A Secret To Tell You. Roz Denny Fox

was open that April Trent was able to march right up to the house.”

      “That irritating system was something your grandfather insisted on before we moved to this house. It was the beginning of his paranoia.”

      “Paranoia? Aren’t you exaggerating a bit?”

      “No, Quinn. I thought you knew he started drinking heavily when your dad was Hayley’s age. That’s when he hired Joseph to drive me to town, and Brett to school, among other eccentric whims.”

      “Dad mentioned that Granddad had an alcohol problem. On the other hand, he worked for the government. Maybe he couldn’t be too careful. Since I’ve become a candidate for the senate, I worry about crazies. The world is full of them. Come to think of it, we don’t know whether April Trent’s one or not.”

      “I hate to be impatient, Quinn, but…where are the letters?”

      “I didn’t get them.”

      She looked panicked. “Why not?”

      “Because April Trent is cagier than I gave her credit for.”

      “Goodness, is she holding out for more than you’re willing to pay? I’ll pay anything within reason.”

      He shrugged. “She wouldn’t discuss how much she wants. When I asked to sit down and talk, she threatened to phone the cops. She wasn’t bluffing, either. I was afraid her reporter pal, Eric Lathrop, was waiting to pop out of the bushes with a camera. Wouldn’t that have been a great photo to see on the front page tomorrow? Along with headlines accusing Quinn Santini, U.S. Senate candidate, of harassing the daughter of a rival lawyer.”

      “Quinn, I really don’t think this has anything to do with you being a candidate.”

      “Really? Then what reason would she have for flatly refusing to name her top figure—or even a bottom line? And she had me at a disadvantage, after all. I have no idea what the letters are worth. Which brings me back to the question I asked you right after she flew out of here in the first place. What the hell are we dickering over anyway, Gram? Suppose I get a cup of coffee and dry off by the fire while you fill me in.”

      “I apologize for sending you out in a storm tonight, and for making you miss an opportunity to meet possible contributors to your campaign,” she said formally. “Thank you for putting yourself out. It was wrong of me to foist this matter off on you, busy as you are. I’m sorry if my desire to take a trip down memory lane caused you added anxiety. You have enough on your plate. Take Hayley home, and fix yourself a hot toddy. Try and relax.”

      He rubbed his forefinger and thumb down each side of his nose and over his lips, before sending his grandmother a long, contemplative look. “Earlier, when April Trent barged in with her ridiculous story, I had the feeling you believed it.”

      Norma twirled a well-kept hand that didn’t reflect her advanced years. “It’s just an old woman’s silliness. Off you go, Quinn. We won’t talk about this again.”

      More relieved than he was willing to admit, Quinn shook his head and bent to pick up his sleeping child, blanket and all. “I have to say it’s been one of my more interesting evenings. Probably more interesting than if I’d gone to Sam Hoerner’s bash.” He smiled wryly. “If you’ve been to one political cocktail party…”

      Norma aimed an equally wry smile in her grandson’s direction while preceding him to the door. “You wouldn’t listen to me. It’s the life you’ve let yourself in for.”

      Biting his tongue until she opened the door, Quinn ducked out, pulling on his mud-spattered shoes. “I certainly hope a senator’s job offers more excitement than sipping watered-down martinis and pretending to be interested in the cocktail chatter of bored suburban housewives who happen to have rich husbands.”

      “You’d better hope times have changed, Quinn. In my day, debutantes and wives of the wealthiest entrepreneurs were privy to high-level state secrets and they brought down many a powerful skeptic.”

      Quinn glanced back and flashed her a broad grin. “Spies, you mean? Like the rumors that floated around about Marlene Dietrich and Julia Child? Gram, if you believe that nonsense, you’re spending too much time watching late-night TV.”

      She rubbed her arms to ward off the chill and listened to his laughter fade as he disappeared into the rain. Going inside, she locked the door, then picked up the phone that connected her to the loft rooms above the garage. “Joseph, it’s Norma. I’d like to ride along tomorrow when you take Hayley to day camp. There’s a little side trip I want to make….” When he asked where, she said, “I learned that a young woman’s renovating the farmhouse where Tony and I lived when we were first married. I’m interested in seeing what kind of changes she’s made to the old place. Nine? I’ll be ready. But I see no reason to mention our plans to Quinn. He’ll think I’m a nostalgic old fool.” She paused as Joseph commented on Quinn’s schedule. “That’s right. One day he’ll slow down. Still, I can’t fathom my grandson getting misty-eyed over relics from his past, let alone mine.” Norma chatted a bit longer before saying goodbye to her driver.

      She felt she’d put her dilemma in perspective, but Joseph had underscored another issue. Young men weren’t sentimental. She should never have sent Quinn after her old love letters.

      Shutting off the lights around the house, Norma went upstairs to get ready for bed. She’d thought the letters were long gone—thought Tony had found them and thrown them away She wondered why he hadn’t done that, then decided he must have wanted to make sure noone could dig them out of the trash. He’d become more and more paranoid, she recalled sadly, more fearful and suspicious.

      Still, her heart felt lighter than it had in…oh, years.

      As she washed her face and gazed at her image in the bathroom mirror, Norma Santini imagined herself the pretty girl of nineteen, the girl she’d been when Heinz had written her those letters. Her heart beat a little faster. Heinz—her first love. It was true what the romantics claimed; A woman never forgot her first love.

      Chapter 3

      Unable to settle down after Quinn Santini left, April spent a good hour mulling over why the man and his grandmother would even consider paying for property that belonged to them. Or at least, belonged to Norma.

      As April had been the one to approach them about the letters, she would’ve thought Quinn was more likely to threaten to sue her for their return than pay her.

      Eric’s boss—April understood his willingness to shell out the bucks. Knowing Eric as well as she did, she figured he’d probably built the letters into a promised scandal. The lengths to which Eric’s editor was willing to go was further proof that politics was a messy business. She’d checked the newspaper online and read back issues. There were editorials against Quinn’s platform and twice as many supporting his opponent.

      So much for unbiased reporting.

      But it was Quinn and Norma’s reaction that April found bizarre. It bothered her so much, she let it disrupt her plan to catch up on paperwork tonight.

      Of the two Santinis, Quinn had been the one most visibly upset at the existence of the letters. Thinking back to when she’d blurted out the reason for her visit to their home, April recalled Mrs. Santini’s face. Unless her memory was completely off base, Norma had been shocked, but overjoyed, too. Then why had Quinn been so anxious to lay hands on the letters? He’d been willing to scrap what he’d declared to be an important previous engagement. Were the Santinis trying to protect themselves—or the identity of the letter writer?

      April went back to her laptop. A college friend had located her birth mother through an Internet search. April didn’t know where to start. In France, perhaps. Darn, what was the name of that city?

      It eluded her, and she didn’t own an atlas. Since she lived in the homes she remodeled, she never kept a lot of extraneous stuff. As a rule she scoured flea markets for a sparse quantity of furniture that would show well when she was ready to