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  "You put up a down payment," he responded. "But I paid the bill in full this afternoon. A refund will be sent to your home address. If you don’t get it in a week, you should call them."

  My eyes widened. "You didn’t have to do that," I protested. "She was my birth mother."

  He shrugged. "She was my stepmother."

  I studied his tense frame some more, trying to make sense of his attitude. Was he simply trying to do right by his father? Or was he actually feeling sorry for me? I was fairly certain he had overheard my telling Alex about my financial difficulties. But there were other possibilities. What if he had lied about knowing Sheila?

  "Look Meara," he asserted, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "If my father had survived the accident, don’t you think he would have paid for his wife’s burial? You’ve chosen not to inherit anything from either of them—I can’t let you go in the hole covering her expenses. Not when—." He cut himself off. "The money isn’t a problem. So just accept it. Please."

  I caught his eyes at last, and the earnestness I saw there moved me. I knew very well that he was hiding something, but when he looked at me like that I was only too willing to assume that whatever it was didn’t matter. He had a good heart; I was certain of it. Whatever private demons he might be fighting, I could not believe that the same man who had instinctively rushed to my side when I scalded myself would deliberately set out to take advantage of me a few minutes later. I laid the papers down flat on the table, read through the last paragraph, and, seeing nothing else remarkable, signed them.

  I rose, and he stood silently for a moment, staring at my signature as if it were penned in gold. Then he turned to me and extended his hand. "Thank you," he said, his rumbling voice low. "You have no idea what this means to me."

  I extended my own hand and shook his. "I think maybe I do," I replied with a smile. As our hands touched, I noticed that the butt of his palm was rough, as if callused. But the shake was brisk, not giving me the time to notice much more.

  "Still," he continued, his voice sounding more comfortable again, "I hope you didn’t feel pressured. It’s just that without these papers, I can’t get moving on the construction, and the new house has got to be in livable condition before winter hits."

  My brow furrowed slightly. "Why couldn’t you stay here over the winter?" I asked, referring to the inn.

  He grimaced. "This mausoleum? The doorways are low, the beds are short, and my mud would give Estelle a stroke within a week."

  I grinned. "Well, what about your cabin, then? It looked plenty cozy to me."

  A sparkle lit up his eyes. "The cabin would be fine," he explained. "But the route up to it is impassable in the snow, and the road can’t be redone without damaging the forest on that slope. So for most of the winter, it can only be reached on foot."

  Good humor swelled within me as I realized how talk of the cabin—much like talk of the woods and talk of his foster siblings—seemed to disarm him. I would remember that.

  "So?" I teased. "You mean you’re too soft to scale an icy mountain with a tank of propane and two sacks of groceries on your back?"

  He grinned at me. The effect was heavenly.

  A pang of hunger accosted my stomach, reminding me that I had hardly eaten. The inheritance was off my conscience, I was not as badly in debt as I thought I was, and Fletcher and I were making definite progress toward a friendship. Now all the moment needed was dessert.

  I snapped my fingers. "I almost forgot!" I walked to the far corner of the kitchen and retrieved my masterpiece from under its covering. "I think a celebration is in order here. Are you still hungry?"

  "Always," he said optimistically, watching me.

  I grabbed a pie server and two plates. "I’ve had pies on my mind all afternoon," I explained as I cut into the perfectly browned crust. Cooking was enjoyable, but baking was glorious. "When I was looking for a grocery store earlier, I ran across the most wonderful farmer’s market, and these peaches smelled heavenly. Sorry I didn’t get any ice cream to go with the pie."

  I dished a giant piece onto a plate, added a fork, and handed it to him with a flourish. Then I noticed his face. He looked horrified.

  His hands lowered the dish to the counter. "You bake pies?" he asked, almost in a whisper. He was practically pale.

  "Of course," I answered. "Are you allergic to peaches or something?" All traces of mirth had disappeared from his expression, leaving it clouded once more by the same, wretched cast of pain I thought I had vanquished, at least temporarily. The loss of our newfound camaraderie made me mad enough to scream, and I almost did. It was a piece of pie, for heaven’s sake. What was wrong with the man?

