Читать книгу Bride Of Dreams - Linda Wisdom Randall - Страница 9

“I wasn’t ready for you to go just yet, Dad. I wanted you here so you could hold your grandchildren. Remember what you said you wanted to do? You were going to spend all your mornings on the golf course and avoid all those widows trolling for a new husband. The ones you claimed talk endlessly about taking cruises, and want a partner to go with them. Hopefully, you.”

Caroline Bennedict folded the last piece of clothing and carefully placed it in a box. Her movements were economical as she sealed the box with packing tape and marked it for one of the charities.

“I’m only twenty-two years old, Dad. I still need you.” She began clearing off his chest of drawers. She knew if anyone heard her talking out loud to her father, who’d died the month before, they’d think she was losing it. They had no idea that talking to him as if he was still there made the pain more tolerable. Plus she believed, in a sense, he still was with her.

Now she was involved in a task she hadn’t looked forward to but knew needed to be done—packing her father’s personal items. Tears pricked her eyelids as she emptied each drawer, then moved on to the closet.

Caroline frowned when she discovered a large box set back in the far corner of the top shelf. She stood on a chair and carefully maneuvered it forward so she could get a good grip on it. She carried it over to the bed. When she opened the box, the faint scent of Chanel wafted upward. Her dad always said Chanel reminded him of Mom. Caroline’s mother had died having Caroline, so she’d never had a chance to know her, and had to rely on stories from her father. Now she didn’t even have that.

The box held a quilt. She stared at the lively pattern of blue, white and green and gathered up the heavy fabric, allowing it to spill over her lap. She carefully smoothed it across her legs.

“Where did this come from?” she whispered to herself, picking up one corner and examining the tiny stitches.

Even her inexperienced eye could tell the quilt was handmade, put together with a great deal of care and love. She knew right away it wasn’t designed for her father’s navy-and-burgundy bedroom. As she turned the quilt over, additional colors in one of the corners caught her eye.

She pulled it toward her so she could examine it more closely. Her brows knitted in a confused frown as her fingernail traced the names embroidered in one corner of the quilt.

Violet and Elias Spencer

Seth, Brady, Quinn

Violet Spencer? The same Violet Caroline knew of as Violet Bennedict? The woman who’d died seconds after Caroline’s birth?

“Mom?” she whispered. “Who are these men? And what do they have to do with you?”