Swept Away. Gwynne Forster

lovely lawn. Her stepfather had given them all that he could, had filled their lives with love, and had sacrificed so much in order that she could have a better life. She had never faulted him for their near-poverty. But when she looked at the wealth before her, she had to work hard at not hating the man she would soon meet.

      She put the car in Park, got out and strolled up the winding walkway. She had to shake off the trepidation that almost made her turn back, but her fingers trembled nonetheless when she knocked on the door.

      Chapter 3

      Now who could that be? He put his felt-tipped pens in the holder he kept for that purpose, slipped his feet into his house shoes and took his time walking to the front door. He had to finish the design of his New Age cable TV channel descrambler before he went to bed that night, and he didn’t welcome an intrusion. He knew his dad wouldn’t go to the door, because he didn’t let anything, especially unexpected visitors, interfere with his work. The brass knocker tapped several more times, less patiently than before. He opened the door.

      He stared. Something akin to hot metal plowed through his belly, and an indefinable gut-rearing sensation winded him as if he’d just run a mile. She stared back at him.

      “What are you doing here?” they asked each other in unison.

      “I live here,” he managed, groping for his sanity. Where had she come from and why was she here? But he didn’t ask her, because he didn’t trust his eyes.

      “You…you live here?” She checked a piece of paper that she held in her left hand. “Is this 37 Waters Edge?”

      A twinge of apprehension coursed through him. “Yes. This is number thirty-seven. Why are you here, Veronica?” His hope had already begun to dissolve into nothing, because he saw no affection in her manner, not so much as a smile. Rather, she seemed troubled, far more so than when they’d sparred in court. He didn’t like the aura of unhappiness that seemed to settle over her.

      “Why are you here, Veronica?”

      Her deep breath and eyes that suddenly glistened with unshed tears rocked him, but he waited, trying to ignore the pain that suffused his body, for he realized at last who she was. And he knew she wasn’t happy with what she’d discovered.

      “I came to see Richard Henderson, my birth father. Don’t tell me; I’ve already guessed. You’re the son he adopted.”

      He didn’t recognize his own voice, cracked and tired. “I’m Richard Henderson’s son.”

      They stared at each other, stared for one poignant moment. As if she didn’t want to be reminded of the fire that had burned between them, she dropped her gaze. At that, he opened the door wider and beckoned her to enter.

      “You’ve rattled my whole foundation,” he told her. “This takes some getting used to.”

      She didn’t look at him but perused the foyer where they stood. “Tell me about it. Is my father home?”

      Cue number two: she didn’t intend to be friendly.

      Veronica closed her eyes as though in fervent prayer. “Are you related to Richard Henderson?”

      Schyler backed up a few steps, symbolically distancing himself from her. “Related?” he asked, shaking his head as though denying the possibility. “By blood, you mean?”

      She nodded, afraid of his answer, vaguely aware of a sense of foreboding. She didn’t want a relationship with Schyler Henderson, did she? So why was she afraid he’d say yes? And even if her heart skipped and hopped at the sight of him, even if her blood boiled thinking of him, wasn’t he the man who had self-righteously jimmied her world?

      “Well?” she pressed him.

      “Not to my knowledge,” he finally said. “He took me in when I needed him, and I’d give my life for him.” He closed the front door and began walking with her toward the rear of the house, but suddenly he stopped. “Why are you searching for him after all these years?”

      His aura warmed her, but she didn’t want to respond to Schyler’s gentle but disconcerting charm and braced herself against it. “I promised my mother. The last words she said to me were ‘Find your father.’ Is he here?”

      “Yes. But shouldn’t you have called to let him know you’d be here this afternoon? I doubt a man’s heart will stay a steady beat if he lays his gaze on a daughter he hasn’t seen in thirty years—suddenly and without warning.” His manner was gentle, but his voice stern, giving notice that he’d protect Richard Henderson from everything and everyone, including her.

      He was right, but she’d acted partly on impulse. She’d also gotten the courage to do it and she didn’t believe in procrastination. Besides, if she’d asked for an appointment and waited for his reply, she could have gotten cold feet. Or, she’d reasoned, he could have refused to see her.

      “I had no guarantee that he’d agree to see me,” she said, answering Schyler’s mild reprimand. “After all, he deserted us.”

      His body stiffened, and the gray of his irises seemed to lighten as though glazed over with a coating of ice. She saw his jaw working and knew she’d angered him.

      “I don’t believe it!” he spat out. “If you came here to cause my father distress, don’t fool yourself into thinking I’ll stand for it. I won’t!” He walked ahead of her. “My father’s back here.”

      As they passed the dining room, her gaze took in the contemporary walnut furnishings and the crystal chandelier that dangled from the ceiling. She imagined that the beautiful carved breakfront contained fine linens, crystal, porcelain and silverware, and resentment of Richard Henderson threatened to choke off her breathing. She’d bet that chandelier cost more than her beloved stepfather made in months of grueling, back-breaking work.

      She reflected on Schyler’s admonishment of minutes earlier. “I’ve seen the lion close up when he roared loudest; he can no longer frighten me, Mr. Henderson.”

      She couldn’t let the pain she saw in his eyes soften her attitude. He’d had her father’s love; she hadn’t. Yet, something in her hurt for him, and because of him. He put a half-smile on his face, but it never reached his eyes, and she had to grasp her shoulder bag with both hands to prevent herself from reaching out to him. He opened the door to what appeared to be a small solarium. Sunny and homey with white rattan furniture and numerous green plants.

      “Who was that at the door, Son?”

      Son, indeed! For the first time in thirty years, she heard the voice of the man who’d sired her. And in spite of herself, excitement and anticipation shot through her.

      How gentle his voice, she thought, when Schyler answered his father, and how solicitous. “Brace yourself, Dad,” he said, blocking her entrance to the room. “We knew she’d come sooner or later, and she’s here.” He stepped aside. “Come on in, Veronica.”

      “Veronica? Veronica!” As she walked in, Richard Henderson bounded up from his desk and started toward her. “Veronica!” He pronounced the name as if it were sacred to him. “I despaired of ever setting my eyes on you again.”

      He opened his arms to her, but she couldn’t walk into them, couldn’t make herself act the lie. She gave him as much as she could, extending her hand to him. After seconds during which tension crackled in the room and her blood pounded in her ears, he took her hand and held it, though only for a second.

      He stepped back then, and she saw him as he was. Tall. Proud. Self-possessed. If she’d hurt him, he didn’t show it. “If you’re not glad to see me, Veronica, why have you come?”

      She tried to shove aside the connection she’d instantly felt to him. An indefinable something that drew and held her, repositioning her center of gravity.

      “I came because it was my mother’s last request of me. I promised her I’d find you.”

      He