She wanted to deny it, but his low voice, threaded with amusement, seemed to have taken away her ability to speak. Or maybe it was his sheer masculine presence, only inches from her.

Adam wasn’t the boy he’d been at seventeen. That boy had haunted her dreams for a good long time. Grown-up Adam was twice as hard to ignore. He was taller, broader, stronger.

The lines around his eyes said he’d dealt with pain and come away cautious, but he had an air of assurance that compelled a response.

wanted to be a writer from the moment she encountered Nancy Drew, at about age eight. She didn’t see publication of her stories until many years later, when she began writing children’s fiction for Sunday school papers while she was a church educational director. Although now retired from that position in order to write full-time, she continues playing an active part in her church and loves teaching a class of junior high Sunday school students.

Marta lives in rural Pennsylvania but winters on Hilton Head Island, South Carolina. She and her husband have three grown children and three grandchildren, and that area is the inspiration for the Caldwell clan stories. She loves hearing from readers and will be glad to send a signed bookplate on request. She can be reached c/o Steeple Hill Books, 300 East 42nd Street, New York, NY 10017, or visit her on the Web at www.martaperry.com.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Speaking the truth in love,

we will in all things grow up into Him

who is the head, that is, Christ.

—Ephesians 4:15

This story is dedicated to my son,

Scott, and his wife, Karen,

with love and thanks.

And, as always, to Brian.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Letter to Reader

Adam Caldwell stared, appalled, at the woman who’d just swung a sledgehammer at his carefully ordered life. “What did you say?”

The slight tightening of her lips indicated impatience. “Your mother-in-law hired me to create a memorial window for your late wife.” Her gesture took in the quiet interior of the Caldwell Island church, its ancient stained-glass windows glowing in the slanting October sunlight, its rows of pews empty on a week-day afternoon. “Here.”

He’d always prided himself on keeping his head in difficult situations. He certainly needed that poise now, when pain had such a grip on his throat that it was hard to speak. He put a hand on the warm, smooth wood of a pew back and turned to Pastor Wells, whose call had brought him rushing from the boatyard in the middle of a workday.

“Do you know anything about this?”

The pastor beamed, brushing a lock of untidy graying hair from his forehead. “Only what Ms. Marlowe has been telling me. Isn’t it wonderful, Adam? Mrs. Telforth has offered to fund not only the new window, but the repairs on all the existing windows. God has answered our prayers.”

If God had answered Henry Wells’s prayers in this respect, He’d certainly been ignoring Adam’s. Adam glanced at the woman who stood beneath the largest of the church’s windows, its jewel colors highlighting her pale face. She was watching him with a challenge in her dark eyes, as if she knew exactly how he felt about the idea of a memorial to Lila.

She couldn’t. Nobody could know that.

He summed up his impressions of the woman—a tangle of dark brown curls falling to her shoulders, brown eyes under straight, determined brows, a square, stubborn chin. Her tan slacks, white shirt and navy blazer seemed designed to let her blend into any setting, but she still looked out of place on this South Carolina sea island. Slight, she nevertheless had the look of a person who’d walk over anything in her path. Right now, that anything was him.

“Well, now, Ms.—” He stopped, making it a question.

“Marlowe,” she said. “Tory Marlowe.”

“Yes.” He glanced at the card she’d handed him. Marlowe Stained Glass Studio, Philadelphia. Not far from his mother-in-law’s place in New Jersey. Maybe that was the connection between them. “Ms. Marlowe. Caldwell Island’s a long way from home for you.” His South Carolina drawl was a deliberate contrast to the briskness she’d shown. A slow, courteous stone wall, that was what was called for here. “Seems kind of funny, you showing up out of the blue like this.”

She lifted those level brows as if acknowledging an adversary, and he thought her long fingers tightened on the leather bag she carried. “Mrs. Telforth gave me a commission. I’m sorry Pastor Wells didn’t realize I was coming. I thought Mrs. Telforth had notified him. And you.”

“Also seems kind of funny that my mother-in-law didn’t get in touch with me first.”

Actually, it didn’t, but he wasn’t about to tell this stranger that. Mona Telforth blew in and out of his life, and his daughter’s life, like a shower of palm leaves ripped by a storm—here unexpectedly, gone almost as quickly.

“I wouldn’t know anything about that, but she spelled out her wishes quite clearly.” The overhead fan moved the sultry air and ruffled the woman’s hair. “She said she’d been thinking about this for some time, and she wants me to create a window that will be a tribute to her daughter’s life and memory.”

Pain clenched again, harder this time. Mona Telforth didn’t know everything about her daughter’s life. She never would. He’d protect her memories of Lila, but he wouldn’t walk into this sanctuary every Sunday and look at a window memorializing a lie.

He inhaled the mingled scent of flowers and polished wood that always told him he was in the church. A place that meant peace to him had turned into a combat zone. “You have some proof of this, I suppose.”

A soft murmur of dismay came from Henry. “I’m sure Ms. Marlowe is telling us the truth, Adam.”

The woman didn’t even glance toward the pastor. She was quick—he’d give her that. She’d already sized up the situation and realized he was the one she had to deal with, not Henry.

“I’m not a con artist, Mr. Caldwell. This commission is real. Take a look.” She pulled an envelope from her oversize shoulder bag and thrust it toward Adam. If the paper had been heavier, she’d probably have thrown it.

The letter was definitely from Mona, written in the sprawling hand he recognized. And in spite of straying from the point a time or two, she made her wishes clear. She was aware of the deteriorating condition of the existing windows, and she’d fund all the repairs if she could have one window to honor her daughter’s life. She’d even added the inscription she wanted on the window. Lila Marie Caldwell, beloved daughter, wife, mother.

If his jaw got any tighter, it would probably break.

Tory Marlowe seemed just as tense. Her hands clenched, pressing against her bag, as if she wanted to snatch the letter back. “Satisfied?”

“Ms. Marlowe, it’s not a question of my being satisfied.” He tried to identify the look in her velvet brown eyes when she wasn’t actively glaring at him. It took a moment, but then he had it. Loneliness. Tory Marlowe had the loneliest eyes he’d ever seen.

A vague feeling of recognition moved in him. “Have we met before? You seem familiar to me.”

She withdrew an inch or two. “No. About the commission—”

He tried to shake off the sense that he should know her. “My mother-in-law is a person of whims. I’m sure she was interested when she wrote this, but she’s probably gone on to something else already.” He could only hope. “You’d best go back to Philadelphia and look for another commission. This one isn’t going to work out.”

He saw the anger flare in her face, saw the effort she made to control it.

“It almost sounds as if you don’t want a memorial to your late wife, Mr. Caldwell.”

Now he was the one struggling—with grief, anger, betrayal. How could this woman, this stranger, cut right to the pain no one else even guessed at?

“Of course he does.” Henry sounded scandalized.

The woman glanced at the pastor, startled, as if she’d forgotten he was there. Adam had almost forgotten Henry, too. He and Tory Marlowe had found their own private little arena in which to fight.

He shoved his emotions down, forcing them behind the friendly, smiling mask that was all his neighbors ever saw from him. “Pastor, you don’t need to defend me. Ms. Marlowe is entitled to her opinion.”

“But she didn’t know Lila,” Henry protested. “Why, Adam and Lila were the most devoted couple you could ever want to meet. Everyone loved Lila.”

Everyone loved Lila. Including, Adam supposed, the man she’d been running to when the accident took her life. For one insane moment he wondered what they’d say if he blurted the truth.

Speaking the truth in love, we grow up in all things into Christ… The Bible verse Grandmother Caldwell had given him on his baptism flitted through his mind, and he shook it off with a quick glance at the carved wooden baptismal font that stood near the pulpit. The truth couldn’t be told about this. He might somehow, someday, be able to deal with Lila’s desire to be rid of him. He couldn’t ever forgive the fact that she’d been ready to desert their daughter.

Jenny. Determination hardened his will. Jenny idolized the mother she barely recalled, and she must never learn the truth. He had to keep his secret for her sake.

