Читать книгу For Her Son's Love - Kathryn Springer - Страница 10

Miranda.

Andrew watched her stop and chat briefly with an elderly gentleman who sat alone at a table. She was smiling again but it wasn’t the distant, polite one she’d bestowed upon him. No. This one was natural. It momentarily transformed her entire face, softening the curve of her lips and bringing a faint blush of color to her cheeks.

He’d noticed her the first time he’d come into the diner a few days ago. And he wasn’t sure why. With her hair secured in a severe twist at the nape of her neck and not a speck of makeup on her face, she obviously wasn’t the kind of woman who tried to court attention.

In fact, it seemed as if she’d gone out of her way to avoid him.

And she was doing it again.

Which—he hated to admit—chipped at his pride a little. He wasn’t used to women running in the opposite direction when they saw him.

For crying out loud. Get over yourself, Noble.

“Excuse me.” She returned with the coffeepot and Andrew pushed his cup closer. He tried to make eye contact but she didn’t cooperate, intent on searching for something in the pocket of her apron rather than looking at him.

“Cream or sugar?” She finally glanced up, long enough for him to glimpse captivating flecks of gold in her autumn-brown eyes.

“Cream. Thank you.” It was all he could come up with. Andrew wanted to bang his head against the table. He’d had dinner with heads of state and vacationed with celebrities, but a slender waitress with soulful eyes had suddenly reduced his vocabulary to that of a three-year-old. A very shy three-year-old.

“M.J.!” Isaac poked his head out of the pass-through between the kitchen and dining room. “Where are you? The cheese on this burger is aging. I’m going to have to raise the price if it sits up here any longer.”

Andrew saw Miranda bite her lip to hold back a laugh and took advantage of the moment to draw her out. “What does the J stand for?”

Wariness instantly replaced the laughter that backlit her eyes. “Jones.”

Andrew got the impression that only the Starlight’s reputation as a friendly diner prevented her from ignoring his question.

He opened his mouth to say something—anything—else but she beat him to it. “If you need something, just get Darcy’s attention.”

On cue, the young woman who’d been sidetracked by the toddler’s spill dashed over to his table. Her eyes sparkled and her smile bordered on flirtatious. If her bleach-blond hair hadn’t been pulled back in a ponytail, Andrew was sure she would have given it one of those teasing, off-the-shoulder flips.

“Are you interested in dessert today, Mr. Noble?”

Andrew buried a sigh. That was what he was used to.

“Not today. The boss only gives me an hour for lunch.”

She giggled. “Me, too!” Her tone clearly implied that now they had something in common. Andrew looked for Miranda but she’d disappeared into the kitchen.

Fortunately, Sandra came to his rescue.

“Darcy!” She motioned the waitress over to the counter.

The waitress’s shoulders drooped but she gave Andrew an irrepressible smile. “If you need a warm-up—on your coffee, just holler.”

In spite of his overzealous waitress, Andrew lingered at the diner until the lunch crowd cleared out. Maybe it was because there wasn’t a single thing on the menu preceded by the words light or fat-free. Or because Isaac and Sandra treated him the way they did everyone else who came through the door—with down-home charm and a complete lack of pretense.

Or maybe it’s because you’re hoping to get another glimpse of Miranda Jones.

What was it about her that piqued his interest? She was pretty in an understated way, but something else about her intrigued him.

Because she didn’t write her phone number on your bill?

That brought back an unwelcome memory. A few years ago, one of the newspapers had taken his picture while he’d toured a coast guard cutter. A photographer had caught him off guard, capturing the bored expression on his face. It was a direct contrast to the adoring gaze of the officer’s daughter who’d latched on to his arm like a barnacle on the hull of the ship at the beginning of the tour. The tongue-in-cheek caption accompanying the photo had humorously noted that Andrew seemed to be more interested in the search than the rescue.

Andrew had developed a thick skin over the years when it came to the outrageous claims the gossip columns printed, but that one still bothered him. Especially because he wondered if there wasn’t some truth to it.

He did lose interest. Quickly.

Which made him a little afraid that he was that guy. The guy who couldn’t commit. Or maybe it was because he’d never met a woman who was more interested in his life than his lifestyle.

The cell phone suddenly vibrated in his pocket. He would have ignored it if Rachel’s name wasn’t the one displayed on the tiny screen. They’d grown up together and, because they were only a few years apart in age, they seemed more like siblings than cousins. Which meant he couldn’t pass up an opportunity to tease her when he answered the phone.

“This is Andrew Noble, temporary administrator of the Noble Foundation.”

“Not so temporary, I’m afraid.”

Andrew’s smile faded at the discouragement in Rachel’s voice. “What did Dr. Bingham say?”