  He pulled himself together. "I’m just not as hungry as I thought, that’s all," he explained with artificial cheer. "It looks good, though. Could I take a rain check?"

  I laid the down the server that was in my hand and snatched up his dish. "If there’s any left," I retorted, picking up the fork. "But don’t count on it."

  ***

  I ate my pie in silence as he paced the common room. He seemed to be brooding about something, but both my sympathy and my curiosity were outranked by my wounded pride. I knew I was being silly, but I couldn’t help myself. It was a fabulous pie. Fabulous pies were the only kind I made, and nobody turned them down. Nobody.

  "There’s something I’d like to ask you, Meara," he said as soon as I had set down my empty plate. I took a deep breath and looked up at him, telling myself I was being overly sensitive. So the man didn’t like pie. What did it matter?

  "You said something the other day about Sheila," he began, his tone serious. He walked toward me, and my mind refocused. "You said that before she died she told you something about my mother. I was hoping you would tell me again what that was."

  Surprised, I tried to meet his gaze. But we were truly back to square one. He glanced at me only briefly, then stared over my shoulder. "Why do you want to know?" I questioned.

  He exhaled with discomfort. "Because I would like to understand what happened." He backed up a few steps and leaned against the counter. "I know that everyone thinks my father was some gullible sap who got taken for a ride. Whirlwind courtship, secret wedding…it all points to gold digging. Except for the fact that my father was visibly cash poor. Without the income from the inn, he could barely pay the taxes on this place. If Sheila wanted big bucks, marrying him would be idiotic."

  I averted my own eyes, thinking of Sheila’s lengthy incarceration, which Fletcher knew nothing about. If he did, he’d have no doubt of her culpability. Gold diggers who lived out of their cars didn’t have to aim high.

  "When I first found out what had happened," he continued, "I assumed the worst along with everyone else. But I would like not to do that anymore. I would like to give my father the benefit of the doubt."

  I looked at him incredulously.

  "He might have had a trusting nature," Fletcher defended, "but he wasn’t stupid. And if there’s even a ghost of a chance that the two of them really were in love, I owe it to him to respect that. That’s why I went to the funeral." He took a deep breath. "My father would never have sold this land out from under me. Not in a million years. And he wouldn’t have taken stupid chances with it, either. Stupid chances like forgetting to revise his will."

  "But he didn’t revise his will," I pointed out gently. "What are you saying?"

  "I’m saying that the only thing that makes sense to me is that he not only loved this woman, but trusted her, too. Trusted that, if anything should happen to him, she wouldn’t stand in the way of my inheriting the land." He exhaled again. "But that leaves open a big question. If he loved and trusted this woman so much, why would he keep Tia and me in the dark about her?"

  I swallowed, a ball of lead forming in my stomach. I wished with all my heart that I could agree with him—that I could believe that Sheila’s motives were pure and that his father hadn’t been careless. But I knew far too many damaging things about Sheila to buy that. A par
t of me felt obligated to share the truth, but a larger part of me couldn’t bear the task. He was having a hard enough time dealing with his father’s sudden death—if he found some measure of peace in believing the man hadn’t been duped by a career con artist, what purpose would be served by disillusioning him?

  "Perhaps," I suggested, hoping no guilt was evident in my voice, "your father was worried that you and Tia would resent his falling in love again so soon."

  Fletcher shook his head. "He might have been concerned about my reaction. But he would have told Tia. They were very close—she had even been encouraging him to start dating."

  I took a deep breath myself, uncertain what to say. Most likely, Mitchell was embarrassed about his relationship with Sheila because he knew she was not the sort of woman his children would approve of. Or his prim-and-proper lawyer friend. Or anybody else.

  "So I’m convinced there’s a missing piece somewhere," Fletcher continued. "Some particular reason—related to Sheila rather than my father—why their relationship had to be kept secret. That’s why I want to know what she said to you."

