by Susan Wiggs
“But I—”
“At ease, soldier,” she said. “Or this meeting is over.”
His eyes surrendered first. They turned from flinty to worried. The taut lines of his face softened, and his impeccable posture relaxed the slightest bit. Nina gestured at the swarm of kids. “My daughter Sonnet is over there on the seesaw, with my friend Jenny. I’ll introduce you in a minute. But she’s so little. You’ve got to promise—”
“I gave you my word of honor on the phone,” he interrupted.
And of course, a West Point man’s word of honor was legendary. She had to trust it. He’d assured her that he would respect the fact that he was a complete stranger to Sonnet. He agreed that she needed to get to know him gradually. At her age, she had only a rudimentary grasp of the concept of father. She would have to grow into an understanding. Nina hoped Sonnet would come to know her father as a good man who happened to live far away.
As his gaze settled on Sonnet, his mask fell away. There was a flicker of naked pain, and in those few seconds, Nina saw the bashful boy she remembered, and she could see precisely where Sonnet got her regal beauty. She had her father’s high-cut cheekbones and gorgeous black eyes; she even had that physical presence—an athlete at ease in her own skin. On the phone, Nina had assured Laurence that this meeting was all about Sonnet, about banishing doubts as to her identity for the child’s sake. This was not about trapping Laurence or squeezing child support from him. Nina had told him earlier that she would agree to a blood test. But the moment she saw them together, she knew anyone with eyes could see the resemblance.
“She’s…oh, sweet Jesus.” He paused, cleared his throat. Then he turned to Nina. “You should’ve told me about her a long time ago.”
“I thought about doing just that,” Nina said. “I almost did, many times. But it would have ruined your career at West Point. And for what? I didn’t want you to marry me, didn’t want your help raising her. I had my family for support. Telling you would have done nothing but derail all your plans for the future.”
He didn’t deny it. “A part of me is grateful for that. But another part…” He looked again at Sonnet, and the power of speech seemed to leave him.
Nina refused to apologize. She didn’t want either of them to regret something they couldn’t change. “What we need to do is figure this out,” she said, catching Jenny’s eye and waving her over. “Keeping in mind what’s best for Sonnet.”
“Of course.” He stood and waited as Jenny and Sonnet approached, hand-in-hand. Laurence was clearly at a loss; he looked as though he was about to salute them. His eyes seemed to devour her, taking in every detail of Sonnet’s appearance.
“Don’t be scary,” Nina advised, acutely aware that this man had zero experience with children. She’d had time to grow into parenthood; he had mere minutes. “Just smile and get down on her level and let her come to you.” Then Nina demonstrated, opening her arms to Sonnet. “Hey, kiddo. Did you have fun on the seesaw?”
“Yep. I went really high,” Sonnet said in her Minnie Mouse voice, launching herself at Nina. Her cotton-candy scent filled Nina, making her smile as it nearly always did.
Jenny quietly introduced herself to Laurence. Then she excused herself and moved away, giving them privacy.
“Baby, I want you to meet…my friend,” Nina said cautiously. “His name is Laurence Jeffries.”
“Hello.” Sonnet pressed herself against Nina, gazing up at the stranger.
“Hi.” Following Nina’s advice, he went down on one knee as though genuflecting—or assuming the position to fire a gun. Even so, he was still tall and imposing. “I’m very glad to meet you, Sonnet.”
“Sonnet Maria Romano,” she said dutifully. Nina had taught her to introduce herself. “I found a garnet.” She dug in her pocket and held out a stone in her slightly grubby palm. Rough garnets were common in the area, and one of Sonnet’s uncles had shown her how to spot them. Though she eagerly held out her prize, she also kept a tight grip on Nina with her other hand.
Nina was proud of her little girl’s precocious intelligence and grown-up-sounding speech. Sometimes Nina had to remind herself that Sonnet was too young to understand complicated matters. Despite her sophisticated vocabulary, she couldn’t be expected to comprehend the fact that the handsome soldier before her was her father.
“That is a garnet,” Laurence said. “You’re lucky to find it.”
“You keep it,” Sonnet said. “For a present.”
