Land's End

“In her room.” Geneva’s smile faltered, and he saw the worry in her eyes. “That child’s hardly been out of her room since you left. I tried to get her to call her friends, but she wouldn’t.”

The burden of Melissa’s unhappiness settled over his shoulders, weighing him down like a hot, humid Georgia day. “I’ll see what I can do.” They both knew he could probably do very little, but he had to try. Had to pretend his being here might make a difference.

He took the wide, shallow staircase two steps at a time. Music boomed from behind the closed door of Melissa’s room, rattling the panels. Trent grimaced. If he could understand the words, he’d probably be appalled. He tapped twice, then opened the door. “Melissa?”

His daughter shot bolt upright on the bed, swinging a startled, angry face toward him. “Can’t you knock?”

If he took issue with every rude thing she said these days, they’d never talk at all. “I did.” He felt as if he mouthed the words. He gestured toward the speakers. “Will you turn that down, please?”

Melissa snapped the switch and silence fell. Trent’s eardrums still throbbed. Now was probably not the time to discuss hearing loss.

“What have you been up to while I was gone?” He hated his inability to carry on a simple conversation with this child he loved and didn’t understand.

“Nothing.” Melissa crossed her arms over her chest defensively. “School’s out. You’re not supposed to have to do stuff when you’re on vacation.”

“See any of your friends lately?” Every interaction with Melissa turned into a game of Twenty Questions.

She shrugged, a curtain of brown hair swinging forward to hide her face. It was becoming a characteristic posture. “No.”

“Wouldn’t you like to invite some of the girls from school over?” He hated the desperate note in his voice.

“I just want to be by myself. Okay?” She did look up then, hazel eyes darkening. She glared pointedly at the door.

He valued privacy himself too highly to argue. “No, I guess not.” He said it quietly, because the only other choice was to shout, and shouting just drove Melissa deeper into the shell she’d constructed around herself, like a conch hiding in its beautiful labyrinth. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

He closed the door and stood for a moment, hand resting on its panel as lightly as if he touched his daughter. He’d like to believe this was normal behavior for a twelve-year-old, but he couldn’t. How much damage had they done, he and Lynette, to the child they’d created? How much more waited for her?

He straightened, hand dropping from the door. Sarah Wainwright might not intend harm to Melissa, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t cause it. And that was something he intended to prevent. No matter what he had to do.

Sarah lay across the bed, staring at the shadows cast by the lazy revolving of the ceiling fan. Images flickered in the shadows. Miles’s face, glowing with excitement when he told her about the offer to become second in command of Donner’s conglomerate of software and engineering companies.

“I owe it all to you, Sarah. If you hadn’t pushed me to blow the whistle on the scam in the Atlanta office, Donner would never even have remembered my name.”

She’d been surprised that she’d had to push. Even if the rot at Donner Enterprises had gone all the way to Donner himself, exposing it had been the right thing to do.

Miles had seen that, once she pointed it out. Donner hadn’t been involved, and his appreciation of Miles’s integrity had taken a tangible form.

Brilliant, creative, iconoclastic…Every word applied to Trent Donner was a superlative. Trent had risen from poverty to parlay a shoestring operation into a multimillion-dollar empire. Miles’s appointment as his assistant had been a plum, but it had meant a move to the isolated, moneyed environs of St. James. Trent preferred to run his empire from the island, flying—as need took him—to Atlanta or Singapore. His assistant had to be on call twenty-four hours a day.

Of course she’d been happy for Miles, but moving meant leaving behind her position at the pediatric clinic in Atlanta. Where was she going to practice medicine on St. James?

That had worked out, after a fashion. She’d found an emergency room position at a hospital in Savannah, the closest city. It was only part-time, but before she had time to grow restless, she’d discovered another opportunity, right on St. James. The island had been without a clinic of its own.

The wealthy, in their private compounds, didn’t need one, but the several hundred native sea islanders, clinging to their Gullah culture while coping with the influx of outsiders, did. She’d never been able to see a problem without feeling it her duty to solve it.

Trent had been the obvious choice to put money behind her idea. She’d begun to enjoy her clashes with him on the subject, and he’d finally donated the building so they could start the clinic. And then after six short months, their world exploded.