  He was looking at me again. I stood up to face him. "She told me that she had always loved me," I repeated, disturbed by the still-raw emotion I could hear in my own voice. "Then she said, ‘I was protecting you. Rosemary died. Stay—’ something. She couldn’t say any more."

  He stared off into space, weighing the words. Then he shook his head, his expression frustrated. "I don’t get it. My mother’s been gone for a year now. Why would her death have anything to do with you?"

  A ripple of joy passed through me. Sorry as I was that he couldn’t explain the meaning of the words, I couldn’t help but be delighted to believe—once and for all—that he wasn’t hiding anything about Sheila. He seemed genuinely baffled.

  Another silence passed, then he stood up straight and offered a polite smile. "Well, I‘ll keep thinking about it. In any event, thank you again for signing the papers. And thank you for dinner. You’re an excellent cook."

  Whether he meant the compliment sincerely or not, I beamed. "Thank you for letting me stay here and use the kitchen," I returned. "It’s much more pleasant than living out of a motel and eating fast food."

  Our gazes locked, but just when I thought the sparkle might be returning to his eyes, he looked away again. He offered a hasty goodbye and headed for the French doors, then surprised me by stopping with his hand on the knob.

  He turned around. "I almost forgot. The phone number. You’re going to call that man as soon as I’m out the door, aren’t you?"

  My eyebrows rose. He was right—my mind had begun to retrain on my birth father the second he had turned away. I was about to reach for the paper even as he spoke. "Yes," I answered unapologetically. "I couldn’t sleep tonight if I didn’t."

  He sighed, then walked back to the table and sat down, propping his feet on a second chair. "Go ahead then," he said with resignation. "You can take the phone to another room if you want some privacy."

  I stared at him. "You’re waiting around?"

  He leaned his head back and folded his hands over his middle, evidently assuming this answered my question.

  I smiled, then picked up the phone. There were many things I didn’t understand about Fletcher, but so far, none had overcome my pleasure in his company. I wasn’t sure why he was staying, but if he was doing it because he thought I might be in need of moral support afterwards, he was very perceptive.

  Six years ago, when I had set up the first reunion with Sheila, I had been determined to keep all news of the encounter from my parents. I was terrified of hurting them, yet so great was my guilt in taking the step behind their backs that I was uncomfortable sharing the experience with anyone. I had taken on both the euphoria and the anguish alone, and the scars of that time still remained. I was glad there was no longer any need for secrecy. I was glad Fletcher was here.

  Bolstered, I took a deep breath, looked down at the paper, and punched in the numbers. Jacob Kozen. Was he the one? Would he even talk to me? The ringing began. I cast a glance at Fletcher. His eyes were closed.

  "Yeah?" A male voice barked into my ear. It was strong and demanding—just short of testy.

  "Hello," I sputtered, willing my voice to stabilize. "I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m trying to reach a man named Jacob Kozen."

  "You got him," the voice responded, softening slightly.

  My heart pounded. I took a second deep breath. "My name is Meara O’Rourke, Mr. Kozen. I’m trying to contact the Jacob Kozen who married a woman named Sheila Tresswell back in 1973."

  A silence ensued. The phone wobbled in my hand; my arms and shoulders began to tremble.

  "Yeah," he repeated, his tone suspicious. "That would be me. Who wants to know about Sheila?"

  I breathed in again; my lungs shuddered. "I do. You see, I was born in 1974. She was my biological mother."

  An even longer silence followed, broken only by a barely audible gasp, then heavy, ragged breathing. It seemed forever before the voice, now thin and tenuous, spoke a word that made my heart stop.

  "Mandy?"

  Chapter 14

  "Take a left at the next light. The diner is about a block up on the right."

  Fletcher slouched in the passenger seat of my Hyundai, his large frame cramped even with the seat pushed back. He had offered to drive me in his truck, but I liked the control of having my own car, and I was feeling beholden to him enough already. I would never have asked him to make such a trip with me; I had felt obligated, in fact, to turn down his offer. But he hadn’t taken no for an answer.

  "I’ll wait outside," he announced as I made the turn. "Unless you want me to go in with you?"

