A Time to Forgive and Promise Forever

by Marta Perry

  He could stay. That meant subjecting himself to the uncertain welcome of Miranda’s family and trying to figure out how to be a father under Miranda’s no doubt critical gaze. Then, assuming he could gain Sammy’s acceptance, he’d face the tricky task of working out long-distance custody arrangements between Baltimore and Caldwell Cove and he’d commit himself to being a significant part of Sammy’s life for—well, forever.

  He shoved the window up, letting the breeze that bent the marsh grasses billow the ruffled curtains. The alternative was to leave. Go back to Baltimore, take up life as it had been. He could afford generous child support, the best schools, anything material his son needed. He could satisfy his conscience without getting emotionally involved.

  “Is everything all right?” Miranda paused in the doorway, clutching an armload of white towels against the front of a green T-shirt with a dolphin emblazoned on it.

  No, Miranda, nothing’s been all right since that photo of Sammy landed on my desk. Miranda was undoubtedly talking about the room, not his inner struggle.

  “Fine.”

  “You looked as if you might be having second thoughts about this, now that you’ve seen the accommodations.” She put the towels on the edge of the bureau.

  “The accommodations are fine.”

  “If you want to change your mind—”

  “I don’t,” he said shortly, trying to ignore the fact that he’d been thinking just that. He’d better concentrate on the room instead of noticing how well those faded jeans fit her slim figure. “I need something to use for a desk. A table would work, if you have one to spare. If not, I’ll go out and buy one.”

  “No need. I’ll find something.”

  She shoved a strand of hair from her eyes. He found himself thinking that its color was nearer mahogany than auburn and then told himself that it didn’t matter in the least what color Miranda’s hair was. She vanished before he could say anything, her quick footsteps receding down the hallway.

  All right, he needed some rules if he were actually going to stay here. The first one had to be no staring at Miranda. And the second one better be no remembering the past.

  He heard her coming before he could decide on rule three. Something thumped against the wall. He reached the door to see Miranda backing toward him, holding one end of a rectangular oak table. Her mother, wearing a dolphin T-shirt also, wrestled with the other end. He sprang to help them.

  “Mrs. Caldwell, let me take that.”

  Sallie Caldwell surrendered her grip, giving him a smile too like her daughter’s for comfort. “I’m afraid the table doesn’t match the rest of the furniture, but Miranda said that didn’t matter.”

  Miranda had probably said that if he didn’t like it he could lump it.

  “It’ll work.” He guided the heavy table through the doorway, finding it necessary to remind himself again not to let his gaze linger on Miranda’s face. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, either from exertion or because she had indeed said what he imagined.

  Miranda helped him position the makeshift desk near the window. Then, as if she thought she’d spent enough time in his company for one day, she retreated to the doorway where her mother waited.

  “If there’s anything else you need, just let us know.” Sallie Caldwell put her arm around her daughter’s waist with easy affection as she smiled at him. She had Miranda’s bronze hair, streaked with gray.

  “I will.” He tried without success to imagine his mother letting gray appear in her hair or wearing faded jeans and a T-shirt.

  “We’ll try to make you comfortable while you’re here.”

  They all knew there was nothing comfortable about any of this. Still, he sensed that Miranda’s mother meant what she said. There was no artifice about her—just the same unselfconscious natural beauty her daughter had.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Caldwell. The room will work just fine.”

  If I stay. The words whispered in his mind as the Caldwell women vanished down the hall.

  His cell phone rang, and he flipped it open. Probably Henry, responding to the message he’d left at the office. But it wasn’t his assistant—it was his brother.

  “Henry’s secretary passed your message on to me. He’s out of the office. What’s going on?” Curiosity filled Josh’s voice.

  “Out of the office where?” What was reliable Henry doing out of the office when he’d left him in charge?

  “Didn’t tell me.” He could almost see Josh’s shrug. “Something you want me to take care of before he gets back?”

  His first instinct was a prompt no, but someone at the office had to know where he was. And why. And how long he intended to stay.

  “Not exactly.” He hesitated. His brother would have to know. As irresponsible as Josh was, he wouldn’t spread the news if Tyler asked him not to. “I have a…situation here, and I don’t want anyone else to know the whole story. You can tell Henry, but no one else. Understood?”

  “Got it.” He could almost see Josh leaning back, propping his feet on the desk. “What’s up?”

  “You remember Miranda Caldwell?”

  A pause, but Josh would remember. After all, their father’s death had rocked both their worlds.

  “Your ex-wife.”

  “Yes. Turns out there was something she neglected to mention when we got divorced. I have a son.” He waited for an explosion of questions.

  Instead Josh whistled softly. “I assume you’re sure he’s yours.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  The very question he’d been asking himself. Apparently he already knew the answer. “I’m going to stay here for a while to get to know him.”

  He expected an argument. He didn’t get it. “Okay. I’ll tell Henry. What about Mother?”

  “Not yet.” He thought uneasily of their mother, honeymooning in Madrid with her new husband. She wouldn’t be happy that Miranda was back in his life. “Thanks, Josh.”

