You’ll Find Out

Chapter 11

Chapter 11

D espite the dread that threatened to overtake her, Mara tried to remain calm during the tiresome drive south-west toward Atlanta. Although she had left Asheville in broad daylight, as Mara continued toward her destination the sun settled behind the mountains, shadowing the rolling hills of the Piedmont Plateau in a rosy dusk. Central Georgia was just as beautiful as she had remembered it, and the heavy scent of Georgia pine trees filtered in through her open window. Mara tried to keep her mind on her driving and staying within the boundaries of the speed limits. But as the minutes stretched into hours, and evening began to gather, she involuntarily treaded more heavily on the throttle of the racing sports car.

As each road sign along the drive had passed, illuminated milestones of her journey and the towns and cities themselves had come and gone as if they were green flags urging her on toward Atlanta: Flat Rock, Tuxedo, Greenville, Lavonia . . . Mara had read them and forgotten them, knowing only that putting the towns behind her brought her closer to her child . . . and Shane.

Mara’s stomach knotted at the thought of him. He was playing a dangerous game, and Angie was in a precarious position—the rope in a tug of war between mother and father. The anger that had overcome her after the initial shock of Shane’s phone call had slowly given way to dread. How serious was he? How far would he go to claim Angie? And a deeper, more frightening question—how far would she go to stop him from taking her only child from her? If only the marriage could work, if only they could be reunited, if only this battle between them could be resolved. The night closed in on her and the questions and fears flashed through her mind as rapidly as the endless stream of approaching headlights.

Mara was more than nervous when she finally saw the winking lights of Atlanta. She was downright scared! In the past she had always thought of Atlanta fondly, remembering pleasant springs with warm sunshine, the scent of peach blossoms, and the beauty of the pink dogwoods in bloom. But tonight, as her car raced nearer to its destination, she felt only despair and loneliness. How could she ever make her life with Shane? How could it ever possibly work? The nearer she got to the glimmering lights, the more her dread mounted, and she looked upon the city as if it were a devious, well-lit leviathan, waiting for her in the surrounding darkness.

It wasn’t difficult to find the section of town where Shane lived. Located just off of Tuxedo Road, the most prestigious area of Atlanta, Shane’s home was an enormous, red-brick mansion that rose three stories into the night. The grounds around the estate, well-lit with lamp posts near the long drive, were immense and meticulously well-tended. Pine trees, ancient oaks, magnolias, and the ever-present dogwoods flanked the mansion, softening the straight lines of the massive brick structure.

Mara stopped the car and gazed quietly up at the immense mansion that Shane called home. Warm light from eight-foot windows melted into the darkness and was reflected in the large white columns of expansive front porch, Clean, black shutters lined the windows, and glowing sconces near the door seemed to invite her into the house. She hesitated only slightly before stepping into the night and marching proudly up the three brick steps to the massive front door. Narrow paned windows on each side of the white door tempted her to look inside, but she refused, preferring to meet Shane’s gaze squarely.

It took all of her courage to ring the doorbell, but the knowledge that Angie was inside the stately manor encouraged her. After pressing a trembling finger to the bell, she listened, and over the quiet hum of slow traffic she heard the sound of chimes announcing her arrival. The sound of her own heartbeat pounded in her ears, and then another, louder noise interrupted the soft city sounds. It was the reverberating drum of running footsteps. Excited, small feet were hurrying to the door. Mara set down the suitcase and bent down on one knee expectantly. The lump that was forming in her throat began to swell as the door was pulled open, and in the crack of the interior lights, Angie’s expectant black eyes reached out and found her mother’s teary gaze.

“It is Mommy!” Angie called over her shoulder as she burst through the door and, in a scrambling pile of soft arms and legs, crawled into Mara’s waiting arms. “Daddy said you were coming,” Angie volunteered as she clung to her mother’s neck.

“Did he?” Mara whispered thickly.

Angie paused, as if a sudden important thought struck her, and held Mara’s chin in her chubby hands. Her concerned eyes probed Mara’s. “You hurt Mommy?” she asked innocently. “You crying?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” Mara sniffed and managed a trembling, and slightly feeble smile. “I’m . . . just glad to see you, that’s all.”

A frown crossed Angie’s face. “Shane said I could call him Daddy,” Angie said matter-of-factly.