The offering brought the first genuine smile to his face as he put out his hand, palm up. “I sure will,” he said. “Thank you, Sonnet. I’ll keep it forever. I’ll never lose it.”
She beamed at him. “Okay.”
For a second, her tiny hand disappeared inside his and the three of them were connected—Nina, Sonnet and Laurence, a family of sorts. The thought made Nina dizzy with a sweep of euphoria. Maybe…
A car door slammed again, and they all turned. Laurence snapped back into military mode, straight as a steel sword blade. Nina hoisted Sonnet into her arms.
“This is Angela Hancock,” Laurence said as a beautiful, well-dressed woman joined them. “Angela, this is Nina and Sonnet Romano.”
She was, in her own way, as scary and self-possessed as he—a tall, graceful Nubian princess to his storybook prince. “How do you do,” she said.
“Angela’s my fiancée,” he continued. “We’re getting married in a week.”
Ah, thought Nina. No wonder the guy was a wreck. It wasn’t all about her or even all about Sonnet. She mustered a smile and said, “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” Angela said.
Nina set Sonnet down. “Go play with Jenny on the swings, baby.” As the little girl ran off, Nina turned to Angela. “I realize this whole situation is awkward. I’ve explained to Laurence that I don’t intend to make any trouble,” she stated. “I simply want my daughter to know who fathered her.”
“Of course.” Angela had a lovely, resonant voice, like a stage actress. She was remarkably calm and seemed oddly familiar.
Nina suspected Laurence had prepared her as much as possible for the meeting. “How you and Laurence deal with this is your business. I’m not making any demands.”
“Indeed.”
“I keep thinking we’ve met.” Nina felt apologetic, which was annoying. She owed no explanation or apology to anyone. “Have we?”
“Angela’s father is the Reverend George Simon Hancock,” Laurence said, shining with pride. “She’s been with his ministry, so maybe you saw her on TV.”
“Maybe,” Nina said, though she could safely say she had never watched a gospel ministry on TV. Still, she reminded herself to be generous. After all, Nina had Sonnet. So it was only right that Laurence would get someone like Angela—gorgeous, famous and an evangelist’s daughter. “I hope you two will be very happy together,” she said, then faced Laurence. “I meant what I said, about not wanting anything but for Sonnet to know who you are. What you tell people is up to you.” Although privately, she admitted she would find it very interesting to see him telling the famous Reverend Hancock that he’d had a child with a white woman. “I thought you might want to write her a letter for her to read when she’s old enough to understand. And I guess, if she wants, maybe you’d like to visit her once in a while,” she said. “That will be enough.”
She saw his hand clench into a fist. It was the hand that held the garnet. He looked over at Sonnet and his eyes swam with tears, but they didn’t fall. It must be so painful, Nina thought, holding them in like that.
“It’ll never be enough,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” Angela contradicted, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm. “It will.”
Part Nine
Now
Frequent visitors will witness the changing of the seasons. At any given time of year, the ever-changing landscape is adorned in different raiments—the tender buds of spring, the flowers of high summer, extravagant fall foliage or a quiet blanket
of snow in winter. King Arthur’s Suite is a favorite, with a huge bay window that frames the scenery. The room is furnished with a white iron bed, covered with a hand-made cutwork duvet and matching pillow covers. An imposing dresser conceals a dry bar stocked with fine port wine and a selection of single-barrel whiskey.
The bathroom features a deep jetted tub made for a long, quiet soak. To enhance relaxation, add three drops of lavender oil, two drops of frankincense and two drops of petit-grain, a citrusy essential oil, to the bath.
Fifteen
“A re you sure this is the right thing to do, Dad?” Daisy asked, her pen poised over the signature line on her letter to Logan O’Donnell.
Greg felt the churchlike hush of the bank pressing in on him. The antique gothic building’s soaring ceilings and marble floors provided a cool refuge from the summer heat, but Greg was sweating from nerves. That, and the suit he was wearing. It just seemed right to wear a suit for the occasion. Daisy had written a letter informing O’Donnell that he was the biological father of her child. She would agree to a DNA test if he requested it. She absolved him of all legal and financial obligation, hoping to avert a custody battle down the road. The kid would be an idiot not to agree to Daisy’s terms, which basically let him off scot-free. Of course, he’d already proven he was an idiot, so Greg wasn’t sure how O’Donnell would react when he got the news from Daisy.
