by White, Karen
Jillian bumped her with her hip, belatedly telling her to be quiet. “I ran a small catering business from my home in Atlanta. It’s been a while since I spent any time in a kitchen, and I think I’m due.”
Martha looked at her skeptically. “Only if you really want to. Otherwise, we’ll have enough for everybody.”
Jillian could almost smell the sweet aroma of baking bread in her Atlanta kitchen, and the need to create, to make something wonderful and desirable with her own hands pulled at her. “I’d really like to.”
“Then I look forward to it. Say, about two o’clock? I’ll send Joe to come pick you up. We’re only on the other end of Myrtle Avenue, but it’s a bit of a hike for a pregnant lady and a little girl. You’re a bit isolated up here on this end, you know.” She winked at Grace. “Just make sure you both know where my phone number is so you can call me if you need anything.”
“Thanks again,” Jillian said, waving, then watched Martha leave. She felt reluctant to close the door, wanting Martha’s presence to linger in the old, empty house and the salty breeze to blow through the rooms. Gracie ran back inside, but Jillian stayed in the doorway and gazed out across the dunes.
Loud buzz saws erupted with sound at the twin house next door, and she stepped out onto her porch, hiding herself in the shadows of the arches. She was embarrassed to still be in her pajamas at eleven o’clock in the morning. Since childhood, she had been an early riser, unwilling to face the consequences of languishing in bed. Old habits died hard, and the guilt would follow her until she was showered and dressed and doing something productive.
A black Mercedes sedan pulled into the driveway next door and a man stepped out, several rolls of what looked like blueprints tucked under his arm. He wore jeans and a long-sleeved shirt with a button-down collar. Despite the casual appearance, there was nothing casual in this man’s stance.
He slammed the car door, not with deliberation but with a honed strength that seemed to unleash itself without provocation. He was tall, with long legs and broad shoulders, and seemed to emanate a power that had nothing to do with his physical attributes.
The sun bathed him in its glowing light for a brief moment, reflecting off his dark brown hair, then threw all into shadow as a cloud obscured the sky. He tilted his head back and looked at the house, and Jillian almost smiled. His jutting chin and determined profile nearly matched that of the house. She sobered quickly, recalling how her grandmother had once said the same of her.
A misty breeze blew up from the ocean, bringing with it the smell of rain. Angry black clouds skimmed toward them, whipping at the waves. A strange, tingling sensation rippled up her spine, and the baby inside slammed against her ribs, nearly taking her breath away. She bent over, grasping at a column, then glanced across the sandy grass.
The man was staring at her, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. She quickly ducked behind the column, her breath coming in quick gasps. There had been something strangely familiar about him, and it wasn’t a pleasant familiarity. She recalled the sign in the front of the property—RISING & MORROW, CHARLESTON. The firm’s name was foreign to her, and she was sure she didn’t know anybody in Charleston.
Too late, she realized she was attempting to hide her pregnant body behind a relatively slim column. From the man’s vantage point, she must closely resemble a snake swallowing a toaster.
Straightening her shoulders, she ventured another look. The man was now leaning against his car but still staring in her direction, his eyes hidden behind the sunglasses but his expression making it clear he was watching her.
Pretending she hadn’t noticed him, she moved to the front door. Fat drops of rain began hitting the tin roof of the porch as she hurried inside, closing the door firmly before the deluge began.
CHAPTER 3
JILLIAN KISSED GRACIE’S FOREHEAD AS SHE TUCKED HER IN BED, HER Bun-Bun tucked securely under her arm and the ever faithful Spot on the pillow beside her. In the three days they’d been in the house, Grace had not said anything more about her new imaginary friend, Lauren. Jillian could sometimes hear her whispering quietly in her room, in the midst of a heated conversation, but when she knocked, all would be silent.
Jillian moved over to the window to close the curtains, using the opportunity to stare out at the house next door. Not that she wanted to see that man again, of course. But there had been something about him, something that made him stick in her mind like bubblegum on the bottom of a shoe.
“Are you seeing naked people, Jilly-bean?”
Peering closely at the dark windows next door, she muttered, “I wish.”
“What?”
The curtains forgotten, Jillian walked back to the bed. “Of course not, Gracie. I’m just looking at all that construction rubble next door and hoping they’ll clean it all up when they’re through.”
After a quick good night kiss and tucking the quilt under Grace’s chin, she left the room and went downstairs. The golden glow of a tired sun in the early evening sky lent the rooms its weary light. This had always been her favorite part of the day. The new stars would appear, lighting her way through the night, as if making promises that the following day would be better.
She busied herself in the kitchen, clearing away the dinner dishes while waiting for Gracie to drift off into a deep sleep. She longed for nothing more than to curl up in her own bed and sink into oblivion, but she had promised her daughter that the Easter Bunny would find them.
As she draped the dish towel over the faucet, a time-honored signal that her kitchen chores were done, she listened carefully for any noise from up above. Nothing disturbed the almost eerie stillness of the house, and she heard Martha’s voice in her head, commenting on how isolated these two houses were. She walked to the window and slid down the sash, locking it with a solid snap.