Mara bit her lip and looked deeply into Angie’s dark eyes. “And what do you think about that?” she asked. Shane’s approaching footsteps forced Mara’s gaze upward past his slightly worn jeans and casual T-shirt, past the rigid lines of his chest and neck to the powerful, determined set of his jaw. When her eyes touched his, she felt a shiver of ice slide down her back, for nowhere in his commanding gaze did she see even the slightest hint of compassion. His eyes were those of a stranger, and the slightest hope that she held for them, that they could learn to love again, flickered and died.

From Mara’s position, kneeling on the cool bricks of the front porch, Shane appeared larger than his natural six feet. And his stony gaze watched the intimate reunion of mother and daughter as if from a distance.

“What do you think about calling me Daddy?” Shane asked Angie, a trace of kindness lighting his eyes as his daughter turned to rain a smile upon him.

Angie lifted her small shoulders indifferently. Her eyes, large, round, innocent black orbs scrutinized her father, and her small face drew into a studious frown. “I not like my daddy,” she admitted.

Shane stiffened, and the child continued with a curt nod of her head. “He not nice at all. I’m glad he’s gone!”

“Angie!” Mara whispered reproachfully.

“No, no!” Shane interrupted, waving off Mara’s soft rebuke. “I’d like to hear this. Why are you glad?” he asked Angie.

“He don’t like me,” Angie pointed out without any trace of emotion.

“How did you know?” Shane questioned, and Mara felt her stomach tighten in anticipation.

“He yelled at me. All the time.” Angie squirmed out of her mother’s arms, as if struck by a sudden thought. She began to race down the hall, giggling. “Come on, Mommy. Look what we got here!” The small child, sliding on the patina of the warm oak floor in her footed pajamas, slipped out of view as she rounded a corner down the long hallway.

Mara stood up slowly and reached for her suitcase, but Shane’s hand intervened. Long fingers coiled around the soft fabric of her rose-colored jersey sleeve.

“Is that right . . . what Angie said. Did your husband mistreat my child?” The fingers tightened their grip.

Mara found her breath constricted in her lungs. Shane gave her arm an impatient shake and his nostrils flared in the half-light of the porch. “Did he hurt her?” His voice was low, almost a growl. “Was he cruel?”

“Of course not,” she shot back, trying to retrieve her arm from his manacling grip and failing. Her blue eyes sparked with the quiet rage she had tried to dispel for the last few hours. “You should know that I would never allow anyone to hurt her. Not Peter. Not even you!”

“But what Angie said . . .”

“He was cross with her, nothing more.” She pulled her hand away in a desperate tug.

“Often?”

“Enough.”

“How could you . . . let a situation like that endure?” he charged, reaching for the suitcase and pulling the bag upward in a jerking motion that flexed the muscles in his arms and showed, emphatically, the extent of his long-repressed anger.

“ I did what I had to do. What I thought was right!”

“By allowing a man who obviously hated her to be her father?” he ridiculed, as his lips curled in disdain. “What kind of mother are you?”

“A damned sight better mother than you were a father!” she spat back at him. “Remember, you were the one who disappeared for four years, letting me think that you were dead. And now I know the real reason, don’t I?”

“What’s that . . . the real reason?” he asked sarcastically.

“It’s obvious,” she began, her gaze taking in all of the interior of the house at once—the expensive period pieces that lined the walls, the plush carpeting that covered warm hardwood, the crystal chandelier, the entire estate. “You were too busy finding your fortune to have time for your family!”

“My family was married to someone else!”

“Because you left me!”

“I called, damn it . . . and I wrote to you, but you chose to ignore my letters!”

“ I never got your letters, if you really did write them!”

“Oh, I wrote them, all right. And you can bet that someone, maybe your dear husband, got them . . . or just maybe you got them but decided to gamble with Wilcox. Because at the time he was a damned sight wealthier than I.”

“That’s ludicrous!”

“I don’t think so,” he accused. “And what’s more, I think that now you’re a desperate woman caught in her own web of lies!”

“At least I would never stoop so low as to kidnap a baby!”

“My baby, Mara . . . Mine!” he bit out as he spun on his heel and walked back to the interior of the house, swinging the suitcase as if it weighed nothing.

Angie’s voice broke into the heated discussion and halted the sarcastic retort that was forming on Mara’s lips. “Come on, Mommy . . . look what we got!”

Mara walked stoically behind Shane, and tried to ignore the way that his jeans pulled against the back of his thighs and buttocks while he walked. She tried not to watch the move of his forearms and shoulders as he carried the suitcase and set it down near the base of the stairs. Why, she wondered to herself, when she was so incensed with him, when her wrath was at its highest fury, did he still assail all of her senses?