  He hung up, realizing why he didn’t want to tell anyone. The possession of a son had made him vulnerable. He didn’t like to be vulnerable. Miranda’s image presented itself in his mind and refused to be dismissed. Look where vulnerability had gotten him eight years ago.

  Several hours later, he sat back in the chair and stretched, congratulating himself. He had a reasonable facsimile of an office set up, he’d been in touch with Henry about his plans and he’d contacted the Charleston subsidiary of Winchester Industries and arranged a meeting there, since it was only a couple of hours away. Almost as much as he might have accomplished in Baltimore.

  At corporate headquarters, though, he wouldn’t have been quite so distracted by the view from the window. There, he’d look out on the Inner Harbor. Here, he looked out at Miranda, busy putting sheets on the clotheslines strung across the yard.

  He stood, frowning at the photo of Sammy he’d propped next to his computer. The reason had nothing to do with sentiment, he assured himself. He’d put it there to remind himself that he had to find out who’d sent it, and why.

  He picked it up, gaze straying again to Miranda. The chances he’d learn the truth about that without her help were slim and none. Therefore he needed to enlist her aid. He glanced at his watch. He’d better do it now, before Sammy came home from school.

  Tucking the photo into his shirt pocket, he headed for the backyard and Miranda.

  When he pushed open the screen door, Miranda was bending over an oval wicker clothes basket. She looked up at the sound, and her face went still at the sight of him.

  “I thought you were busy with work.” She shook out a damp sheet and began pinning it to the line, as if to show him that she was busy, as well.

  “I’ve made a good start.” He approached her, then had to step back as she shook out another sheet. “Don’t you have a dryer?”

  “Of course we have a dryer.” At his raised eyebrow, she shook her head as if in pity. “We like to sleep on air-dried sheets. So do our guests.”<
br />
  “Why?” He caught the end of the sheet she was manhandling. For a moment he thought she’d yank it free, but then she handed him a clothespin.

  “They smell like sunshine.”

  You smell like sunshine. He dismissed the vagrant thought. “Wouldn’t it be more efficient to use a laundry service?”

  “That’s not how we do things here.” She snapped out the words as if he’d insulted her. Sunlight filtered through live oaks and dappled her face.

  He reminded himself that he wanted her cooperation, not her enmity. “So you’re helping to run the inn now.”

  “That’s right.” She pinned up another sheet. “My college plans were derailed.”

  She’d been saving money that summer, he remembered, waiting tables at the yacht club so she could attend the community college that fall. Both their lives had gone in an unexpected direction, but hers had obviously been skewed more than his.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it.

  She looked at him for a long moment, then nodded in acceptance. “I don’t regret anything.” A smile blazed across her face. “I have Sammy.”

  He nodded, the photo seeming to burn a hole in his pocket. Maybe he’d better get to the point before he brought up any more touchy subjects. “I’ve been thinking about that picture of him.”

  “I’ve already told you, I didn’t send it.” She snatched the basket and ducked under flapping sheets to the other end of the yard.

  He followed, evading damp linen. He needed her on his side in this. “I know you didn’t send it. Don’t you want to know who did?”

  “Yes, of course.” She stopped, eyes clouded. “I’ve worried and worried, and I still don’t have an idea.”

  “There has to be a way to find out. Why don’t we talk to Sammy about this?”

  “Absolutely not.” She shot the words at him, shoulders suddenly stiff.

  “But he may have noticed who took the picture.”

  “I mean it, Tyler.” Her soft mouth was firm. “I don’t want him questioned about this.”

  “That’s ridiculous. If we can find out—”

  “It’s not ridiculous,” she snapped. It looked as if they were back on opposite sides. “If we talk to Sammy, he’s going to ask how you got a picture of him.”

  “We can say—” He stopped. What would they say?

  “I don’t want him thinking that some stranger is going around taking pictures of him, manipulating his life.” A shiver seemed to run through her. “It’s bad enough thinking that myself.”

  “All right.”

  Miranda looked at him suspiciously, and he raised his hands in surrender.

  “I promise. I won’t say anything to him.”

  The tension went out of her, and she reached up to unpin a dry sheet. He caught the end of it, and she let him help her fold it.

  “Why? That’s what gets me,” she said. “Why would anyone want to interfere in our lives like that?”

  “I wish I knew.” He had to hurry to keep up with the deft way she flipped the corners together. “No one’s said anything to you about it?”

  “Nothing.”

  He finished the last fold, then put the sheet into the basket as Miranda moved on to the next one. She was right—the sheet did smell like sunshine.

  “Stop a minute and look at it again.” He drew the photo from his pocket and handed it to her.

  She studied the picture, absently twisting a strand of hair around her finger. Her gaze lifted, startled, to him. “This looks like—”

  “What?”

  “Come with me.” She dropped a clothespin into the basket and started around the inn at a trot. He had to hurry to keep up with her.

  “Look.” She stopped at the corner of the veranda, pointing.

  He stepped closer, looking over her shoulder at the photo, then at the scene in front of them. An ancient, gnarled live oak filled the corner of the yard, its branches so heavy they touched the ground in places. From this angle, they formed a kind of archway through which he saw a corner of the dock. It was exactly the same in the photograph.