Kneeling down in front of the counter under the sink, she reached behind the garbage can and pulled out the two bags of stuffed plastic Easter eggs. She stared at the brightly colored eggs, trying to sense the sheer bliss of a child on Easter morning, but could not. No one had ever hidden eggs for her, and her classmates’ chatter about their own Easter mornings had been as if in a foreign language.
Straightening, she began hiding eggs in obvious spots around the first floor. She almost stopped then, thinking that there was more than enough candy to satisfy a single child. But she had another bag full of stuffed eggs that she had spent the last four nights assembling after Grace had gone to bed. Rick had always been in charge of these things, and she had obviously overestimated the number of eggs it would take.
Assured that everything remained quiet upstairs, she flipped on all the lights, then quietly let herself out the back door. Clumping around the porch, feeling large and ungainly and glad no one could see her, she hid the eggs under the arches, behind old flowerpots and under the rocking chairs that had arrived the week before. When she was down to the last egg, she sat in a chair and cracked open the smooth pink shell, allowing herself this one treat. Sweets had always been considered contraband in her parents’ household, and she still could only enjoy them on rare occasions when nobody else was near to see her sin.
As she sat and chewed on the miniature candy bar, she allowed her gaze to stray to the house next door. The twilight sky bathed the mangled house in soft shades of pink and orange, making it beautiful again. Part of the roof was missing, with wooden beams meeting at a point in the middle like the sun-bleached ribs of a beached whale. Lauren’s bedroom window looked out at Jillian with a vacant, staring eye, and the sadness that she had managed so far to keep at bay washed over her.
Not even realizing what she was doing, she stepped off her porch and began walking next door. Stray boards and nails lay scattered in the sandy grass, and she gingerly walked around them. As she stood in front of the porch, a strong gust of wind blew at her back like unseen hands pushing her forward.
She walked up the cracked steps, almost smelling the corn bread cooking in the oven and feeling the
welcoming hugs and smiles of Lauren and her parents. Tears stung her eyes at the memory, and she quickly tucked it back where it belonged.
The door was open and blew in and out at the whim of the wind. She placed her flattened hand on it and pushed it before stepping into the foyer. Blinking in the dimness, she waited for the familiarity to settle over her again.
Fluffy pink insulation covered the spaces between the wood studs of the walls and ceiling, reminding her of cotton pulled from a stuffed animal. The soul had been removed, leaving only the skeleton and a host of memories, which seemed to cling to the bare floors and open joists. The entire place had been gutted, with little to resemble the house that it had been, though she could still see the floral chintzes and bright yellow walls when she closed her eyes. She hesitated, listening to the stillness, until the breeze pushed at her back, encouraging her to move deeper inside this shadow of a house.
The floor plan was opposite of hers, with the kitchen on the left instead of the right and the stairs curving up toward the beach side of the house. Holding tightly to the makeshift banister, she began to climb the stairs slowly, not quite sure why or what was propelling her to do so.
As she stood on the top step, she paused to listen. The thrum of the ocean stroked the quiet house like a mother soothing a child to sleep. She closed her eyes for a moment, rocking with the gentle rhythm of it. The quiet house seemed to close in on her, and she abruptly opened her eyes, propelled again to move forward.
The door to Lauren’s room was missing and she stepped through the doorway, feeling almost as if her old friend was in there, waiting for Jillian to hear a long-kept secret. This room seemed to have fared better than the others, as the walls and flooring were intact, though the rosebud wallpaper and pink shag carpeting had been removed. She walked toward the corner of the room where a deep window seat nestled inside the bay window, and sat down.
She started to tuck her knees under her chin as Lauren and she had always done, then laughed at her attempts to bring her legs past her extended girth. The sun dipped a fraction lower, sending a bright ray into the room like a gentle benediction. She raised her right hand into the light, letting the sun reflect off her grandmother’s wedding ring, and wondered whose presence she felt more at that moment.
Her hand dropped and brushed against a hinge, reminding her of the opening in the window seat. A rush of excitement coursed through her, and she quickly climbed off the seat. She lifted the lid, the rusty hinges groaning, the sound exaggerated by the dead silence of the house. Squatting down as much as her belly would allow, she reached inside to the corner, her fingers searching for the hidden compartment she knew to be there.
After several minutes of fumbling, she was rewarded when her fingertips found the small release button. Eagerly, she pressed it as Lauren had shown her how to do, and felt acute disappointment when nothing happened.
She was leaning over into the opening when she heard the distinct sound of a car door being shut. Quickly rising and closing the seat, she pressed her face against the glass and looked down. She couldn’t see anything and was left wondering if the visitor had come to this house or her own.
She thought of Gracie asleep alone in the house next door, and she felt the first tinges of panic. She moved toward the doorway as fast as she could, sliding off her shoes to make less noise. As she leaned against the threshold of the room, she heard the distinct sound of the front door closing and the latch being thrown. Her heart beat loudly in her chest and she swallowed, the sound seeming to echo throughout the hushed house.
A footfall came from below, and it was apparent that whoever was in the house was climbing the stairs. Holding her breath, she watched a long shadow slide up the stairwell, stretching around the bend until the visitor stopped on the landing and looked directly at her.