Mara passed from the immense entry hall to a large room near the back of the manor. It seemed to be both a family room and a study. The room was decorated in masculine accents of rust and brown, and the furniture, unlike the entry hall and the other rooms that Mara had glimpsed, was contemporary. Shane’s desk of polished walnut stood in the recessed alcove of a bay window, and a modern, cherry-wood filing cabinet served as a small room divider, giving the desk a small bit of privacy. Despite the warmth of the surrounding temperature, there was an intimate fire glowing in the marble fireplace, and a worn, oxblood leather couch with an afghan, hand-knit in hues of gold and brown, tossed carelessly over the back. In the midst of the furniture, right before the fireplace, was an incredible pile of toys scattered all over the braided rug.

“What’s this?” Mara asked, her hot temper fading to incredulity at the sight of her daughter entranced by the sight of the colorful toys.

“Look, Mommy, here’s a new Lolly,” Angie pointed out by holding up the latest version of the popular doll. “And here’s an ’lectric train, and . . . and some talking horsies . . .” Angie began rummaging through the pile of toys, holding up those of particular interest to her. All of the toys were brand-new, and the one imposing factor that Mara noticed was that none, not one, held the trademark of Imagination.

“Did Christmas come early this year?” she asked as she turned to find Shane leaning against the doorway, surveying both her and child, and obviously enjoying the look of frustration in her eyes. “And if Santa did come, why didn’t be bring home anything from the assembly lines of Imagination?”

“It’s an experiment,” Shane shrugged, seemingly amused at her confusion.

“In frustration?” she guessed. “You find a way to get me down here to show off your collection of toys from the competition?”

Shane’s deep, rumbling laughter broke down the wall of misunderstanding that had grown between them. “Of course not,” he said as he walked into the room and settled himself down in the midst of the mess. He tossed a foam rubber soccer ball into the air and watched distractedly as it bounced off the ceiling. “I bought all of these toys while I was down here last weekend. According to the figures I’ve run up in my computer, these things are the thirty most popular toys sold in America today . . . not one of them is from Imagination.”

“I could have told you that much.” Mara sighed, dropping down onto the couch and fingering a toy dump truck.

“But,” he contended, his eyes locking with hers, “you couldn’t have told me why these toys are popular.” He pointed to the pile of toys.

“Heaven only knows,” Mara murmured, looking wistfully at Angie, who was beside herself with the toys. The new Lolly was being dragged upside down as she examined each of the other toys.

“Well, I thought that if I brought some of the toys home and studied them, perhaps I could find out what makes them the leaders in sales.”

“While lining the pockets of the competition,” Mara whispered.

“Sour grapes, darling,” he retorted with the hint of a smile. “Besides, you can see for yourself, Angie’s fascinated with them.”

“Oh, she likes just about any new toy,” Mara countered, cynically, “as long as it isn’t made by Imagination.”

“Exactly my point,” Shane agreed, raising himself from the rug and pushing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The motion tightened the muscles of his forearms, and his eyes darkened. Mara felt the change in mood, and all at once the room began to close in on her. She felt his presence, his intensity, his physical magnetism drawing her toward him.

For a moment, as their gazes locked and the questions and doubts that separated them loomed between them again, Mara felt suspended in motion, breathless. The furrow between his brows deepened and the line of his jaw seemed to protrude. “Are you hungry?” he asked, breaking the uncomfortable, shifting silence. He, too, was aware of the subtle change in atmosphere. “Angie and I were just about to sit down. Come on, Angie, let’s fix Mommy some dinner.” Angie’s blond head bobbed expectantly.

The dinner only took a few moments to prepare. Shane’s kitchen, with its airy country charm, tiled floor, hanging brass pots, and indoor barbecue, was easy to work in, and within minutes, the steaks were broiled, the salad was tossed, and the potatoes came steaming from the microwave. They sat in a formal dining room, and while Shane poured from a vintage bottle of Cabernet Savignon, Mara lit the five, white tallow candles in the candelabrum. Angie’s dark eyes danced with the festivities, and Mara realized, as she watched her child over the rim of her wine glass, just how much the little girl adored Shane. It was so apparent that he reciprocated that adoration, and that he would do nothing but the best for her. The intimate surroundings, the love of father and daughter, the warm, stately old house—it all seemed so right to Mara. And the laughter. God, how long had it been since she had heard the sweet sounds of Angie’s laughter, so free and uninhibited? Mara felt as if, at long last, she had come home.

