Lily of the Valley in May (2 page)

A pile of unopened mail sat by his computer screen—probably more sympathy cards, which could wait until later. He'd finally written a standard reply to send in response. He'd print more off and sign them. For an author, this was harder than it should be. The thing was, he didn't want or need the sympathy. Things had been over between him and Caroline for years and what love he had once felt for her lay long since dead and buried.

But right now, he needed to stop worrying about how long his son would hang on and get this book finished before it was too late. Time was a luxury he didn't have. He rubbed his eyes, tears perilously close to the surface again.

Elliott set a mug of coffee down on the desk. “How are you doing?”

“I'm not.” Joel closed the word document. “I haven't written anything. I should be in Oxford visiting Bradley in the burns unit, but—”

“Then why aren't you?”

Joel watched the steam from the cup rise upwards, twisting and rotating. “I had a phone call from Caroline's solicitor half an hour ago. I'm still executor of her will, because she never got around to changing it after the divorce.” He sighed heavily, tears burning his eyes. “If she really wanted to hurt me with her last breath, she succeeded. But what really hurts, is that I failed her. I knew the truth about God and I—”

“It's called free will,” Elliott said gently. “All we can do is point people to Jesus, nothing more. I know you tried.”

Joel looked at the photo on his desk. He ran his fingers over the smiling face of his son.

“Go to Oxford.”

“I'll hit the rush hour traffic. I'll just head out first thing in the morning.”

Elliott perched on the edge of the desk. “Joel, how old were you when you spent over a week in hospital with appendicitis?”

“Seven.”

“And how many days did Mum and Dad miss a visit?”

He picked up the coffee, inhaling the scent. “None, but this is different.”

“How so? He's a little boy, he's hurt, and he needs his father, now more than ever.”

His brother's words ran deep, twisting the spear that still ran through him. “Don't try and make me feel worse than I already do. Bradley's dying, El. You and I both know that every moment could be his last.”

“All the more reason to go and see him,” Elliott told him gently. “Come on, I'll go with you.”

“I thought you had a dinner date with Grace and her sister. You've been looking forward to meeting her ever since Grace said she was coming to stay.”

“Grace will understand. Now on your feet and let's go see your son.”

Joel held up the partly drunk coffee only for his brother to jerk the cup from his hands and set it on the desk. “Fine. Your car or mine?”

~*~

Unable to sleep, Faith was up at seven o'clock and desperate for a distraction. Just after nine thirty, she borrowed Grace's car and headed to the supermarket. Her mind was going over this interview she had coming up as she shopped and then headed back across the car park. It was no small thing—a huge contract was in the offing, working with one of the biggest and bestselling authors in the UK. Not to mention her all-time favorite—Paul Darrow.

She had no idea how Grace knew him, but didn't want to ask, unless her sister had told her and she'd forgotten. She had so much going on the past few days, that she was honestly surprised she remembered her own name at times. She'd tried hard not to be jealous when Grace said she not only knew Paul Darrow, but also had had dinner with him on numerous occasions. The closest she'd ever come to meeting him had been a book signing, but Damien had stopped her going at the last moment.

The creator behind Dirk Shepherd— the greatest crime fighter ever to come to life on the pages of a book, Paul Darrow had so far penned fifteen novels, each more exciting than the last. She owned all of his books, read each one more than three times, and couldn't wait for the next one to come out. And he wanted to look at her work.

More than that,
he
was coming to see
her.
That never happened, not with any of the authors she'd worked with—

Faith stopped with a crash. Glass crunched under her feet. The shopping cart had come to rest in the taillight of a car.

Her face burned with embarrassment and horror. Perhaps if she apologized enough, the owner wouldn't be too angry.

The driver got out, sunglasses obscuring his eyes. “What are you doing?”

“I really am so very sorry. I didn't see you.”

“I noticed.” His deep baritone voice oozed irritation and anger. He turned his attention to the car. Long tanned fingers examined the damage. “You walked right into me.”

