Valentine's Child (30 page)

“It’s not about that.”

“What, then?” When he couldn’t formulate a response, she laughed harshly, fighting back tears of betrayal. “I was just available? Gullible…?
Easy
.”

“No!”

“You want to marry her? You
want
to?”

He struggled to answer and for a moment she held her breath, sensing his deep conflict. But then he shattered her with one word: “Yes.”

Maggie wanted to kill him. To beat her fists against his chest and demand that he take it all back! “How
could
you wait to tell me now?
Why not last night?
”

“Maggie…”

Tanner looked terrible, wrung out, as if wracked by some inner torment, but Maggie was too wounded to care. She sensed him working himself up to tell her more, but she decided she didn’t want to hear it. Her throat felt too tight to cry, too tight for any more words. She turned on her heel and left him, walking stiffly through his home, glad Tanner’s father wasn’t there to witness her devastation. The tears came when she pulled into her own driveway on the outskirts of the city, the least affluent section surrounding Lake Chinook.

For a time, a part of her had believed he would phone and tell her it was all a terrible mistake. She’d half-expected he would call her up and beg her to come back. To ease her pain she’d looked forward to that moment of power, that moment when she would make him suffer just as she’d suffered, only to throw herself back into his arms.

But that moment never came. A month after Tanner told Maggie he was going to marry Tricia Wellesley, he did, and shortly after that he left for medical school in Boston. He’d never come back to Oregon since as far as she knew.

Teenage love. Powerful, dangerous stuff.

“You okay?” Greg asked, noticing Maggie’s long silence. Their meals had been delivered and Maggie had eaten hers without even noticing.

“I’m just tired.”

It was a signal to leave and once the check was divvied up and paid, Greg walked her to her car, holding open the door as she slid inside the driver’s seat.

“I want to talk to Sandy and Charlie a little longer. How about I stop by your office tomorrow?”

“Fine.” Greg closed the door and Maggie rolled down the window, relieved that she wouldn’t have to tell him their relationship was over just yet.
Chickenshit
, she scolded herself, but she didn’t care. There was always tomorrow, after all, and she didn’t want to think about Greg tonight.

He leaned in and gave her a kiss. A moment later Maggie eased out of the parking lot, waving a goodbye. In her rearview mirror she saw him head back toward Foster’s front door.

Restlessness overcame her as soon as she reached Lake Chinook’s city limits. She drove by the familiar storefronts, glimpsing the lake between the buildings where the railroad tracks cut through the center street and wound along the edge of the lake. Lake Chinook, an oasis of affluence, snobbery and beauty just south of Portland, had changed some since Maggie’s childhood. New buildings, shops and businesses lined the main street. A park with pedestrian walkways meandered along Lakewood Bay where Foster’s-On-The-Lake was located. But the big difference for Maggie was, in her youth, she’d been a poor outsider looking in, whereas now she could afford some of the more moderately priced houses in the area. But because of reasons rooted in Tanner’s rejection, she still felt like a poser, like she would never quite fit in. It was something she vowed to get over.

So thinking, she drove right on past her turnoff, choosing instead the meandering roads that threaded through the hills around the lake. There was no rhyme or reason to the roads; they’d been put down by necessity and, to the first-time traveler, were a confusing web with no particular direction. The problem was the lake itself. You had to drive all the way around it to get from Point A to Point B, and the narrow lanes that wound around its banks twisted in and out, like some master plan of braiding gone awry.

Circling North Shore, she crossed a low-walled bridge that provided a barrier from the main lake’s slapping waves, saw the flickering reflection of the houseboat lights shimmering in the dark waters, drove over the railroad tracks again and wound her way higher until once again she was on Skyridge Drive heading toward Tanner’s old house. Gerrard Baines’s house. She’d cast Tanner’s father as a demon‌—‌along with Tricia‌—‌in her teen drama and he’d played the part to perfection. He’d wanted his son to marry Tricia, and well, he had. If Tricia’s pregnancy tipped the scales in that direction, all to the better, from Gerrard’s point of view.

Never underestimate the power of blood, she reminded herself now. In the end, Tanner had done just what his father wanted.

The car glided to stop, and Maggie leaned her elbow against the window’s warm metal frame. Sweet, sultry scents rode on a soft breeze, filling her head, reminding her of another time. Summer and Tanner Baines. For three summers she’d lived with him in her every thought, and the seasons in between hadn’t been able to erase those summer memories. She’d waited through each autumn, winter and spring, looking forward to June when Tanner’s next college vacation would begin, eagerly anticipating that first sighting, first call.

Now Maggie lay her head against the cushions of the seat and listened to the cricket’s song. Since her expedition up the oak tree‌—‌her first real meeting with Tanner‌—‌she’d been smitten. Cupid had done his job well. At least on her part. Tanner’s feelings had always been more difficult to place.