He rallied his defenses. “Both Ms. Marlowe and my mother-in-law are forgetting something, even if Mona does mean to go ahead with this.”

Tory’s long fingers closed around Mona’s letter. “What’s that?”

He managed a smile, knowing he was on firmer ground. “It’s up to the church council to decide if they want a new window.” He gestured toward the stained glass on either side of the sanctuary. “As you can see, we have a full complement of windows. I don’t think they’ll want to destroy one in order to build something different, no matter how generous the gift.”

“They’re going to lose one anyway, regardless of whether I replace it.” She shot the words back. “Have you taken a good look at the second one on the left?”

“Such bad shape,” Henry murmured. He walked to the window with the image of Moses and the burning bush. “It’s one of the oldest ones. Is it really beyond hope?”

“It would probably shatter if we took it down for repair. I could rebuild it the way it is, but that wouldn’t meet the terms of the commission.” She moved to the window and outlined a fragment of rose glass, her finger moving as lovingly as if she touched a child. “It might be possible to save some of the pieces and incorporate them in the new window.”

“Do you really think so?” Henry’s eager tone sounded a warning note to Adam. Henry’s enthusiasm would sweep the rest of the board along if Adam didn’t find some way of diverting this project.

“You’re being premature.”

Henry and the woman swung around to face him, and for an instant they seemed allied against him.

Nonsense. This church was built and maintained by Caldwells, had been since the first Caldwell set foot on the island generations ago. Henry would side with him, not with a stranger.

“We can’t do anything until I talk to my mother-in-law and find out if she really intends to pursue this project.” Adam tried to smile, but his lips felt too stiff to move. “Frankly, I think you’re here on a wild-goose chase, Ms. Marlowe. Naturally, if she has changed her mind, we’ll cover your travel expenses back to Philadelphia.”

Tory took a quick, impulsive step toward him, and again he had that sense of familiarity. Then she stopped, shaking her head. “That’s very generous of you. But I don’t think I’ll be needing it.”

“We’ll see.” He managed to smile and offer his hand. Hers was cool, long-fingered, with calluses that declared her occupation.

“Yes. We’ll see.”

He caught a trace of resentment in her tone as she dropped his hand and took a step away from him. She probably thought he was being unfair. Maybe so.

But the bottom line was that he had trouble enough living a necessary lie as it was. If he had to contend with this memorial—

He wouldn’t. Which meant that Tory Marlowe, with her determined air and her lonely eyes, had to go back where she belonged.

He hadn’t recognized her. Once both men were gone, Tory sank down in the nearest pew, hands clutching the smooth seat on either side of her. Adam Caldwell hadn’t recognized her.

Well, of course not, some rational part of her commented. It was fifteen years ago, after all.

She’d seen a brief flicker of vague query in Adam’s face when he’d looked at her. He’d asked if they’d met. Her response had been out of her mouth before she’d considered, but it had been the right one. If he didn’t remember, she wouldn’t remind him of that night.

It was silly for her to look back, sillier yet that Adam Caldwell sometimes drifted through her dreams like a Prince Charming she’d encountered once and lost.

She stared across the curving rows of empty pews, then focused on the window in front of her. In an example of stained-glass artistry that made her catch her breath, Jesus walked on the water of a glass sea, holding out His hand to a sinking Peter. Her gaze lingered on the gray-and-green glass waves.

Real waves had been slapping against the dock the night she’d pushed open the yacht club door—a fifteen-year-old visitor on her way to a dance, knowing nothing of the Caldwells for whom the island was named. One of her stepfather’s golfing buddies had thrown out a casual invitation, probably because he’d wanted to make a favorable impression on a wealthy visitor.

She’d stood for a moment, watching couples move on the polished floor and be reflected in the wide windows that overlooked the water. The strains of music flowed over her, and her hands clenched nervously. She was an outsider, as usual.

Then someone tapped her lightly on the shoulder. She turned, heart thumping, to find a tall stranger holding out his hand.

“Dance?”

She looked into sea-green eyes in a boyishly handsome face. He smiled, and her heart turned over. Holding her breath, afraid to break the spell, she took his hand and followed him onto the dance floor. When his arms went around her, she felt as if she’d been waiting all her life for that moment.

They’d danced; they’d talked. They’d gone onto the veranda and watched the moonlight on the water. Adam had plucked a white rose from a table arrangement and tucked it in her hair, calling her Cinderella, because she was the one unknown at the dance. It had been a fairy tale come true.

Right up until the moment she’d called to ask permission to stay later. She’d heard her mother weeping, her stepfather shouting. She’d raced out, hoping to get to them in time to avoid the inevitable. She hadn’t.

She leaned back in the pew, staring dry-eyed at the window. That night had cut her past in two as cleanly as any knife, but she didn’t cry about it any longer.

Probably she remembered Adam because she’d met him that particular night. She didn’t believe in love at first sight or fairy-tale endings—they were for dreamy adolescents. Life had taught her that love, any kind of love, inevitably came with strings attached.

Adam didn’t remember her, and that was for the best. If he had, it could only have led to an awkward conversation.

Of course, we danced together one night, didn’t we? Whatever happened to you?

No, she certainly didn’t want to have that conversation with an Adam Caldwell who was considerably more imposing than the seventeen-year-old he’d been then. Imposing, that was definitely the word. She glanced at the spot where he’d stood, frowning at her as if he didn’t believe a word she was saying.

The friendly voice she remembered had deepened to an authoritative baritone, and Adam’s hair had darkened to chestnut brown. He seemed broader, stronger. Life had given more wariness to his open face, added a few lines around his ocean-colored eyes.

But he still had that comfortable-in-his-own-skin air that said he was sure of himself and his place in the world. He was a Caldwell of Caldwell Island. And he still had that honeyed drawl that could send shivers down a woman’s spine.

Maybe she’d better concentrate on the reasons she’d come back after all these years. With this commission, her fledgling stained-glass business was on its way. She’d never have to work for someone else or let another take credit for what she’d done.

For an instant her former fiancé intruded into her thoughts, and she pushed him away. Her engagement to her boss had confirmed a lesson she should have learned a long time ago—love always came with strings attached. Jason Lockwood had shown her clearly that he’d only love her if she did what he wanted.

Forget Jason. Forget everything except the reason you’ve come here. This memorial was her chance, and she wouldn’t let it slip away because Adam Caldwell was, for some inexplicable reason, opposed to it.

More important, being here would let her fulfill the promise she’d made last year when her mother was dying. She’d finally erase the shadow Caldwell Island had cast over both their lives for too long. She wouldn’t fail.

She focused on the image of Jesus’ face in the window, the silence in the old church pressing on her. Fredrick Bauer, her teacher, had always said a person couldn’t work constantly in sanctuaries without being aware of the presence of God. Somehow she’d never been able to move past an adversarial relationship with the One Fredrick had insisted loved her.

Still, she knew God’s hand was at work in bringing her here. Why else would she have found Mrs. Telforth’s ad when she’d needed a reason to be here? Why else would her talents have been just what Mrs. Telforth needed?

You brought me here. If this is Your will, You’ll have to give me a hand with Adam Caldwell. I don’t know why, but I know he’ll stop me if he can.

Tory was ready to take on Adam Caldwell again. She looked over the items she’d spread across the round oak table in the Dolphin Inn’s small sitting room that evening. Her credentials, photos of windows she’d designed, the four-page spread in Glass Today magazine featuring a project she’d worked on.

Miranda Caldwell, who’d been working at the desk when Tory checked in, had insisted she use the sitting room for this meeting with Adam. The Caldwells who owned the island’s only inn turned out to be Adam’s aunt and uncle, making Miranda his cousin. The sweet-faced woman had been only too happy to talk about Adam.

He and Lila were so happy—her death devastated him.

Was that the reason for Adam’s reluctance about the memorial window? Did he find his memories too painful? She paced restlessly across the room, stopping at the window to brush aside lace curtains and stare at boats rocking against a dock. Across the inland waterway, lights glowed on the mainland.

