A Time to Forgive. Marta Perry

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