Secrets Unveiled (6 page)

And he would…just as soon as he figured out how.

“Grant?” Maggie's voice permeated his thoughts as Grant shifted the car into park. “Are you OK? You look like you've been transported to an alternate dimension…somewhere far, far away.”

How long had he been lost in his own thoughts? Grant bristled and glanced at the clock on the dash.

Too long.

“No. I'm…just thinking.” He turned to find Maggie staring at him as he killed the engine and tossed the keys into the center console. “I'm sorry…I must have slipped away there for a moment.”

“Or two.” Maggie smiled softly. “You must be thinking about something pretty important, because you were truly miles away.”

“I'm back now.” He took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze as he looked out the car window and surveyed the flower beds that ran the length of the walkway leading to her front door. She'd put in a lot of work; the grounds were covered in a lush flurry of reds, yellows and purplish-blues. On the porch, flanking either side of the door, a waterfall of vibrant blooms spilled from huge ceramic pots. “Sorry about that. I'm right here…with you.”

Maggie's comments afforded the perfect opening…the perfect opportunity to spill everything that waited, but Grant just couldn't make himself say the dreadful words while her beautiful eyes that seemed to change with the snap of a finger—now an alluring denim-blue with soft flecks of gray—settled over him. Her lips, plump and lightly glossed, bowed into a grin that captivated him beyond measure. A generous mane of sleek velvet hair caught the sunlight as it filtered through the windshield and whispered over her back like a dance. He ached to run his fingers through the length as he eased in to kiss the breath from her once again. Instead, he drew a long, cleansing sigh.

How many years had he longed to capture those lips with his, yet he never took the chance because he felt so unworthy—until today? For as long as he'd known her, Maggie had embodied all that was good. She possessed patience and laughter and a spirit of selflessness that Grant had envied through their school years together. So he'd kept his distance, knowing deep in his heart that he'd tarnish her reputation if he allowed himself to get too close. It wouldn't be fair…not to Maggie, at least. While she attended church mission trips and spent her summers working at the Parents' Day Out program, Grant had filled his days with the screech of electric guitars, trashy lyrics, and roaming the town's streets in search of whatever trouble he could find.

He'd found that trouble in spades the summer he'd turned seventeen. His impulsiveness and blatant disregard for the law—the very anger that seemed to consume him—had nearly destroyed his life…and his future.

Would the truth destroy him now?

“Your dad,” Maggie's voice coaxed him back to the present as it wandered once again to a subject they'd shared over lunch. “Do you ever see him?”

“No.” The question tossed Grant off-kilter for the slightest moment. He drew a deep breath and shifted in the seat. Through the driver's window, a breeze carried the musky scent of autumn leaves. Down the street, a mower hummed as Maggie's neighbor ran what would most likely be the last cut of the season. “He passed away when I was twenty.”

“I'm so sorry, Grant. That must have been hard, losing your mom at thirteen and then your dad not long after.”

“It was. It…is. We never got to…work out our differences.” His father had been a demanding perfectionist, and nothing Grant accomplished ever seemed to meet the mark. His grades weren't good enough, his friends deemed less than savory. Even his college of choice was flawed, since his dad preferred his own ivy-league alma mater, which Grant had no desire whatsoever to attend. They seemed at odds through every step, though Grant had relentlessly longed for a different path—one where he and his father found unity. That path just wasn't meant to be, and the animosity had gnawed at Grant from the inside out, turning every waking moment to a struggle.

Now, Grant shrugged, fighting back a stab of pain that always seemed to coincide with the mention of his father and all of the failed memories that drifted back as he recalled those difficult times. “After Mom died so suddenly, it was as if Dad's spirit broke, too. He was never the same after we buried her, and he was tough to live with. But I suppose I was no picnic, either.”

“We all have our moments.”

“Yeah, well…my moment was more like the better part of a decade.” Grant fisted his hand at his side, wishing once again with all his heart that he could travel back in time to say to his father what had remained unspoken for so many years. “I'm thankful for Cara…my sister. She never gave up on me through it all—the good and the bad. And I'm thankful for Gemma, as well. She's helped me to become more grounded than I ever dreamed I'd be.”