Trent’s embittered face formed against the shadows. Did the pain show as clearly on her face as it did on his? A man who hated to show his feelings, he must despise every line, resent it every time he looked into a mirror.

Unbidden, another image of Trent’s face sprang into her mind. His eyes glowing with laughter, then surprised by attraction, silhouetted against the dark green shadows of a garden. They’d sensed the feeling at the same moment, recognized it in each other. And turned away, as guilty as if they’d acted on the impulse.

No. Sarah slammed the door of her mind on that memory. She had to concentrate on the mission that had brought her here.

The truth about Miles and Lynette is buried on St. James, Father. You’ve brought me back, and I won’t leave until I find it.

TWO

Sarah paused in the entrance to the inn’s dining room. After a quick, quiet meal, she’d tumble into bed. Tomorrow she’d figure out what her first step had to be, now that Trent had made it clear she could expect nothing from him. Thank goodness the dining room, like the lobby earlier, was nearly deserted.

Not quite. She saw the couple at the table by the window, heart sinking. What perverse luck had led her into a meeting with Trent’s closest neighbors? It was too late to retreat. Jonathan Lee was already on his feet and coming toward her.

“Sarah Wainwright! We didn’t know you were back on the island. It’s good to see you, honey.” Jonathan took her hands and kissed her cheek.

Was it good to see her? She had no idea where the Lees stood in relation to respecting Trent’s wishes that she leave.

“I just arrived. It’s good to see you, too. And Adriana.” She smiled at Jonathan’s wife, who hadn’t left her chair.

Jonathan drew back and studied her, his round, merry face, like a sophisticated faun’s, growing solemn. “It doesn’t look as if being back agrees with you.”

Sarah shrugged, not sure how much his perceptive, sometimes malicious, black eyes picked up. “Mixed feelings, I suppose. Please greet Adriana for me.”

She tried to disengage herself, but Jonathan had a firm grip on her hand. “Tell her yourself. Have dinner with us.”

If she tried to make polite conversation, she’d probably fall asleep in her dinner plate. “Another time.”

Jonathan shook his head. “You can’t eat alone your first night back. Besides, Adriana’s dying to talk with you.”

Sarah was swept to their table on the tide of that Southern charm Jonathan dispensed with such enthusiasm. He played the role of Southern gentleman with so much flair, one could never quite tell if it was real or exaggerated.

The waiter produced another chair, and she ordered the first special he mentioned, trying to organize her thoughts. This meeting had fallen into her lap. If anyone knew what had gone on with Trent after she’d left the island, the Lees did. She’d better shake off her fatigue and use this opportunity.

She glanced up to find herself the target of two pairs of eyes, Jonathan’s brightly curious, Adriana’s bored. At least she supposed it was boredom. Adriana was always perfectly made-up, her dark hair swept back from her strong-featured face, her clothing a perfect example of retrained elegance.

Jonathan leaned toward her, pixie face warm. He must be a good ten years older than Trent, but he had a perennially youthful air. His interest in everything about everyone balanced Adriana’s coolness.

“Has it been a bad year?” He grimaced. “Of course it has. Scratch that question, sugar. Tell us what you’ve been doing.”

An account of her recent life shouldn’t have lasted through the serving of the she-crab soup, but Jonathan managed to spin it out through the main course with questions and comments.

Sarah was still wondering how she could tactfully introduce the subject she wanted when the talk turned to island society, and Jonathan said Lynette’s name at last.

“Everyone misses Lynette.” Adriana’s spoon chinked against the china cup. Candlelight cast shadows across her face. “I’m not sure I even want to have our party this year.”

“Of course we will.” Was that an edge in Jonathan’s voice? His black eyes bored into his wife, and Sarah had a sense of meaning under the words. “Our party always kicks off the summer. Everyone will be disappointed if we cancel.”

“Not everyone.” Adriana toyed with her spoon. “Trent’s turned into such a recluse, he probably won’t come anyway.”

“A recluse?” Adriana’s comment seemed to bring Trent’s frowning presence to the table.