The face was familiar and not familiar. Gone was the soft earnestness of youth; the invincible, indestructible aura held only by the very young and those who had not yet acquired the disillusionment of adulthood. In its place were the hard planes of a man who had severed his roots with a final, deft blow. He had left behind the good with the bad in a desperate attempt to escape the world into which he’d been born and become the person that the same world said he could never be.
But the determined stare had not changed in sixteen years. The dark gray eyes still regarded the world with barely concealed animosity, hiding the scars and a gentleness in his heart that very few were allowed close enough to see.
“Linc,” she managed before one of her shoes fell from her hand, sliding down the stairs toward him. She sat down heavily on the top step and waited. Of course it was him. She had probably known it since she’d spotted him outside the house, staring back at her as if he knew her.
With a quick and precise motion, his hand struck out and grabbed her shoe between those long, sensitive fingers, and held it up just out of her reach. He stared at her and raised an eyebrow.
“What are you doing here?” Her voice echoed in the empty house.
“I was about to ask you the same question.” His voice had not changed. It still carried the soft accent of a native, calling to mind summer storms, sudden and unexpected but full of sultry heat.
She laughed nervously. “You mean this isn’t my house? Sorry, I must have gotten confused and taken a wrong turn on the dunes.”
His lip twitched before his face settled back into stony perusal. “I see.” He kicked a nail down the stairs, the sound loud in the thick silence. “You’re pregnant.”
She let her gaze drop to her belly that now completely obscured her legs when she sat. “Hey, I think you may be right.” She gave him a lopsided grin. “I must be blocking your way. If you step out of the house, I should be able to slide by and give you room to move.”
As if he hadn’t heard her, he said, “Married?”
She looked at him, unblinking. “Divorced.” When he didn’t say anything else, she said, “Look, I’m sorry if I’m trespassing. I’ve bought my grandmother’s old house—next door. I wanted to see what all the renovations were about over here.” She swallowed nervously. “I’ll leave.”
Still, he didn’t move, nor did he give her the shoe. “I saw you the other day. You were watching me.”
She blushed, remembering the man staring at her as she hid on her porch. “I didn’t recognize you. Otherwise, I would have come over sooner.”
He looked at her with obvious disbelief.
“I saw the blueprints under your arm and assumed you were one of the architects. . . .” Her voice trailed away as his expression darkened. She swallowed again and continued. “I didn’t recognize any of the names on the sign, so of course I didn’t suspect. . . .” Again, her voice failed her, and they stared at each other in the darkened stairwell for a long moment. “Which one are you? Morrow or Rising?”
He leaned back against the stairwell wall, crossing his arms over his chest in a defensive gesture. “Rising. Since my mother didn’t know who my father was, I figured I could pick any last name I wanted. Found Rising in a cemetery in Charleston. Thought it was appropriate for a guy running away and starting over.”
The baby kicked, and her hand instinctively went to her swollen abdomen. His gaze flickered briefly at her hand, then went back to her face, his eyes unreadable.
His voice had an edge to it when he spoke. “You shouldn’t be here. There’s lots of garbage lying around and it’s not safe—especially for a pregnant woman. It’s real easy to trip and fall.”
She grabbed hold of the banister and struggled to stand and put on her shoe. His presence unsettled her, caught as she was between memories of the boy she had known and this man he had grown to be. She tried to speak to the boy she remembered. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? I’ve thought about you a lot.”
“I bet you have.”
“I would have written if I’d known where you’d gone. You didn’t have to run, you know. There were some who believed you innocent.”
An uncom
fortable silence settled between them as he regarded her. “And you would know about running, wouldn’t you, Jillian? You ran back to Atlanta the minute the chief picked me up in his cruiser.”
Her breath stuck in her throat as she gripped the railing with both hands. “Give me my shoe, please, and I’ll go.” She didn’t care that he heard her voice shake. She needed to leave, to get back to Grace, to ignore past hurts and start the healing her soul so desperately needed. Linc’s presence had pressed on old bruises, bruises she wanted to fade forever.
He held up her shoe, and she grabbed it. Carefully, she made her way down the stairs. When she paused on the landing, she looked up at him. His face was closed to her, an ability he had honed to perfection in the years since she had last seen him, but she noticed his hands were pressed tightly against the wall. It was almost as if he were forcing them there to stop them from helping her down the stairs.
She made to move past him when she heard him swear under his breath.
“Damn,” he said, as he swept his hands under her and lifted her up to carry her the rest of the way down the stairs and across the piled lumber on the front steps.
She felt his heat first, and the strength of the muscles that supported her. And then she caught his scent, of new wood and salt, and she knew then, with all certainty, that this was the Linc she had once known.
When he set her down on the other side of the debris, he gazed at her with gray eyes that seemed to darken to slate as they reflected the inside light.
“I don’t need your help,” she said, pushing away from him.
“You never did, Jillian. But I always ended up being there for you, anyway.”
She caught his double meaning and turned away, her pulse beating erratically. With as much dignity as she could muster and with what she hoped was more grace than a stuffed flounder, she poked her way through the sandy grass, not wanting to stop until she was on her own property.
