Promise Forever. Marta Perry

fact that he’d been thinking just that. He’d better concentrate on the room instead of noticing how well those faded jeans fit her slim figure. “I need something to use for a desk. A table would work, if you have one to spare. If not, I’ll go out and buy one.”

      “No need. I’ll find something.”

      She shoved a strand of hair from her eyes. He found himself thinking that its color was nearer mahogany than auburn and then told himself that it didn’t matter in the least what color Miranda’s hair was. She vanished before he could say anything, her quick footsteps receding down the hallway.

      All right, he needed some rules if he were actually going to stay here. The first one had to be no staring at Miranda. And the second one better be no remembering the past.

      He heard her coming before he could decide on rule three. Something thumped against the wall. He reached the door to see Miranda backing toward him, holding one end of a rectangular oak table. Her mother, wearing a dolphin T-shirt also, wrestled with the other end. He sprang to help them.

      “Mrs. Caldwell, let me take that.”

      Sallie Caldwell surrendered her grip, giving him a smile too like her daughter’s for comfort. “I’m afraid the table doesn’t match the rest of the furniture, but Miranda said that didn’t matter.”

      Miranda had probably said that if he didn’t like it he could lump it.

      “It’ll work.” He guided the heavy table through the doorway, finding it necessary to remind himself again not to let his gaze linger on Miranda’s face. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, either from exertion or because she had indeed said what he imagined.

      Miranda helped him position the makeshift desk near the window. Then, as if she thought she’d spent enough time in his company for one day, she retreated to the doorway where her mother waited.

      “If there’s anything else you need, just let us know.” Sallie Caldwell put her arm around her daughter’s waist with easy affection as she smiled at him. She had Miranda’s bronze hair, streaked with gray.

      “I will.” He tried without success to imagine his mother letting gray appear in her hair or wearing faded jeans and a T-shirt.

      “We’ll try to make you comfortable while you’re here.”

      They all knew there was nothing comfortable about any of this. Still, he sensed that Miranda’s mother meant what she said. There was no artifice about her—just the same unselfconscious natural beauty her daughter had.

      “Thank you, Mrs. Caldwell. The room will work just fine.”

      If I stay. The words whispered in his mind as the Caldwell women vanished down the hall.

      His cell phone rang, and he flipped it open. Probably Henry, responding to the message he’d left at the office. But it wasn’t his assistant—it was his brother.

      “Henry’s secretary passed your message on to me. He’s out of the office. What’s going on?” Curiosity filled Josh’s voice.

      “Out of the office where?” What was reliable Henry doing out of the office when he’d left him in charge?

      “Didn’t tell me.” He could almost see Josh’s shrug. “Something you want me to take care of before he gets back?”

      His first instinct was a prompt no, but someone at the office had to know where he was. And why. And how long he intended to stay.

      “Not exactly.” He hesitated. His brother would have to know. As irresponsible as Josh was, he wouldn’t spread the news if Tyler asked him not to. “I have a…situation here, and I don’t want anyone else to know the whole story. You can tell Henry, but no one else. Understood?”

      “Got it.” He could almost see Josh leaning back, propping his feet on the desk. “What’s up?”

      “You remember Miranda Caldwell?”

      A pause, but Josh would remember. After all, their father’s death had rocked both their worlds.

      “Your ex-wife.”

      “Yes. Turns out there was something she neglected to mention when we got divorced. I have a son.” He waited for an explosion of questions.

      Instead Josh whistled softly. “I assume you’re sure he’s yours.”

      “I’m sure.”

      “What are you going to do about it?”

      The very question he’d been asking himself. Apparently he already knew the answer. “I’m going to stay here for a while to get to know him.”

      He expected an argument. He didn’t get it. “Okay. I’ll tell Henry. What about Mother?”

      “Not yet.” He thought uneasily of their mother, honeymooning in Madrid with her new husband. She wouldn’t be happy that Miranda was back in his life. “Thanks, Josh.”

      He hung up, realizing why he didn’t want to tell anyone. The possession of a son had made him vulnerable. He didn’t like to be vulnerable. Miranda’s image presented itself in his mind and refused to be dismissed. Look where vulnerability had gotten him eight years ago.

      Several hours later, he sat back in the chair and stretched, congratulating himself. He had a reasonable facsimile of an office set up, he’d been in touch with Henry about his plans and he’d contacted the Charleston subsidiary of Winchester Industries and arranged a meeting there, since it was only a couple of hours away. Almost as much as he might have accomplished in Baltimore.

      At corporate headquarters, though, he wouldn’t have been quite so distracted by the view from the window. There, he’d look out on the Inner Harbor. Here, he looked out at Miranda, busy putting sheets on the clotheslines strung across the yard.

      He stood, frowning at the photo of Sammy he’d propped next to his computer. The reason had nothing to do with sentiment, he assured himself. He’d put it there to remind himself that he had to find out who’d sent it, and why.

      He picked it up, gaze straying again to Miranda. The chances he’d learn the truth about that without her help were slim and none. Therefore he needed to enlist her aid. He glanced at his watch. He’d better do it now, before Sammy came home from school.

      Tucking the photo into his shirt pocket, he headed for the backyard and Miranda.

      When he pushed open the screen door, Miranda was bending over an oval wicker clothes basket. She looked up at the sound, and her face went still at the sight of him.

      “I thought you were busy with work.” She shook out a damp sheet and began pinning it to the line, as if to show him that she was busy, as well.

      “I’ve made a good start.” He approached her, then had to step back as she shook out another sheet. “Don’t you have a dryer?”

      “Of course we have a dryer.” At his raised eyebrow, she shook her head as if in pity. “We like to sleep on air-dried sheets. So do our guests.”

      “Why?” He caught the end of the sheet she was manhandling. For a moment he thought she’d yank it free, but then she handed him a clothespin.

      “They smell like sunshine.”

      You smell like sunshine. He dismissed the vagrant thought. “Wouldn’t it be more efficient to use a laundry service?”

      “That’s not how we do things here.” She snapped out the words as if he’d insulted her. Sunlight filtered through live oaks and dappled her face.

      He reminded himself that he wanted her cooperation, not her enmity. “So you’re helping to run the inn now.”

      “That’s right.” She pinned up another sheet. “My college plans were derailed.”

      She’d been saving money that summer, he remembered, waiting tables at the yacht club so she could attend