  "That won’t be necessary," I responded, my tone tense. My nerves were on a razor edge. I hadn’t slept a wink.

  My conversation with Jacob Kozen had been short, but since hanging up the phone last evening my mind had replayed every word of it continuously, spinning the phrases in an endless, anxious loop.

  I believe Sheila called me Amanda, yes.

  Is she with you?

  It was an odd question. Occasionally I stopped to think about that. But mostly I heard myself explaining that Sheila was dead, and apologizing for the news like the old Meara apologized for everything, feeling sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, assuming without question that he would be upset at the death of a woman he had divorced a quarter century before.

  He had not sounded upset. It would be more accurate to say that he had sounded flabbergasted.

  A car accident? Really? That’s a shame. Did you two meet before it happened? Did she tell you about me?

  I had stumbled over my words. We met; but only briefly. She didn’t tell me anything about you—in fact, she didn’t tell me anything, period. That’s why I’m calling. I was hoping we—. I had had to stop and swallow. I have a lot of questions about the circumstances surrounding my adoption. I was hoping you might be willing to help me answer some of them.

  He hadn’t responded for a long time, and as I stood quivering, phone in hand, my knees had threatened to buckle. Fletcher must have seen them shaking, because it was at that point that he had risen from his chair and come to stand beside me.

  Sure, the voice had answered, finally. I’d like to meet you. Are you in the area?

  I had answered that I was only a short drive from Connellsville, at which point Fletcher had mouthed a warning for me not to say anything more. He needn’t have worried. I dodged the topic of my location as planned, set up a public meeting, and hung up.

  Only later did I realize that I had neglected to ask the obvious question. I suspected that was because I was afraid of the answer.

  I steered the Hyundai into the cramped lot and tried hard to concentrate on parking—resisting the urge to scan the large, slanted diner windows for a man sitting alone. A man, perhaps, with a face much like mine.

  I pulled into a spot, shifted the car into park, and killed the engine. Fletcher unbuckled his seatbel
t and stretched, and as I attempted to collect myself I wondered again why he had insisted on coming. It was a sweet thing to do for a friend, but for someone he barely knew, the gesture went above and beyond the call of duty. He didn’t appear to have any romantic interest in me—rather, his repeated standoffishness seemed designed to discourage the thought. So what was his motivation?

  I didn’t return the inheritance with strings attached, I had assured him last night. You don’t have to feel obligated to me.

  I don’t feel obligated to you because of the inheritance, he had answered, his tone good-natured. I feel obligated to you because you fed me spaghetti.

  He had been adamant, and I had been too preoccupied to debate. I wanted to believe that he was simply a kind person who, after witnessing how devastating a similar reunion had been for his sister, felt compelled to offer aid. I was aware of the possibility that his interest could be self-serving—I just couldn’t imagine how.

  I watched him as he squirmed in the seat, trying to find a comfortable position for the wait. He was wearing his standard mountain apparel: form-fitting jeans, a cotton tee shirt, and hiking boots. The shadow of stubble that had been growing on his jaw line since Sheila’s burial seemed to have doubled in mass over the night hours and was nearing a respectable beard. Oddly, it was a dark red one—an appealing contrast to his sandy brown hair. I had never been a fan of beards, but on him, I rather liked it. Clean-shaven, he was strikingly handsome, but the beard seemed more natural, more honest. And the real Fletcher was the one that intrigued me.

  "What is it?" he asked, giving me the idea I had been staring. "Are you having second thoughts?"

  His voice was mild; his eyes, concerned. I opened my door. "No," I answered, attempting more confidence than I felt. "I’ll be fine."

  I stepped out of the car and closed the door, then spoke through the open window. "I appreciate your coming, Fletcher," I admitted. "Even though I told you not to."

  "My pleasure," he answered offhandedly, flinging his dirty boots into the space I had just vacated and attempting to recline diagonally. "Just don’t tell this guy where you live unless you’re okay with the possibility of him bugging you in the future," he suggested. "And for heaven’s sake, if you get bad vibes, just leave. I’ll be waiting right here."