The Secret Sister

Another day without furniture. They were almost on their way to the unit; instead, she had to reveal how desperate she’d been for a man’s touch, so they’d gotten distracted. And now he was at work.

What had she been thinking?

She obviously hadn’t been thinking. She’d been reacting to the damage the divorce had done to her self-esteem—and, on a more primitive level, she’d been trying to find the same physical satisfaction she’d known when she was married. It was tough to go without the love, pleasure and comfort she’d enjoyed with Jack.

But Smuggler’s Cove was her place of last resort! She couldn’t make it impossible, or even uncomfortable, to live here. Why create new obstacles to make life hard when she was already struggling to overcome old ones?

Going to bed with Rafe was a stupid move. But he’d been telling the truth when he’d said he could do a lot better than he’d done eighteen years ago. She wasn’t sure she’d ever experienced anything like the hour or so they spent together, starting with that very first kiss. Jack just hadn’t approached lovemaking in the same way. He’d been too practical, almost...mechanical, at times. But Rafe was all about the moment—every moment—and that created such intensity.

Now that he’d satisfied her, however, she was embarrassed to have gone after what she’d wanted so aggressively. She couldn’t imagine what he had to be thinking.

Maybe she hadn’t changed much since she was sixteen...

Or maybe he wasn’t thinking anything. Maybe he was just happy that he’d managed to get lucky. For some men, it could be that simple, right? And, over the years, he must’ve had a lot more sexual experience than she did, at least with different partners. Another one-night stand couldn’t mean that much to him.

Feeling slightly better once she’d assured herself of this, she checked the digital alarm clock next to his note. It was three, so she scrambled out of bed. If there was any chance of pretending this had never happened, she couldn’t be here when he got home. Besides, she was anxious to check her phone to see if Keith had called, and she’d left it at her place.

The image of Rafe carrying her off, Tarzan-style, entered her mind as she finished dressing. She covered her face in embarrassment, even though there wasn’t anyone around to see her. Supporting her weight had seemed natural and easy for him. There’d been something primal in his ability to do that with such ease, and it had made her excitement skyrocket. But Jack would never have attempted it. He wasn’t capable of carrying anyone; he put his back out if he lifted a heavy suitcase. So she told herself she didn’t care what he’d think of her and Rafe. She had to quit seeing everything that happened in her life through her ex’s eyes, quit evaluating her actions and choices as if his opinion still mattered.

Because it shouldn’t, even if it did.

Once she was dressed, she decided to leave Rafe a note. It seemed the polite thing to do. She wanted to put some sort of official end to what they’d done, and a hastily written thank-you provided the added benefit of allowing her to escape this uncomfortable situation without having to deal with him directly.

Using the pen she found not far away, she turned over his note and wrote on the other side. “Sorry I made you late for work. I hope you had a great day.”

No, that last part sounded odd. He’d probably connect that to what they’d done, so she crossed it out and tried again.

I hope the repairs are coming together for you. Don’t worry about the furniture. I’m sure your daughter needs your time more than I do. You work hard enough as it is. I’m going to see if my mother will send her caretaker over with the truck.

She’d had no business asking Rafe to help in the first place. Why should he have to fill in for Keith? She was just being stubborn. Yesterday, even while she shivered on the beach, she’d sworn she’d do anything before going to her mother.

But approaching Josephine was suddenly preferable to relying on her new neighbor.

Should she end her note with some reference to the sex? Maybe include a thank-you? Tell him she’d had a nice time?

No. She couldn’t do that without sounding dismissive or shallow—or glib. Come to think of it, there wasn’t much point in writing what she’d just written, since he had the key to the cottage where the furniture was stored. If she managed to wrangle other help, he’d know about it long before he got home because she’d have to get the key.

“So much for that.” Somewhat relieved and yet disappointed at the same time, she wadded up the note and tossed it in the trash can in Rafe’s bathroom. While she was there, she was tempted to go through his medicine cabinet to see what he wore that smelled so good. She was ready to blame everything that’d happened today on his cologne. It was certainly easier than blaming herself...

