“I’ve gone over the scene in my head almost nonstop, but it plays out differently each time, depending on his reaction. I’ll just play it by ear.” Her cell phone rang before he had a chance to respond. “Hello?” she answered.
“Hey, lovebug.”
The nickname brought a smile to her lips. “Hi, Dad. This is a surprise.”
“Yeah, I haven’t talked to you in a few days. Is, uh, everything going okay over there?”
Worry tinged his tone. Was it related to this quest for her birth father, or was something else bothering him?
“Everything’s wonderful. I’m having a great time.”
“That’s good. Thea said your neighbor is showing you the sights?”
So her mom had told Thea, but hadn’t said anything to her dad. That meant Mama had figured out it was a bona fide date.
She didn’t want her dad to get the wrong idea about Garrett—or maybe the right one—and she felt weird talking about him in front of him. She chose her words carefully. “Yeah, that’s right. I’m taking in all the tourist attractions. In fact, my neighbor Garrett and his son and I are on Île Saint-Louis right now. We’re going to visit Notre-Dame and Sainte-Chapelle this afternoon.” She didn’t mention their first destination on the island.
“Sounds like you have good neighbors.”
She could almost hear her dad’s inner voice convincing him this guy was just being neighborly. Taking her under his wings, which, of course, in her dad’s point-of-view, would have to belong to angels.
“The best,” she agreed.
“Well, I just wanted to hear your voice.”
“And?” She laughed.
“And you sound like you’re having the time of your life.”
“I am, Dad.”
“I’ll let you go then. Love you, lovebug.”
“Love you, Dad.” She slid the phone into her pocket as Garrett and Dylan stopped in the middle of the block.
Garrett pointed to a small shop across the street. “That’s the address.”
This could be it. She swallowed and nodded. The sweet phone conversation that had brought home and Dad so close was suddenly replaced by what felt like an unknown, scary universe only a few yards away.
Garrett dropped her arm but held her hand as she stepped into the street, anchoring her to this side of the abyss.
“Are you sure you want to do this, Tara?” He spoke low, like he might give away a secret if he raised his voice. Dylan held his other hand, but the child’s attention was farther down the street.
She looked hard into his eyes. “I’m sure.”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“You love your dad. I hear it in your voice. And he loves you. What will it do to him if you find the man who conceived you?” He leaned in and lowered his voice to a whisper. “And that’s all he did, Tara. He merely deposited some sperm.”
His last sentence jolted her, considering he’d done the same thing with her a few hours ago. Though, hopefully, the condoms caught all the frisky creatures. But was this his way of reminding her that one-night stands were no big deal?
She jerked her hand from his. “This isn’t about my dad.” His question was the same one her parents had asked her over and over when she started planning this trip. How many times would she have to explain her actions? “It’s about me—about who I am. I need to know my true roots. Is that so difficult to understand?” Maybe it was to someone who’d always known who he was. “I always thought I knew who I was, but there’s a half of me I know nothing about. I’m not trying to hurt anybody. I’m simply trying to know myself better.”
Garrett gave a resolute nod, grabbed her hand again and tucked her arm under his, close to his side once more. “Then come on. Let’s do this.”
“Are we going to Berthillon, Dad?” Dylan tugged his father’s hand and pointed.
Garrett stooped, not letting go of either hand. “We’ll go a little later. But first, we’re going to go in that shop over there. Tara is looking for someone.”
“Like a geocache? But with people?” The child held up the plastic ring from the canister they’d located a half hour before.
“Just like that,” Garrett agreed, and the thought that she might be on the verge of finding a treasure made Tara’s heart race.
The three of them marched across the street to the door beneath the engraved copper sign, which was worn to a weathered green patina.
Garrett opened it and stood back for Tara to enter first.
An elderly gentleman rose to greet them from behind a desk covered with neat stacks of paper weighted down by miscellaneous items that included a jewel-encrusted sword hilt and a marble ashtray in the shape of Italy.
“Bonjour, monsieur. Je cherche Monsieur Jacques Martin.” The words she had practiced so often fell from Tara’s tongue.
“C’est moi. Je suis Jacques Martin.”
Tara understood his answer—she’d heard it several times before—and her heart sank with disappointment. This gentleman had to be in his seventies, or eighties even.
“Parlez-vous anglais?” she asked.
The old man shook his head. “Non.”
An uncomfortable silence hung in the air between them as he waited for her to speak, curiosity plain in his eyes...and maybe a hint of fear.
She wasn’t sure what to do next. She couldn’t just leave. He deserved an explanation that she couldn’t give him in French. She turned to Garrett for help.
At just a glance from her, he picked up the conversation, explaining their reason for being there. Tara watched the transformation in the man’s face as he gained understanding of their mission.
When Garrett asked if he knew any other Jacques Martins who might fit their criteria, the old man shook his head, turning sympathetic eyes to Tara. “Je suis désolé, mademoiselle.”
Tara forced a half smile. “Merci beaucoup.”
