Marriage in Jeopardy. Anna Adams

      “I’ve been thinking… You turned your back on me because you learned how to hold a grudge against your parents. You know how to withhold love.”

      “It’s completely different. They let my sister die—and she depended on me.”

      “I let your son die—and I was his only protection.”

      “How can you say that?”

      She didn’t answer with words. Her eyes were red and full of tears.

      “Don’t be crazy.” He pulled her close. She stiffened, but he held on. “I’m the one who should have seen what was happening. I’m as blind as my parents ever were. Twice now, someone I’ve loved has died because I wasn’t careful enough.”

      “No.” She put her hands on his upper arms, but this time, when she pushed herself away, it was so she could look him in the eye. “You did everything for Clara, and I may be angry because Vivian Durance was your client’s wife, but you couldn’t know what she’d do unless she told you.” She looked at him with a plea for reassurance.

      “Of course she didn’t tell me. She ranted and the bailiffs dragged her out of court. She didn’t even threaten me, much less you. I swear I didn’t know.”

      “You don’t have to swear.” She braced her hands in the small of her back, sagging against the doorjamb. “I’m exhausted.”

      She’d let him off the hook, but if they let it go, were they following the same habit that had nearly sunk their marriage? “Come on. A few more steps and you’re in bed.”

      Usually, he had to force himself inside this room. Not this afternoon.

      Over the years, he’d taken down most of the old posters. No more scantily clad women seducing from the walls. No cars he’d never own on a public defender’s salary. He’d had a thing for Dali when he was a teenager who’d believed human beings could create their own reality. Those posters remained, still in their cheap frames.

      “Your mom changed the bedding.”

      Gone was the thin spread that had barely covered his grandparents’ old double bed. His mother had replaced it with an ivory comforter, posh and inviting enough to make Lydia test its thickness.

      “Want to change clothes?” he asked.

      “Yes, please. These jeans are killing me.”

      As if on cue, his father showed up, holding their bags. Josh took them. “Thanks, Dad.” He set Lydia’s on the bed and unzipped the clothing compartment. “What can I take out?”

      “I’ll get it in a sec.” She grinned at his dad. “Thanks, Bart. How’s the fishing?”

      “Good enough.” He hugged her again. Josh watched, bemused. That sort of spontaneity rarely happened here. “I’m pleased you came, and you know Evelyn and I are both so sorry about the baby.”

      Lydia faltered. “Me, too, Bart. I’ve been so swallowed in grief I almost forgot he was your grandson, too.” She turned, hiding her face. “Excuse me.” She whipped the flap open on her bag and yanked out a pair of flannel pajama pants and a matching blue tank top. Without looking back, she left to change in the bathroom across the hall.

      Josh stared at his father. Over Bart’s shoulder, Clara’s room was closed tight, decades of accusations and grief stuffed inside.

      “I’m glad you found time to come, son.”

      “I want to be with Lydia.” His father flinched and Josh looked away from Clara’s room. “We’re grateful you and Mom offered her—us—time up here.”

      “Come down when you’re ready.” Bart started to leave but looked back. “Concentrate on Lydia. Don’t either of you worry about us this visit.”

      Josh exhaled, seeing stars in front of his eyes. Maybe Lydia was right. He had to do something about this thing with his parents.

      He moved his bag to the chair at his childhood desk, which was rammed against the wall beneath the sloping eave. He was hanging Lydia’s things in the closet when she came back. “Where’s your father?”

      “Downstairs.” Josh pulled back the comforter and sheet. “In you go.” As she crawled past him, he stroked her back. She jumped, but kept moving, unconsciously choosing her usual side of the bed.

      “What did you say to him?”

      “You don’t have to be suspicious. We didn’t argue.”

      “Nice effort.” She eased onto her back. “Wake me if your parents want to put dinner off because I’m sleeping.” She rolled on to her side and pulled the sheet up.

      “They won’t mind if you sleep.” He tucked the comforter around her. No task was too small.

      “They’re doing enough, getting us out of that house. I don’t want to put them to extra trouble.” She sighed, so weary her skin and lips looked almost bloodless. “Is this worse for you?” she asked.

      “No.” Seeing the baby’s things had made him hurt for Lydia and himself and for the child they’d never have a chance to know. He’d never feel comfortable in Kline, but time had applied a sturdy bandage to the wounds he’d suffered there. “Being here is better than being in the town house.”

      CHAPTER FOUR

      EVELYN WAS CHOPPING tomatoes for a salad when a scream rode up her spine. She dropped the knife. Her hand, jerking, shoved the tomatoes across the counter. She flew down the hall and up the narrow stairs.

      At the door to Josh’s room, she paused. Lydia might want privacy. Hell, no. She’d screamed. No one would ever find Evelyn negligent again.

      “Lydia?” Tapping twice, she opened the door at the same time. “Are you awake, honey?”

      “Come in.”

      Already in, Evelyn stopped dead. Covered in sweat that curled her blond hair, Lydia turned from the closet beside Josh’s desk, her hand sliding off the doorknob to tremble at her thigh. Her pale face and shadowed eyes made Evelyn desperate to do something. Anything.

      “How bad do I look?” Lydia asked.

      “Well.” Evelyn didn’t want to frighten her. “I hope you’re feeling some better. What’s wrong?”

      “Nothing. I thought I’d lost my clothes.” She opened the closet and pulled out a clean T-shirt, her face flushing as if she’d made up an excuse. “Josh must have put them away.”

      “You didn’t scream over a shirt.”

      Lydia froze. “I screamed? You heard me?”

      “Yes.” Trying to laugh, Evelyn pushed Lydia’s moist hair away from her face. “That’s the way screaming works. Do you have a fever?”

      “Don’t suggest that in front of Josh.” Lydia’s quick smile apologized for her terseness. “He’ll worry.”

      Evelyn sank against the bed, pushing her hands down her own faded jeans. “What a relief. Bart and I wondered if something was wrong between you.”

      Lydia stared too hard at her shirt. “We’re both sad.”

      “I mean I’ve been worried before. Josh has a compulsion to save the world. It’s my fault, of course, and his father’s, so I shouldn’t say anything, but where does that leave you?”

      Lydia shook out her shirt, her expression an order to butt out. “I need to change.”

      The old Evelyn would have backed down. The new Evelyn wasn’t so different after all. “Go in the bathroom and wash your face, too. I’ll make the bed. You’re sure about the fever?”

      Lydia started toward the door, but stopped. “Look,” she said. “Josh