“I… Here. Can you talk to Eli for a minute?” Rachel’s voice cracked.

“Sure.” Andrew sent up a quick, silent prayer that whatever Rachel and Eli were facing, God would give them the strength they needed to endure it.

“Andrew?” Eli’s voice shook a little, too. “Dr. Bingham diagnosed Rachel with preeclampsia. And he put her on bed rest until the baby comes.”

“Pre what?” Andrew tried to process the word and drew a blank.

“Preeclampsia. He said it’s not uncommon for a first pregnancy and because we caught it early, she and the baby should be fine.”

Should be fine.

“So what can Bingham do to cure it?” He siphoned out the concern he felt and deliberately kept his tone brisk; if there was a diagnosis, there had to be a cure. This was the twenty-first century….

“There is no cure.” Eli’s next words shot his theory all to pieces. “The only thing that takes care of it is delivering the baby, but it’s too soon. That’s why Dr. Bingham is putting Rachel on bed rest.”

Rachel and bed rest.

“I know.” Eli sighed, as if he’d read Andrew’s mind. “We’re on our way home now but Rachel wants to talk to you again.”

“Andrew?” Rachel didn’t sound at all like the take-charge woman he knew and loved. “I know you were coerced into running the Foundation but you had no idea it was going to be for more than a few days. I’m officially letting you off the hook. Mom and Dad can hire someone—”

“Don’t worry about it. The only thing I have planned for the next few months is a trip to St. Bart’s…and a race in Monaco. No one will miss me.”

The clink of silverware distracted him. Andrew had been so focused on the conversation he hadn’t realized someone was clearing the booth right behind him. He glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Miranda Jones walking away.

“If you’re sure…” Rachel’s voice faded and Andrew knew the reality of the situation was sinking in.

“All I want you to do is let Eli tuck you into bed with the remote control and your knitting needles. I’ll be over this evening with a gallon of mint chocolate-chip ice cream.”

“Andrew…thanks. I know St. Bart’s is a lot more fun than sitting behind a desk.”

“I’m praying for you,” Andrew murmured. “God wasn’t surprised by this—trust Him. He’s going to get you through it.”

He snapped the phone shut and stared out the window, knowing he had to take his own advice.

Okay, Lord, what’s up? Because if You wanted to work on building patience in Rachel, couldn’t You have picked something a little easier? Like a really long red light at the intersection?

He did a quick calculation. The baby wasn’t due until the end of summer. This derailed his schedule in unforeseen ways. He did have plans to go to St. Bart’s and he was sponsoring a new driver—but there were other commitments he couldn’t share with Rachel. Or anyone else.

The feet on the Elvis Presley clock on the wall began to dance, reminding him breaktime was officially over. He had to go back to the Foundation to tell the employees the good news—that the guy who had a reputation as a spendthrift playboy was about to take over the distribution of millions of dollars to worthwhile charities.

Judging from the cautious looks he’d been getting all week, everyone expected him to mess up. And it wasn’t as if he could put their minds at ease. Not without totally destroying the image he’d spent years cultivating.

Andrew passed the table a pack of teenage boys had taken over earlier and noticed the pile of change—mostly dimes and nickels—next to the ketchup bottle. That was all those kids could scrape together? They probably spent more renting a video game.

He looked around to make sure no one was watching and discreetly tucked a ten-dollar bill between the ketchup and mustard bottles, hoping it would put a smile on Miranda Jones’s face.

“Bye, Andrew. You have a good afternoon now.” Sandra popped up from behind the counter as he moved toward the door. “And come back soon.”

When Miranda peeked out of the kitchen and saw the empty booth by the window, she took the first deep breath her lungs would allow during the last hour. The exact amount of time Andrew Noble had been in the diner.

St. Bart’s. Monaco. And he’d dropped the names so matter-of-factly. As if he were going to the grocery store and then on his way home, he planned to swing by the Laundromat.

An ember of disgust flared inside her. People struggled to make ends meet while men like Andrew Noble went from one source of entertainment to another, spending money they hadn’t even worked for. A poster boy for the idle rich.

An incredibly good-looking poster boy….

Miranda tried to shake the thought away before it took hold and formed an image of perfectly chiseled features, tousled black hair and eyes a warm palette of soft greens and browns.

Too late.

Okay, he was good-looking. She could admit it. So was a mile-high slice of Sandra’s French silk pie. Solid proof that not everything that looked good was good for you.

And there was no point even thinking about Andrew Noble. The diner might be conveniently located down the street from the Noble Foundation but he wouldn’t be back. In the world he inhabited, filet mignon was the staple, not chicken-fried steak with a side of mashed potatoes.

Darcy came alongside her, waving a crisp ten-dollar bill. “This is for you. I already cleared tables four and five. And here I thought Mr. Gorgeous and Available would be the big tipper of the day.”

