A Time to Forgive and Promise Forever (20 page)

“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.”

“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.

M
iranda 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?”

The only surprising thing was that he hadn't asked the question sooner. “Islanders know, for the most part.” She carefully didn't look at him. “Our elopement was quite a sensation. People talk.”

“Gossip.” He sounded uncompromising.

“Talk,” she said again. “But folks here are used to the situation. I don't think they'd mention it to outsiders, anyway. Islanders protect their own.”

“Unless there's something in it for them.”

She didn't know how to combat that kind of cynicism. “You're wrong, Tyler. No one here would deliberately set out to hurt me or Sammy.”

“Then what's left?” His brows twitched, impatience returning. “I can't believe in some kind of random coincidence. You can't believe your neighbors would meddle. What are we left with? Your family?”

“No!” She planted her fists on her hips. “Tyler, that's ridiculous. No one in my family would do anything like that.”

“According to you, no one would do it, but it happened.” He ducked under the clothesline, and it brushed the top of his head. The movement brought him within inches of her, and her breath stuttered.

“Get rid of your rose-colored glasses for a minute, Miranda. Someone did this thing. Someone deliberately took a picture of Sammy and sent it to me. Someone who knew I was Sammy's father and knew how to reach me.”

His words battered her like waves in rough surf. She brushed her hair from her eyes, looking at him.

“Why?” The word came out in a whisper. “Why, Tyler?”

He caught her hands, imprisoning them in his hard grip. “We'll find out, but you have to help me. We can't be on opposite sides in this.”

Opposite sides. The only safe place for her was not opposite, but as far away from Tyler as possible.

His grip tightened, compelling a response. “You have to help me,” he repeated.

The more she was near him, the more difficult and dangerous it would be to her heart. She didn't have a choice.

“All right. I'll help you.”

 

“Tyler, would you like another piece of fried chicken?” Sallie Caldwell held the platter out to him. It had been piled high with golden chicken pieces when they sat down, but one trip around the table had diminished it considerably.

“No, thanks, Mrs. Caldwell. I have plenty.” He'd already made his way through two pieces and a mound of mashed potatoes and gravy. He hadn't eaten like this since—well, he'd never eaten like this.

The long table, set in the center of the dining room, was used as a buffet for guests' breakfasts, but now light from the overhead fixture fell on seven Caldwells and one unwelcome guest.

Miranda's mother must have her hands full, cooking for this bunch every day. David and Daniel, seated opposite him, were a couple of years older than Miranda. Both tall and lean, they wore the same stamp their father did of men who worked hard in the outdoors. People like that didn't need to worry about getting to the gym to work off an extra serving of fried chicken.

Theo, the baby of the family, alternated between focusing on his plate and glaring at Tyler. He was clearly not reconciled to Tyler's presence at the family table.

Nobody was, he supposed. Sallie had a smile
for him, but that was either her natural expression or her idea of Southern hospitality. Sammy fidgeted in the ladder-back chair that was a little too big for him, probably eager for the Friday night movie Miranda had said he'd be attending with his cousins.

Tyler could feel Miranda's tension from across the table. He knew its cause. They'd agreed that once Sammy was off to the movies, she'd talk to her family about the photograph.

She didn't want to do it, didn't think it was necessary. He crumbled a feathery-light biscuit between his fingers. She'd only agreed because she'd known that if she didn't, he would.

Talk of the weather shifted to fishing. Tyler's gaze crossed Miranda's, and she glanced quickly away. Was she disappointed at his silence? She must realize that he didn't have much to say on either subject. He wasn't going to try to manufacture conversation with his son while all of them listened.

Not that Sammy seemed to notice. He avoided Tyler's eye, piping into the conversation about fishing once or twice. He said something teasing to one of his uncles about coming home with an empty net and earned a grin and a ruffle of his hair.

“Did I tell y'all I saw the pod today?” That was David, he thought, though the twins were so alike it was hard to tell.

“Sure that wasn't a sand shark?” His twin's voice was lazily teasing. “Or maybe an old inner tube?”

