A Time to Forgive. Marta Perry

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      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 Adam 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.”

      She wanted to deny it, to say she didn’t have any intention of belonging in this part of the world again. But his low voice, threaded with amusement, seemed to have taken away her ability to speak. Or maybe it was his sheer masculine presence, only inches from her.

      Adam wasn’t the boy he’d been at seventeen. That boy had been charming enough to haunt her dreams for a good long time. Grown-up Adam was twice as hard to ignore. He was taller, broader, stronger. The lines around his eyes said he’d dealt with pain and come away cautious, but he had an air of assurance that compelled a response.

      A response she didn’t have any intention of making. She wouldn’t let fragments of memory turn her to mush. She’d better get back to business, right now.

      She cleared her throat, dismissing its tightness. “One thing about working in the studio concerns me.”

      He lifted an eyebrow. “Only one?”

      She would not return that attractive smile. “Glass slivers fly around when I’m working. And the lead I use is dangerous to children.”

      He nodded, face sobering. “I’ve told Jenny she must never come in unless you invite her. To be extra safe, I have a key to the studio for you.” Adam held out a key ring. “And a house key, in case you ever need to come in when no one is here.”

      It was as if he handed her a key to the Caldwell family. Everything she was hiding from him flooded her mind. “I won’t need that.”

      He took her hand and put the ring in her palm, his fingers warm against hers. “Just in case.” We trust you, he seemed to be saying.

      You can’t. You can’t trust me.

      “Looks as if you’re getting all set up in here.” A tall, silver-haired man paused in the doorway, his interruption saving her from blurting something that would defeat her goals even before she started.

      Adam took his hand away from hers, unhurried. “Tory, this is my father, Jefferson Caldwell.”

      “Mr. Caldwell.” He came toward her, and she shook his hand while she tried to ignore the voice in her mind.

      Jefferson and Clayton Caldwell. Her mother’s words had been disjointed and hard to follow. They were brothers, just a year apart. Her mother’s coquettish giggle had sounded out of place in the hospital room. They were both sweet on me, you know.

      Tory could easily imagine that. She’d seen pictures of her mother at fifteen, before alcohol and sorrow had weighed СКАЧАТЬ