Читать книгу A Father's Place - Marta Perry - Страница 10

He’d come home to the town where he no longer belonged, to break up his mother’s romance. Put like that, Quinn Forrester decided it didn’t sound like a creditable goal. It wouldn’t impress the woman he was about to see, and he needed Ellie Wayne’s cooperation. Either that, or he needed her surrender.

The tension that had driven him for days cranked up a notch. His natural instinct was to explode, demanding explanations, but that wouldn’t work. He’d have to exercise diplomacy to get what he wanted from Ellie Wayne, and his talent for that had grown rusty over years of fighting nature’s rampages in places considerably wilder than this one.

He glanced along the narrow street. Bedford Creek, Pennsylvania, spread up a narrow cleft in the mountains from the river. Its frame houses climbed the hillside in steps, as if they’d been planted there.

Ellie Wayne’s craft shop was on the lowest street, along with the police station, a few other small shops and a scattering of houses. Opposite it, the park spread along the flood-prone land by the river. His practiced engineer’s eye automatically noted the water level, higher now from the frequent rain than was usual for August.

The craft shop, the lower floor of a frame house, had been a newsstand when he was a boy, when Bedford Creek was a sleepy backwater where nothing ever happened. Then some energetic citizens had decided to capitalize on turn-of-the-century architecture and wooded mountain scenery.

Since then, like much of the town, the shop had been transformed into a quaint attraction for the tourists who deluged the village during the summer and fall. He stepped around a man with a camera, dodged two women laden with shopping bags and stopped.

Ellie Wayne had an eye for display—he’d give her that. An artfully draped quilt brightened the shop window, surrounded by handwoven baskets and dried-flower wreaths in colors that picked up the quilt’s faded earth tones. A yellow stuffed cat snuggled into a needlework cushion.

He’d planned his visit for closing time on this busy summer Saturday, hoping to catch her alone after the last of the shoppers left. He didn’t want any eavesdroppers on the conversation he was about to have.

He took a breath, tried to curb his impatience and reached for the door. A bell jangled, and the cool, dim interior invited him in. The woman behind the worn oak counter glanced up, her brown eyes registering his presence. But she wasn’t alone yet. Two last-minute customers fingered a quilt that was spread across the counter, peppering her with questions.

He moved behind a display table heaped with woven tablecloths and inhaled the faint, spicy aroma of dried flowers. Every inch of the tiny shop displayed something—his first impression was clutter; his second, coziness.

He intercepted a questioning glance from Ellie Wayne and pretended interest in a stack of handmade baskets, tamping down his irritation.

“I’ll be with you in just a moment.” Her voice was as welcoming as the shop.

“No hurry.” He forced cordiality into his tone. “I can wait.” He could wait. When he talked to her, he wanted the woman’s undivided attention.

Undivided attention—that was also what his mother and his six-year-old daughter wanted from him. They’d been reluctant to let him out of their sight since he arrived home yesterday, as if fearing he’d disappear back to the Corps of Engineers project that had occupied him for so long.

Too long, he realized now, far too long. It had been too tempting to bury himself in work after Julie’s death, too easy to convince himself that Kristie was better off living with his mother in this comforting, safe place where nothing ever changed.

He gripped the oblong basket he’d picked up. Things had changed, and if he’d been a better father, a better son, he’d have realized that. Bedford Creek wasn’t a safe little backwater any longer. The tourism boom had brought strangers to town—strangers like Ellie Wayne and her father.

He glanced toward the woman. Maybe it wasn’t entirely fair to describe her as a stranger. She’d opened her shop four or five years ago, and he must have seen her playing the organ in church on his few visits home. But it was only in the last few months that Kristie had begun talking about Ms. Ellie so much, and even more recently that her innocent chatter had paired Grandma with Charles Wayne. And then his sister Rebecca had called, concerned about their mother’s infatuation for a man she’d just met, and he’d known it was time to come home.

The customer produced a credit card. Apparently the transaction had been successful. Ellie smiled as she folded the quilt, her hands lingering as if she hated to part with it. A neat salesperson’s gimmick, he decided. She probably hoped to sell them something else.

He assessed the woman, trying to look at her without preconceptions. Slim, tall, probably about thirty or so. A wealth of dark brown hair escaped from a woven headband to curl around her face. There was nothing conventional about Ellie’s looks. Her face was too strong, her coloring too vivid, with those dark expressive eyes and the natural bloom in her cheeks.

Nothing conventional about her clothing choices, either. Today she wore a long skirt and an embroidered blouse that would look more at home in an artists’ colony than in Bedford Creek. He shouldn’t let that quick impression prejudice him against her, but he couldn’t deny the feeling. She looked as if she didn’t belong here.

The bell jangled as the customers went out, and he tensed. Ellie Wayne was an unknown quantity as far as he was concerned. He didn’t want to do battle with her, but he would if he had to.

