A Time to Forgive and Promise Forever

by Marta Perry

  “Does that bother you, Gran?” Adam sounded as if he hoped so.

  His grandmother shook her head decidedly. “Never was up to the rest of the windows. If something’s good, it’ll improve with age.”

  Adam’s expression softened. “Like you, for instance.”

  She swatted at him. “Don’t you try to butter me up, young man.”

  She turned away, but Tory saw the glow of pleasure in her cheeks. For an instant she felt a wave of envy. If she’d had a grandmother like that, how different might her life have been?

  “Jenny, child. Come help me with these flowers.” Naomi Caldwell ushered Adam’s daughter toward the pulpit, handing her the basket. “We’ll put them on the dolphin shelf.”

  Tory tensed at the words. “The dolphin shelf?” She glanced at Adam, making it a question.

  “That bracket behind the pulpit. A wooden carving of a dolphin once stood there. Gran likes to keep flowers in its place.” Adam nodded toward the shelf where his grandmother was placing a vase.

  I never meant for the dolphin to disappear. I didn’t. Her mother’s voice, broken with sobs, sounded in Tory’s mind.

  If she asked Adam about the dolphin, what would he say? Tory’s mind worked busily. She had to find out more about the dolphin’s disappearance if she were to fulfill her promise to her mother, but the last thing she needed was to stir up any additional conflict with Adam.

  “What’s this new window going to look like?” Mrs. Caldwell’s question interrupted her thoughts before she could come up with an answer.

  “That’s really up to the family.” Maybe she’d better stay focused on the window for the moment. “Usually I try to come up with some designs that reflect the person being honored, then let the family decide.”

  “How do you do that?” The woman paused, head tilted, her hands full of bronze mums. “Reflect somebody in a design, I mean.” She seemed genuinely interested in the design, unlike everyone else Tory had met since she’d come to the island.

  “Well, first I try to find out as much as I can about the person—her likes and dislikes, her personality, her background. Then—”

  Carried away by the subject, she glanced at Adam. His expression dried the words on her tongue. He stared at her, his eyes like pieces of jagged green glass.

  “No.” He ground out the word.

  “What?” She blinked, not sure what he meant.

  “I said no. You’ll have to find another way of working this time.”

  Before she could respond he was calling the child, saying goodbye to his grandmother and walking out of the sanctuary.

  The heavy door swung shut behind him, canceling the shaft of sunlight it had let in.

  “I’m sorry about that.” Adam’s grandmother shook her head. “Reckon Adam’s a bit sensitive about Lila.”

  “I see.”

  She’d made another misstep. She should have been more careful. But how on earth could she possibly find any common ground with Adam if he wouldn’t even talk to her?

  “I can’t do this.” Adam had arrived at his office at Caldwell Boatyard after dropping Jenny at school, his stomach still roiling. He’d found his brother, Matthew, waiting for him.

  “Can’t do what?” Matt perched on the edge of Adam’s cluttered desk, toying with the bronze dolphin paperweight Lila had given Adam in happier times. Matt looked as if he had all the time in the world.

  “Help that woman design a memorial window for Lila, of all things.” Adam slumped into the leather chair behind the desk. Matt was the only person in the world he’d speak to so freely, because Matt was the only one he’d told the whole story to. A good thing he had his brother, or he might resort to punching the paneling. “If my mother-in-law wanted a window, why didn’t she put it in her own church instead of saddling me with it?”

  “Maybe because St. Andrews was Lila’s church,” Matt offered helpfully.

  Adam glared at him. “Don’t you have work to do? Or doesn’t running a weekly paper and being husband and stepfather for two whole months keep you busy enough?”

  “Actually, I am working.” Matt smiled, his face more relaxed than Adam had seen it in years. Marriage seemed to agree with him. “Sarah and I want to do a story for the Gazette about the church windows.”

  “Great. That’s just what I need.” Adam rotated his chair so he could stare at the sloop he was refitting for an off-island summer sailor. “Maybe you can satisfy Tory Marlowe’s curiosity.”

