Where She Belongs (12 page)

“Mommy?” Elizabeth touched Shelby's shoulder. “Are you sick?”

“No, honey.” How could she have been so naive to think anyone like Brett cared for her? But never could she have imagined such an ulterior motive. It didn't even make sense.

She pulled her daughter close, comforted by the little girl's touch.

“Are you girls hungry?” AJ asked, the cheer in his voice sounding forced.

“We were good at the lawyer's place, so we get gelato.” Elizabeth took Amy's empty seat. “Mommy said it's like ice cream.”

“The lawyer's place? Did you see Patricia Trainum?”

“Yes,” Shelby said, her voice shaking. “She gave me a list.”

“We went to the library first,” Elizabeth said. “I got a book about dogs. Like Lila.”

“You did? That sounds like a good book.”

“I wanna see Lila,” said Tabby.

“I'm sure she wants to see you too.”

A waitress stopped by with menus. As if they were in a distant tunnel, AJ asked about the gelato flavors and the waitress recited the options. Elizabeth chose strawberry, and Tabby asked for chocolate.

“Do you want anything?”

Cousins? It couldn't be.

“Shelby?”

She roused herself from her stupor.

“Would you like something to eat?” AJ's gentle voice slipped through the thrumming in her ears. “Coffee?”

Barely shaking her head, she avoided looking at him. The last thing she wanted was his pity.

As AJ entertained the girls, she slowly emerged from the miserable fog surrounding her. When the last bite of gelato had disappeared, she wiped Tabby's mouth with a napkin. “We need to get home. Tabby's already missed her nap.”

AJ walked with them to her Camry and waited while she made sure both girls were safely secured in the backseat. Before she could open the driver's door, he touched her elbow.

“Are you okay to drive?”

“I'm fine.”

“We need to talk.”

“About your family tree?”

“About you and Brett.” He crushed his jacket in a death grip. “I can't believe you let him kiss you. Right there in front of Elizabeth and Tabby.”

“I didn't
let
him.” Her face burned as she barely resisted the impulse to slap him. But he wasn't the one who needed a good slap. That honor belonged to Brett.

“Where did you meet him, anyway?”

Shelby leaned against the car, arms wrapped around her chest, thinking back to that night in the restaurant when she first saw Brett. “Uncle Richard introduced us.”

AJ stared at her. “Richard Grayson?”

“He didn't tell me.” She gulped, repulsed by the sudden revelation of Richard's betrayal. “He never said.”

“We have to talk about this.”

“Just leave me alone.” Unwelcome tears pooled in her eyes,
and she swiped them away. “Please just leave me and my children alone.” After slipping into the car, she closed the door before he could stop her.

She drove home on autopilot, barely registering the traffic lights and turns. Her emotions whipsawed between shame for believing Brett cared for her and irrational anger at AJ. Then there was Richard.

Her great-uncle. Nanna's brother. A trusted family friend.

Why hadn't he told her that Brett was Anderson Sullivan's grandson? He knew how she despised all the Sullivans.

Now the entire dinner seemed like a setup. And she had been the victim.

The eager, willing victim.

A
J pounded his steering wheel with his palm as he waited for the light to change. Shelby couldn't be in love with Brett. She just couldn't. But when Brett had walked out of the restaurant, she had looked as if her heart would break. The light turned green, and AJ floored it through the intersection.

His tires squealed as he swerved into the bank's parking lot and braked behind Richard's late-model Cadillac. Inside the bank, he headed for Richard's office. Chandra Coleman, the administrative assistant, stood as he passed her desk. “Mr. Grayson is with someone right now. If you could just take a seat . . .”

AJ ignored her and opened the door. Richard rose from his desk, and his eyes flicked to Brett standing near the window.

“You're not welcome here, AJ.” Brett straightened, his body rigid.

AJ focused on Richard. “What are you doing to Shelby? She trusted you.”

“Brett and I are having a private conversation,” Richard intoned as he came out from behind the desk and grasped AJ's elbow. “It doesn't concern you.”

AJ jerked his arm away from Richard's grip. “Anything involving Misty Willow concerns me.” He faced Brett. “You're not getting that land, no matter how much you plot and scheme. So leave Shelby alone.”

“Don't worry, AJ.” Brett's voice dripped with spite. “I'd have given her back when I was done with her. I always do.”

