A Time to Forgive. Marta Perry

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.

      Chapter Four

      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.”