The gentleman said something else and Tara looked to Garrett for a translation, but it was Dylan who spoke up. “He said he wishes you were his daughter. It would be very nice to have a beautiful daughter like you.” The child’s arm went around her leg for a quick hug.
She blinked back the tears that stung her eyes. “Thank you.” She ruffled Dylan’s hair and nodded to the old gentleman. “That’s very kind.”
When she found her birth father—and that was the only possibility she was going to consider—she hoped his sentiments would be the same.
As they said their adieus, the old man squeezed her hand and said something.
“He said good luck,” Dylan told her.
Back outside the shop, Garrett let go of Dylan’s hand and nodded, and the child took off at a run. Garrett’s arm slid around her shoulder with a comforting hug as they followed in his son’s wake. “Don’t be sad, okay? You still have a lot of Jacques Martins on your list.”
“I know.” Her breath left her in a huff. “I told myself this wasn’t going to be easy, but it’s hard to not get my hopes up. Every time I find one, I’m positive it’s him.”
Garrett leaned into her as they walked. “And I’ll be here if it’s not,” he whispered. “Every time.”
His breath caught on the rim of her ear and feathered down her neck, causing an unexpected shiver that slithered down her spine and coiled deep within her belly. A low chuckle confirmed he felt her response and had known what it would be. “I know what you need.”
Fueled by the frustration of another false lead, irritation flickered inside Tara at Garrett’s words—and the smugness behind them. Men’s minds were like boomerangs that always came back to the same thing. “Not everything can be fixed by great sex,” she pouted.
His eyes opened wide in surprise and then softened with a playful glint as he nodded toward the storefront they were a
pproaching and where Dylan was already waiting. “I thought maybe something from here would lift your spirits. Berthillon. World’s best.”
Her eyes followed his nod, her face heating at the conclusion she’d jumped to. “Ice cream!” She gave an embarrassed laugh. “Sorry.”
“Never apologize when you’ve used great to describe it.” The corner of his mouth twitched before it broke into one of his dazzling smiles. “But maybe this will cool you off.” When he opened the door to the shop, the chilly air from inside did exactly that.
Sweetness hung in that same air as they entered, and Tara could taste the sugar on her tongue just from sniffing. Her mouth watered in anticipation as she looked over the list of flavors du jour.
“What would you like?” Garrett asked.
“A cup of strawberry,” Dylan announced.
Despite the many choices, Tara’s mind stalled on the sixth one down. “One scoop of cappuccino chocolate chip on a cone, please.”
“My favorite.” Garrett shifted his smile toward the young woman behind the counter, words flowing so smoothly from his lips that Tara could almost imagine them having their own flavor named after them.
The woman’s eyes drifted lazily down Garrett as she leaned forward in open flirtation. The woman saw something she liked, and she put her message out there without hesitation.
Thea was like that.
Since birth, Tara’s sister had dared the world to try to stick the preacher’s kid label on her while Tara had tried to live up to the expectation—until she was twenty-three. The irony that Thea was the preacher’s kid by blood while she was the bastard child squeezed at her again.
If she found her birth father, it would be news she’d want to share. But how would that news go over in Taylor’s Grove?
Garrett’s low chuckle drew Tara out of her reverie. The woman behind the counter had evidently said something that tickled his fancy.
“She said she likes your tattoo.” He handed Tara the cone. “And I said I do, too.”
Tara didn’t recognize the emotion that had flared briefly as jealousy until his words transformed it into butterflies in her stomach. “Thanks.” She tipped the cone in his direction.
He grinned. “Je t’en prie.”
He paused, and she realized he was waiting for her to take her first bite. When she did, the silky texture spread a burst of coffee flavor across her tongue, and she let out a groan of pure pleasure.
A lazy smile touched his lips. “I like that sound.” He took a bite and tilted his head toward the door, calling to his son. “Come on, Dylan. Let’s go back down by the river.”
Dylan dropped another spoonful of sprinkles into his cup and ran to join them.
As they walked along the Seine, eating their ice cream and enjoying the shade from the hazelnut trees, Notre-Dame came into view—majestic and serene. They approached Pont Saint-Louis, which connected Île de la Cité with the small island they were on, and Tara pulled out her camera.
“Here. Let me get one of you.” Garrett took the camera from her and handed her his cone. Using mostly hand gestures, he positioned her with her elbow on the wall of the bridge and Notre-Dame in the background, and took quite a few shots, moving farther away each time. In between, she gave quick licks to the ice cream, which threatened to melt all over her hands. Satisfied at last, Garrett returned to her, laughing as she took a huge swipe with her tongue on both cones. He slipped the camera back into her purse and zipped it closed.
“Dad, can I go over there and watch the puppet show?” Dylan pointed to a knot of children sitting on the lawn of the cathedral in front of a portable puppet stage. Their giggles and claps infused the air with happy sounds.
“Sure, sport. We’ll be right here.”
Tara and Garrett stepped off the bridge and moved to the side behind the group of kids.
Tara held Garrett’s cone out to him, but he dropped his gaze to her mouth and paused. “You have chocolate on your lip.”