AJ clenched his fist and connected it with Brett's cheekbone. Flailing backward into a bookshelf, Brett struggled to maintain his balance. A framed photograph and a glass plaque fell to the floor.

“No more.” Richard, his face stricken with horror, stepped between AJ and Brett. “You will not behave this way in my office.”

AJ stepped back and shook his aching fist while keeping a wary eye on Brett. Blood glistened along his cousin's jawline.

Though his age made it difficult for him to bend down, Richard retrieved the photograph and plaque from the floor and placed them on his desk. “What would Joyanna say about this spectacle?” His hoarse voice rose in anger. “What if she'd seen the two of you behaving this way?”

“What would she say if she knew what you were up to?” AJ retorted.

“What am I ‘up to,' AJ?”

“You introduced Brett to Shelby.”

“So I did. And somehow that gives you the right to barge in my office? To assault your cousin?”

“You're lucky I'm not filing charges.” Brett pressed his handkerchief against his jaw, then examined the bloody stain. “We'll talk tomorrow, Richard. I'm out of here.” He slammed the door behind him.

AJ rubbed his bruised knuckles and closed his eyes against the memory Brett had unleashed. But it was too late. Overpowering regret and Meghan's distraught expression taunted him.

If only he could go back in time.

“I've been friends with your family for most of my life.” Richard perched on the edge of his desk. “It pains me to see you and Brett fight the way you do.”

“But you're
related
to Shelby.”

“True.”

Still nursing his injured hand, AJ plopped into a nearby chair. “How did we end up with Misty Willow?”

Richard returned to his seat and tapped a pen against his desk blotter. “What has Shelby told you?”

“She doesn't seem to know.”

“Thad Lassiter borrowed money on the farm. Sully bought the loan. When Thad couldn't make payments, Sully foreclosed.”

“Since when was Sully a mortgage company?”

“He had many business interests.”

AJ sat in silence, his thoughts beating against his brain. “So he foreclosed on the farm, then ignored it?” Even the pastures and fields had been neglected until AJ inherited the property and rented them to Paul Norris.

A shadow flitted across the old banker's face, and he cleared his throat. “I'm sure Anderson had his reasons.”

“What aren't you telling me, Richard?”

“Leave the past alone, AJ. For Shelby's sake, if not your own.”

AJ rubbed his palms against the arms of the chair, then stood and leaned over Richard's desk. “After Shelby and I signed the lease agreement, you told me not to get involved with her. But then you introduced her to Brett. Why?”

Richard leaned back in his chair and rested his folded hands on his chest. “Shelby may have been infatuated with Brett. But she's a sensible girl with strong values. Even without today's misunderstanding, she'd have eventually broken things off with him.”

AJ held Richard's gaze as he straightened. “Are you saying . . .”

“All I'm saying is that she would never fall in love with Brett.” He turned from AJ's scrutiny, and his eyes seemed to dim. When he spoke, his voice was low, almost as if he were speaking to himself. “Brett's too much like Sully. And Shelby's too much like Aubrey.” He sighed heavily.

“Where does that leave me?”

Richard startled and looked up in surprise, as if he'd forgotten AJ's presence in the room. “I won't let you break her heart.”

“I never would.”

“You already did.” His eyes watered, and he pounded the desk. “You already did, Sully. And now she's dead. Aubrey's dead.”

AJ froze, unsure how to respond. Aubrey, Shelby's grandmother, had died a long time ago. Perhaps Richard's grief over Joyanna had him confused.

“Are you all right? Richard?”

Tears flowed along the lines in Richard's cheeks. He wiped his face with a large white handkerchief, but the tears didn't stop. “It shouldn't have happened. None of it should have happened.”

AJ rounded the desk and bent beside him. “What shouldn't have happened?”

“Aubrey and Thad.” The words spewed out, seemingly propelled by anger. Then his tone abruptly changed to a gentle tenderness. “Sully loved her. But he broke her heart.”

“I didn't know.”

“Nobody knew. Except me.” Richard swiped the handkerchief across his nose. He looked at AJ, and his vision seemed to clear as the past faded into memory. “AJ? Why are you here?”

“We were talking about Shelby.”

“Ah yes. Lovely girl, my niece. So much like her grandmother.”

“Richard, are you feeling all right? Would you like me to call someone?”