She came toward him with the quick, light step of a dancer. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting. May I help you with something? I have those with different colors of reed woven in.”

He glanced down at the basket he’d nearly forgotten was in his hands. “I’m not shopping.”

Her eyes widened as if he’d insulted her wares, and he reminded himself he’d intended to be diplomatic. “It’s very nice,” he added, putting it down.

Faint wariness showed in those expressive dark eyes. Maybe it was her eyes, maybe it was the ethnic flavor of her clothing, but a thread of song wound through his thoughts, its lyrics warm and yearning, something about a brown-eyed girl. He shoved the distraction away.

“Then what can I do for you?” she asked.

“I’m here about my mother.” She still looked at him blankly, of course. She didn’t know him from Adam. “I’m Quinn Forrester. Gwen’s son.”

“Quinn?” Her voice lilted with surprise. If he expected guilt, he didn’t get it. “Gwen didn’t tell me you were coming home.”

It was almost as if she should have been informed, and irritation flickered through him. “Does she tell you everything?”

“I didn’t mean that.” Warm color rose in her cheeks. “I’m just surprised she didn’t mention it.”

“Especially since you see so much of each other.” He didn’t intend the words to sound accusing, but they did.

She stiffened, apparently sensing his attitude. “Your mother and I are cochairing a craft show next month for the church.” She said it carefully, as if weighing each word. “So we have been seeing a lot of each other lately.”

“It’s a little more than that, isn’t it?” He wasn’t going to dance around the subject any longer. It was time the woman leveled with him. “The way I hear it, your father’s the one who’s spending a lot of time with her.”

He couldn’t be mistaken about her reaction to that—a flash of fear. She masked it, but not quickly enough.

Determination hardened inside Quinn. His father would have expected Quinn to protect his mother, not to bury himself in his own grief. But he hadn’t, and now it looked as if Gwen Forrester, with her naive belief in people and her tempting little nest egg, was falling prey to a charming drifter who had no visible means of support and a murky background. Well, not if he could prevent it.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Her sudden pallor gave the lie to the words.

He shook his head. “I think you do. I want to know what’s going on between my mother and your father.”

The unexpected introduction of her father into the conversation sent Ellie’s heart racing. What had Charles Wayne done now? Familiar panic flooded her. She’d known it spelled trouble when he showed up at her door after all these years. She should have told him to go away. She should have…

She took a grip on her frightened thoughts. This was ridiculous. She was overreacting. Something about Quinn Forrester’s uncompromising expression had panicked her unnecessarily.

“I don’t understand.” She could only hope it came out calmly enough—that he hadn’t seen that moment of fear.

Quinn leaned against the display table with what was probably meant to be a casual air. It didn’t succeed. Nothing about his intensity was casual.

“It’s not that difficult a question.” He concentrated on her face as if he’d look right past her expression and into her mind. “What’s going on between my mother and your father?”

“Going on?” She stared at him blankly. “Nothing. I mean, they hardly know each other. Why would you think something was going on?”

He moved toward her, bracing his hand against the worn wooden counter. He was too close, invading her space. She forced herself not to step back, knowing instinctively he’d interpret that as a sign of weakness.

“From what I’ve heard…” he began, when a yellow blur soared to the countertop next to him. Quinn snatched his hand back with a startled exclamation.

“Sorry.” She took a steadying breath, trying to calm her stampeding pulse. “That’s Hannibal. You’re encroaching on his favorite place.”

As this man was with her. This was her shop, she reminded herself. Her town, her place in the world. She belonged here now. She stroked the tomcat. Hannibal pushed his head firmly against her hand and then sat, folding front paws majestically under his white bib.

“I saw him in the window. I thought he was a stuffed toy.” Quinn held out his hand. Hannibal sniffed cautiously, then deigned to let himself be scratched behind the ear.

She took another deep breath. Calm down. Don’t overreact. Whatever Quinn wanted, it didn’t necessarily have to be bad. She watched as he stroked the cat, giving it the same concentration he had her.

Quinn’s daughter must have gotten her red hair and freckles from some other part of the family tree. His hair was a dark, rich shade of brown, the color of ripe chestnuts. Straight dark brows contrasted with surprisingly light eyes—not quite blue, closer to slate. His tanned skin and the feathering of sun lines around his eyes suggested years of outdoor work in a place far from this green Pennsylvania valley. He had a firm mouth and an even firmer chin that argued an uncompromising disposition.

He switched his gaze from the cat to her, and a little quiver of awareness touched her. That intent gaze was unnerving. It was much the same as the gaze with which Hannibal watched a bird before he pounced.

“As I was saying, about my mother and your father.”

“Gwen is my friend.” She hurried into speech, hoping to deflect whatever accusation was coming. “And my father is here for a visit. A brief visit,” she added. “Naturally they’ve met each other.”