Greg glanced around, not sure what he was looking for—a sign? Someone to advise him? He wasn’t likely to find that here. Shane Gilmore, the bank president, was on his phone in a glass-walled cubicle. Brooke Harlow, the asset manager, was away from her desk. Across the counter, the notary waited, her mouth forming a prune of disapproval as she scanned the letter and filled out a form. She had hair of blue steel and the kind of holier-than-thou judgmental air Greg had come to despise. He was sick of strangers who looked at Daisy and thought the worst.
“Let’s have a seat,” he said, guiding her away from the counter. The damned notary could wait until hell froze over, as far as Greg was concerned. Sophie had advised them to notarize the letter and send it by courier, signature required. Daisy sat down on a lobby bench, the papers in her lap.
Greg considered what Nina had told him about her own experience with the father of her child. A young man—even a careless, hormone-driven boy—had to at least be given the information that he’d fathered a child. Nina claimed she had never regretted the way she’d handled Sonnet’s father, not telling him until he’d graduated from West Point and gotten engaged to another woman. It was, Greg realized, consistent with Nina’s independent nature—a way to insure her role as sole parent to her daughter. Did Daisy want to go it alone? The agony of indecision on her face indicated that she wasn’t sure.
She fiddled with the pen. “Mom said it’s my call and no one else’s.”
So she and Sophie had been communicating, he reflected. That, at least, showed a bit of progress. “Your mom’s right.”
“What, did you guys, like, talk about it?”
He nodded, perversely pleased that he and Sophie were on the same page for once. They got along fairly well, now that they were an ocean apart and rarely spoke.
They weren’t exactly the perfect role models for Daisy’s situation, either. As young parents with an unplanned child, they’d done their best, and that had been good enough for a long time, but not forever. When Sophie had presented him with his newborn daughter, he’d felt a love so intense it bled into his feelings for Sophie. Within mere moments, he’d convinced himself—and Sophie—that the marriage was meant to be. They believed they were doing the right thing for the sake of their child.
“Your mom and I both want you to make your own decision,” he said.
“So if I blow it, I don’t have anyone to blame but myself.”
“Daisy—”
“I get that, Dad. Believe me, I do.” And with that, something seemed to spur her to action. She marched over to the notary, signed each copy of the form and pushed it across the counter to the steel-haired woman.
Give her hell, Greg thought. His daughter’s implacable pride was evident in her posture and the set of her chin as she slid the papers into a long, legal-size envelope.
“Greg.” Brooke Harlow came out of the back office, a polite smile on her face. “It’s nice to see you.”
“Same here,” he said, briefly taking her hand. He hadn’t seen her since their not-quite-a-date on the lake, but he hadn’t forgotten how attractive she was. Her every hair was slicked into place, and she wore a straight skirt and high heels that showed off her legs. Greg suffered an untimely reminder of how long it had been since he’d gotten laid. Lately it seemed everywhere he turned, he encountered women—smiling, helpful, attractive women. He spotted them in line at the post office, browsing the aisles of the hardware store, using the pumps at the gas station, haunting his dreams. They’d always been there, of course, but deprivation had made him more keenly aware of them. He wondered if they could tell.
“I guess you’ve been busy,” Brooke said, her tone open-ended. She gave him an unmistakable once-over, focusing on the hand-tailored Brooks Brothers suit he was wearing.
Her manner surprised him. He’d actually written her off based on that first disastrous date. Now she seemed to be telegraphing ask-me-out signals.
“I’ve been plenty busy, but a guy’s got to eat,” he said. “Maybe we could go to dinner sometime.”