Adam’s a real sweetheart, Miranda had said. Everyone’s friend, the person the whole community relies on. And the family peacemaker, as well.

Tory didn’t have much experience with family peacemakers. Her family could have used one. But she didn’t think Adam intended to use his peacemaking skills on her.

A firm step sounded in the hallway. He was coming. She moved quickly to the table.

“Ms. Marlowe.” Adam paused, filling the doorway.

She hadn’t been as aware of his height and breadth in the high-ceilinged sanctuary. Here, there was just too much of him.

Her hands clenched. Concentrate on the work.

“I have some materials I thought you might be interested in.” She gestured toward the table.

He didn’t move. Instead he glanced around, as if it had been a while since he’d been in this room. His gaze went from sofa to mantelpiece to bookshelves. His eyes looked darker in the twilight, like the ocean on a cloudy day. He’d changed from the white shirt and khakis he’d worn earlier to jeans and a gray pullover that fit snugly across broad shoulders.

“My cousin Miranda must like you, if she’s letting you use the family parlor.”

“I didn’t realize.” She followed his gaze, suddenly off balance. Now that she looked around, it was obvious this was the family’s quarters. She’d been too caught up in herself to notice. Photos of babies, children riding bicycles, fishermen holding up their catch, weddings—a whole family’s history was written on these walls. Everything about the space was slightly faded, slightly shabby and obviously well loved. “I didn’t mean to impose.”

“Miranda wouldn’t have told you to use the parlor unless she wanted you to.” He crossed to the table, moving so quickly that she took an automatic step back and bumped into its edge. He reached out to flip through the photos she’d spread out. “You’ve had a busy afternoon.”

Her efforts to impress him suddenly seemed too obvious. “I thought you might like to see projects I’ve worked on.”

“Trying to convince me of your abilities?” His smile took the sting out of the words.

“Not exactly.” She took a breath, trying to find the best way to say this. It was too bad diplomacy wasn’t her strong suit. “This is an awkward situation. Your mother-in-law hired me, but it’s important that you be satisfied with my work. After all, you knew your wife better than anyone.”

The strong, tanned hand that flipped through the photos stopped abruptly. He pressed his fingers against the table until they whitened.

She’d made a mistake. She shouldn’t have mentioned his wife, but how else could they discuss the memorial?

An apology lingered on her tongue, but that might make things worse. She forced herself to meet his gaze. “I’m sorry if—”

He cut her off with an abrupt, chopping gesture. “Don’t.” He seemed to force a smile. “It’s irrelevant, in any event. My mother-in-law chose you from all the people who answered her ad. She must have been satisfied with your ability to do what she wants.”

“You’ve talked with her, then.” She couldn’t imagine that conversation.

“Yes.” His lips tightened. “She’s very enthusiastic about this project.”

She might as well say what they both knew. “But you’re not.”

He shrugged. “Let’s just say you caught me by surprise today and leave it at that. All right?”

There was more to it, but she wasn’t in any position to argue. Not if the battle she’d anticipated was unnecessary.

“All right. I hope I can come up with a design that pleases both of you.”

His gaze lingered on her face, as if he assessed her. She steeled herself not to look away from that steady gaze.

He frowned. “My mother-in-law has asked me to take care of all the details about this project.”

“I see.” She kept her voice noncommittal. “So you’ll be supervising my work.”

“I would in any event, since I’m chair of the church’s buildings and grounds committee.”

This wasn’t any ordinary church business they were talking about, but a memorial to his late wife. She had to show a little more tact.

“Perhaps you’d like to take with you some of my designs.” She put the folder in his hand. “They might give you an idea of what would best memorialize your wife.”

He dropped the folder, spilling photos onto the table. “No. Not now. Pastor Wells and I feel it best if you do the repair work first.”

She stifled the argument that sprang to her lips. “Of course.” She could only hope she sounded accommodating. “But I’ll need to have some idea of what you want.”

“Later.” His tone didn’t leave any room for argument. “We’ll talk about it later.”

The customer is always right, she reminded herself. Even when he’s wrong.

“I’ll start the analysis of the existing windows tomorrow then.”

“I can be reached at the boatyard if you need me.” He took a quick step away from the table, and she suspected only his innate courtesy kept him there at all.

“Mr. Caldwell, I…” What could she say? “I’m glad you’ve decided to go ahead with the project.”

“It’s my mother-in-law’s project, not mine.” Again she had the sense of strong emotion, forced down behind his pleasant, polite facade. “We’ll both have to try and make her happy with it.” He held out his hand, and she put hers into it. “Welcome to Caldwell Cove, Ms. Marlowe.”

His firm grasp had as much ability to flutter her pulse now as when she’d been fifteen. Her smile faltered.

Don’t be stupid, she lectured herself. The man means nothing to you. He never did.

Now if she could just convince herself of that, she might get through her second encounter with Adam Caldwell a little better than she had the first.

At least Adam hadn’t shown up yet with another reason she should leave the island and forget this project, Tory thought as she studied the church’s east window the next morning. She half expected to hear his step behind her, but nothing broke the stillness.

She’d had an early breakfast at the inn, a place that seemed overly full of Caldwell cousins, all curious about her project. Then she’d hurried through the village of Caldwell Cove to the church, eager to begin but half-afraid she’d find another Caldwell waiting for her.

Adam had given in, she reminded herself. He’d agreed to his mother-in-law’s proposal. So why did his attitude still bother her?

His face formed in her mind—easy smile, strong jaw, eyes filled with integrity. He had a face anyone would trust.

But Tory had seen the flash of feeling in his eyes every time the memorial to his late wife was mentioned. She hadn’t identified the emotion yet, but she knew it was somehow out of place.

Lila Caldwell had died four years ago. One would expect to see sorrow on her husband’s face at the mention of her name. The feeling that darkened Adam’s eyes was something much stronger than sadness.

Maybe the pastor and Miranda had it right. Perhaps Adam had loved his beautiful wife so dearly he still couldn’t bear to discuss her. If so, that made her job more difficult.

The next time she saw him, she had to confront the subject. It was all very well to say she could begin with the repair work, but she should be working on the design for the new window. She had to get him to talk to her about it.

She moved up the stepladder to touch the intricate detail of the twined floral border around the window of Jesus and the children. Someone with pride in his craftsmanship and love for his subject had done that, choosing flowers to echo the children’s faces instead of a more traditional symbol. A hundred years from now, she hoped someone might touch a window she’d created and think the same.

I can do this, can’t I? She looked at the pictured face, longing for the love she saw there welling inside her. Please, Lord, let me create something worthy of this place.

If she did… How hard it was not to let self-interest creep in, even when she was planning something to God’s glory. But she knew that success here could establish her business. For the first time since she was fifteen, she wouldn’t have to scrape for every penny. She’d be able to pay her mother’s final expenses and get a suitable stone to mark her grave. And she’d never have to rely on anyone else again.

The wooden outside door creaked. Tory’s grip on the ladder tightened as she listened for Adam’s confident tread. Instead, the patter of running feet broke the stillness. She turned.

The little girl scampering toward her had a tumble of light brown curls and a confident smile. A bright green cast on her wrist peeped out from the sleeve of a sunny yellow dress. She skidded to a stop perilously close to the ladder, and Tory jumped down.

“Hey, take it easy.” She reached a steadying hand toward the child. “You don’t want to add another cast to your collection, do you?”

The child smiled at her. Sunlight through stained glass crossed her face, and Tory saw that the cast matched her eyes. “I fell off the swing and broke my wrist,” she said.

“You jumped off the swing.” Adam’s words quickly drew Tory’s gaze to where he stood in the doorway. With the sun behind him, Tory couldn’t see his expression, but she heard the smile in his voice. “And you’re not going to do that again, are you, Jenny?”

This was his daughter, then, Tory’s employer’s granddaughter. Jenny needs this memorial to her mother. Mrs. Telforth’s words echoed in her mind. She does.

The emphasis had seemed odd at the time. It still did.

Jenny sent her father an impish grin, then turned to Tory. “I got to be off school all morning to get my cast checked. Did you ever break anything?”