Faith swallowed hard, feeling sick.

He turned his head and pushed his sunglasses off, hooking them over his shirt pocket. His bright blue eyes glinted darkly at her from under a shock of brown hair. He looked very familiar, but where had she seen him before?

“I'll pay for the repairs.”

“Too right you will. It won't come cheap, but perhaps it will teach you to pay more attention to where you're walking in future.” His tone was abrupt and his diction exact.

Faith took a deep breath. “I really am very sorry. I'm staying with my sister. I'll give you her number because I don't have a phone.” She wrote it down, along with her first name, and offered the piece of paper.

The stranger shoved it in his pocket without even looking at it. “I shall be sure to call you. I wish I could say bumping into you has been a pleasure. Good day.” He inclined his head a little and turned back to the car.

Taking that as a dismissal, Faith headed over to Grace's car, her heart very much in her boots. That would just be money she didn't have. Why did he look so familiar? Where had she seen him before? She loaded the bags into the car.

Nothing changes. I'm still an idiot, aren't I?

At least she could mail the cheque for the damage, and she would never have to ever see him again.

~*~

Joel finished taping plastic over the damaged brake light and sighed. He really didn't have time for this, or he might not have been so brusque to the very apologetic-looking woman. The meeting at eleven was too important to be late for. If this artist wasn't all she was cracked up to be, then the book would never be finished before Bradley…

And that wasn't an option. He needed it done and soon.

From that meeting he had to go straight to Caroline's funeral.

Heading inside the house, he stripped quickly and tossed his dirty shirt in the laundry hamper. He pulled a fresh white shirt and his black suit from the wardrobe, along with his black tie. As he fastened the buttons, he wondered about the mystery woman from the car park. The paper gave her name as Faith and a number that wasn't even hers. If he saw a penny of the repair money he'd be fortunate. Who didn't own a phone in this day and age?

His conscience thumped him, hard. He'd been rude, and she didn't deserve that. It was an accident. No matter how distracted he was right now, he should have behaved like the gentleman and Christian that he was, and not like some arrogant stuck up snob who was way above everyone else. If he ever saw her again, and he hoped desperately he would, he'd apologize. Funny she should have the same name as Grace's sister. Two Faiths in one day. Was God speaking to him?

He closed his eyes, seeing her again in his mind's eye. Blonde hair tied back in a high ponytail, brown eyes, jeans, and jumper that fitted her body to a tee, showing off her curves and perfect figure. Well—perfect figure in his eyes.

Caroline had always been on one diet or another, insisting on being as thin as a stick insect, whereas he preferred women with a slightly more realistic figure. Someone he could hug without being afraid they'd break or snap in two if he held them too tightly. Not that Caroline let him hold her, even before the divorce, but that was neither here nor there.

Joel fastened the cufflinks and pulled on his suit jacket. He picked up the sheet of paper, slid it into his inside pocket, and glanced at the clock.

Almost eleven. It was time to go next door and meet this artist, Grace's sister, and remember to introduce himself under his pen name, just so she'd know who he was. There would be time for proper ‘real name' introductions later when he wasn't so rushed for time. Although Grace would have already told her sister who he really was in which case he didn't need to do so.

Joel sucked in a deep breath.

Please, Lord, let her be the one. Then the book can go ahead and Bradley can see at least a galley of it. I've kept him waiting long enough and now...now I owe him. Forgive me for my rudeness earlier. I could blame a lot of things, but I won't. Please give me the chance to say I'm sorry.

~*~

Faith set her folder on the lounge table. Her stomach filled with butterflies. Stupid really; she'd done this loads of times in her career. Admittedly, this was slightly different than normal. Not every author demanded to see her entire portfolio before engaging her services, but that didn't account for why she felt so ridiculously nervous.

It was, without a doubt, because the author in question was Paul Darrow.
The
Paul Darrow. Her favorite author.