“I'm fine, fine. Just a little tired.” He folded the handkerchief, dabbed at his face, then stuck the handkerchief in a pocket. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No.” AJ shook his head and stood. “No, I was just leaving.”

“Always good to see you. Please tell your grandmother I asked about her.”

AJ hesitated, then inwardly sighed. “I'll do that.”

When he reached the office door, he paused. Richard was already engrossed in a stack of papers, the fight between Brett and AJ apparently forgotten, the strange trip down memory lane as much a part of the past as the events he'd relived.

Chandra Coleman frowned when AJ stopped by her desk.

“I think you should keep an eye on Richard,” AJ said. “He doesn't seem to be well.”

“No wonder after the way you and Mr. Somers acted.” Her voice wavered. Loyalty to her boss had overcome any reticence she may have had about chastising one of the bank's best customers. “You both should be ashamed of yourselves.”

“I know. And I am.” He examined his skinned knuckles, then met her gaze. Anger and disappointment hardened her eyes. “Richard seemed disoriented. He called me Sully.”

Mrs. Coleman's expression softened. “He didn't.”

“He thinks my grandmother is still alive.”

“The poor, poor man.” She shook her head and glanced at Richard's office door.

“You'll look in on him? Maybe you should call his daughter.”

“I'll do that, Mr. Sullivan. Thank you for letting me know.”

“I really am sorry about what happened in there.”

“I believe you.” She smiled slightly and spoke in a stage whisper. “And I daresay Mr. Somers deserved it. But you didn't hear that from me.”

He grinned because she expected it. But as he walked out of the staid bank and into the bright sunshine of a simmering June day, his spirit sunk into gloom. He had awakened this morning concerned only with the pompous formality of hearing his grandmother's last wishes. That appointment, dreadful as it was, turned out to be the highlight of the day.

Except for spending time with Elizabeth and Tabby. He'd enjoyed their little girl chatter.

Too bad it had been overshadowed by the discovery that the other man in Shelby's life was none other than Brett.

Though nothing could beat the joy that coursed through his veins when the girls ran to him, so eager and happy.

To him. Not to Brett.

If only Shelby felt the same.

B
rett kicked off his shoes and stretched out on Amy's couch. He'd prefer the peace and quiet of his own home after a day like today. But Tracie, the tiresome tart, had claimed that privilege for herself. She expected him for dinner, but facing her meant explaining the scrape on his jaw. Though it wasn't against his moral code to make up an interesting story, he didn't have the energy to endure her crocodile tears and hypocritical pampering.

On a day like today, the complex game he and his buddies had developed over the years was nothing but a tiresome complication.

“Take these.” Amy handed him a couple of painkillers and a glass of water.

“Thanks.” He downed them, then laid his head on a silk cushion.

“Hungry?”

“Not really.”

“I could fix you an omelet.”

He opened his eyes only wide enough to see her face. She sat in a chair across from him, her legs tucked beneath her. Her ash blonde hair flowed past her shoulders and halfway down her back. They'd inherited their coloring from dear old Dad. But Amy's oval face and spare chin reminded him of a photograph of their mother
as a young woman. Dad had carried a print in his wallet, though it hadn't stopped him from romancing the ladies.

The airplane crash that killed their parents also destroyed the photograph. Now it was only a memory.

“Why are you staring at me?”

“I was just thinking about how much you resemble Mom.”

“Mom was a brunette.”

“You still look like her.”

“You didn't answer me about the omelet.”

“Maybe later.”

Brett closed his eyes and tried to relax his tense muscles. His breathing settled into a steady rhythm, and for several minutes only the quiet hum of the air-conditioning made any sound.

“I told you it wouldn't work.” Amy broke the silence. “Weeks have passed, and we're no closer to getting control of that land.”

“It doesn't matter,” he said wearily. “Someone somewhere will be eager to sell.”

“I don't want ‘someone somewhere.' I want Misty Willow and the acreage around it.”

“Given the terms of Sully's will, you probably couldn't get it anyway. I'm surprised AJ figured out a loophole.” Turning on his side, he studied the stubborn set of her features and prepared for an argument.

“And I can find another. My clients expect results.”

“Give it up, Amy.”

“I can't.”

“Of course you can. It's not like you need the money.”

“Do you think that's the reason? Money?”

“Isn't it?”

She played with the ends of her hair, unconsciously running her fingers through the silky strands. “How could you, of all people, be so naive? Money is only the means to an end.”