“Did you honest, Uncle David?” Sammy bounced
on his chair. “You should've taken me out with you. I'm good at spotting them.”

“School first, then dolphins,” David said easily. “How'd you do on that spelling quiz?”

Sammy sent an uneasy glance toward his mother. “Okay, I guess.”

“Just okay? Maybe we better drill a bit more this week.”

“My turn to help Sammy this week,” his twin interrupted. “I'm a better speller than you ever thought of being. Isn't that right, Momma?”

Sallie turned that hundred-watt smile on him. “Funny, that's not how I remember it. Maybe I ought to get out your old report cards. Let Sammy see how his uncles did in school.”

Good-humored protests from the men vied with Sammy's cheers at the idea. Tyler leaned back. He wasn't part of the circle of Caldwells around the table. Whether meaning to or not, they'd made that clear to him.

His childhood table hadn't borne much resemblance to this. His parents, before they divorced, dined in the elegant room with the crystal chandelier and the velvet drapes. He and Josh had a nursery supper, he supposed, but then he'd been shipped off to boarding school, where supper was a noisy affair with people who weren't related to you.

Was that the kind of childhood he wanted for Sammy? He looked at the boy, smiling at some quip his grandfather had aimed at the twins. The laughter in his son's eyes was for the Caldwells, not for him.

Something Miranda had said about Sammy being a well-loved child rang in his mind. Sammy had plenty of people to love him. Miranda had plenty of people to support her. It didn't look as if either of them had any need of him.

Headlights flashed against the windows, and a car horn sounded. Sammy was off his chair in a flash. “That's my cousins, Momma. Can I go now? Please?”

“Not with chicken on your mouth.” Miranda handed him a napkin, and he mopped his face quickly.

“Now?” His feet moved as if he were already running.

“All right.” Miranda grabbed him before he could dash. “But you say goodbye properly first, y'hear? And don't forget to mind Cousin Matt.”

“I won't.” Sammy planted a quick kiss on Miranda's cheek. “Bye, Momma. Bye, y'all.” His gaze, rounding the table, came to Tyler and stopped.

Tyler could almost see the thought running through his son's mind. Sammy didn't know what to call him.

“G'night,” he muttered. Then he dashed out the door.

Clayton's children, though grown, called him Daddy with open affection. Tyler's son didn't have a word for him. That mattered more than he'd have expected.

“Before y'all go, there's something I want to ask you.” Miranda clearly didn't like it, but she intended to fulfill her promise.

David, who'd half stood, sat down again. “What's up, sugar?”

“Y'all know about the picture of Sammy someone sent to Tyler.”

There was a murmur of assent and one or two hostile glances sent his way.

“We…I feel like I need to know how that happened. So I'm asking for the truth. Does anybody know anything about it?”

Tyler's fists clenched under the edge of the woven tablecloth. If they did, would they admit it?

For an instant her family stared at Miranda without speaking. Then Theo smacked his palm against the table. “No! You can't think we'd do anything to bring him here.”

Clayton cleared his throat. “No need to get riled, Theo. The thing's worrying at her, and your sister's got a right to ask.” He looked around the table, his clear glance seeming to measure each of them in turn. “Anybody know anything about this?”

The anger faded from Theo's face, leaving him looking young and vulnerable. “No, Daddy.”

“No,” the twins said together.

Sallie shook her head.

“Nor I,” Clayton said. He reached across to clasp Miranda's hand. “I understand why you wanted to ask, sugar. Anybody thinks of anything that might help, you tell Miranda right off.” He pushed his chair back. “Mind, now. Anything at all.”

That seemed to be a sign of dismissal. The family filtered out of the room until only Tyler and Miranda were left. She began stacking plates on top of one another, as precisely as if it were crucial that they lined up evenly.

Finally she looked at him. “They were telling the truth.”

“I know.” He did know. Whoever had sent that photo, for whatever reason, it wasn't one of the people who'd sat around the table tonight.