“Because you and my mother are friends.” His tone made it sound sinister.

She held her gaze steady with an effort. “Yes.”

“It’s a little more than that, I think.” His concentration pinned her to the spot. “Each time I talk to Kristie on the phone, his name comes up. ‘Charles and Grandma did this. Charles and Grandma did that.’ He seems to have become almost part of the family in the last few weeks.”

Her mind raced. When had all this been going on? She’d been busy, of course, but she should have known what her father was doing. Maybe she’d just felt relieved he’d found something to occupy himself in Bedford Creek. That way she didn’t have to see him and constantly be reminded of the painful past.

“As I said, Gwen and I are working on the fund-raiser together.” She hoped her smile looked more convincing than it felt. “My father has been helping out, so I suppose he and Gwen have spent some time together.”

“Some time?”

His persistence sparked the anger that had been hidden beneath her fear. “This is beginning to sound like an inquisition.”

He didn’t bother to deny it. “I have a right to worry about my family’s welfare.”

Meaning he thought she and her father threatened it. She stiffened, meeting his eyes with as much defiance as she could muster. “Your family isn’t in danger from us.”

“When my sixty-five-year-old mother starts acting like a schoolgirl with a new boyfriend, I worry. Try hard. Maybe you’ll understand.”

The temper she’d fought to control escaped. “I can’t imagine when you had the chance to observe your mother. You’ve hardly been back in Bedford Creek in the past few years.”

His fists clenched, and she saw in an instant she’d gone too far. She knew about the death of his wife, of course. She’d barely become acquainted with Julie when the woman’s death in a car accident had shocked the whole town. In the two years or so since, according to Gwen, Quinn had buried himself in his work, as if to find escape. Now she’d challenged that.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, before the situation could deteriorate any further. “I didn’t mean that. And I certainly didn’t have the right to say it.”

“My work has kept me away.” He said it calmly enough, but a muscle quivered in his jaw with the effort. “That doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

She seemed to be juggling dynamite. “I’m sure you do. But Gwen…” She hesitated on the verge of pointing out the obvious—that Gwen was a grown woman who could manage her own life.

His gaze hardened, and she suspected he knew what she’d been about to say. “My mother’s led a sheltered life. My father always protected her from any unpleasantness.”

A spasm of memory clutched her. She’d led a fairly sheltered life, too, once upon a time, until her father’s betrayal had blown it into a million pieces. If Charles really was somehow involved with Gwen, it was probably the worst idea he’d had since that disaster.

She wouldn’t believe it. Quinn was probably overreacting, but she knew instinctively he’d be a bad enemy to make. She couldn’t afford to antagonize him any more than she already had.

“My father is just here for a brief visit. He regards Gwen as nothing more than a casual acquaintance.” She hoped.

His frown was uncompromising. “If there’s anything more—”

The jingling of the bell cut off what sounded like a threat. Ellie turned toward the door, and her heart sank. Why on earth had her father chosen this particular moment to come into the shop?

She glanced cautiously back at Quinn, and tension zigzagged like lightning along her nerves. He looked like a predator about to strike.

Quinn looked from Ellie’s suddenly guilty face to the man who’d just entered. So this was the father—it had to be. Why else would she look that way? He’d almost been swayed by her protestations, but now all his suspicions flooded back.

“Sorry, my dear. I didn’t realize you were busy with a customer.” Charles Wayne stood, hand on the doorknob, his expression mingling regret at interrupting with curiosity.

“I’m just closing,” Ellie said. “Maybe you could set the table for supper.”

She gestured toward the stairs at the rear of the shop, which must lead to the living quarters upstairs. Her desire to get her father out of his range was as clear as if she wore a sign announcing it.

He didn’t intend to let that happen, not until he’d had a chance to see the man for himself. He took a step forward, holding out his hand. “You must be Ellie’s father. I’m Quinn Forrester.”

“Charles Wayne. What a pleasure to meet you. You’re Gwen’s son, of course. She talks about you all the time.”

His smile was smoother than his daughter’s, more practiced. He had to be in his sixties, but he had a quick, light step that made him look younger, as did the sparkle in his bright blue eyes.

“Gwen mentioned you were home when I ran into her and little Kristie at the grocer’s,” he went on. “A delightful child, isn’t she?”

It was the trick of either a good salesman or a confidence man—to ask a question that would bring an affirmative answer. “I think so, but then I’m prejudiced.”

And prejudiced against the man in front of him, he realized. Maybe it was the ready smile, or the glib chatter, but Charles Wayne put his back up. He preferred the daughter’s quick antagonism to the father’s charm.

“Dad.” Ellie nodded toward the stairs. “I have soup in the slow cooker for our supper.”