Adam reached the child and clasped her shoulders in a mock-ferocious grip. He was dressed a little more formally today than the night before, exchanging his khakis for dark trousers and a cream shirt. “Jenny, sugar, that’s a personal question. You shouldn’t ask Ms. Tory that when you don’t even know her.”

His daughter looked at him, brow wrinkling. “But, Daddy, that’s how I’ll get to know her.”

Tory’s lips twitched, as much at Adam’s expression as the child’s words. “I think she’s got you there.” She bent to hold out her hand to Adam’s little girl. “Hi, I’m Tory. Yes, I broke my leg when I was nine. It wasn’t much fun.”

Jenny shook hands solemnly, her hand very small in Tory’s. “But why not? Didn’t you get a present for being a good girl when they put on the cast, and a chocolate cake for dessert, and an extra story?”

Tory’s mind winced away from the memory of her stepfather berating her all the way to the emergency room for upsetting her mother while she lay in the back seat and bit her lip to keep from crying. “No, I’m afraid not. You’re a lucky girl.”

“She’s a spoiled girl.” But Adam didn’t look as if the prospect bothered him very much. He smiled at his daughter with such love in his face that it hurt Tory’s heart.

“I’m not spoiled, Daddy. Granny says I’m a caution.” She frowned at the word, then looked at Tory. “Do you know what that means?”

“I suspect it means she loves you very much.”

The frown disappeared. “Oh. That’s okay, then.”

“Jenny, love, let me get a word in edgewise, okay?”

Jenny nodded. “Okay, Daddy. I’ll put water in the flowers. Don’t worry, Granny showed me how.” She scurried off.

“Sorry about that.” Adam watched his daughter for a moment, then turned to Tory. “I really didn’t come so Jenny could give you the third degree.”

“She’s delightful. How old is she?”

“Eight going on twenty, I think. I never know what she’s going to come out with next.”

His smile suggested he wanted it that way. Jenny didn’t know how lucky she was. Tory realized she was seeing the Adam Miranda had described—the man everyone liked and relied on.

“That must keep life interesting.” She wanted to prolong the moment. At least when they talked about his daughter they weren’t at odds. They almost felt like friends.

“It does that.” He glanced at the window. “Are you finding much damage?”

They were back to business, obviously. “Some of the windows are worse than others.” She traced a crack in the molding around the image of Jesus and the children. “Settling has done this, but I can fix it.”

Adam reached out to touch the crack. His hand brushed hers, sending a jolt of awareness through her. He was so close, the sanctuary so quiet, that she could hear his breath. He went still for an instant, so briefly she might have imagined it.

“Let me know if you need any equipment. We might have it at the boatyard.”

She nodded. She had to stop letting the man affect her.

“Look, Daddy. I brought the water.” Jenny put a plastic pitcher carefully on the floor, spilling only a few drops, then skipped over to them. “You know what? I know what you’re doing, Ms. Tory.”

“Ms. Tory’s fixing the windows for us, sugar.”

She shook her head, curls bouncing. “Not just that. Everybody knows that. But I know she’s gonna make a window for Mommy.”

Tory happened to be watching his hand. It clenched so tightly his knuckles went white.

“Who told you that?”

“I did.”

Tory blinked. She hadn’t heard the church door open again, maybe because she’d been concentrating too much on Adam. A small, white-haired woman marched erectly toward them, a basket filled with bronze and yellow mums on her arm. The striped dress and straw hat she wore might have been equally at home in the 1940s.

“I told Jenny about the memorial window, Adam.” She peered at him through gold-rimmed glasses. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“Of course not, Gran.” Tory thought the smile he gave his grandmother was a little forced, but he bent to kiss her cheek. “I was just surprised news traveled that fast.”

“You ought to know how the island busybodies work by now.” She turned to Tory, holding out her hand. “I’m Naomi Caldwell. You’d be the lady who’s come to do the stained glass. Ms. Marlowe, is it?”

“Tory Marlowe. I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Caldwell.”

The elderly woman must be in her seventies at least, if she was Adam’s grandmother, but she had a firm grip and a bright, inquisitive gaze.

“I hear tell you’re going to replace the Moses window.”

“Does that bother you, Gran?” Adam sounded as if he hoped so.

His grandmother shook her head decidedly. “Never was up to the rest of the windows. If something’s good, it’ll improve with age.”

Adam’s expression softened. “Like you, for instance.”

She swatted at him. “Don’t you try to butter me up, young man.”

She turned away, but Tory saw the glow of pleasure in her cheeks. For an instant she felt a wave of envy. If she’d had a grandmother like that, how different might her life have been?

“Jenny, child. Come help me with these flowers.” Naomi Caldwell ushered Adam’s daughter toward the pulpit, handing her the basket. “We’ll put them on the dolphin shelf.”

Tory tensed at the words. “The dolphin shelf?” She glanced at Adam, making it a question.

“That bracket behind the pulpit. A wooden carving of a dolphin once stood there. Gran likes to keep flowers in its place.” Adam nodded toward the shelf where his grandmother was placing a vase.

I never meant for the dolphin to disappear. I didn’t. Her mother’s voice, broken with sobs, sounded in Tory’s mind.

If she asked Adam about the dolphin, what would he say? Tory’s mind worked busily. She had to find out more about the dolphin’s disappearance if she were to fulfill her promise to her mother, but the last thing she needed was to stir up any additional conflict with Adam.

“What’s this new window going to look like?” Mrs. Caldwell’s question interrupted her thoughts before she could come up with an answer.

“That’s really up to the family.” Maybe she’d better stay focused on the window for the moment. “Usually I try to come up with some designs that reflect the person being honored, then let the family decide.”

“How do you do that?” The woman paused, head tilted, her hands full of bronze mums. “Reflect somebody in a design, I mean.” She seemed genuinely interested in the design, unlike everyone else Tory had met since she’d come to the island.

“Well, first I try to find out as much as I can about the person—her likes and dislikes, her personality, her background. Then—”

Carried away by the subject, she glanced at Adam. His expression dried the words on her tongue. He stared at her, his eyes like pieces of jagged green glass.

“No.” He ground out the word.

“What?” She blinked, not sure what he meant.

“I said no. You’ll have to find another way of working this time.”

Before she could respond he was calling the child, saying goodbye to his grandmother and walking out of the sanctuary.

The heavy door swung shut behind him, canceling the shaft of sunlight it had let in.

“I’m sorry about that.” Adam’s grandmother shook her head. “Reckon Adam’s a bit sensitive about Lila.”

“I see.”

She’d made another misstep. She should have been more careful. But how on earth could she possibly find any common ground with Adam if he wouldn’t even talk to her?

“I can’t do this.” Adam had arrived at his office at Caldwell Boatyard after dropping Jenny at school, his stomach still roiling. He’d found his brother, Matthew, waiting for him.

“Can’t do what?” Matt perched on the edge of Adam’s cluttered desk, toying with the bronze dolphin paperweight Lila had given Adam in happier times. Matt looked as if he had all the time in the world.

“Help that woman design a memorial window for Lila, of all things.” Adam slumped into the leather chair behind the desk. Matt was the only person in the world he’d speak to so freely, because Matt was the only one he’d told the whole story to. A good thing he had his brother, or he might resort to punching the paneling. “If my mother-in-law wanted a window, why didn’t she put it in her own church instead of saddling me with it?”

“Maybe because St. Andrews was Lila’s church,” Matt offered helpfully.

Adam glared at him. “Don’t you have work to do? Or doesn’t running a weekly paper and being husband and stepfather for two whole months keep you busy enough?”

“Actually, I am working.” Matt smiled, his face more relaxed than Adam had seen it in years. Marriage seemed to agree with him. “Sarah and I want to do a story for the Gazette about the church windows.”

“Great. That’s just what I need.” Adam rotated his chair so he could stare at the sloop he was refitting for an off-island summer sailor. “Maybe you can satisfy Tory Marlowe’s curiosity.”

