.”
“Good.” He leaned back. “That’s settled.”
“Now,” she said. “You invited me here to talk about your doorstep.”
“I did,” he said as if surprised, “didn’t I?”
She nodded.
“Hmmm. I was just making what I thought was a clever quip. My intentions were really to atone for giving the impression I’m a sneak or a stalker.”
“This is rather blatant.” She waved at the table.
“Did it work? I mean...” He grinned. “Do you forgive me?”
“Are you sorry?”
He hesitated before answering. “No. I really want to know if you’re all right.”
“What is all right? Waiting for Michael? Forgetting him?”
He said sincerely, “I don’t know.”
Neither did she. “What do you think Michael would do if you told him I wasn’t all right?”
He opened his mouth as if to speak, then stood. “Let me move the table out of the sun.”
His head bent over the table as he grasped the edges, his hair, touched by the slanting silver rays of the morning sun, presenting an aura.
She remembered the last time she’d seen Michael. He’d said, “We need to talk.”
Their talk had been mainly about his not feeling well. Seeing the doctor. Being on an antidepressant, though it didn’t seem to help. That spring evening had felt cool and pleasant to her, but Michael had put on a sweater, saying he felt chilled. The moon had been bright in a clear sky. But sitting in the shadow of the roof, Michael had looked pale.
And now she was here, on a sunny morning, with this robust cousin of Michael’s. His bronzed, handsome face looked quite well, or as Lizzie had said...
Healthy.
She rose from the chair, poured a cup of coffee and returned to her seat. He did the same and they sat at the table, out of the sun’s glare, facing the banister. “I wouldn’t tell him you weren’t all right,” he said with meaning. “Regardless.”
Apparently Michael was in more trouble than just having to make some decisions. “Is there any way I can help him? Forget that. Apparently he doesn’t want my help.”
“Sometimes,” he said quietly, “it’s only between a person and God.”
She nodded. “Right. Only I could decide about my relationship with Michael. But I don’t have to leave home to make that decision.” In the silence she came to another conclusion. “This isn’t just about me, is it?”
She didn’t bother to look at him. Her cup was half empty. So was she. Apparently, Noah wasn’t going to reveal the secret life of Michael Nansen. “Okay, you said you would talk to me about your doorstep.” She looked over at his face, seeing his troubled brow. “Is this Michael’s house or not?”
“Not. It belonged to his mother. She and her new husband are moving to Charleston. She sold her part of the business to my dad. Dad bought this house, and I’m buying it from him.”
Okay, number two. Wealthy?
“I’m thinking of getting rid of the contemporary furniture and restoring the house to its historic past.”
Before thinking, she blurted, “Really? Michael and I discussed that. This house would be so perfect with period furnishings.” When she and Michael had discussed this house, she’d been the one to point out its historical significance. Michael had preferred contemporary furniture.
“My thoughts exactly.” Noah hunched over the table, toward her. “I’m planning to get my grandmother’s period furniture out of storage. You...?” He leaned back again as if thinking he’d been too forward. “You have a knowledge of furnishings, too?”
Her heart leapt. She’d almost forgotten some of her dreams. “Interior design was my major in college. My minor was history.”
“So you’re into design and too?”
“Only...in talking about it.” The warmth she felt was not from the sun, but from that inner self-consciousness. She’d thought about a lot since Michael left. Thought about the past. Thought about the future.
His lips parted as if he were about to question, like his eyes were doing. He seemed to think better of it and picked up his cup and drank from it, peering at her over the rim. His quizzical brow encouraged her to explain.
“I led tours during the summer of my senior year in college. Savannah’s history fascinates me.” She took a deep breath, remembering. Michael Nansen had fascinated her. The moment he’d walked into her senior history class, any other male had faded in comparison. He lit up a room like Lizzie had a way of doing. His hair was sunlight, his eyes the azure sky. His dimpled cheeks expressed his boyish charm.
He’d appealed to her aesthetic sensitivities. And yet, and yet, Michael seemed but a reasonable facsimile compared with this older, more serious, very handsome man, and she should not even be thinking that. Well, of course she should. She had artistic leanings. Symon had talked about that. He said a writer was generally more an observer than a participant in life. They noticed, they evaluated. That’s all she was doing.
She expelled the breath she’d been holding. What had she said aloud, and what were only thoughts? He was simply sitting, as if waiting, maybe...observing.
“Anyway,” she said, “during senior break, Michael signed on as my assistant tour guide.” He had said he could work at the family business, but he and Megan would never see each other that way. She would be working afternoons and evenings. He’d be working days. He’d wanted them to get to know each other better.
Now, she wondered if she’d really known him at all.
“After graduation, we both continued with that. Now, I might try and get into design. I’ve considered the idea of turning my house into a historic B and B, like my grandmother and I had discussed.”
She had
n’t meant to reveal so much about her and Michael. She’d hoped to discover something about the missing Michael. To escape Noah’s studied gaze, she picked up her cup and stepped over to the pot for a refill. Returning to the table, she tried to lighten the mood. “The only things I’ve done with design in a long, long time is shift my furniture around, then move it back again.”
An expected laugh or accommodating smile didn’t come from him. Instead, he spoke seriously and his blue eyes sparked with a glint of the morning sun. “Since you have knowledge of interior design, and you’re thinking about trying your hand at it, maybe you could give me some pointers on what to do with my period furniture.”
He must have detected her surprise. Her open mouth might be a good indication. “I mean,” he said, “on a professional level, of course.”
“A...job?”
“If it wouldn’t be...” He turned his face toward the wall, indicating the inside of the house. “Too personal.”
Too personal? It took a moment for her to realize he meant because of Michael. But no. Replacing the contemporary with period furniture would just be another step toward removing Michael from her memories, which she needed to do. He was gone. And regardless of his reasons, he hadn’t included her, hadn’t confided in her. She needed to stop thinking about him. Get on with her life.
She removed her gaze from Noah’s hopeful eyes and the slightly lifted brows, awaiting her answer. She’d offered advice to friends on occasion, and they knew she had a special knack for decorating, particularly at Christmas. Annabelle and Symon had even incorporated some of her ideas about decorating for their wedding.
She couldn’t say she’d be glad to help him as a friend. He wasn’t a friend. He was a...what? Reminder of Michael?
His suggestion appealed to her. But, having heard about a heartbroken person’s being on the rebound, or vulnerable, she wasn’t sure taking him up on his offer would be...wise.
Chapter 5
When he arrived at the office on Monday morning, the office manager turned her curly gray head from the coffee table and said, “Good morning, Noah,” in a way that made Noah wonder what delightful secret she had. Her eyes and her smile appeared more animated than usual. She’d been his dad’s secretary for as long he could remember. And most of the years she’d worked there, she’d run the office. She’d tried to run him and Michael, also, when they worked on construction during summers between high school and college semesters.
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