Going through his medicine cabinet was intrusive, like searching through his drawers, so she refused to abuse his trust in that way. But she couldn’t help glancing around his house as she left. Rafe’s bungalow was much neater than she would’ve expected. The furnishings weren’t expensive or particularly tasteful—nothing that would meet with her mother’s approval or show up in a decorating magazine—but they weren’t tacky, either. For a guy who’d had so little growing up, she thought he’d done quite well for himself. If she had to describe his decorating style, it would be “sensible and comfortable.” His bedroom, although slightly more Spartan than the rest of the house, followed this theme. So did his living room, which contained a large flat-screen TV, along with an overstuffed sectional and chaise, a recliner with an accent table nearby and a coffee table in the center.

He hadn’t hung much on the walls, though. It wasn’t as if improving that space could benefit Laney, since she couldn’t see. And Maisey guessed he didn’t care enough about art to bother.

Or perhaps he’d get to that with time. She had to remind herself that he hadn’t lived in Smuggler’s Cove for very long. Jack would want his space to “show well” should anyone see it. But Jack was a different kind of man—very fastidious and driven.

Maisey was almost at the door when she spotted a pile of children’s books on the coffee table and had to stop. She loved books, all books, but especially children’s books, even if it was only to look through them to admire other people’s work.

Half hoping she’d discover a Molly Brimble story, she sorted through the stack. None of her books was there, but she hadn’t seriously expected to find one. If Rafe knew she’d written and illustrated several children’s books, he would’ve mentioned it. He had no reason not to.

Instead of Molly Brimble, she found a lot of Dr. Seuss, Guess How Much I Love You—she had to smile at that one—and Shel Silverstein’s hugely popular collection of poems, Where the Sidewalk Ends. In a second pile was a collection of books on kittens and dogs, and Chica Chica Boom Boom, which taught kids the alphabet.

It looked as though he read to Laney quite often. He obviously loved his daughter very much. Maisey was happy for him—happy for them both—but she found it bittersweet that he had his daughter and she didn’t have hers. As petty as that flare of jealousy was, her gut twisted as she fingered Laney’s books. She knew Rafe and Laney had their challenges, and they’d face more in the future, but Rafe ending up with a child to raise seemed so random and unlikely—not that he’d have a child, necessarily, but that he’d turn out to be such a responsible parent.

How had Laney come to live with him? What’d happened to her mother?

Maisey was curious about those things—curious enough that, after stacking the books in their original piles, she headed back down the hall to Laney’s room. When she’d passed it earlier, she hadn’t even paused. She’d been too busy telling herself she had no business snooping, that she needed to get out of Rafe’s house and forget about anything else.

But knowing she might never have another opportunity, she decided to take a quick peek to see if she’d find a picture of Laney’s mother or something else that would reveal some clue as to why Laney was living with her father, whether or not she had any contact with her mother or her mother’s family and what had caused her blindness.

Laney had a tall, four-poster bed with lots of frilly pillows and the usual assortment of stuffed animals and toys. Or maybe the assortment wasn’t so usual. All the toys appealed to the sense of touch, or they made sounds when certain levers or bars were pushed or when various shapes were put into the corresponding holes of a ball. An electric piano stood under the window. The keys were well worn, suggesting that it received considerable attention. But, surprisingly, since the walls in the rest of the house were mostly bare, there were things to see in here—stars on the ceiling, a big mirror over the dresser and a large picture of Laney as an infant being held by her father.

There were no other pictures, no cards propped on the dresser, no letters on the small nightstand next to the Disney princess-themed lamp, no Mommy Hearts Laney T-shirts tossed on the ground—nothing, in other words, to indicate who Laney’s mother was or whether she had any involvement in Laney’s life.

Maisey moved closer to the photograph of Rafe holding Laney. His hair had been cut differently five years ago, and he looked lighter overall, less muscular. But besides the tenderness on his face, she saw a determined set to his jaw that led her to believe he was thinking something like, “Don’t worry. I’ve got you. I’ll be there for you no matter what.”