He glanced at his brother, wondering how much he wanted to say about Tory. Everything, probably.

Matt lifted an eyebrow. “Curiosity?”

“She wants to talk about Lila.” His throat tightened. “She wants to get to know her so she can create a fitting memorial.”

Matt whistled softly, obviously understanding all the things Adam didn’t say out loud. “What are you doing about it?”

“Not telling her the truth, that’s for sure.” He rubbed his forehead as if he could rub the memories away. He and Lila had married too quickly, too young, and he faulted himself for that as much as Lila. He hadn’t realized until later, carried away as he was, that Lila had had totally skewed ideas of what their married life would be like. She’d hated the island, and everything he’d done to try and make things better only seemed to backfire. Even their beautiful baby hadn’t made Lila want a real family.

She’d craved excitement, and eventually she’d found that with a man she’d met on one of her frequent trips to visit friends who, she claimed, were living the life she should have had.

He frowned at Matt. “I certainly can’t tell her the truth. I’m not telling her anything, if I can help it.”

“Sounds like a mistake to me.”

“Why?” He shot the word at his brother like a dare, but Matt looked unaffected.

“You’ll just encourage her to go to other people for what she needs.”

“No one knows the truth.”

Matt shrugged. “You’re probably right. But what if you’re not? Better answer her questions yourself than have her asking around town.”

Unfortunately, that sounded like good advice. He lifted an eyebrow at Matt.

“How did you get to know so much about women, little brother?”

Matt grinned. “My wife’s training me.” He sobered. “Seriously, Adam. Just get through it the best you can. Give the woman a few noncommittal details and say you trust her artistic sense to come up with the design. She’ll get busy with the design and stop bothering you.”

“I hope so.” But somehow he didn’t think Tory was the kind of person to do anything without doing it to perfection.

He got up slowly, letting the chair roll against shelves crammed with shipbuilding lore. “Guess I’d better go back to the church and make peace with her, if I can.”

Adam slipped in the side door to the sanctuary and stopped in the shadows. Tory, on the ladder, didn’t seem to hear him. He could take a minute to think what he’d say to her.

Unfortunately he wasn’t thinking about that. Instead he was watching her, trying to figure out what it was about the woman that made it so hard to pull his gaze away.

She wasn’t beautiful. That was his first impression. At least, she wasn’t beautiful like Lila had been, all sleek perfection. But Tory had something, some quality that made a man look, then look again.

Those must be her working clothes—well-worn jeans, sneakers, a T-shirt topped by an oversize man’s white shirt that served to emphasize her slender figure. She looked like what she was, he supposed. An artisan, a woman who worked with her hands and didn’t have time or inclination for the expensive frills that had been so important to Lila.

Tory’s hair, rich as dark chocolate, had been pulled back and tied at the nape of her neck with a red scarf. The hair seemed to have a mind of its own, as tendrils escaped to curl against her neck and around the pale oval of her face.

Oh, no. He’d been that route before, hadn’t he? Intrigued by a woman, mistaking a lovely face for a lovely soul, thinking her promises meant loyalty that would last a lifetime. With Lila, that lifetime had only lasted five years before she’d lost interest in keeping her vows.

His hands clenched. He wouldn’t do that again. He had his daughter, his family, his business to take care of. That was enough for any sensible man.

The smartest thing would be to avoid Ms. Tory Marlowe entirely, but he couldn’t do that. Thanks to Mona’s bright idea, he and Tory were tied inextricably together until this project was finished.

Something winced inside him. He had to talk to her, and it might as well be now.

He took a step forward, frowning. Tory had leaned over perilously far, long fingers outstretched to touch some flaw she must see in the window.

“Hold it.”

She jerked around at the sound of his voice, the ladder wobbling. His breath caught as she put a steadying hand on the wall. He hurried to brace the ladder for her, annoyed with himself for startling her.

She frowned at him. “Are you trying to make me fall?”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m trying to keep you from falling.” He gave the elderly wooden ladder a shake. “This thing isn’t safe.”

She jumped down, landing close enough for him to smell the fresh scent that clung to her. “I do this all the time, you know. Scrambling around on rickety ladders comes with the territory.”

“You might do that elsewhere, sugar, but not in my church.”

Her dark eyes met his, startled and a little wary. The red T-shirt she wore under the white shirt seemed to make them even darker. “What did you call me?”

“Sorry.” But somehow he wasn’t. “Afraid that slipped out. It’s usually Jenny I’m lecturing about dangerous pastimes.”

Her already firm jaw tightened. “I’m not eight, and I’m doing my job.”

She reminded him of Gran, intent on doing what she wanted to no matter how well-intentioned her family’s interference was. The comparison made him smile.

“Are you always this stubborn?”

“Always.” Something that might have been amusement touched her face. “I’m not your responsibility.”

“Well, you know, there’s where you’re wrong. In a way, you are my responsibility.”

She lifted level brows. “How do you figure that?”

He patted the ladder, and it shook. “Everything about the building and grounds of St. Andrews is my responsibility. Including rickety ladders.”

She grimaced. “I’ve been on worse than this one, believe me.”

“You shouldn’t be up on a ladder at all.” An idea sprang into his mind, and it was such a perfect solution he didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to him sooner.

Steel glinted in Tory’s eyes. “If you think I’ll give up the project because I have to climb a ladder, you have the wrong impression of me, Mr. Caldwell.”

“Adam,” he corrected. “I think my impression of you is fairly accurate, as a matter of fact. But I was referring to the ladder, not your personality, Ms. Marlowe.”

A faint flush stained her cheeks, and she fingered the fine silver chain that circled her neck. “Maybe you’d better make that Tory. What about the ladder?”

“It’s not safe. I’ll have a crew come over from the boatyard to put up scaffolding so you can inspect the windows safely. That’s what we should have done to begin with.”

He was taking charge of the situation. That, too, was what he should have done from the word go, instead of letting himself get defensive.

“You don’t need to—”

“As far as working on them is concerned—” he swept on “—we’ll take the panels out completely. That way we won’t have to worry about St. Andrews getting slapped with a lawsuit.”

He thought her lips twitched. “Is that what you’re worried about?”

“Definitely.”

She nodded. “Well, in that case, since you’re being so cooperative, I will need a workroom, preferably with good light, where things won’t be disturbed.” She glanced around. “Is there a space in the church that would do?”

“Nothing,” he replied promptly. Ms. Tory didn’t know it, but she was walking right into his plans. “We have just what you need at the house, though. It’s a big room with plenty of light and a door you can lock. We’ll move in tables or benches, whatever you need.”

He could see the wariness in her face at the idea. “I don’t think I should be imposing on you.”

“It’s not an imposition. It’s my responsibility, remember?”

“Having me work at your home sounds well beyond the call of duty. I’ll be in your way.”

“You haven’t seen our house if you think that. It’s a great rambling barn.”

“Even so…” She still looked reluctant.

“You don’t want me to bring up the big guns, do you?”

“Big guns?”

“Pastor Wells and my grandmother. They’ll agree this is the best solution. You’d find them a formidable pair in an argument.”

The smile he hadn’t seen before lit her face like sunlight sparkling on the sound. “Thanks, but I think you’re formidable enough. All right. We’ll try it your way.”

“Good.” He was irrationally pleased that she’d given in without more of a fight. “I’ll have a crew over here later this afternoon to set up scaffolding, so you can inspect the rest of the windows tomorrow. Don’t climb any ladders in the meantime.”

She lifted her brows at what undoubtedly sounded like an order. “Are you always this determined to look after people?”

“Always.”

She turned to grasp the ladder. He helped her lower it to the floor. Her hair brushed his cheek lightly as they moved together, and he had to dismiss the idea of prolonging the moment.

Just get through it, Matt had said. Okay, that’s what he’d do. He’d take control of this project instead of reacting to it. And the first step in that direction was to have Tory’s workroom right under his eyes. Of course that meant that Tory herself would be, as well.

He could manage this. All right, he found her attractive. That didn’t mean he’d act on that attraction, not even in his imagination.