After a dinner that her daughter seemed to dominate, Mara caught Angie yawning. “Come on, pumpkin,” she said, picking up her child, “let’s get you up to bed.”

Above Angie’s predictable but insincere protests, Mara picked up her daughter and headed up the stairs. Shane followed her and carried the suitcase up to a room at the head of the stairs.

The room was twice the size of Angie’s room in Asheville, and Mara eyed Shane suspiciously as she entered it. The walls were newly papered in a delicate yellow rosebud print, and the matching canopy bed and dresser looked as if they had been delivered very recently. The room was complete, down to a writing desk in the same dark pine as the posters of the bed and a full length, free-standing mirror.

“It looks as if you were expecting her,” Mara whispered.

“I was,” he agreed, and pulled pensively on his lower lip.

Angie snuggled deep into the folds of the down comforter and closed her eyes against the soft, clean new sheets. Shane left the room after a few moments, but Mara stayed, waiting until she was assured by Angie’s deep, rhythmic breathing that the child was soundly asleep. “Oh, Angie,” she murmured to herself as she brushed an errant blond curl from her daughter’s face. “What are we going to do?”

As Mara descended the polished oak staircase she noticed that most of the lights in the house had been extinguished. Only the glow from the fire in the den illuminated her way back to Shane. Now that Angie was peacefully asleep, it was time to iron out all of the problems that they faced and hope that some of the damage of the last lonely years could be bridged.

Shane was sitting on the couch, staring into the fire, holding a half-empty glass of Scotch in his hand. At Mara’s entrance, he barely looked up but contented himself with reading the blood-red coals of the smoldering embers. He raised his glass in a gesture of invitation for her to join him. She declined by shaking her head and stood uncomfortably in the doorway.

“We . . . we can’t live like this, you know,” she admitted, slowly crossing the room to stand directly in his gaze, before the fire. Heat from its glow warmed the back of her calves. The house was already warm, and the fire only added to its simmering heat.

“You’re damned right we can’t,” he agreed forcefully. His dark eyes traveled upward, from the toes peeking out of her sandals, up the length of her calf to the curve of her hips and the swell of her breasts, to rest on her face—the face that had haunted his nights and, more often than not, awakened him in the darkness with burning need and longing. God, how long had he waited to make her his again?

Mara felt as if, with the touch of his eyes, he was undressing her, and that not only was her heated skin in his view, but also the very soul of her. The farthest reaches of her mind were being explored by the intensity of his gaze, the rake of his eyes on her body. Gradually, he stood, taking one final swallow of his drink before coming over to within inches of her. Her face tilted upward to meet his probing gaze. An uneasy awkward silence fell upon them, and the flames threw shadowed patterns across Shane’s proud face.

“You had no right to take her,” Mara whispered, her eyes searching his.

“I had every right.”

Again the heavy silence.

“You used her.”

A self-derisive smile, hard and cold, curled his lips. “I didn’t. What I did was tell her the truth.”

“The truth that you were her real father?”

“That’s right.” He braced himself against the mantle with one strong hand and touched a lock of Mara’s hair with the other.

“And how did she take the news?”

His face softened with a smile. “She seems to like the idea. She’s too young to really understand.”

Mara let out the breath she had been holding, and felt the subtle pressure of Shane’s fingers as they traveled from her hair to her throat. Her heart began to clamor for his touch, and when his fingers brushed the hollow of her throat, moving in slow, seductive circles, he found her racing pulse. His fingers lingered for a second, and then dropped to toy with the neckline of her dress.

“I’m glad you came,” he murmured thickly into the deep golden silk of her hair. “I’ve waited so long . . .” His lips, warm and sensitive, found hers and captured her entire being in a kiss that promised unrestrained passion and fulfillment.

“I . . . I’m glad to be here,” she admitted, feeling the gentle pressure of his hands as they guided her to the floor. Willingly, she yielded. “Oh, God, Shane,” Mara whispered. “I’m so glad to be here.”

As they dropped to the floor, Shane managed to pull off his shirt, and the shadowed flames seemed to flicker and dance upon his rugged, masculine chest. Mara felt the tiny beads of anxious perspiration begin to moisten her skin, and her heart was pounding within the walls of her rib cage. His hands found the wrap-tie of her dress, and in one swift movement the rose dress opened, exposing the feverish rising and falling of her chest that was protected by only the thin fabric of her slip. “It’s so hot in here,” she murmured, the touch of his hands and the heat from the fire igniting molten flames of desire within her. “I . . . I feel as if I’m going to melt . . . ”

“Let’s hope so,” he murmured, his voice husky with yearning. “I need you so badly,” he moaned as his lips rained dew-soft kisses upon her, across the gentle hill of her cheeks, over her eyes, and lower, past her throat to whisper against the French lace of her slip. Her breasts strained within the confinement of the sheer garment. His hot breath, laced with the tingle of Scotch, heated the dewy drops of perspiration on her body and made her ache for him with a primeval urgency that took control of her mind and soul. “Oh, Mara, baby, let me make love to you here, in our home . . . away from all of our problems.”

