Yesterday's Gone

“Were.”

“Ah.”

The scowl morphed into a glower. “What’s that mean?”

He gave into impulse and took her hand again. “It means I get it.”

“Does it mean you’ll quit calling them that?” She tugged to get her hand free, but half-heartedly.

“I’ll try,” he said. “No guarantee.”

“Great,” she muttered.

He smiled, squeezed her hand and let it go. “Hey, you want dessert?”

“Are their pies as good as they look?”

“Why do you think I come here?”

He hadn’t seen many of her smiles yet, but he especially liked this one.

“Of course I want dessert.” She pushed away her plate, only a few fries uneaten. “I don’t suppose you’d like to have breakfast with us tomorrow.”

Despite the tone that said, Of course I’m not serious, he felt a glow of warmth beneath his breastbone. She might deny it, but she wanted him at her side in the morning.

“I wasn’t invited,” he pointed out.

“I noticed.” She sighed. “And I know I have to do this. It’s just...” After a moment she shrugged. “Will you think I’m even more of a coward if I confess I hope your Eve isn’t there?”

“Not my Eve,” he said curtly, then frowned at his own vehemence. Damn, he had to call Eve. “And no, I don’t blame you. I doubt she will be. She’ll understand they want time with you. To get to know you, and...” He hesitated.

“Stare at me?”

His mouth quirked. “Probably. I was going to say, to rejoice.”

“Fine,” she finally said. But then she looked at him, dead serious. “Will you be masterminding the press conference?”

“Yes.”

“Can we, um, talk about it?”

“Yeah.” He waited until they’d both ordered pie and the waitress was walking away before he took her hand again. “Here’s the plan.”

She held on tight.

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_267672a0-876c-57bc-8c00-9d511b655494)

“I OWE YOU an apology for yesterday. I mean, for bolting the way I did,” Bailey said first thing the next morning, after arriving at the Lawsons’ house.

Kirk looked at her kindly. “We understood.”

He had a good face, craggy and lined, and his eyes... I have his eyes, she thought in shock.

“Of course we did,” Karen hastened to add, but less believably. More than Kirk, she made Bailey uneasy. Maybe mother and daughter had been closer than father and daughter. It did make sense. But also, before coming to Washington for this reunion, Bailey had searched online for the original newspaper articles about her disappearance. She knew that she’d been at a swimming lesson at the high school pool, open all summer for community use. That particular day, Karen had decided to run some errands during the time rather than watch. She’d been held up at train tracks while a very long freight train passed, making her a few minutes late. When she arrived at the high school, most of the kids who had taken lessons at the same time were gone with their parents. Others had arrived for the next set of lessons, but nobody had seen Hope. Not struggling with a man, not waiting, not so much as leaving the dressing room although she had apparently changed, because the locker she’d used was empty and her swim bag had disappeared, too. And Karen Lawson had to have struggled for twenty-three years with the knowledge that, if only she’d stayed to watch the lesson, her child wouldn’t have been abducted. If only she’d started back to the high school two minutes sooner, she’d have crossed the tracks before the train came by, and would have been there to meet her daughter in the dressing room.

If only.

Bailey hadn’t had any reason to feel guilt; she didn’t get close enough to people to let them down. But she understood the concept, and if only had to be the most damning of phrases.

“Please, come in and sit down,” Karen said. “Breakfast is ready.”

“Is Eve here this morning?”

“She let me know last night that she couldn’t make it,” Karen said over her shoulder. “Work, I’m sure.”

Relieved though she was, Bailey had to wonder if Eve had really felt welcome. Or did she feel as if she was extraneous to this small nuclear family, now that Hope was home again?

No, they’d probably talked after Bailey fled yesterday. The Lawsons seemed like nice people. They wouldn’t sideline their adopted daughter.

And really, what is it with me? Bailey thought with incredulity. So, okay, she was majoring in psychology. That didn’t mean she usually bothered analyzing everyone else’s secret motives or wounds.

The dining room was as perfect as the rest of the house. Old-fashioned, as if it hadn’t been updated in a while. Say, twenty-three years. But nice, with an antique china hutch, table and chairs, a big tatted doily in the center of the table with a vase of orange, daisylike flowers, and a Persian-looking rug on the hardwood floor.

They sat down to a spread that widened Bailey’s eyes. Gorgeous crepes with perfect, red raspberries ready to spoon over them along with luscious Devonshire cream, crisp strips of bacon and a selection of other fruits, all beautifully presented. Karen must have worked for ages.

“Oh, this looks lovely,” Bailey made herself say with a smile. The same one she gave diners at Canosa. “As nice as anything I’ve ever served.”

Karen beamed and handed Bailey the crepes. “I remembered how much you loved raspberries.”

Did I? Bailey couldn’t actually remember the last time she’d eaten one. They were awfully expensive at the grocery store. But she kept the smile pinned in place and said, “I still do.”

And then came the questions. Did she remember how much fun they’d had picking raspberries? No. The county fair—she’d always looked forward to it so. She wasn’t the slightest bit afraid of heights! Did she remember...? No. She’d begged for horseback riding lessons, and they’d finally found a place to take her that summer. Did she remember...? No.

Bailey’s throat grew tight. She smooshed a raspberry with her fork rather than take a bite she wasn’t sure she could swallow.

Karen opened her mouth again, and Kirk laid a hand on her arm. Out of the corner of her eye, Bailey saw his slight shake of the head.

“Detective Chandler says you machine-quilt,” she said brightly. “I’d love to see what you’re working on.”

Karen forced a smile. “I’ll show you after breakfast. We were lucky to have four bedrooms. Neither of us had any use for a home office, like people all seem to have these days. This way I can close the door on all my mess.”

“I don’t even have one bedroom,” Bailey heard herself saying. “Mine is a studio apartment. Rents are high in LA. I’ve been tempted to buy a Murphy bed, so I could put it up when I’m entertaining, except—” she was winding down “—well, I don’t entertain very often.”

“You have a bedroom here.”

Her stomach twisted. A bedroom that had been kept as a shrine for twenty-three years. The idea creeped her out.

“Do you remember anything at all?” Karen begged.