“Well, what do you think? Will this be a comfortable place to work?”

Adam looked at her for approval. Light poured into the large room he called the studio from its banks of windows. On one side Tory could see the salt marsh, beyond it the sparkle of open water. At the back, the windows overlooked a stretch of lawn, then garden and stables. Pale wooden molding surrounded the windows, and low shelves reached from the sills to the wide-planked floor. Anyone would say it was an ideal place to work.

“This should do very nicely.” She couldn’t say that his home had taken her by surprise. This wasn’t a house—it was a mansion. And she didn’t want to say that she’d lived like this once, before her mother’s downward spiral into depression, alcoholism and poverty.

She took a breath. She’d been handling those recollections for a long time. She could handle this reminder. Besides, being here was a golden opportunity to find out what she needed to about the Caldwells. She just had to get Adam to open up.

“Why do you call it a studio?”

He shrugged. “We always have. My mother used it that way. Dad turned the space into a playroom for us kids after she died.” He pointed to a small easel in the corner, the shelves behind it stacked with children’s books, paints and crayons. “Jenny likes to paint in here when she’s in the mood.”

The room seemed uncomfortably full of his family with one notable exception. He hadn’t mentioned his wife. “Was your mother an artist?”

“She painted, did needlework, that kind of thing.” Sadness shadowed Adam’s face for a moment. “I can remember her sitting in front of the windows with some project on her lap. She died when I was eight.”

“I’m sorry.” Tory had been five when her father died. She hesitated, torn. If she told Adam about it, that might create a bond that would encourage him to talk, but she didn’t give away pieces of herself that easily.

She walked to the long table that held the first of the panels they’d removed from the church that morning. Everything she’d asked for was here, ready and waiting for her. She longed to dive into the work and forget everything else. If Adam would leave—

“What about you?” Adam leaned his hip against the table, crossing his arms, clearly not intending to go anywhere at the moment.

She looked at him blankly, not sure what he meant by the question.

“Family,” he added. “You’ve met Jenny and my grandmother, heard about my mother. What about your family?”

It was the inevitable question Southerners put to each other at some point. She’d heard it before, phrased a little differently each time, maybe, but always asking the same thing. Who are your people? That was more important than what you did or where you went to school or even how much money you had. Who are your people?

“I’m alone.” That wouldn’t be enough. She had to say more or he’d wonder. “My father died when I was quite young, and my mother last year. I don’t have any other relatives.” At least, not any relatives that would like to claim me.

“I’m sorry.” Adam’s eyes darkened with quick sympathy. “That’s rough. They were from this part of the world, weren’t they?”

The question struck her like a blow. “What makes you think that?”

He smiled slowly. Devastatingly. “Sugar, you’ve been slipping back into a low-country accent since the day you arrived. You can’t fool an old geechee like me.”

Geechee. She hadn’t heard that word since she’d left Savannah, but it resounded in her heart. Anyone born along this part of the coast was a geechee, said either affectionately or with derision, depending on the speaker. Apparently she couldn’t leave her heritage behind, no matter how she tried.

Tory managed a stiff smile in return. “I’m from Savannah originally, but I’ve been up north so long I thought I passed for one of them.”

“Not a chance.” He pushed himself away from the table, the movement bringing him close enough to make her catch her breath, making her too aware of the solid strength of him. “Welcome back home, Tory Marlowe.”

She wanted to deny it, to say she didn’t have any intention of belonging in this part of the world again. But his low voice, threaded with amusement, seemed to have taken away her ability to speak. Or maybe it was his sheer masculine presence, only inches from her.

Adam wasn’t the boy he’d been at seventeen. That boy had been charming enough to haunt her dreams for a good long time. Grown-up Adam was twice as hard to ignore. He was taller, broader, stronger. The lines around his eyes said he’d dealt with pain and come away cautious, but he had an air of assurance that compelled a response.

A response she didn’t have any intention of making. She wouldn’t let fragments of memory turn her to mush. She’d better get back to business, right now.

She cleared her throat, dismissing its tightness. “One thing about working in the studio concerns me.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Only one?”

She would not return that attractive smile. “Glass slivers fly around when I’m working. And the lead I use is dangerous to children.”

He nodded, face sobering. “I’ve told Jenny she must never come in unless you invite her. To be extra safe, I have a key to the studio for you.” Adam held out a key ring. “And a house key, in case you ever need to come in when no one is here.”

It was as if he handed her a key to the Caldwell family. Everything she was hiding from him flooded her mind. “I won’t need that.”

He took her hand and put the ring in her palm, his fingers warm against hers. “Just in case.” We trust you, he seemed to be saying.

You can’t. You can’t trust me.

“Looks as if you’re getting all set up in here.” A tall, silver-haired man paused in the doorway, his interruption saving her from blurting something that would defeat her goals even before she started.

Adam took his hand away from hers, unhurried. “Tory, this is my father, Jefferson Caldwell.”

“Mr. Caldwell.” He came toward her, and she shook his hand while she tried to ignore the voice in her mind.

Jefferson and Clayton Caldwell. Her mother’s words had been disjointed and hard to follow. They were brothers, just a year apart. Her mother’s coquettish giggle had sounded out of place in the hospital room. They were both sweet on me, you know.

Tory could easily imagine that. She’d seen pictures of her mother at fifteen, before alcohol and sorrow had weighed her down. Emily had been a golden girl, far more beautiful than Tory could ever dream of being.

If she mentioned Emily Brandeis’s name to Jefferson Caldwell, would he remember that long-ago summer? Her mother had certainly remembered it. Rational or not, she’d traced everything that had gone wrong in her life to the events of that summer.

Jefferson surveyed the setup that had changed his studio into her workroom, then turned to her. “Welcome to Caldwell Island, Ms. Marlowe. I hope you’re finding everything you need for this project.”

Jefferson’s beautifully tailored jacket and silky dress shirt gave him an urbane, sophisticated air that seemed out of tune with the down-home impression she received from his brother, Clayton, whose family ran the inn.

“Yes, thank you. I hope it won’t inconvenience you to have my workshop here.”

“Not at all.” He waved his hand as if to encompass the entire estate. “Twin Oaks is a big enough place to accommodate all of us.”

“It’s a beautiful house.” She said what he no doubt expected.

“Yes, it is that.” Jefferson smiled with satisfaction at her words.

A cold house, she thought, but who was she to judge? No house could be more frigid than her grandmother’s mansion in Savannah.

The hospital where she’d sat beside her mother’s bed hadn’t been far from her grandmother’s Bull Street mansion, but there’d been no contact. Neither of them had expected it. Amanda Marlowe had long since cut all ties with her embarrassing daughter-in-law. Probably losing touch with her granddaughter had seemed a small price to pay.

Her mother had moved restlessly on the bed, shaking her head from side to side. I didn’t mean for him to take his family’s heirloom. I didn’t mean it, Tory. I didn’t want anyone to get hurt. Tears had overflowed. You have to find the dolphin and put it back. Promise me. Her thin hand had gripped Tory’s painfully. Promise me. You have to promise me.

I didn’t mean for him to take it. Her mother had felt responsible for the disappearance of the carved dolphin from the island church. For reasons Tory would never understand, that guilt had haunted her during her final illness. Someone had been hurt, but who?

I didn’t mean for him to take it. One of the Caldwells, obviously, but which brother? Jefferson or Clayton?

She searched for something to say to drown out her mother’s voice in her mind. “I’m staying at the Dolphin Inn, you know. So I’ve become acquainted with your brother and his family.”

Jefferson’s face froze as a chill seemed to permeate the air. “I suppose they’re making you as comfortable as they can. When the new Dalton Hotel is finished, we’ll be able to offer visitors something better than Clayton’s little operation.”

The spurt of malice in his words silenced her. Had he really just insulted his brother to a stranger?

Luckily Jefferson didn’t seem to expect a response. “I’ll let you get on with your work. Please ask if there’s anything else you need.” He turned and left the room before she could find a response.

When Jefferson’s footsteps had faded down the hallway, she gave Adam a cautious look. “Did I say something I shouldn’t?”

