Lonergan's Secrets. Maureen Child

      Two

      Everything else faded away but a rush of anger that nearly strangled Maggie. She’d known, of course, that all three of Jeremiah’s grandsons were arriving this summer, but she hadn’t expected one of them to sneak in under the cover of darkness and then turn out to be a Peeping Tom.

      “If I’d known who you were,” Maggie snapped, “I would have hit you harder.”

      “Lucky for me I kept quiet then.”

      “How could you do this to him?” she demanded, planting both hands on her hips.

      “Do what?”

      “Stay away,” she snapped. “You—all of you. Not one of the three of you has so much as visited your grandfather in two years.”

      “And you know this how?”

      “Because I’ve been here,” she said, slapping one hand to her chest. “Me. I’ve been taking care of that sweet old man for two years and I don’t remember tripping over any of you in the house.”

      “Sweet old man?” His laughter shot from his throat. “Jeremiah Lonergan is the most softhearted, crustiest old goat in the country.”

      “He is not,” she shouted, infuriated by his amusement at the expense of an old man who had been even lonelier than she had when she first met him. “He’s sweet. And kind. And caring. And alone. His own family doesn’t care enough to come and see him. You should all be ashamed of yourselves. Especially you. You’re a doctor. You should have come home before this to make sure he was all right. But no. You wait until he’s.” God. She couldn’t even bring herself to say the word dying.

      She couldn’t think about losing Jeremiah. Couldn’t bear the thought of losing him and the home she’d come to love so much. And here stood a man who took all of that for granted. Who didn’t appreciate the love that was waiting for him. Who didn’t care enough about that sweet old man to even visit.

      New fury pumped through her and she narrowed her eyes on the man who only moments before had stirred her blood into a simmering boil.

      His laughter faded away and a scowl that was both fierce and irritated twisted his features. “Just who the hell are you anyway?”

      “My name’s Maggie Collins,” she said, straightening up to her full five feet four inches. “And I’m your grandfather’s housekeeper.”

      And she had that position because the “crusty old goat” had taken a chance on her when she’d needed it most. So she wasn’t about to stand by and let anyone, even his grandson, berate the old man she loved.

      “Well, Maggie Collins,” he said through gritted teeth, “just because you’ve been taking care of Jeremiah’s house doesn’t mean you know squat about me or my family.”

      She leaned in at him, not intimidated in the slightest. In the last two years she’d watched Jeremiah flip through old photo albums, stare at home movies, lose himself in the past because the grandsons he loved didn’t care enough to give him a present.

      And it infuriated her that three grown men who had the home she’d always longed for didn’t seem to appreciate it.

      “I know that though the man has three grandsons, he’s alone. I know that he had to take in a stranger to keep him company. I know that he looks at pictures of the three of you and his heart aches.” She poked him in the chest with her index finger. “I know that it took his being near death’s door—” her breath hitched and she hiccupped “—to get you all back here to see him this summer. I know that much.”

      Sam shoved one hand through his long dark hair, looked away from her for a slow count of ten. Then, when he turned his gaze back to her, the anger had left him. His eyes were dark and shadowed.

      “You’re right.”

      She hadn’t expected that and it took her aback a little. Tipping her head to one side, she studied him. “Just like that? I’m right?”

      “To a point,” he admitted and his voice dropped, wrapping the two of them in a kind of insular seclusion. “It’s… complicated,” he said finally.

      So much for being surprised into feeling just a tiny bit of sympathy for his side of the story. Disgusted, she shook her head. “No, it’s not. He’s your grandfather. He loves you. And you ignore him.”

      “You don’t understand.”

      “You’re absolutely right.” She folded her arms across her chest, tapped her foot against the rocky ground and waited.

      His eyes narrowed. “I don’t owe you an explanation, Maggie Collins, so don’t bother waiting for one.”

      No, he didn’t, though she desperately wanted one. She couldn’t understand how anyone with a home, a family, could deliberately avoid them. “Fine. Maybe you don’t owe me anything, but you certainly owe your grandfather.”

      That scowl deepened until it looked as though it had been carved into his face. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

      “Finally. Have you seen him yet?”

      “No,” he admitted, shoving both hands into his pockets as he shifted his gaze to the lake behind them. “I haven’t. I had to come here first. Had to face this place first.”

      And just like that, Maggie’s heart twisted. She knew what he was seeing when he looked at the small lake. She knew what he was remembering because Jeremiah had told her everything there was to know about his grandsons. The good, the bad and the haunting.

      “I’m sorry,” she blurted, wishing she could pull at least some of her harsher words back. “I know how hard this must be for you, but—”

      He cut her off with a look. “You don’t know,” he said tightly. “You can’t. So why don’t you go back to the house. Tell my grandfather I’ll be there soon.”

      He walked away to stand at the water’s edge, staring out over the black, still surface of the lake. His pain reached out to her and she flinched from it. She didn’t want to feel sorry for him. Didn’t want to give him the benefit of the doubt. Though even if he did have his reasons for avoiding the Lonergan ranch, she thought, that didn’t make it all right for him to avoid the old man who loved him.

      Her sympathy evaporated and Maggie left him there, alone in the shadows.

      Jeremiah just had time to shove the blood-curdling horror novel he’d been reading under his covers before Maggie opened his bedroom door after a brief knock. He watched the girl he’d come to think of as a granddaughter and smiled to himself. Her dark brown hair was wet, trailing dampness across her T-shirt. Her long, flowing skirt was wrinkled and dotted with dried bits of grass, and her sandals squeaked with the water seeping into the leather.

      “Been down to the lake again, eh?” he asked as she came closer and straightened the quilt and sheet covering him.

      She smiled but couldn’t quite hide the flash of something else in her dark eyes.

      “What is it, Maggie?” He grabbed her hand, making sure to be as feeble as possible, as she reached for the glass pitcher on his bedside table. “Are you all right?”

      “I’m fine,” she said, pulling her hand free and giving him a pat before carrying the carafe to the adjoining bathroom to fill it with fresh water. She stepped back into the bedroom and walked quickly back to his side. “I met your grandson, that’s all.”

      Jeremiah’s heart lifted, but he remembered just in time that he was supposed to be a dying man now. Keeping his voice quiet, he asked, “Which one?”

      “Sam.”

      “Ah.” He smiled to himself. “Well, where is he? Didn’t he come back with you?”

      “No,”