Her answering sigh of surrender, and the anxious fingers caressing his skin, heating his flesh, were all the encouragement that Shane needed. Slowly he slid the dress over her shoulders, and let one strap of her slip fall to expose her breast, proud and round in the firelight. He closed his eyes as if in agonized pain. “Why do I want you so badly . . . why?” he sighed, almost to himself. When he opened his eyes to gaze deeply into hers, the passion that he tried so hard to deny smoldered in his gaze.

With trembling hands, Mara reached up and put her palms on either side of his head, until the pressure of her fingertips drew him down, closer to her, until his lips brushed against and finally captured the ripe and aching tip of her breast. “Love me, Shane,” she pleaded. “Please . . . love me . . .”

His weight shifted until he lay boldly over her. Her fingers found the zipper to his jeans, and she knew, in an instant, how strong his passion had become. Within minutes he had found the most intimate part of her. She felt herself yielding, melting, softening to his touch in warm liquid waves of fulfillment.

“Marry me, Shane,” she demanded, and the naked pleading in her eyes found the black passion of his. “Marry me,” she whispered over and over again as she felt herself blend into him.

When at last his passion had subsided, he held her quietly in his arms and stared into the few final coals that still glowed in the fire. His fingers still rubbed her shoulder and breast, but he seemed lost in thought . . . distant.

Finally, with a groan, he sat up and pulled her into a sitting position as well. She felt warm and glowing as she gazed silently into the fire and felt the security of Shane’s powerful arms holding her.

“I want you to marry me,” he sighed, and she felt the muscles in his arms flex.

“I will.” The answer was honest. “I . . . want it, too.”

“When?” The question stung the air and Mara paused, but for only a moment. No matter what else she had learned and understood tonight, she realized that she could never deny Shane the right to his child. And in time, she hoped, once that she had proven her love for him, he would love her.

“I’ll tell June the entire story on Monday . . . and this time I’ll force her to listen. We can be married next week.”

His thumbs cupped her chin and forced her to look into his eyes. “You’re sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” she returned, contentedly snuggling closer to him.

“June and the Wilcox family . . . they might give us a battle for Imagination . . .”

“I know,” she murmured, “but let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“Would you be willing to live here, in Atlanta?” he asked.

“If that’s where you’re going to be . . .”

He smiled crookedly and placed a kiss on the top of her head. “All right . . . good. But you have to realize that we might lose the toy company, or at least your portion of it.”

Mara sighed deeply. “I know that, and I know that I’ve worked hard to keep that company afloat. But to be perfectly honest, I haven’t done a good enough job to turn it around, and it is part of the Wilcox family estate. Perhaps it should belong to them . . .”

“We’ll see,” he murmured, but once again the strong lines of determination hardened his expression. “We’ll see . . .”

* * *

The morning dawned bright with the promise of hot weather. After a quick breakfast Shane insisted upon showing Mara the sights and pleasures of Atlanta. The drive toward Peachtree Street took only a few minutes, and after Shane parked the car he insisted that Mara and Angie join him for a walking tour of the city. The walk included a tour of some of Atlanta’s finest and newest hotels, the fabulous Peachtree Plaza with its array of shops and the Toy Museum of Atlanta. The cool interior of the museum was welcome relief from the bustle of the busy city and the warm Georgia sun.

Mara and Angie were fascinated with the museum and the incredible display of antique toys, some dating from early in the nineteenth century. There was a collection of toys from around the world that particularly fascinated Angie, who stated quite emphatically that some of the dolls, especially the dolls from Holland in their wooden shoes and painted faces, were even prettier than Lolly.

By early afternoon, Angie had to be carried, and then, while Shane held her, she fell asleep, exhausted. The child was disappointed when she learned that she was being taken back home for a nap, but Shane avoided hurting her feelings by offering to take her to the zoo the next day. The pout on the little girl’s face disappeared, and she settled into the back seat of the car with only mild protest.