“Yes, she's a bright little spitfire.” Maggie lifted a hand and cupped her palm to Grant's cheek, bringing a measure of calm that he savored. “She's smart as a whip, too. She must take after her uncle.”

“Let's hope not, or there's a rocky road ahead.” Grant laughed slightly, his pulse thrumming as Maggie's hand dipped from his cheek to his jaw before settling back into her lap.

“I beg to differ. Taking after you would be just…lovely.”

Grant swept Maggie's hair back and pressed a palm to her forehead. “Call the doctor. I think you're running a fever.”

“You are modest beyond words, Grant.” Maggie's lips bowed into a smile as she reached for his hand and linked her fingers with his. “I like it.”

“Do you, now?” His gaze skimmed the length of her, drinking in the shapely calves that peeked from beneath the hemline of her floral skirt and toes polished in a shade of pink that mimicked the softest leaves fluttering from the trees that lined the road. “Well, I think we've both been elevated to hero status following the infamous zoo trip. The day is certain to be catalogued into the annals of history.”

“That's good to hear, because I just might have another stellar opportunity to keep you perched high on that pedestal.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes…that's if you're game.”

“Oh, I'm game all right, presuming the opportunity includes time with you.”

“It does…along with a passel of squirmy and unquenchably inquisitive children.”

“Ours?”

“Isn't that getting a little ahead of things?” Maggie lifted one eyebrow so it disappeared beneath those luscious bangs. “Our first lunch together is barely beginning to digest.”

“First lunch? Does that mean you'll go for a second?”

“You did kiss me, after all, so I might be persuaded. Yes, I'd like that.”

“Great…fantastic.” Grant lowered the music that drifted from the radio as he turned in the seat to face her. “OK, then, spill the beans on this next wild adventure you have up your sleeve.”

“How do you feel about mixing up a batch of flour and water, maybe brushing on a little acrylic paint with a flurry of glitter sprinkled in for good measure, then top things off with a bit of shellac?”

“Is it legal?”

“Um…yes.” Maggie laughed. “In all fifty states.”

“Do tell more.”

“The students and I are starting a unit at school to study autumn and in one of the activities the kids will be creating their own leaf designs with a batch of salt dough. I plan to use decoupage glue and—”

“Day-co-what? You're talking a foreign language, Maggie.” Grant recalled his mud-splattered dress slacks and the soiled shirt that he'd sent off to the cleaners. The leather dress shoes were beyond repair; he'd tossed them into the trash as soon as he'd arrived home following the zoo trip. “Just give me the bottom line, sweetheart. What am I in for this time? Don't sugarcoat it, either.”

“Right, sorry. OK, here we go…wear something that can get dirty—better yet, tossed in the trash when we're through—and plan to stick around awhile, because craft day usually devours most of the instructional time. Of course, I'll mix in a little reading, writing, and arithmetic for good measure. That's the bottom line.”

“So, no suits allowed?”

“No. Absolutely no Egyptian cotton dress shirts or pressed linen slacks. No polished Italian leather shoes. No perfectly-knotted silk business ties—unless you plan to dip them into the decoupage glue.”

“It's easy to see why Gemma adores you.” Grant caught a lock of Maggie's hair between his fingers and savored the silky texture. “I adore you, too.”

“Hmm…Would you like to—?”

“Kiss you again? Yes.”

“I was going to say walk me to my door, but your idea sounds better.” Her laughter echoed the soft melody of wind chimes. “So…”

Grant drew her in, nestling her close to his chest. He dipped his head, pausing to drink in the expressive blue-gray of her eyes. “I never imagined rolling up my sleeves for the zoo could lead to…this.”

Maggie's slow sigh mesmerized Grant as she eased into him and murmured, “Lions, tigers, and bears…oh my.”