Her face lit up, her eyes bright with a “mission accomplished” expression. “That sounds—”
“All set, Daddy-O.” Daisy joined them, preceded by her conspicuously big abdomen. “Hi,” she said, checking out Brooke with just a hint of wariness in her eyes. She claimed it was fine with her if Greg wanted to date, but she had definite opinions about the women he picked. Long-haired bankers in spike heels didn’t impress her the way they did Greg.
He introduced them, and Daisy said, “Hello, Ms. Harlow. I was just getting something notarized.” She patted the thick envelope and smiled, clearly aware of the effect she was having on Brooke.
Brooke’s expression was almost comical. Hell, it was comical. Greg could see the surprise chasing across her prom-queen features, though she managed to paste on a smile.
Greg didn’t say anything. He surveyed the bank lobby and acted as though he didn’t feel anyone’s scrutiny. He felt it, though, seeping through the layers of his suit like the summer heat. In a town like this, no one got to be anonymous. It was impossible to have secrets. For long, anyway. Within hours, it would be put out there that Daisy Bellamy’s situation had come as a shock to the bank’s new asset manager.
Brooke cleared her throat. “It’s very nice to meet you,” she said to Daisy. Then she turned to Greg with an apologetic smile. “I’d better get back to work. It’s good to see you, Greg. Good luck with the new property.”
She walked briskly to her office, high heels clicking decisively on the marble floor. Greg watched her go with a twinge of regret.
“I guess I caught her off guard.” Daisy offered him a rueful smile. “People don’t look at you and automatically think, ‘Grandpa.’”
“Yeah, if they did that, I’d shoot myself,” he admitted. “I was just in the process of asking her to dinner.” He held the door for Daisy and they stepped out into the bright summer day.
“Sorry, Dad.” An awkward silence pulsed between them. This was surely a new family dynamic—the grown daughter coming to realize her father wanted to date. “I’ll wait out here while you go back and talk to her.”
“No, it’s fine. I changed my mind.” That was true. The moment he’d seen the way she looked at Daisy, Brooke had lost all her appeal—high heels or no. And honestly, he could understand Brooke’s reluctance. She was barely thirty. The idea of dating a man with kids wasn’t so outrageous. But the idea of dating a man about to become a grandfather was a bit much for a woman Brooke’s age.
Damn. He shouldn’t be thinking about dating at all. He had kids to raise and a busine
ss to launch and he ought to know better.
Heat blazed up from the sidewalk, and he hastened to peel off his suitcoat and tie. Had he really dressed for work this way every day in the city?
“I mean it, Dad,” Daisy said as they headed for the car. “I don’t want women to run the other way just because of me.”
“If they run the other way because of you, I wouldn’t want to date them in the first place,” he insisted, starting the car and blasting the air conditioner.
“Great, you just eliminated about ninety percent of the female population.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Because of me, not you,” she said. “I do want you to find someone, Dad. Just not…a clone of Mom.”
“Is that what Brooke is, a clone of Mom?”
“Dad. She looks like Mom’s younger sister.”
“Your mother doesn’t have a sister.”
“But if she did, she’d look like that bank teller.”
“Asset manager.”
“See? That’s very Mom-like. Why settle for bank teller when you can be asset manager?”
She knew him and Sophie better than he thought. But then, she’d had a ringside seat, watching her parents as she grew up. He noticed she had slid the envelope under the seat. “Do you want to mail that?”
“I’ll, um, take care of it myself later.”
He didn’t push. It was a big step, and he wanted her to take all the time she needed. Like her mother had. The thought chilled him. Sophie had certainly taken her time, waiting until after Daisy was born to bring Greg into the loop. Would anything have been different—for him and Sophie, for Daisy—if he’d been with her from the start?
He loosened his collar, and they headed to the printer’s to pick up proofs of the inn’s new brochures. The artwork and layout evoked another place in time—a simpler, romantic era when the most pressing item on the agenda might be a tee time at Avalon Meadows. There were shots of Willow Lake in full summer glory, a mirror to the blue sky, surrounded by rising layers of woods and mountains. There were catchphrases—“escape and find yourself,” “relax, renew, reconnect”—and an earnest promise that guests of the inn would enjoy the best in service and comfort. Daisy’s photography highlighted every page, and the graphic designer praised her work.