He shrugged, but she could almost feel the tension in his shoulders. “Nothing you could have known about, so don’t worry. My father and his brother have been on the outs for a long time. The rest of us have learned to take it for granted.”

The silence stretched between them, broken only by a bird’s song drifting through the open window. How long a time, she wanted to ask. Since they were teenagers? Since Emily Brandeis came to the island and the dolphin vanished from the church?

But she couldn’t ask because she wasn’t ready for these people to know who she was yet. Until she knew how they’d respond, she couldn’t risk it.

“I’m sorry for putting my foot in it,” she said carefully. “Family feuds can be devastating.” Nobody knew that better than she did.

“I’m used to it.”

Was he? Or was that merely a convenient thing to believe?

One thing was certain. Her job on the island wasn’t just another commission or a step toward the independence she longed for or even a chance to keep her promise.

Like it or not, her history and Adam’s history were interwoven in ways he couldn’t begin to imagine.

What was she thinking? Adam leaned against the heavy oak table, watching Tory’s face. Light from the bank of windows made her hair glint like a raven’s wing.

He forgot, sometimes, how odd the Caldwell family feud must seem to an outsider, especially since he had no intention of telling this particular outsider anything else. She didn’t need to know that his father’s drive for success at any cost had created a wedge between him and the rest of the family, who thought he’d left his honor behind along the way.

She also didn’t need to learn that Adam’s peacemaker role had grown increasingly difficult over the years. He’d been peacemaker between his father and brother, between his father and the rest of the family—maybe the truth was that the buffer always ended up battered by all sides.

“It must bother you.” Her eyes went soft as brown velvet with sympathy.

That look of hers would be enough to melt his heart if he didn’t watch out. “I suppose it does, sometimes.” She was a stranger, he reminded himself. Furthermore, she was a stranger whose presence here threatened his secret.

Get through it, his brother had said. Matt charged at problems headlong, shoving barriers out of his way. Adam wasn’t Matt.

He’d come up with another way of dealing with the trouble represented by Tory Marlowe. His gaze was drawn irresistibly to her. What was she thinking?

Apparently assuming he wasn’t going to say anything else, she bent over the window panel, her fingers tracing the pieces as lovingly as he’d touch his daughter’s hair. Her dark locks were escaping from the scarf that tied them back. They curled against her neck as if they had a mind of their own.

Deal with her, he reminded himself. Not gawk at her as if you’ve never seen a woman before.

He didn’t want her wandering around Caldwell Cove, digging into a past that was best forgotten. So the best solution, until and unless he could find a way to derail this memorial window altogether, was to move Tory into Twin Oaks.

“I’ve been having second thoughts about this arrangement.”

She looked up, startled. Apparently while he was watching the way her hair curled against her skin, she’d forgotten he was in the room. “What do you mean? I thought you wanted me to work here.”

Would he ever get things right with this woman? He reminded himself that it didn’t matter—all that did was her leaving Caldwell Cove.

“Of course I want you to work here.” He almost put his hand on her shoulder, then decided that would be a bad idea. “In fact, I think you ought to stay here at the house while you’re in Caldwell Cove.”

A frown line appeared between her brows. “Is this because of the feud between your father and his brother?”

He should have realized she’d think that. “Absolutely not,” he said. “I get along fine with Uncle Clayton and everyone else in the family.”

“Well, you would.” Her lips curved in the slightest of smiles. “Miranda says you’re everyone’s friend. That everyone in town relies on you.”

“I wonder if she meant that as a compliment.” That was him, all right. Good old reliable Adam.

“Of course she did. Anyone would.”

“Sounds sort of stodgy, don’t you think?”

“It sounds good.” She looked startled, as if she hadn’t intended to say that. “Anyway, if it’s not that, then why should I move here from the inn? I’m comfortable there, and I can drive over every day.”

Because I want to keep tabs on you. He could give her any reason but the real one.

“We have plenty of room for you.”

“They have room for me where I am.”

“Yes, but you won’t have to pay for a room here.”

She blinked at that, face suddenly shadowed. The look opened up a whole new train of thought. Was money a problem?

“I don’t know what advance my mother-in-law has paid you,” he said cautiously. Tory obviously had an independent streak a mile wide. “But it stands to reason we should pick up your expenses while you’re here.”

“That doesn’t mean I should be your houseguest.”

“It doesn’t mean you shouldn’t.” He suspected he sounded the way he did when he tried to coax Jenny into eating her collard greens. “If you move into Twin Oaks, you’ll be close to your work. That will certainly be more convenient.”

Her lips pursed as she considered, and he found himself wondering how it would feel to kiss those lips. He shook off the speculation. Not a good idea, Caldwell.

“If you’re worried about propriety, you needn’t be. As my father said, it’s a big house. Miz Becky, the housekeeper, lives in, and we often have business colleagues of my father’s staying.”

“That isn’t what I’m worried about.” She looked up, eyes dark and serious. “I might even find it helpful—giving me a better sense of the kind of person your late wife was.”

It felt as if she’d punched him, and he could only hope his expression didn’t change. Naturally she’d think living in Lila’s house, talking with the people who’d been closest to her, would help her know Lila.

Nobody here will tell you the truth, Tory, because nobody knows it but me.

Well, Miz Becky might have guessed some of it. The Gullah woman who’d taken care of the family since his mother died often knew things no one had told her. But Miz Becky would never betray his trust, no matter what Tory asked. She understood loyalty.

He managed a smile. “What’s holding you back?”

“Your father.”

“Dad?” That startled him. “Why on earth?”

“I didn’t get off to a good start with him. I can’t imagine that he’d want me living under his roof.”

“Now that’s where you’re wrong. He’s the one who suggested it.”

Get her out of Clayton’s place, for pity’s sake, his father had said irritably. That’s the last impression we want to make on the woman—that Caldwells are back-country hicks with no more ambition than to rent out a few rooms and go fishing.

“Is that true?”

“Cross my heart,” he said lightly. “Dad would like you to stay here.”

“And you would like me to leave the island and never come back.” Her eyes met his.

She wouldn’t be convinced by a polite evasion. His natural instinct was to say as little about Lila as possible. As long as he didn’t talk about her, he could forget. At least, that’s what he told himself.

Tory’s gaze was unwavering. He felt a surge of annoyance. No one else in his life pushed him on this. They respected his grief and kept silent.

Or maybe that was the pattern of his relationships. He was the listener, the shoulder to cry on. He wasn’t supposed to have tears of his own.

“All right.” He blew out a frustrated breath. “I’m not crazy about this idea of Mona’s.”

“That’s been clear all along. But I don’t understand why. A memorial to your wife…”

“Exactly. A memorial. Something that brings back memories.” He swung away from her, not wanting her to discover what kind of memories they were.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice softened, filled with sympathy for the grief she imagined he was expressing. “I don’t want to hurt you, and I’m sure that’s the last thing on your mother-in-law’s mind.”

“Thank you.” She shamed him with her quick sympathy. For an instant he imagined the relief he’d feel at telling her the truth.

Horrified, he rejected the thought. He couldn’t tell anyone, least of all a stranger working for Lila’s mother. Mona, like Jenny, would never know the truth from him. He turned toward her.

“Look, this will work out. Just give me time to get used to the idea. All right?”

Tory nodded. Her dark eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and he felt like a dog for accepting the sympathy he didn’t deserve.

“All right. And if you’re sure about this, I’ll take you up on your offer of a room.”

Relief swept through him. “I’m sure.”

Tory squeezed his hand, the gesture probably intended to express sympathy. He felt the touch of her fingers right up his arm.

His eyes met hers. Her dark eyes widened, and her lips formed a silent oh. She felt what he did. And she didn’t know what to do with it, either.

This is a mistake. The voice inside his head was deafening. You won’t risk feeling anything for a woman again. And if you wanted to, it wouldn’t be Tory. She’s complicating your life enough just by being here.

Good advice. That was his specialty, giving good advice to other people. Why did he feel that following his own advice was going to be next to impossible where Tory Marlowe was concerned?