Mara, too, was exhausted, but the feeling of serenity that she had found with Shane the night before never left her. The drive home was quiet, with Angie snoozing in the back seat. Shane took a long way back, pointing out spots of interest to Mara as they passed, and for the first time in years, Mara felt completely at ease, and the problems facing her with the Wilcox family seemed remote and distant. All of her awareness was focused upon Shane and how deeply she loved him. He had been right all along, she admitted ruefully to herself. She should have told June the truth about Shane the minute she saw him again.

The phone was ringing when they got out of the car. Shane quickly made his way into the house, but by the time he picked up the receiver, the line was dead. For some reason, an uneasy feeling swept over Mara, and she had difficulty shaking it.

After cleaning the breakfast dishes, Mara, led by Angie, toured the grounds. They were gorgeously groomed, and even though it was early fall, Mara could visualize what the gardens of azaleas and rhododendron would look like in the spring, flanked by stately pink dogwood trees.

“I wonder who takes care of all this,” Mara mused to herself.

“Don’t look at me,” Shane laughed, joining Mara and Angie. “I’m incredibly poor at this sort of thing—black thumb, or something like that.”

“Then you have a gardener?”

“Yes. A retired groundskeeper for a golf course. He comes here twice, maybe three times a week, to keep up the grounds and his wife takes care of the inside of the house.”

Mara’s eyes traveled up the three stories to the roof top. In the daylight the house seemed more immense and grand than it had in the night. “One woman takes care of all that?”

“I’m not messy . . .”

“But still. The house is so huge.”

A smile cracked across his face, and he bent down to whisper into her ear. “We need a big house. We’ll have to have enough room for all of Angie’s brothers.”

Mara giggled despite herself. “I think we can wait a little while on that one,” she teased as she and Shane started back toward the house. “Angie,” Mara called at the child attempting to climb a small tree. “Don’t hurt yourself! We’re going inside . . . are you coming?”

“I coming in just a minute.”

As Mara walked back into the kitchen, Shane headed toward his study. “There .are a couple of things I want to finish up in my office,” he explained, “and then we’ll go out to dinner!”

Mara watched him stride down the hall with his easy, familiar gait. Yes, she thought to herself, I could be quite happy here. From her vantage point, near the center island in the kitchen, she could look out the window and see Angie playing outside, scampering near a shallow goldfish pond. Mara could see it coming. Angie was about to go wading and try to catch a fish!

The phone rang just as Mara got to the door and warned Angie about staying out of the pool. Just as she had contented herself that Angie would stay out of the water, she heard Shane’s footsteps approaching.

“It’s for you,” he stated, curtly.

“What?”

“The phone . . . it’s that sister-in-law of yours, what’s her name, Dana?”

“Dena,” Mara answered, and wondered why Dena would be tracking her down. Her stomach tightened as she thought of all of Dena’s threats. “Oh, God,” she moaned quietly to herself.

“Mara, for God’s sake, is that you?” Dena shrieked over the wires when Mara answered the phone.

“Yes . . . yes . . . Dena?” Mara asked, hearing what she construed to be sobs on the other end of the connection. “What’s wrong?” she asked, and swallowed with difficulty. “Dena?”

“It’s . . . it’s Mother,” Dena blurted out.

“What about her?”

“She’s . . . she’s in the hospital . . . that’s where I’m calling from. I’ve been trying to reach you all day!”

“Just calm down,” Mara whispered, but felt her own heart thudding with dread. “Now, explain everything to me. What happened?”

“I . . . I don’t know . . .” Dena admitted through her sobs. “She was at some bridge thing last night . . . and, well . . . she just collapsed. An ambulance brought her here.”

“And has she seen Dr. Bernard?”

“Along with about five others.”

“How ill is she?” Mara asked, not daring to take a breath.

“They say . . . that she’ll be all right . . . apparently she’s suffered a series of slight strokes . . . they’ve finished with most of the tests and Dr. Bernard is letting her go home, as long as we can find a nurse to take care of her.” Dena’s voice was calmer, and her sobbing had subsided slightly.

“Have you found one?”

“Dr. Bernard gave me a name . . . Anne Hamilton.”

“Have you called her?”

“Not yet . . . I thought I should call you first.”

“Okay, look,” Mara commanded. Her voice was firm as she took control of the situation. If the doctors were releasing June from the hospital, she certainly wasn’t as ill as Dena thought. “Call the nurse and get her over to June’s apartment as soon as they release your mother. I can be at the apartment in about four hours. Can you handle everything until I get there?”