“What end?”

“Power.”

“I know my head's a little woozy thanks to our idiot cousin, but how does Misty Willow give you power?”

“My clients don't want the Glade Valley Refuge project to pass. They're paying me to make sure it doesn't.”

“That part I know.”

“What you don't know is that I have my eye on a state senator who has his eye on a congressional seat. And the surest way for him to get what he wants is for the Glade Valley project to become a reality.” She leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “It's unusual to find an issue supported by both the tree-huggers and the seed-planters. But both groups want this project.”

“Seed-planters?”

“Farmers.” Her dismissive tone revealed her disdain for the people who could give her what she wanted.

“That still doesn't explain your obsession with Misty Willow. Even if the Refuge passes and you're forced to find another property to appease your clients, it doesn't have to be Shelby's farm.”

“It's not her farm. Not really.”

“She has legal documents that say it is.”

Amy straightened, and her blue eyes darkened. “You like her. Don't you?”

“She's . . . not what I expected.”

“AJ has a thing for her too, you know.”

“I don't care about AJ. And neither does Shelby.”

“Are you sure?”

“She's told me.”

“Her kids seem to like him. More than they like you.”

“Yeah, well, they're kids.” He shifted onto his back again and stared at the ceiling, reliving the moment in the café when Elizabeth and Tabby ran to AJ, overjoyed to see him. He wished he knew why.

“We can sue AJ.” Amy's tone was meant to be nonchalant, but Brett detected her resolve. This state senator must be important to her. Strange she hadn't mentioned him before. He shifted again, trying to get comfortable. Maybe he should have gone home and
faced Tracie instead of hiding out at Amy's. His sister's ambitious plans were worsening his headache.

“You want to sue your own cousin?” Brett exhaled in exasperation. “This isn't what Gran would want.”

“Sully would understand.”

“Sully died a bitter old man with more enemies than friends. Are you sure you want to follow in his footsteps?”

“I want to see how hard Shelby Kincaid will fight for her beloved farm. And how hard AJ will fight for her. Play your cards right, and she might come back to you for help.”

Brett didn't bother to respond. After seeing the stricken look on Shelby's face and accepting he was the reason for it, he didn't expect her to ever speak to him again. Guilt nibbled at the edge of his conscience as he faced the truth.

Though they hadn't yet been on an official date, Shelby had shown him in a few short weeks what it had cost him to play his stupid games with women like Tracie. What once seemed entertaining now felt empty.

His cell buzzed, signaling a text from Tracie asking when he'd be home. Instead of answering, he flipped through the phone's photo album till he found a picture of Shelby taken outside the movie theater. Tracing her smile with his finger, he regretted what he'd never had.

Standing by his bathroom sink, AJ winced as he dabbed an antiseptic ointment on his skinned knuckles. Glancing at his reflection, he frowned. Good-looking enough, judging by the giggles of his female students. But he didn't have his cousin's strong Nordic features.

Brett's gloating words mocked him.

I'd have given her back when I
was done with her. I always do
.

Jealousy, thin and strong as filament, wound itself around AJ's heart. Whose honor had he defended with that punch?

Shelby's? Meghan's?

Or his own?

He threw the ointment-stained washcloth in the hamper and retrieved a box from his bedroom closet. Lila jumped up on the bed, her hind legs stretched out at crooked angles, and he plopped beside her.

With time, his guilt and pain over Meghan had eased, yet she was always there, lingering on the edge of his mind. Preventing him from giving his heart to another. Not because he had loved her—though he had—but because he had failed her when she needed him most.

Lila nudged his hand, and he patted her shoulder before taking a deep breath and removing the box's lid. Rummaging beneath old letters and greeting cards, he found a small photo album with a brown suede cover.

The only tangible reminders of their autumn romance.

Memories washed over him as he studied each photo. Meghan at the park the day they met, khaki shorts revealing her gorgeous legs. The two of them at that little Mexican restaurant near her campus. A candid taken with his cell when she least expected it. Another, taken moments later. Her gray eyes sparkled as she smiled shyly for the camera. Smiled at him.

He flopped back on the bed with a groan, covering his eyes with his forearm. If only he could go back in time. If only he could have a second chance to make things right.

But it was too late. For him, and for Meghan. And from the look on Shelby's face this afternoon, he wouldn't get a second chance with her either. That realization hurt even more.