  He glanced at his brother, wondering how much he wanted to say about Tory. Everything, probably.

  Matt lifted an eyebrow. “Curiosity?”

  “She wants to talk about Lila.” His throat tightened. “She wants to get to know her so she can create a fitting memorial.”

  Matt whistled softly, obviously understanding all the things Adam didn’t say out loud. “What are you doing about it?”

  “Not telling her the truth, that’s for sure.” He rubbed his forehead as if he could rub the memories away. He and Lila had married too quickly, too young, and he faulted himself for that as much as Lila. He hadn’t realized until later, carried away as he was, that Lila had had totally skewed ideas of what their married life would be like. She’d hated the island, and everything he’d done to try and make things better only seemed to backfire. Even their beautiful baby hadn’t made Lila want a real family.

  She’d craved excitement, and eventually she’d found that with a man she’d met on one of her frequent trips to visit friends who, she claimed, were living the life she should have had.

  He frowned at Matt. “I certainly can’t tell her the truth. I’m not telling her anything, if I can help it.”

  “Sounds like a mistake to me.”

  “Why?” He shot the word at his brother like a dare, but Matt looked unaffected.

  “You’ll just encourage her to go to other people for what she needs.”

  “No one knows the truth.”

  Matt shrugged. “You’re probably right. But what if you’re not? Better answer her questions yourself than have her asking around town.”

  Unfortunately, that sounded like good advice. He lifted an eyebrow at Matt.

  “How did you get to know so much about women, little brother?”

  Matt grinned. “My wife’s training me.” He sobered. “Seriously, Adam. Just get through it the best you can. Give the woman a few noncommittal details and say you trust her artistic sense to come up with the design. She’ll get busy with the design and stop bothering you.”

  “I hope so.” But somehow he didn’t think Tory was the kind of person to do anything without doing it to perfection.

  He got up slowly, letting the chair roll against shelves crammed with shipbuilding lore. “Guess I’d better go back to the church and make peace with her, if I can.”

  Adam slipped in the side door to the sanctuary and stopped in the shadows. Tory, on the ladder, didn’t seem to hear him. He could take a minute to think what he’d say to her.

  Unfortunately he wasn’t thinking about that. Instead he was watching her, trying to figure out what it was about the woman that made it so hard to pull his gaze away.

  She wasn’t beautiful. That was his first impression. At least, she wasn’t beautiful like Lila had been, all sleek perfection. But Tory had something, some quality that made a man look, then look again.

  Those must be her working clothes—well-worn jeans, sneakers, a T-shirt topped by an oversize man’s white shirt that served to emphasize her slender figure. She looked like what she was, he supposed. An artisan, a woman who worked with her hands and didn’t have time or inclination for the expensive frills that had been so important to Lila.

  Tory’s hair, rich as dark chocolate, had been pulled back and tied at the nape of her neck with a red scarf. The hair seemed to have a mind of its own, as tendrils escaped to curl against her neck and around the pale oval of her face.

  Oh, no. He’d been that route before, hadn’t he? Intrigued by a woman, mistaking a lov
ely face for a lovely soul, thinking her promises meant loyalty that would last a lifetime. With Lila, that lifetime had only lasted five years before she’d lost interest in keeping her vows.

  His hands clenched. He wouldn’t do that again. He had his daughter, his family, his business to take care of. That was enough for any sensible man.

  The smartest thing would be to avoid Ms. Tory Marlowe entirely, but he couldn’t do that. Thanks to Mona’s bright idea, he and Tory were tied inextricably together until this project was finished.

  Something winced inside him. He had to talk to her, and it might as well be now.

  He took a step forward, frowning. Tory had leaned over perilously far, long fingers outstretched to touch some flaw she must see in the window.

  “Hold it.”

  She jerked around at the sound of his voice, the ladder wobbling. His breath caught as she put a steadying hand on the wall. He hurried to brace the ladder for her, annoyed with himself for startling her.