Miranda frowned. Table four had been Mr. Walrich, whose standing order of a piece of banana-cream pie and a cup of coffee garnered her a shiny fifty-cent piece as a tip. That left the boys at table five….

“Maybe it’s back pay for all the times they didn’t leave you a tip,” Darcy joked.

“If that were true, I’d be able to send Daniel to Harvard,” Miranda said, tucking the bill into her apron pocket. “But who am I to complain?”

“I sure wouldn’t be complaining if Andrew Noble had written his phone number on the five-dollar bill he left me,” Darcy said, a blissful expression on her face.

Miranda choked back a laugh, earning a pout from Darcy.

“What? It happened in the novel I just finished. I thought it was very romantic.”

“Men like Andrew Noble don’t work that way.”

Darcy crossed her arms. “How do men like Andrew Noble work, oh, Wise One?”

“Maybe he has his butler call your maid. Or maybe if you dropped one of your Birkenstocks on the sidewalk out front—”

“You think?” Darcy’s eyes went wide until she realized Miranda was teasing her. “Just because you don’t believe in happily ever after doesn’t mean you have to ruin it for the rest of us, Miranda Jones!”

She flounced away.

Miranda knew Darcy’s offended tone was exaggerated but the words still stung.

She didn’t believe in happily ever after.

Not anymore.

Andrew was lost in thought, alternately praying for Rachel, Eli and their unborn child, and wondering just how he was going to run the Foundation and keep his other…commitments.

He rounded the corner where he’d parked the car and stumbled over something. Since the startled gasp came from somewhere near his kneecap, he knew it was a small something. Or rather, someone.

“Sorry!” A boy about seven or eight years old sat on the concrete next to a bicycle. Or, more accurately, had been taken prisoner by it. The brown towel knotted around his shoulders had snagged in the chain.

Andrew hid a smile and crouched down to help. He remembered using his mother’s towels to create a similar costume when he was young. “Got into some trouble here, hmm?”

A face, almost completely swallowed up by a pair of lime-green swim goggles, peered up at him. “Yeah.”

Andrew’s gaze skimmed over him, assessing the damage, but, in spite of the two skinned knees, the boy sounded more disgruntled than hurt.

A teenage girl, weighted down by a colorful beach bag slung over her shoulder, sprinted up to them and knelt beside Andrew.

“Are you okay, Daniel? I don’t know why you insisted on tying the towel on like that. You weren’t wearing those stupid goggles, were you? Where are your glasses? Your mom’s going to kill me—”

Color rushed into the boy’s dirt-smudged cheeks.

“There doesn’t seem to be too much damage,” Andrew interrupted, stepping in to save the boy further embarrassment. He lowered his voice. “One of the hazards of the job, right?”

Daniel slanted a quick look at him but Andrew kept his expression serious, which earned a hesitant nod.

The girl sighed dramatically as she watched Andrew work the corner of the towel out of the bicycle chain. “Look at that grease smear on your mom’s towel. That’s never going to come out. I’m going to the diner to get us some ice cream. And some Band-Aids. I’ll be right back. Don’t you dare move, Daniel.”

She stalked away and Andrew caught a glimpse of shame lingering in the brown eyes behind the goggles.

“Don’t be discouraged, Daniel,” he said quietly. “Not everyone gets it.”

At Daniel’s age, he’d been partial to using the roof of the garden shed as a launch pad for flying lessons. No sense giving the kid any ideas, though.

Daniel gifted him with a smile, revealing a gap where one of his front teeth should have been.

“Let’s make sure you’re good to go.” Andrew checked the chain one more time.

“Here comes Hallie. All she wants to do is talk on the phone. I think she’s one of the bad guys,” the boy confided in a whisper.

Andrew’s lips twitched. “Don’t be too hard on her—she’s just a civilian. Your mom and dad wouldn’t hire one of them to take care of you during the day.”

“It’s just me and Mom,” Daniel said matter-of-factly as he hopped back on his bike, pushing his feet against the concrete to propel himself forward. Probably to intercept the sitter, who marched toward them. “I gotta go.”

It’s just me and Mom.

Andrew could relate to that, too. Even though his parents had stayed together while Andrew was growing up, his father had never really been there. Not when it mattered. Pursuing the Noble legacy—making money—had crowded out everything else in Theodore Noble’s life.

When Andrew was thirteen, his father had worked his way into a fatal heart attack, leaving behind business associates instead of friends…and a family who grieved his passing, not only because they were going to miss him but because they’d never really known him in the first place.

When Andrew had turned eighteen, the terms of his father’s will had opened the valve to his trust fund.

And he’d started a new legacy.