If she’d thought living at Twin Oaks would bring her any closer to her goals, Tory had been wrong. She hadn’t found out a single thing about Lila or the disappearance of the dolphin in the three days she’d been there.

She leaned against the back porch post, sketch pad on her lap. The lawn, greening again after summer’s heat, stretched under live oaks draped with Spanish moss that looked like swags of gray-green lace. Bronze and yellow chrysanthemums spilled over the flower beds along the walks.

Jenny lazed away a Saturday afternoon, pushing herself back and forth in a wooden plank swing suspended from a sturdy branch. Her sneakers scraped the ground with each arc, and her curls bounced.

Tory looked from the child to the sketch that had grown under her fingers. Jenny swung on the page, face lifted to the breeze she was creating.

“That’s good, that is.”

Tory glanced up. Miz Becky, the woman who ran Twin Oaks and apparently everyone in it, settled in the bentwood rocker.

“Thanks.” Tory flexed her fingers and stretched, lifting damp hair off her neck. Even in fall, the air was sultry here. “I can’t sit without doodling.”

Miz Becky’s smile warmed her elegant, austere face. With her hair covered by a colorful scarf wound into a turban, she looked like royalty. “Know what you mean about that.” She lifted the strainer of fresh green beans. “I got to keep my hands busy, too.”

It was the first time she’d been alone with Miz Becky, her first opportunity to ask her about Lila Caldwell if she wanted.

“How’re those windows at the church coming along?” Miz Becky asked.

“Not bad.” Tory wrapped her arms around her knees, wishing she could find a tactful way to broach the subject. “The repairs are moving along. Unfortunately, the new window isn’t.”

The woman popped the ends off the beans with a decisive snap. “Why’s that?”

“I really need to find out more about Mrs. Caldwell’s life if I’m going to come up with a design to honor her. So far—”

“So far Adam’s not talking.” Mix Becky tossed a handful of beans into a sweetgrass basket.

“That’s about the size of it.” She thought of the darkness that crossed Adam’s open, friendly face whenever the topic was raised. “I don’t want to intrude on his grief, but I’m afraid I’ll have to.”

“Grief?” Miz Becky seemed to consider the word. “I’m not so sure that’s what’s keeping him close-mouthed about her.”

Tory glanced up, startled. That almost sounded as if…

Before she could respond, Jenny ran toward them.

“Miz Tory, could we go for a walk on the beach?” The child hopped onto the first step and balanced on one foot. “Please?” She gave Tory the smile that was so like her father’s. “I can’t go by myself.”

She couldn’t resist that smile. “If Miz Becky says it’s okay.”

“Get along.” Miz Becky flapped a hand at them. She held Tory’s gaze for an instant. “Just might answer a few questions for you.”

Was the woman suggesting that Jenny could be a source of information? Adam would definitely disapprove of that.

Jenny grasped Tory’s hand and tugged her off the step. “Come on. I’ll race you.”

Grabbing the sketch pad, Tory followed. She wouldn’t ask the child. If Jenny volunteered anything, that was different.

They crossed the lawn. Jenny skipped ahead of her down the path toward the beach. Palmettos and pines lined it, casting dense shadows littered with oversize pinecones and palmetto fans stripped by the wind.

They emerged from tree shadows into bright, clear light, the ocean stretching blue, then gray, then blending into the sky at the horizon. Tory tilted her head back, inhaling the tang of salt and fish and seaweed washed up by the tide and baking in the sun. It filled her with an irrational sense of well-being, nostalgic for a time she could barely remember.

Jenny trotted across beige sand and hopped onto a fallen log, bleached white by the sea. She patted the smooth space next to her. “Sit here, Miz Tory. I want to talk to you.”

Smiling at the serious turn of phrase, Tory sat. The log was smooth, sun-warmed, a little sandy. “About what?”

“My mother,” Jenny said promptly. “I want to talk about my mother.”

“Listen, Jenny, I don’t think your daddy would like that.”

Jenny’s frown resembled her father’s, too. “The window you’re making is for my mommy. I can tell you lots of things that will help.” She pointed to the small purple and white flowers blooming close to the ground among the sea oats in the dunes. “See those?”

“Beach morning glories, aren’t they?” She hadn’t expected to, but she remembered the tiny, trumpet-shaped flowers from those early childhood holidays when her father was alive and the family summered on Tybee Island. Her fingers automatically picked up the pencil.

“Those were my mommy’s favorite flowers.” Jenny said it firmly, as if to refute argument.

“They’re very pretty.” Beach morning glories began to grow on the paper under her hand.

“I remember lots of things.” A frown clouded her small face. “Like how Mommy smelled, and what she liked to eat. And—”

“What are you doing?”

Tory’s heart jolted into overdrive. Adam stood at the end of the path, glaring. There wasn’t any doubt that his sharp question was aimed at her.

A rush of anger threatened to overwhelm Adam. Tory was talking to his daughter about Lila. He clenched his fists. He’d avoided her questions so she’d turned to his child. How dare she?

Jenny’s stubborn pout reached through his anger to sound a warning note. Careful. Don’t make too much of this in front of her.

“We’re talking, Daddy.” Jenny tilted her chin. “About Mommy.”

“I see.” He crossed the sand toward them, put one foot on the bleached log, tried for a casualness he didn’t feel. “That’s nice, sugar, but Miz Becky’s looking for you. She has your snack ready.”

“But, Daddy, I don’t want to go yet. I’m not done telling Ms. Tory about Mommy.”

He pushed down another wave of anger at Tory, took Jenny’s hands and swung her off the log. “Maybe not, but Miz Becky’s waiting for you. Get along, now.”

Jenny pouted, then glanced at Tory. “I’ll see you after a while. We’ll talk some more.” At his warning look, she darted toward the path.

The smile Tory had for his daughter slipped from her face once Jenny was gone. She planted her hands against the log on either side of her, seeming to brace herself for battle. “Is something wrong?”

“I think you know something’s wrong.” Anger drove him, so intense he almost didn’t know where to begin. “First off, Jenny’s not supposed to go to the beach without asking, even with a grown-up.”

Tory lifted her level brows. “Miz Becky gave her permission. Surely you don’t think I’d take Jenny anywhere otherwise.”

“I don’t know what you’d do.” Being blunt might be the only thing that would work with the woman. “You were probing Jenny for information about her mother.” He flung the words at her like missiles. He wanted her to admit she’d been wrong. More than that, he wanted her gone.

She didn’t give any sign of being struck. “I wasn’t probing. Jenny brought it up. She wanted to talk.”

His heart seemed to wince at that, and for a moment there was no sound but the rustle of sea oats bowing in the wind. Then he found his voice. “That’s ridiculous. Jenny was only four when her mother died. She barely recalls her.”

“Maybe that’s the point. She wants to remember.” Passion flared in Tory’s face, vivid and startling. “Don’t you realize that?”

Her question flicked him on the raw edges of emotion, and he wanted to hit back. “I realize it’s none of your business.”

Her mouth tightened, as if acknowledging his right to say it. “You can’t stop the child from remembering.” Her voice softened, and she put up one hand to brush windblown hair from her eyes. “Why would you want to?”

It was safer not to stare into brown eyes that seemed to know too much about loneliness. He looked beyond Tory, focusing on the inexorable movement of the waves rolling into shore. A line of sandpipers rushed importantly along the wet sand. He struggled, trying to find the right words.

“I don’t. But I don’t want her to be stuck in grieving. Jenny needs to look forward,” he said. “There’s nothing to be gained by dwelling on the past.”

“Are you talking about Jenny or about yourself?” The question was like a blow to the stomach, but before he could react, she was shaking her head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No.” He had to force the word through tight lips. “You shouldn’t.” She had no right.

“I just want…” She let the words trail off, then held her sketch pad out to him. “Look. This is what I’m trying to do.”

He took the pad, frowning at a sketch of beach morning glories trailing along the page. “You’re drawing flowers. What does that have to do with questioning my daughter?”

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