  She frowned at him. “Are you trying to make me fall?”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m trying to keep you from falling.” He gave the elderly wooden ladder a shake. “This thing isn’t safe.”

  She jumped down, landing close enough for him to smell the fresh scent that clung to her. “I do this all the time, you know. Scrambling around on rickety ladders comes with the territory.”

  “You might do that elsewhere, sugar, but not in my church.”

  Her dark eyes met his, startled and a little wary. The red T-shirt she wore under the white shirt seemed to make them even darker. “What did you call me?”

  “Sorry.” But somehow he wasn’t. “Afraid that slipped out. It’s usually Jenny I’m lecturing about dangerous pastimes.”

  Her already firm jaw tightened. “I’m not eight, and I’m doing my job.”

  She reminded him of Gran, intent on doing what she wanted to no matter how well-intentioned her family’s interference was. The comparison made him smile.

  “Are you always this stubborn?”

  “Always.” Something that might have been amusement touched her face. “I’m not your responsibility.”

  “Well, you know, there’s where you’re wrong. In a way, you are my responsibility.”

  She lifted level brows. “How do you figure that?”

  He patted the ladder, and it shook. “Everything about the building and grounds of St. Andrews is my responsibility. Including rickety ladders.”

  She grimaced. “I’ve been on worse than this one, believe me.”

  “You shouldn’t be up on a ladder at all.” An idea sprang into his mind, and it was such a perfect solution he didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to him sooner.

  Steel glinted in Tory’s eyes. “If you think I’ll give up the project because I have to climb a ladder, you have the wrong impression of me, Mr. Caldwell.”

  “Adam,” he corrected. “I think my impression of you is fairly accurate, as a matter of fact. But I was referring to the ladder, not your personality, Ms. Marlowe.”

  A faint flush stained her cheeks, and she fingered the fine silver chain that circled her neck. “Maybe you’d better make that Tory. What about the ladder?”

  “It’s not safe. I’ll have a crew come over from the boatyard to put up scaffolding so you can inspect the windows safely. That’s what we should have done to begin with.”

  He was taking charge of the situation. That, too, was what he should have done from the word go, instead of letting himself get defensive.

  “You don’t need to—”

  “As far as working on them is concerned—” he swept on “—we’ll take the panels out completely. That way we won’t have to worry about St. Andrews getting slapped with a lawsuit.”

  He thought her lips twitched. “Is that what you’re worried about?”

  “Definitely.”

  She nodded. “Well, in that case, since you’re being so cooperative, I will need a workroom, preferably with good light, where things won’t be disturbed.” She glanced around. “Is there a space in the church that would do?”

  “Nothing,” he replied promptly. Ms. Tory didn’t know it, but she was walking right into his plans. “We have just what you need at the house, though. It’s a big room with plenty of light and a door you can lock. We’ll move in tables or benches, whatever you need.”

  He could see the wariness in her face at the idea. “I don’t think I should be imposing on you.”

  “It’s not an imposition. It’s my responsibility, remember?”

  “Having me work at your home sounds well beyond the call of duty. I’ll be in your way.”

  “You haven’t seen our house if you think that. It’s a great rambling barn.”

  “Even so…” She still looked reluctant.

  “You don’t want me to bring up the big guns, do you?”

  “Big guns?”

  “Pastor Wells and my grandmother. They’ll agree this is the best solution. You’d find them a formidable pair in an argument.”

  The smile he hadn’t seen before lit her face like sunlight sparkling on the sound. “Thanks, but I think you’re formidable enough. All right. We’ll try it your way.”

  “Good.” He was irrationally pleased that she’d given in without more of a fight. “I’ll have a crew over here later this afternoon to set up scaffolding, so you can inspect the rest of the windows tomorrow. Don’t climb any ladders in the meantime.”

  She lifted her brows at what undoubtedly sounded like an order. “Are you always this determined to look after people?”