After a moment Maggie reached for the ignition. Someone else lived here now. She could practically feel the hominess as another lamp in the house was switched on, a rectangle of golden light spilling through the window into the soft night. So much for memories, she thought. But as the engine caught she saw the porch light come on and the front door open.

She was in the act of putting the car in gear, when she recognized the man on the porch. Tanner. He lived here still, or better yet, again? That, she hadn’t expected.

The Pathfinder revved in the summer stillness and Maggie drew a breath, shaking off the past. But for reasons unknown even to herself she didn’t pull away. Instead she cut the engine, pocketed the keys and stepped out into the deepening shadows.

Time ran backward. With strange expectancy she waited by the side of her car, feeling years slide away as Tanner looked up, saw her and began moving toward her with familiar, assured strides, the early moonlight flickering silver through his dark blond hair.

There was nowhere to run to now. She’d set this up, so she waited in frozen silence as he crossed the narrow street and stopped a few feet in front of her.

“Maggie?” he asked disbelievingly.

“Hello, Tanner,” she said in a conversational tone while her heart began beating a slow, painful cadence.

Following is an excerpt from the opening pages of IMAGINARY LOVER, the second book in the SUMMER LOVIN’ series duet.

Lake Chinook’s water rippled green and black beneath the rocky ledge. Candace McCall stared down at it and drew a long breath. What she wouldn’t give to dive into its murky depths and forget about her father’s party.

But that was wishful thinking. She glanced behind her at the island mansion, at the mullioned windows glowing mistily in the hot summer night. Music swelled around her, echoing across the lake, but all Candace could think was that she wanted to break down and cry.

She glanced at the paper held tightly in her right fist. Moonlight made it glow ghostly white. What bitter irony that she should receive both dreaded letters in the mail today. Closing her eyes, she tried to forget the words of this particular missive, but they were burned into her brain.

She moved sharply, her silver dress sparkling, her teardrop diamond earrings quivering. Glancing again at the paper in her hand, she was overwhelmed with sorrow.

I can’t go back,
she thought unhappily, then looked again at the restless water.

Connor Holt stopped short at the edge of the narrow torch-lit bridge and exhaled on a sound of disgust. Disgust at himself. He felt as if he’d stepped back fifteen years to a time in his life he’d rather forget. Chest tight, he jerked impatiently on his tie. Why did it seem he was always standing on one side, staring at the other?

And what in God’s name was he doing at Forsythe Island?

Suddenly he laughed aloud. He was out of his mind to even think about coming here tonight. The last thing he wanted to do was hobnob with lake people.

With a grimace he stepped onto the bridge, walking across in a half a dozen ground-devouring strides. The island itself was no more than three acres – a jagged rock thrusting through jade-colored water, capped by pruned hedges and riotous flowers. Toward the west end stood the Forsythe home, a bluestone mansion that sprawled over the rocky hillside. He could see Christmas lights blinking on and off behind the arched windowpanes.

Christmas lights. Only this wasn’t Christmas. It was the twenty-third of July, and the outside temperature was hovering in the eighties.

Shedding his jacket, Con tossed it over his shoulder. He wasn’t comfortable with lake people. He never had been. Yet he’d had to compete with them all his life.

His jaw hardened as he thought back. He’d grown up in a cottage on the outskirts of Lake Chinook. Run-down, with a sagging porch and a backyard that had gone to seed long before he’d been born, his home had been a far cry from the immaculate mansions that graced the lake. As a kid he’d wondered what it would be like to live in one of those homes, to have fancy cars and status and loads of money. Those fantasies had nearly become reality, and it had taken him a fast-lane career as a Los Angeles lawyer and a failed marriage to make him realize he wanted nothing to do with that kind of life. He was happy being plain old Connor Holt.

Hot and sweating, he stopped halfway up the hill. From an open window he could hear the strains of “Silver Bells” hanging in the night air. He shook his head. Christmas in July. Weren’t there enough holidays already without tacking on another one?

Determined to make the best of it, Con gritted his teeth. He didn’t want to go to the party, nor did he want to meet the man who was such an icon of the Portland social scene. Yet an invitation to one of Forsythe’s parties was not to be taken lightly; the other attorneys in his office had looked as though they would have given up a limb to be in his shoes.

Con moved purposely forward. What the hell. It was only for a few hours.

He chose a long way toward the house – up a row of carved stone steps that wrapped around one end of the island. He was on the farthest curve when he saw a flash of something bright and silver.

Con squinted. Sparkles of light glanced off a woman’s dress. She was standing at the edge of a rocky point above the water, one hand clutched tightly around a sheaf of papers. His breath caught. She was so still she could have been a statue.

Distantly he heard the lapping waves of the lake. The woman was staring fixedly down at the water. “My God,” he whispered in disbelief. She was going to jump. “
Hey!
Hey, you!”

He was running toward her before he even realized he was moving.