Lila rested her head on his chest, and he scratched behind her ears. “At least I've got you.” She whimpered, and he clasped her paw. “You love me, don't you?”

A couple hours later, AJ awoke from a fitful nap disturbed by images of Tabby and Elizabeth. A third child played with Shelby's girls, but AJ couldn't make out the youngster's face. While he
lay there, all the mistakes he'd made, all the hurts he'd caused, paraded in front of him.

Tired of guilt, tired of being afraid to love someone, he curled into a tight ball and whispered his prayer.

“O Lord. I know Shelby will never love me. My family has hurt her too much. But please show me how I can be her friend.”

He took a couple of deep breaths, then wandered into the kitchen. As he poured a glass of sweet tea, an idea came to him. With Lila padding after him, he pulled Shelby's letter from the top drawer of his desk. The paper was wrinkled from his handling. Though he knew it from memory, he read it again, as if for the first time.

Dear Mr. Sullivan,

Richard Grayson tells me you aren't interested in my offer to buy Misty Willow. I hope to change your mind. The house has been in my family since it was built by a long ago ancestor. I spent much of my childhood there, on weekends and in the summers. I'd like my children to know the heritage I still treasure and that was lost to us by means I don't understand.

I remember one summer, when I was about ten years old. I was sitting with my grandfather on a stack of hay bales. Nanna's chickens were scratching in the dirt not far from us. “‘So much depends,'” said Grandpa, smiling at me as he quoted William Carlos Williams's classic poem “The Red Wheelbarrow.”

Perhaps you know it.

My grandpa loved that poem. He knew it by heart, and he taught it to me.

From what my uncle Richard tells me, the house at Misty Willow hasn't been lived in since my grandparents died. It doesn't seem to mean much to you, Mr. Sullivan. But for me, everything depends on my children and me living on
the farm our ancestors carved out of the wilderness over two hundred years ago.

I am pleading with you to reconsider my offer.

Very truly yours,
Shelby Lassiter Kincaid

He touched the blue ink, her neat handwriting, his fingertip tracing the flourish of her
S
. When Richard had given him the note, he'd opened it with idle curiosity. But her words had pressed into his heart until he wanted to know everything about the woman who had written them.

Her note had touched his heart. Perhaps he could thaw her heart with a note of his own.

He wrote what he wanted to say on a sheet of engraved stationery Gran had given him for Christmas a few years ago and folded it into an envelope. He picked up his keys, then put them down again. Shelby wouldn't like it if he showed up and her girls were happy to see him. He'd have to wait till later, when they were asleep, to deliver the note.

Remembering the way Elizabeth and Tabby had run to him in the café made him smile. Tabby's quick laughter and Elizabeth's serious demeanor whetted his yearning for a family of his own. He'd like to have daughters. Just like them.

Snatches of his earlier dream flitted at the edges of his mind. Elizabeth and Tabby playing with another child. A child without a name.

Find
Meghan
.

AJ started, and his heart raced.
I can't
, he protested. But the admonition, once planted, would not go away.

He battled with himself while he folded laundry, washed dishes, and even mopped the kitchen floor. Finally, he opened his laptop and found the site for the Columbus College of Art and Design. Searching through pages of the archived alumni newsletter, he
eventually found a snippet of information. Meghan Jensen McCurry had won an award for a stained-glass project titled
Diamond Morning
.

So she had married. Hope snapped the filament of jealousy that had earlier strangled him. If Meghan were happy, if she had found a man to love and to love her, perhaps she could forgive him. Then maybe he could forgive himself.

Did he dare to dream he'd be free to pursue Shelby's heart?

He did a search, using Meghan's name and the title of her artwork.

Pay dirt!

Her website appeared on the first page of the results. He clicked the link, and Meghan stared back at him. Her pale gray eyes, creased with the tiniest of lines, welcomed visitors to her site.

His head ached as he read her bio. Only one line, short and matter-of-fact, mentioned her attendance at CCAD. He rubbed the sting behind his eyes, acutely aware of why she had abandoned her studies.

The contact information listed an email address. But after all these years, an email seemed too impersonal. Besides, she'd probably delete a message from him without reading it.

Maneuvering around the site, he found a gallery in Brennan Grove, Michigan, that displayed her work. Before he could talk himself out of it, he looked up the address on a navigation program.