“Then we can have it anytime,” Wayne said, apparently oblivious to her desire to get rid of him. He smiled at Quinn. “I believe Gwen told me you’re working out west someplace.”

“Oregon. I’m with the Corps of Engineers.” He’d like to tell the man his profession was none of his business, but that wasn’t the way to find out about more about him. He’d already come within a hair of outright war with the daughter. Maybe it was time to take a step back. His mother wouldn’t be inclined to listen to his concerns if he started by alienating her friends. “Are you familiar with the West Coast?”

“Been there, of course. Now, this little town where my daughter’s settled is a far cry from our old stamping grounds.”

The tension emanating from Ellie jerked upward, evidenced by the indrawn breath, the tightening of her hands. So, there was something about that mention of where they were from that bothered her.

“And where was that?” he asked. “I don’t think I’ve heard much about Ellie’s past.”

“I don’t find people all that interested in my history.” Ellie’s casual tone wasn’t very convincing.

“Odd, isn’t it? People’s stories are endlessly fascinating to me,” Charles said. “There was a man I met when I was working in San Francisco, or was it Santa Fe? Doesn’t matter. In any event, this man had actually taken part in a Mount Everest climb. Think of that.”

Quinn didn’t intend to be distracted by mythical mountain climbers. “You were saying you’d lived where?”

Charles gave an airy wave. “All over the place. I’m afraid I’m the original tumbleweed. Just haven’t been able to settle down in one place, unlike my daughter.” He smiled fondly at Ellie, who looked strained. “Ellen has certainly put down roots here in Bedford Creek. Not that it isn’t a charming place, but it’s not the life I expected her to have.”

“People have to make their own decisions about things like that.” Ellie took his arm firmly and turned him toward the stairs. “I’ll be up soon, Dad. How about checking the soup for me?”

“Of course, of course.” Charles glanced over his shoulder at Quinn. “I’ll look forward to seeing you again. We must talk longer the next time.”

If Ellie ever wanted to embark on a life of crime, Quinn decided, she’d have to do something about that expressive face. It showed only too clearly her relief at having gotten rid of her gregarious father and her conviction that he and Quinn wouldn’t be having any more little talks.

Ellie glanced pointedly toward the exit. “I should be closing now.”

I’m not as easy to be rid of as all that, he assured her silently. “Your father’s quite the charmer, isn’t he? I can see how my mother might find him entertaining company.”

He had a sudden longing for his own father’s solid, quiet presence. No one would have used charming or entertaining to describe John Forrester, but he’d been a man of strength and integrity.

“My father’s charming to everyone.” She smiled tightly. “It’s his way. I don’t think you need to worry that Gwen is susceptible to it. She’s got a level head on her shoulders.”

“You think so? I love my mother dearly, but levelheaded is the last thing I’d say about her. My father was always the dependable one in the family.”

She lifted her eyebrows, as if doubting his assessment. “And now Rebecca is, I suppose.”

Guilt stabbed at him. Since his father’s death Rebecca had taken on the duty that should have been his. Their other sister, Angela, had married, then gone off to Philadelphia when her husband’s business sent him there. And Quinn had been so preoccupied with the twin burdens of his career and his grief that he’d let Rebecca handle everything.

Not anymore, he promised, not sure whether he was talking to himself or his father. It was time he took on the responsibilities he’d shelved for too long.

“Rebecca has enough to do with her husband, the clinic and a baby on the way. If my mother needs anything, I’ll be the one to help her.”

He wasn’t sure whether anger or fear predominated in the look she gave him. “I’m sure she appreciates that,” she said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a meal to get ready.”

He clearly wasn’t going to get anything more from Ellie at this point, so he let himself be ushered to the door. Her relief was almost palpable when he finally set foot outside.

He stopped, hand on the door to keep her from closing it. “Where was it your father said the two of you were from?”

“Ohio,” she snapped, and closed the door so sharply he had to snatch his hand away.

Ellie wasn’t the accomplished storyteller he suspected her father was. That had had the ring of truth about it.

He watched as she flipped the Closed sign into place. She went toward the stairs, so quickly she might almost have been running away. The yellow cat leaped into the window, stared unblinkingly at him for a long moment and then turned and followed his mistress.

If he’d gone to Ellie Wayne’s shop seeking assurance that everything was all right, he’d come away knowing the opposite was true. And it wasn’t his adverse reaction to Charles Wayne that had convinced him. He could chalk that up to personal taste.

No, he’d been convinced by Ellie’s reactions. Ellie Wayne was afraid. Of him? Of something to do with her father? He wasn’t sure, just as he wasn’t sure of a lot of things about her.

She’d lived in Bedford Creek for close to five years. She’d become an accepted part of the town. But as far as he could tell, no one knew much about her life before she came here. And people knew even less about her father.

It was time that changed, and he intended to change it.