“I . . . I think so.”

“Good, I’ll see you later.” Mara hung up the phone with numb hands. She turned toward the hallway and noticed Shane standing near the stairs, her suitcase in his hands. His eyes were dark, unreadable.

“It’s June, isn’t it?” he asked, grimly.

“She’s in the hospital . . . she suffered a series of slight strokes, or something . . .”

“Let’s go,” he commanded. “Angie, come on,” he said more loudly through the open door.

“You don’t have to come,” Mara offered.

“Of course I do.”

The drive to Asheville was hampered by Saturday afternoon tourists, leisurely plodding along and gazing at the quiet beauty of the Indian summer day. Mara thought that she would be torn to pieces by the concern she felt for her mother-in-law and the guilt that she was carrying. What could have set off the strokes? A gnawing thought chilled her to the bone as she concluded it must have been because of Mara’s reaction to the fact that June had let Angie leave with Shane without asking for Mara’s permission. Somehow, the dread that had overcome Mara must have passed to her mother-in-law, leading to the grave turn in her illness.

The quiet, tense hours passed with the miles, and when Mara saw the Asheville skyline, her stomach had knotted to the point that a sharp pain of dread and fear passed over her. Shane parked the car in front of June’s town house and helped Mara out of the car.

“Are you going to be all right?” he asked, his concern reflected in his dark eyes.

“As soon as I see for myself that June is getting better.”

“Do you want me to come in with you?”

Mara shook her head. “No . . . I don’t think so, not at first anyway. She . . . is nervous around you, anyway, and I wouldn’t want to shock her. Besides, I think it would be better if Angie doesn’t see her . . . not until I know that June’s all right.”

“It’s my bet that she’s done this on purpose,” Shane commented, helping Angie from the car. “I don’t trust her or any of the rest of the family, either.”

“How can you say anything of the sort. She’s ill, Shane!” Mara retorted, her frayed emotions getting the better of her.

“Are we going to see Grammie?” Angie asked, heading up the stairs.

“In a few minutes,” Shane replied, and squatted down to face his daughter. “Grammie’s a little sick, and she needs a little time to recover . . .” His dark gaze sent Mara a dubious, incomprehensible look. “So why don’t you and I go over to the park for an ice-cream cone?”

Angie puzzled the question for a moment. “And then I can see Grammie?”

“Of course you can, sweetheart,” Mara said with a wan smile, before quickly hurrying up the stairs.

“Mara?” Shane called, pushing his hands into his pockets.

“Yes?”

A pause. “Good luck.”

Mara smiled before knocking softly on the door and entering June’s home. Everything was just as she had left it, the cool blue hues of the interior, the overstuffed floral couch, and everywhere, pictures of the family.

A door whispered closed and Mara looked up to meet the questioning gaze of a professional-looking, robust woman of about fifty. “You’re June’s nurse,” Mara guessed. “Ms. Hamilton?”

“That’s right. Who are you?”

Strong forearms folded tightly over her bosom.

“I’m Mara Wilcox, June’s daughter-in-law,” Mara explained with a polite though stiff smile. “How is she?”

“She’s much better,” the nurse began, relaxing slightly. “Dena said that you would be coming.”

“Is Dena here, now?” Mara asked.

“I asked her to go home. She was absolutely beside herself!” The nurse took a seat on the sofa. “You can call her if you like,”

“No . . . no, what I would really like to do is see my mother-in-law, and offer to help her any way I can. How serious is her condition?”

“Dr. Bernard thinks she’ll be up and around in a few weeks.”

“But I thought she had several strokes . . .”

“Yes, but, fortunately only minor ones, and if she’s careful, with her diet and exercise, she’ll be fine. She’ll just have to slow down a bit, that’s all.” Mara listened while the nurse continued to describe June’s condition, and a feeling of relief washed over her as she realized that June could, quite possibly, live a normal, healthy life. “She’s awake, now. Would you like to see her.”

“Yes,” Mara said, walking after Anne Hamilton toward June’s bedroom.

The woman in the bed was hardly recognizable to Mara. Thin, drawn, and frail, without a trace of color on her cheeks, June looked much worse than Mara had expected. Pale blue eyes focused on Mara as she entered the room.

“Mara . . . is that you?” June asked weakly.

“I . . . I came as quickly as I could. Oh, June, how are you?”

“Still kicking,” June allowed with a thin smile. She turned her eyes toward the nurse. “Could you give us some time alone?” she requested. The nurse smiled her agreement, but in a guarded look that she passed to Mara, she said more clearly than words, Don’t upset her.