  “Always.”

  She turned to grasp the ladder. He helped her lower it to the floor. Her hair brushed his cheek lightly as they moved together, and he had to dismiss the idea of prolonging the moment.

  Just get through it, Matt had said. Okay, that’s what he’d do. He’d take control of this project instead of reacting to it. And the first step in that direction was to have Tory’s workroom right under his eyes. Of course that meant that Tory herself would be, as well.

  He could manage this. All right, he found her attractive. That didn’t mean he’d act on that attraction, not even in his imagination.

  Chapter Three

  “Well, what do you think? Will this be a comfortable place to work?”

  Adam looked at her for approval. Light poured into the large room he called the studio from its banks of windows. On one side Tory could see the salt marsh, beyond it the sparkle of open water. At the back, the windows overlooked a stretch of lawn, then garden and stables. Pale wooden molding surrounded the windows, and low shelves reached from the sills to the wide-planked floor. Anyone would say it was an ideal place to work.

  “This should do very nicely.” She couldn’t say that his home had taken her by surprise. This wasn’t a house—it was a mansion. And she didn’t want to say that she’d lived like this once, before her mother’s downward spiral into depression, alcoholism and poverty.

  She took a breath. She’d been handling those recollections for a long time. She could handle this reminder. Besides, being here was a golden opportunity to find out what she needed to about the Caldwells. She just had to get Adam to open up.

  “Why do you call it a studio?”

  He shrugged. “We always have. My mother used it that way. Dad turned the space into a playroom for us kids after she died.” He pointed to a small easel in the corner, the shelves behind it stacked with children’s books, paints and crayons. “Jenny likes to paint in here when she’s in the mood.”

  The room seemed uncomfortably full of his family with one notable exception. He hadn’t mentioned his wife. “Was your mother an artist?”

  “She painted, did needlework, that kind of thing.” Sadness shadowed Adam’s face for a moment. “I can remember her sitting in front of the windows with some project on her lap. She died when I was eight.”

  “I’m sorry.” Tory had been five when her father died. She hesitated, torn. If she told Ad
am about it, that might create a bond that would encourage him to talk, but she didn’t give away pieces of herself that easily.

  She walked to the long table that held the first of the panels they’d removed from the church that morning. Everything she’d asked for was here, ready and waiting for her. She longed to dive into the work and forget everything else. If Adam would leave—

  “What about you?” Adam leaned his hip against the table, crossing his arms, clearly not intending to go anywhere at the moment.

  She looked at him blankly, not sure what he meant by the question.

  “Family,” he added. “You’ve met Jenny and my grandmother, heard about my mother. What about your family?”

  It was the inevitable question Southerners put to each other at some point. She’d heard it before, phrased a little differently each time, maybe, but always asking the same thing. Who are your people? That was more important than what you did or where you went to school or even how much money you had. Who are your people?

  “I’m alone.” That wouldn’t be enough. She had to say more or he’d wonder. “My father died when I was quite young, and my mother last year. I don’t have any other relatives.” At least, not any relatives that would like to claim me.

  “I’m sorry.” Adam’s eyes darkened with quick sympathy. “That’s rough. They were from this part of the world, weren’t they?”

  The question struck her like a blow. “What makes you think that?”

  He smiled slowly. Devastatingly. “Sugar, you’ve been slipping back into a low-country accent since the day you arrived. You can’t fool an old geechee like me.”

  Geechee. She hadn’t heard that word since she’d left Savannah, but it resounded in her heart. Anyone born along this part of the coast was a geechee, said either affectionately or with derision, depending on the speaker. Apparently she couldn’t leave her heritage behind, no matter how she tried.

  Tory managed a stiff smile in return. “I’m from Savannah originally, but I’ve been up north so long I thought I passed for one of them.”

  “Not a chance.” He pushed himself away from the table, the movement bringing him close enough to make her catch her breath, making her too aware of the solid strength of him. “Welcome back home, Tory Marlowe.”