As her tongue made a quick jaunt around her lips, he leaned down and caught it with his mouth, capturing and muting her startled gasp. Her grip tightened around the cones she still clutched in each hand. She became aware of his erection forming against her front and the stone wall against her back. Whoever made being between a rock and a hard place synonymous with trouble had never been kissed by Garrett in Paris.
The tender kiss made her brain go all fuzzy.
“Did you get it?” she asked.
“Did I get what?”
“The chocolate.”
He laughed. “Yep. All gone.” He took his cone from her. “Now I have a much sweeter taste in my mouth.”
The kiss and the fire she’d felt in Garrett’s touch brought heat to her lips. She cooled them by burying them deep in the ice cream and threw a worried glance in Dylan’s direction, finding his attention glued to the puppet show. “What if Dylan had seen?”
Garrett took a lick from his cone, seeming to weigh his words. “He’s seen me kiss people in the past, and he’s never been traumatized by it.”
“Well, yeah, of course. But we don’t want him to get the wrong idea that this is anything serious...like with you and your tutor.”
“Yeah. You’re right.” He turned away to lean his back against the wall, and she felt the distancing in the move—both mental and physical.
Well, they’d had their night together...and their morning...and their afternoon. Twenty-four hours of romance was more than she’d ever expected on this trip. She should be grateful and satisfied that she had that to remember.
But Garrett’s nearness made her feel hot and needy...and anything but satisfied.
When she took her next bite, the ice cream hung on the back of her tongue, making her shiver and causing a moment of excruciating brain freeze.
She remembered the admonishment her dad would give her when she did the same thing as a little girl.
“Don’t bite off more than you can handle,” he would say.
Now that she’d made love to Garrett, she knew exactly what her dad meant...though this time it had nothing to do with ice cream.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
IT WAS 9:25 A.M. ON SUNDAY, and Faith was still in her pajamas. She couldn’t remember the last time that had happened.
If ever.
Oh, she’d stayed home with the kids when they were sick, but she always gotten dressed, even if that just meant slipping on jeans and a T-shirt. When she was sick, getting dressed was a must because her being under the weather always brought the women with their casserole dishes. It wouldn’t do for them to stop by unexpectedly and catch her in a robe. That would be snickered at in the community for three to five days, depending on what other gossip popped up in the meantime.
Sawyer was at church by now. What was he telling people? No one had paid any attention yesterday that she was at her mother-in-law’s. It was commonplace for her or Sawyer or the kids to be running in and out. And she’d gone to their cabin on Kentucky Lake for the better part of the day. That’s where she’d called the kids from. The situation didn’t seem so dire when she sat on the dock, watching the sunset on the water.
It occurred to her that she should move in there rather than Lacy’s, but that would leave Sawyer to face the community alone, and that hardly seemed fair since he was the innocent in all of this.
The Marsdens’ house next door was dark when she’d returned. With any luck, they were out of town. But she hadn’t heard anything about their being gone, so that was unlikely.
Still she could hope.
She took her coffee cup and wandered aimlessly around the house until she found herself on the screened-in back porch. The forsythia and spirea bushes, tall and gangly and in bad need of pruning, had formed a privacy hedge around the backyard. Lacy had said it amounted to laziness, but Fait
h always suspected it gave much-needed privacy from her neighbor’s eagle eye...and serpent tongue.
Lacy’s roses and hydrangeas were in full bloom, a living canvas of color, and the swing was usually the perfect place to enjoy the sight and scents, but she was too restless. She could, however, cut some of the blooms and bring the divine scent indoors. Maybe it would be good aromatherapy.
She pushed the door open and descended the steps, letting the spring slam it back.
Sawyer’s beloved bass boat, a treasured inheritance from his dad, sat under the carport, covered and untouched since this ordeal started, despite her husband’s passion for the sport. His best sermons usually contained some fishing stories. The day would come—soon, she hoped—when he’d hook the boat up and head for the lake. That would be her sign that healing had begun.
The dewy grass squished between her toes as she padded barefoot to the potting shed. Packets of unopened seeds lay in a pile on the potting bench next to the gloves and a hand trowel, placed there by hands that had expected to come back for them.
Well, hands were back—just not the same ones these items were waiting for.
Faith picked up the seeds and the tools and stalked out of the potting shed with a purpose. She was an action person. And until a better action came to her, this would do.
She dropped to her knees in the dirt, ramming her hand into one of the gloves with determination. Something squished in the tip of one of the fingers, wringing a startled cry from her tight throat.
She jerked the glove off and shook it. A black spider with long, crumpled legs fell out. It was dead, but she was terrified of the creatures and looking at it still raised goose bumps on her arms. Then her eyes caught the red hourglass shape on its back, bringing her to her feet with a squeal of horror. A black widow! “Eww!”
“Who’s there?” a sharp voice demanded from the other side of the hedge.
Sue! Another black widow would’ve been preferable. Faith’s flight-or-fight instinct kicked in, and she looked around wildly for a means of escape.
“Who’s there, I said? Answer me, whoever you are, or I’m calling the sheriff.”
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