“June,” Mara began, trying to think of a gentle way to break the news of her forthcoming marriage. “There’s something I want to tell you.” She stepped more closely to the bed and June raised a bony hand to wave off the words that were suspended in Mara’s throat.

“No, Mara, it’s my turn,” the elderly woman stated with a raspy breath. “I’ve spent the last day waiting for you to show up, because I have to tell you . . . something I should have done a long time ago.” For a moment the tired eyes closed, and Mara felt stifled and confined. The smell of antiseptic, the vials of pills, the thinly draped figure on the bed—it all seemed so cloyingly and disturbingly unreal.

The old woman continued. “I know that Shane is Angie’s father,” June said with a sigh.

“What . . . but how . . .”

June ignored Mara’s question and continued with her own confession. “I’ve known about it for several years. When Peter found out about his illness . . .” —her voice caught—“. . . that it was terminal, and that he couldn’t father any children of his own, he told me that another man, one presumed dead, was Angie’s real father. And if he seemed harsh with Angie, it was because he knew that he couldn’t have children of his own.”

“Oh, June,” Mara sighed, slumping into a chair near the bed.

“Don’t worry, I had already guessed that Angie wasn’t Peter’s child. I took a few courses in genetics when I was in school, and I know the odds against two blue-eyed people having a dark-eyed child. Nearly impossible. And,” she sighed wearily, “I . . . I intercepted some letters that were forwarded to the house four years ago . . . I just had the feeling that Angie’s natural father was alive somewhere.” Tears began to pool in June’s aging blue eyes. “I . . . still have the letters, and I didn’t open them . . . I wanted to, but I just couldn’t . . .”

“It’s all right,” Mara said, touching June’s arm.

“No . . . no, it’s not. I’m just a foolish old woman looking out for my own best interests, fooling myself, telling myself that I was helping everyone else . . . but it’s just not so. And when, on the day of Peter’s funeral, Shane Kennedy appeared on the doorstep, I remembered the name on the return address of the envelopes, and knew that he was Angie’s father. I . . . I hoped that he would go away, disappear again, but I knew he wouldn’t . . . he was so damned insistent that he see you.”

Mara’s throat seemed to have swollen shut, and she found it difficult to blink back the tears of pain she felt for her mother-in-law.

“I did it because I love Angie so much,” June sobbed. “I . . . couldn’t bear the thought of losing her . . . and you. I was afraid of becoming one of those lonely old women that you see walking in the park . . . all alone.” She breathed heavily. “Oh, Mara, I’m so sorry . . . I put my happiness before yours . . .”

Mara looked up to see Shane standing in the doorway, holding Angie. How much of June’s confession had he heard? He set the little girl down, and she scampered over to her grandmother’s bedside. “Grammie, you okay? Look, I brought you flowers!” she said excitedly and held up a bedraggled bunch of daisies and dandelions.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” June mumbled.

Shane strode to her bedside and watched the older woman. “I heard what you said to Mara.”

“I’m sorry,” June admitted.

“I just want you to know that I will never interfere with your relationship with Angie. I realize how important she is to you, and how much she loves you. I don’t condone what you did, but I do understand it.”

“Go . . . Mara . . . in the desk in the living room,” June commanded. “The letters are in the bottom drawer.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“Get them,” June insisted, some of her color returning. “Angie can stay in here with me.”

Unsteadily, Mara walked back into the living room toward the antique secretary that June used as a desk. She knew that her fingers were trembling, and it was with difficulty that she found the unopened letters, addressed to her in Shane’s bold scrawl.

“Oh, dear God,” she moaned, and opened the first of three. Tears stained her cheeks and dropped onto the sheets of paper that swept her back in time four long years: Words of love dominated the pages and in the last letter was a proposal of marriage, dated over four years in the past. “If only I had known,” she sobbed, looking into Shane’s eyes. “If only I had known. I loved you so much . . .”

Shane folded his arms around her and pressed his chin against her head.

“You know now,” he murmured, and his arms tightened around her, securing her to him. “God, Mara, I loved you . . . and I still do . . . and nothing matters but that we’re together again.”

“What about June . . . and the toy company?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ve bought up some of the shares from family members, and I think, now that Dena and June have reexamined their lives, that they won’t object to moving the company to Atlanta, as long as they retain part interest.”

“Are you sure?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he said with a knowing smile. “As for right now, let’s go in and tell Angie and June that we’re getting married . . . I have a feeling that neither will object.”