Betrayals (30 page)

Without looking at him, she went over and sat in the rope hammock, giving it a little push with her feet. It was all Jared could do to keep from touching her. She was the one who had to make the trip west, who had to make the decision whether or not she wanted to be a part of his and Mai’s life…whether or not she was ready to settle down and understand that a kid had to be in school and he had professional commitments.

But he wasn’t altogether certain that if she asked him to fly off to the South Pacific, he wouldn’t pack himself and Mai up and go.

It was her show, and he let her talk.

“I figure,” she went on, “you live in San Francisco, you learn to nail down the furniture and not display the glassware.”

Jared leaned against the rail. “You planning to live in San Francisco?”

Her eyes—so blue, so gorgeous, so scared—avoided his. “Thinking about it. The Boston branch of my studio went out of business.”

“The Boston branch?”

“I’ve decided to open up a West Coast branch. I’ve got the design for my stationery and business cards finished.” She pushed off again, swinging gently in the hammock. “I’ll get them printed up as soon as I have an address. Not a temporary address, either. A real address.”

Jared was gripping the rail; he noticed his knuckles had turned white, and tried to relax. “You could afford to buy half of San Francisco—”

She looked at him—finally. “I don’t want half of San Francisco.”

“R.J.,” he said in a low voice, “you’re making me crazy.”

She pretended not to hear him. “All I want is a place to work—which is easy enough to come by—and a room with a view. You wouldn’t by any chance know of one of those, would you?”

“Rooms with views can be hard to come by in this city.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Have lots of money you don’t mind spending or know someone. Since you’re a Blackburn,” he said, straightening up to stand beside her feet, “and there hasn’t been a Blackburn born who likes spending money, I guess you’d better know someone—preferably,” he added, “someone who likes you a lot.”

“Aha. Guess who’s the only person I know in San Francisco?”

With one foot, he lifted up her toes and gave her a push. “Who?”

She grinned at him, keeping her feet up so she could swing freely. “You’re not going to make this any easier on me, are you?”

Jared shrugged. “I haven’t dumped you out of that hammock and carried you upstairs yet, have I?”

She looked at him in mock innocence. “Does your room have a view?”

That did it. He grabbed her on the upswing and pulled her into his arms, feeling the warmth and weight of her and loving her. She clasped her hands at the back of his neck and laughed. “Jared—I love you.”

“Good thing, because you know what?” When she shook her head, he held her close and said, “I love you. R.J., I’ve always loved you—I’ll never stop loving you. But, darling, my room doesn’t have a spectacular view.”

As it turned out, it just didn’t matter.

T
homas had enjoyed his trip to central Florida, particularly the groves and the ample screened front porch and the children—the
masses
of children. Jenny had reminded him there were only five great-grandchildren circulating about, but he counted his six grandchildren and their assorted spouses and sweethearts as part of the throng. Rebecca did turn up, with Jared and Mai—more heads to count. Thomas had surprised Rebecca by forgiving the two months back rent she owed him. He’d been in touch with Sofi, and Eliza’s vase had indeed brought him financial peace of mind. He was already in touch with the woman in Palm Beach.

Rebecca, in turn, hadn’t surprised him or anyone else when she announced a fall wedding at Wesley Sloan’s house in Tiberon. That meant another trip. At least, Thomas thought, amused, he could afford it.

He felt better than he had in years. The carpenters would start in the morning. They declined to call themselves carpenters—they were restoration specialists or something, but in Thomas’s mind, a man with a hammer was a carpenter.

It was a warm June evening, and Athena, who’d been
in her glory during his recovery, was beating the tar out of him at the new edition of Junk Mind. The doorbell rang, and he used the interlude to consider a ridiculous question about a cartoon character. He peeked through the window onto the doorstep.

Jean-Paul Gerard was leaning against the wrought-iron rail and trying desperately, Thomas thought, to look as if he didn’t give a damn whether or not he was sent on his way.

Gisela’s son…
my son.

Rebecca had told him about Jean-Paul after her return from Paris, saying the secret had been his promise to keep to Gisela, not hers.

Thomas opened the door. “Come in, son,” he said. “Welcome home.”