But having made a fool of herself in the car park earlier, her nerves were shot to pieces. At least Grace had seen the funny side of it and promised to lend her the money for the repairs, so when the bloke rang, she could arrange to pay him.

The man's face haunted her. Where had she seen him before? Was he one of Damien's cohorts and therefore on the phone to him right now, telling Damien where she was? Or had he been the guy in front of her in Asda? Should she ring Rick?

And say what? ‘I smashed this bloke's taillight, and I know I've seen him before but I can't remember where?' He'll laugh at me, hang up the phone, and never take me seriously again.

The doorbell rang. That would be Mr. Darrow. Wishing she'd asked Grace to be here for moral support, she went to answer it. The dark haired man stood with his back to her. “Hello?”

He turned, his hand outstretched. “Hi, I'm Paul—” His smile froze and then faded. His chiseled face and bright blue eyes took in her figure, glinting in recognition. But then he would know who she was, wouldn't he?

Her stomach plummeted to the tips of her toes. She stood there in horror, wishing the floor would just open up and swallow her. Now she knew why he was so familiar. She'd only gone and damaged the car belonging to her favorite author and the bloke who wanted to offer her a job.

2

The photo on the back of the novel jackets didn't do him justice. He was far more handsome than they made him look. But this interview would be over before she'd even shown him one picture. There was no way he'd hire her now.

Faith swallowed hard. “Hello again.” She shook his hand before he had a chance to drop it. “Faith Chadwick. Grace's sister.”

His touch was warm and firm, nothing like she expected. “Paul Darrow.”

“Do come in. I've read all your books,” she gushed, desperate to say something to make him think better of her. “I can't wait for the next one.”

He studied her. “I owe you an apology for earlier. I was rude, and I shouldn't have been.”

“No, you had every right to be angry.” Faith looked at him, her cheeks burning. “It was my fault. You were right. I wasn't looking where I was going. I was thinking about this interview.”

“Even so, I shouldn't have reacted the way I did. I'm sorry.”

Faith looked at him, seeing the sincerity of his words echoed in his eyes. “Apology accepted.” She shut the door. “Come through to the lounge. Grace said that she told you I was an artist, and you wanted to see all my work.”

She pointed to the portfolio. “So here it is. All of it.”

Mr. Darrow stood at the table, picking up her drawings one by one. “How long have you been doing this?”

“I've always loved drawing, but I've been doing this professionally for just over six years now.”

“I see.” His tone was dry, his stance giving away nothing. “Grace said you were one of the best, but I'd expected her to be biased.” His gaze caught hers, and she found herself held by it as his eyes bore straight into her making her uncomfortable. “This isn't simply a cover. It's an illustrated children's book. Have you ever done anything like this before?”

“Not exactly.” She stood there as he perused through her drawings. If they were giving out Oscars for the ‘best deadpan expression' this guy would win hands down. His intent gaze took in every line and color she'd placed on the paper. Did it matter if he didn't like it? There would be other work.

Yes,
the small voice inside her whispered.
It matters because of who he is.

“Have you got a sketchpad and pencil?” As she picked it up and showed him, he continued. “Then please draw me the illustration for the following excerpt.”

Faith sat down. He was thorough, she'd give him that. Some authors looked at your work and said yes or not on that alone. This was a proper interview
.
“Sure.” She looked at him, pencil in her left hand. “Go ahead.”

Mr. Darrow pulled out a carefully folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket and read from it.
“Two large black eyes blinked at him from under a tartan hat. ‘I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. I'm Nessie. Who are you?' Nessie's hat slid down over her eyes for a moment before she flicked it back up.

Angus smiled at her. ‘I'm Angus. I'm an airship.'

Nessie looked at him. ‘I've never seen an airship before.'

Angus winked. ‘I've never seen the Loch Ness Monster before.'
”

Faith closed her eyes as he read, letting the words come to life in her mind's eye.

Keeping her eyes closed, she allowed the pencil to transfer what she could see to the paper.