5

Grant tapped a pencil along the top of his office desk as he skimmed through a file for the most recent merger he'd been cultivating. This client proved to be particularly difficult, and Grant's free hand splayed over his belly in an attempt to force back the stomach acid that had churned in a firestorm all morning. His lunch sat on the corner of his desk, still wrapped in the take-out bag, and he had no intention of diving into it anytime soon. If he didn't get this project wrapped up and sealed by day's end, he'd have to back out of his promise to help Maggie with the kids tomorrow.

And that was simply an unacceptable option. Grant looked forward to seeing her again, even if it meant sinking elbow deep into decou—whatever that was—with a tribe of over-active and highly inquisitive kids. And as far as Gemma was concerned, well, if Grant didn't stay to help with the class project tomorrow, she'd be heartbroken. She was counting on him, and he couldn't—he wouldn't—let her down.

Not like his dad had let him down on more than one heart-wrenching occasion. But those times were all water under the bridge and couldn't be undone. There was no point in dwelling on things from the past that couldn't be changed. Grant knew he had to focus on what
could
be changed.

Which brought his dilemma concerning the locket—Maggie's locket—front and center. The silver piece sat on the kitchen counter in the ceramic bowl where he had a habit of stashing his wallet and keys when he returned home from work each night. And each morning, Grant meant to take the jewelry with him, to stop by the school and explain, face-to-face, how it came to be in his possession. But he couldn't seem to make himself take that step, though he'd prayed about it at length. Perhaps if Maggie got to know him a bit better, she'd be less apt to judge him…to despise him for what he'd done. He'd tell her by Sunday, he promised himself. And then—

“Excuse me, Mr. Anderson?” Carol Voigt, Grant's office administrator, rapped gently on the open office door before stepping over the threshold. Her salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back into a neat bun and the wire-framed glasses propped atop her nose gave her a no nonsense aura. She was efficient, dependable, and kind beyond measure. Best of all, she'd been with him since the inception of Anderson Investments five years ago, so she knew exactly how things operated and what needed to be done. “I'm sorry to interrupt, but the intercom seems to be on the fritz today. You have a call on line one.”

“Thanks.” He dropped the pencil on the blotter and rubbed a hand across his forehead as weariness seeped into his bones. He hoped the caller wasn't Cara. She surely planned to prod him once again about the locket, and at the moment, her big-sister guilt-trip was exactly what he didn't need. He glanced at the flashing green light on the phone console and heaved a sigh, wishing he could put off the call. Impossible…if the call was from Cara, she'd never back down. She remained the most persistent person he knew.

Except for Carol. Sometimes the middle-aged woman reminded Grant of his mother—no-nonsense and to-the-point but with a heart of gold. She did her best to help him stay focused and on track. Grant never worried about the day-to-day operations of Anderson Investments when he was away, due to Carol's watchful eye.

With great effort, he rolled the office chair in a semi-circle to snatch a stack of papers from a wire bin on the cabinet behind him. He held the sheaf out for Carol. “This file is ready to fax.”

“I'll get it done without delay.” Carol approached the desk and took the papers. She turned slightly to curl her nose in distaste as she glimpsed the untouched lunch on his desk. “You haven't eaten.”

“An apt assumption.” Grant pressed a palm to his gut once again and felt the chatter of gurgles that erupted at the thought of ingesting even a morsel of food. “My stomach seems to be…less than cooperative at the moment.”

“You have to eat, Grant.” Carol's voice softened just a bit. Her lips bowed into a frown as she waggled a finger at him. “You've been working so hard. You need sustenance.”

“I'll get to it, I promise.” Yet, Grant knew he was in trouble when Carol called him by name. She could be tenacious as a pit-bull, a quality that had earned her the office nickname, Bulldog.

“Well, don't delay. You need your energy.” Her brown eyes crinkled around the edges as her forehead creased. Grant knew she must be in her sixties, but her trim figure coupled with an energetic take-charge attitude and sharp wit made her seem years younger despite the salted hair and glasses. “What good will it do you to fall ill?”

“One missed meal won't leave a lasting mark.”

“Even so…it's not a favorable habit to start.” She propped her free hand on her hip as her gaze held his. Suddenly Grant felt as if he were all of seventeen and under the grand inquisition in the judge's chambers once again.