His expression—that smile for the camera—couldn’t quite hide the protectiveness he felt, and that made it almost impossible for Maisey to look away. She wished she could have a copy of that photograph. It reminded her of the love she’d felt from her own father, of how powerful a father’s love could be.

She thought of the pictures taken of Jack and Ellie. He’d had no reason to assume that Ellie’s life would end the way it had, so the look in his eyes was never quite as fierce. But why had that love not been stronger? Once Ellie was gone, Jack had seemed willing to move on, which was partly why Maisey’s recovery had been so hard. It was almost as if she’d been left to mourn for both of them. He hadn’t even kept any of the pictures of him and Ellie and, much as Maisey was tempted when she got rid of his other stuff, she hadn’t been able to make herself throw them out. They were in a box marked Attic, and had been sent, along with Ellie’s other pictures, to Coldiron House, where they’d stay until Maisey could bear to reclaim them.

If that day ever came...

She chastised herself for being so rude as to poke around. She’d told herself she wouldn’t. It felt like an invasion of Rafe’s privacy just to see this photograph because it laid his heart so bare.

With a final glance, Maisey left Laney’s room, locked the house behind her and hurried over to her own bungalow. She was intent on finding her phone.

She could hear it ringing as she came through the door.

Was it Keith? Finally? Or Josephine?

Maisey doubted her mother would lower her pride and try to make amends. Still, Maisey ached for that olive branch, for Josephine to show enough love and concern to forget how wronged she felt and, just once, let the past go without forcing Maisey to assume all the blame. The little contact they’d had since Maisey left Fairham had been her doing. She’d never forget how cold and uninterested her mother had acted when she received news of Maisey’s pregnancy—and that didn’t change when Ellie was born. The morning Ellie died, her mother had been the last person Maisey had wanted to speak to. She’d instinctively worried that Josephine would make her feel as if she deserved what she’d gotten. And yet she’d needed her mother that day. So she’d swallowed her own pride and, out of the depths of her despair, called Coldiron House.

That unforgiving reception had cut the deepest. She couldn’t reach out afterward. She didn’t have the emotional fortitude it required. But she’d have to now, to ask for a truck so she could move some furniture.

Surely she could approach her mother for something as simple as that. And if it was Josephine on the phone, she’d have her chance.

The call wasn’t from anyone she might’ve expected, though.

Maisey felt her jaw drop as she recognized the number. She’d deleted this person from her contacts list, so there was no name attached. But she recognized those ten digits more quickly than she would’ve recognized the number attached to her own phone.

It was Jack.

8 (#ulink_b015393e-339d-5b59-b291-d068949bfdc3)

MAISEY TOLD HERSELF not to answer it. She had nothing to say to her ex, especially after she’d acted so inappropriately with a man who was nearly a stranger to her. Considering how long she’d yearned for Jack to regret tossing her aside, to want her back, it was quite the coincidence that he was calling her now. What could he possibly want?

When the call went to voice mail, she waited to see if he’d leave a message. If he had a legitimate reason to get in touch, wouldn’t he say so? It could be that some stock or other asset he’d failed to list on their separation agreement had sold and, instead of keeping all the proceeds for himself, he’d decided to do the right thing and pay her half. But considering how hard he’d fought for every dime, including some of the proceeds of her books, it was more likely that he’d heard she’d left Manhattan and wanted to find out what she’d done with his personal belongings. When he moved out, he took only what he could carry that day and had never come back for the rest. Was there something he still wanted?

If so, it was too late to recover anything except the pictures she’d saved in the dark attic of Coldiron House. She’d hawked her wedding ring and donated what he’d left behind to Goodwill. She’d figured the move was the perfect time to get rid of each and every item that reminded her of the man she’d loved so deeply, because they now reminded her of the day she’d gone to Chicago to surprise him on his business trip and encountered him walking off the elevator, holding hands with the woman they’d bumped into on Fifth Avenue.