Lonergan's Secrets. Maureen Child

and swimming in the lake.

      At that thought, everything in Sam seized up. His heart went cold and air struggled to enter his lungs. It was harder than he thought it would be, being here. Seeing everything the same and yet so different.

      “Shouldn’t have come,” he muttered, his voice sounding scratchy and raw to his own ears. But then, how could he not? The old man was in bad shape and he needed his grandsons. There was simply no way to deny him that.

      Fifteen years he’d been gone and this room looked as though he’d left it fifteen minutes ago. It’s a hard thing for a grown man to come into the room he’d left as a boy. Especially when he’d left that room under a black cloud of guilt and pain.

      But none of this was making it any easier on him.

      “Not supposed to be easy,” he muttered, tossing the quilt covering him aside so he could stand up and face the first day of what promised to be the longest summer of his life.

      From downstairs came the homey sounds of pans rattling and soft footsteps against the hardwood floor. The aroma of coffee seemed thicker now, heavier, though it was probably only that he was awake enough now to really hunger for it.

      Had to be the water nymph in the kitchen.

      Jeremiah’s housekeeper.

      The woman he’d seen naked.

      The woman he’d dreamed about all night.

      Hell. He ought to thank her for that alone. With her in his mind, his brain had for once been too busy to torture him with images of another face. Another time.

      Grabbing up his jeans, he yanked them on, then pulled on a white T-shirt and shoved his arms through the sleeves. Not bothering with shoes, he headed down the hall, pausing briefly at his grandfather’s closed bedroom door before continuing on toward the kitchen.

      He needed coffee.

      And maybe he needed something else, too. Another look at the mermaid?

      His bare feet didn’t make a sound on the stairs, so he approached her quietly enough that she didn’t know he was watching her. Morning sunlight spilled through the shining windowpanes and lay like a golden blanket across the huge round pedestal table and the warm wood floor. Everything in the room practically glistened, and he had to admit that as a housekeeper, she seemed to be doing a hell of a job. The counters were tidy, the floor polished till it shone and even the ancient appliances looked almost new. The walls had been painted a bright, cheery yellow, and the stiffly starched white curtains at the windows nearly crackled in the breeze drifting under the partially opened sash.

      But it was the woman who had Sam’s attention. Just as she had the night before. She moved around the old kitchen with a familiarity that at once pleased and irritated him.

      Not exactly rational, but it was early. A part of Sam was glad his grandfather had had this woman here, looking out for him. And another completely illogical side of him resented that she was so much at home on the Lonergan ranch when he felt… on edge.

      Her long dark hair was gathered into a neat braid that fell down the center of her back, ending at her shoulder blades. A bright red ribbon held the end of the braid together and made a colorful splash against the pale blue shirt she wore tucked into a pair of the most worn, faded jeans he’d ever seen. Threadbare in patches, the jeans hugged her behind and clung to her long legs like a desperate lover.

      An old Stones tune poured quietly from the radio on the counter, and as Sam watched, the mermaid did a quick little dance and swiveled her hips in time to the music. His breath caught as his gaze locked on her behind and he found himself praying that one of those threadbare patches would give way, giving him another glimpse of her tanned skin.

      Then she did a slow spin, caught a glimpse of him. And the smile on her face faded.

      “Do you always sneak up on people or am I just special?”

      Sam scrubbed one hand over his face, as if that would be enough to get his brain away from the tantalizing thoughts it had been entertaining.

      “Didn’t want to interrupt the floor show,” he said tightly, hoping she wouldn’t hear the edge of hunger in his voice. He walked past her and headed straight for the coffeepot on the counter.

      As the Stones song drifted into an R&B classic, he filled a heavy white mug with the coffee, took a sip, then turned around to face her. Leaning back against the counter, he crossed one bare foot over the other and asked, “You always dance in the kitchen?”

      She huffed in a breath and tightened her grip on the spatula she held in her right hand. “When I’m alone.”

      “Like the skinny-dipping, huh?”

      Glaring at him, she said, “A gentleman wouldn’t remind me of that.”

      “And a gentleman wouldn’t have looked,” he reminded her as the image of her wet, pale, honeyed skin rose up in his mind. “I did. Remember?”

      “I’m not likely to forget.”

      One eyebrow lifted as he swept his gaze up and down her quickly, thoroughly. “Me, neither.”

      She opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again and took a deep breath. He could almost see her counting to ten to get a grip on the temper flashing in her eyes. Eyes, he noticed, that in the morning light weren’t as dark as he’d thought the night before. They were brown but not. More the color of good single-malt scotch.

      He took another gulp of coffee and told himself to get a grip.

      “You’re deliberately trying to pick a fight,” she said. “Why?”

      He frowned into his coffee. “Because I’m not a nice man.”

      “That’s not what your grandfather says.”

      He looked at her. “Jeremiah’s prejudiced. And a hell of a storyteller. Don’t believe half of what he tells you.”

      “He told me you’re a doctor. Is that right?”

      “Yeah.” Frowning still, he took another sip of really superior coffee. “I am.”

      “Did you—” she paused and waited for him to look at her “—examine him last night?”

      He laughed, and that short burst of sound surprised him as much as it did her. “Me? Not a chance. Jeremiah still thinks of me as the thirteen-year-old kid who slapped a homemade plaster cast on his golden retriever.”

      “You didn’t.”

      He smiled to himself, remembering. “I really did. Made it out of papier-mâché. Just practicing,” he said, remembering how Jeremiah’s golden, Storm, had sat patiently, letting Sam do his worst. “Pop took it off before it had a chance to dry.”

      She was smiling at him and her eyes looked. shiny. Something in him shifted, gave way, and uncomfortable, Sam straightened up and gulped at his coffee again. “Anyway, the point is, Jeremiah won’t let me touch him. I’ll talk to his doctor, though. Get what information I can.”

      “Good.” She nodded and turned to stir the eggs, a golden foamy layer in the skillet on the stove. “I mean, it’s good that you can check. I’m worried. He’s been so…”

      “What?”

      She turned around to look at him again. “It’s not something I can put my finger on and say, There. That’s different. That’s wrong. It’s just that he’s not the same lately. He seems a little more tired. A little more… fragile somehow.”

      “He’s closing in on seventy,” Sam reminded her and scowled to himself as he realized just how much time had slipped past him.

      “And up until two weeks ago,” she said, “you wouldn’t have known it. Up at sunrise, doing chores, driving into town to have lunch with Dr. Evans, square dancing on Friday night.”

      “Square