Читать книгу Stranger at the Door - Laura Abbot - Страница 10

Breckenridge, Colorado

NERVES ON EDGE, MARK Taylor stood at the top of the driveway studying the large two-story log home shrouded by blue spruce and boasting a view across the tarn of craggy peaks. Unaccustomed to the altitude, he drew a labored breath, concerned that the next few hours would be awkward at best and difficult at worst. However, there was no turning back. For his peace of mind, the meeting was vital. And long overdue.

His strategy was surprise. Otherwise, immediate rejection was too real a consequence. But so was the possibility of shattering a family. He reminded himself it was too late for second-guessing.

The wide front porch, bedecked by hanging baskets, was inviting, serene. He paused, tension rooting him to the spot. Get a grip, he told himself. You’re a forty-year-old man, not a six-year-old.

Lungs working overtime in the thin air, he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his ski jacket and walked toward the massive front door where a woodburned sign above it read Welcome To Lamberts’ Lodge. Closing his eyes, he mumbled a quick prayer, then pressed the bell. And waited.

An attractive older woman dressed in khaki slacks and an oversize flannel shirt answered. She looked like a friendly type with short salt-and-pepper hair and laugh lines framing her mouth. “May I help you?” She held the door, poised to shove it closed.

He found his voice. “Mrs. Lambert, is your husband home?” Wariness clouded her expressive brown eyes and she pulled back.

Before she could answer, he went on. “I’m sorry. That question must’ve alarmed you, and that is certainly not my intent. My name is Mark Taylor. I’m an attorney from Savannah. I’m here to speak with your husband. On a personal matter.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Taylor, but he is unavailable at the moment. Was he expecting you?”

“No, we’ve never met.” Hope warred with a panic he was helpless to control. A chill mountain breeze slithered down his back. “I’ve come all the way from Georgia. It’s important that I talk with him.”

“What could possibly be so urgent that you would travel halfway across the country to meet my husband without an appointment?”

He controlled himself with difficulty. “I’d rather not say, ma’am. May I just wait for him?”

“I don’t think that’s advisable, particularly since I’ve never heard my husband mention you.”

“But you don’t understand—”

“No, I don’t. I’ll tell him you came by, but now you’ll have to excuse me.” She moved to shut the door.

Momentary dizziness swept over him and involuntarily the words spilled forth. “Wait! I just want to meet my father.”

The woman stared, mouth agape, color leeching from her face. When she finally spoke, he could barely hear her. “Your father? What on earth are you talking about?”

He took a half step forward, silently pleading for her help. “There’s no easy way to say this. I have reason to believe your husband is my father.” He hesitated, trying to keep the longing from his voice. “I, uh, want to meet him.”

“There must be some mistake—”

“No, ma’am, I don’t think so. Did your husband serve in the Vietnam War in 1968?”

Mutely, she nodded, her hands locked on the door.

Gently he continued. “He knew my mother there.”

The woman raked her eyes over him as if assessing his resemblance to her husband. Time stood still. Only the cries of mountain jays broke the silence.

At last, with tears pooling in her eyes, she whispered, “Come inside.”