  “Whoever he was, he took the picture here,” he said.

  This time he was so close he felt the shiver that went through her.

  “Here. And sometime within the last six months.” She touched the photo with one fingertip. “I bought that polo shirt for Sammy when school started in September.”

  “Stands to reason it was fairly recent. If he wanted to send it to me, whoever he was, why wait?”

  Miranda’s breath seemed to catch. “Tyler, we have to find out who did this.” She swung around, apparently not realizing how close he was. She was nearly in his arms.

  He caught her arm as she bumped against him. Her smooth skin seemed alive with memories—visions of holding her close, of promising to love her forever. The fresh scent of her surrounded and overpowered him.

  This was bad. This was very bad. He’d never dreamed those feelings still existed, ready to be awakened. It was as if the very cells of his body remembered her.

  He’d wanted Miranda’s cooperation. He’d gotten it, but in the process he’d found out something very unwelcome about himself. He was still attracted to her.

  Chapter Four

  Miranda couldn’t move. Tyler held her elbows, steadying her, and her hands pressed against his chest. She felt his heartbeat through her palms, up her arms, driving straight to her heart. It had been years since they’d stood together like this. It might as well have been yesterday.

  She curled her fingers, pulled her hands away from him. She couldn’t look at his face. Instead she focused on the placket of his white knit shirt. Two of the three buttons were open, exposing a V of tanned skin against the white.

  That wasn’t any better than looking into his eyes. She took a hurried step back, and he released her instantly. If he guessed her reactions—

  He wouldn’t. Tyler was too focused on the task at hand to have time for any other considerations. At the moment he was totally consumed with finding out who’d taken the photo of Sammy.

  She wanted to know that, too, but somehow she also had to find a way of keeping her balance where Tyler was concerned. That meant not finding herself in any more moments like that one.

  Tyler glanced from the photo to the scene before him. He frowned, and she sensed that, as far as he was concerned, the moment when they’d touched might never have been.

  Well, good. That was what she wanted, too.

  “So, we know the picture was taken within the last six months, and by someone standing in just about this spot.” He seemed to measure the distance from the driveway to the street. “How unusual would it be for someone you don’t know to come this far onto the property?”

  She steadied herself. Tyler didn’t feel anything. She wouldn’t feel anything, either.

  “Not unusual at all, I’m afraid.”

  “Why not?” He shot the question at her with that intent, challenging stare of his. “If someone’s not a guest at the inn, why would he be here?”

  She pointed to the small placard attached to a post near the end of the driveway. “The historical society put those up a few years ago. I worked on the project, as a matter of fact. We designed a walking tour of historical houses. Visitors can pick up a brochure anywhere in town and follow it. In nice weather we often see people, brochure in hand, taking pictures.”

  “There’s no way of tracing them?”

  “None. People don’t buy tickets or sign up. They just follow the map.” A shiver ran along her arms, and she rubbed them. “Sammy wouldn’t think anything about it, even if he noticed someone with a camera.” She took another step away from him. “I should get back to the laundry.”

  “Wait a minute.” His hand twitched as if he thought about touching her and changed his mind. “We haven’t finished talking about this.”

  “I don’t know how to find the person who took the picture. There’s nothing else to say. I want to take down the sheets before it�
�s time to start dinner.” And I want to put a little distance between us.

  “Fine.” He seemed to grind his teeth. “I’ll help you with the sheets, if that’s what it takes. We can talk and fold at the same time.”

  She’s forgotten how persistent he could be when he wanted something. “Sammy will be home in a few minutes. I don’t want him to hear anything about this.”

  He slid the photo into his pocket. “I’ve already said he won’t hear it from me, Miranda.” He moved past her, then stopped and raised an eyebrow when she didn’t follow. “Aren’t we going to fold laundry?”

  Without a word, she brushed past him and started around the house, aware of him on her heels. Persistent. Aggravating. Determined to have his own way. Tyler hadn’t changed—those qualities had intensified, probably from years of surrounding himself with people who always agreed with the boss. Well, he’d have to get used to the fact that this situation was different.

  She reached the dry sheets she’d hung out earlier and began taking them down. Tyler let her get one more sheet into the basket before he started in again.

  “There’s no reason to suppose it was a stranger, anyway.”

  She frowned at him, not sure where he was going with this.

  He frowned back. “Well, think about it, Miranda. Why would a stranger go to the trouble of taking a picture of Sammy? How would a stranger even know who he was? Or who his father was?”

  Good questions, all of them. Unfortunately, she didn’t have any good answers. She turned it over in her mind as she took a pillowcase off the line.

  “I suppose it might be some bizarre string of coincidences. Weird things do happen. Someone visiting the island to whom your name would be familiar, maybe, then finding out about Sammy.”

  It sounded weak to her. Judging from Tyler’s expression, it sounded pitiful to him.

  “I don’t believe in that wild a coincidence.” He unpinned a sheet and handed her one end, his fingers brushing hers. “How widely known is it that I’m Sammy’s father?”