A Time to Forgive

Matt lifted an eyebrow. “Curiosity?”

“She wants to talk about Lila.” His throat tightened. “She wants to get to know her so she can create a fitting memorial.”

Matt whistled softly, obviously understanding all the things Adam didn’t say out loud. “What are you doing about it?”

“Not telling her the truth, that’s for sure.” He rubbed his forehead as if he could rub the memories away. He and Lila had married too quickly, too young, and he faulted himself for that as much as Lila. He hadn’t realized until later, carried away as he was, that Lila had had totally skewed ideas of what their married life would be like. She’d hated the island, and everything he’d done to try and make things better only seemed to backfire. Even their beautiful baby hadn’t made Lila want a real family.

She’d craved excitement, and eventually she’d found that with a man she’d met on one of her frequent trips to visit friends who, she claimed, were living the life she should have had.

He frowned at Matt. “I certainly can’t tell her the truth. I’m not telling her anything, if I can help it.”

“Sounds like a mistake to me.”

“Why?” He shot the word at his brother like a dare, but Matt looked unaffected.

“You’ll just encourage her to go to other people for what she needs.”

“No one knows the truth.”

Matt shrugged. “You’re probably right. But what if you’re not? Better answer her questions yourself than have her asking around town.”

Unfortunately, that sounded like good advice. He lifted an eyebrow at Matt.

“How did you get to know so much about women, little brother?”

Matt grinned. “My wife’s training me.” He sobered. “Seriously, Adam. Just get through it the best you can. Give the woman a few noncommittal details and say you trust her artistic sense to come up with the design. She’ll get busy with the design and stop bothering you.”

“I hope so.” But somehow he didn’t think Tory was the kind of person to do anything without doing it to perfection.

He got up slowly, letting the chair roll against shelves crammed with shipbuilding lore. “Guess I’d better go back to the church and make peace with her, if I can.”

Adam slipped in the side door to the sanctuary and stopped in the shadows. Tory, on the ladder, didn’t seem to hear him. He could take a minute to think what he’d say to her.

Unfortunately he wasn’t thinking about that. Instead he was watching her, trying to figure out what it was about the woman that made it so hard to pull his gaze away.

She wasn’t beautiful. That was his first impression. At least, she wasn’t beautiful like Lila had been, all sleek perfection. But Tory had something, some quality that made a man look, then look again.

Those must be her working clothes—well-worn jeans, sneakers, a T-shirt topped by an oversize man’s white shirt that served to emphasize her slender figure. She looked like what she was, he supposed. An artisan, a woman who worked with her hands and didn’t have time or inclination for the expensive frills that had been so important to Lila.

Tory’s hair, rich as dark chocolate, had been pulled back and tied at the nape of her neck with a red scarf. The hair seemed to have a mind of its own, as tendrils escaped to curl against her neck and around the pale oval of her face.

Oh, no. He’d been that route before, hadn’t he? Intrigued by a woman, mistaking a lovely face for a lovely soul, thinking her promises meant loyalty that would last a lifetime. With Lila, that lifetime had only lasted five years before she’d lost interest in keeping her vows.

His hands clenched. He wouldn’t do that again. He had his daughter, his family, his business to take care of. That was enough for any sensible man.

The smartest thing would be to avoid Ms. Tory Marlowe entirely, but he couldn’t do that. Thanks to Mona’s bright idea, he and Tory were tied inextricably together until this project was finished.

Something winced inside him. He had to talk to her, and it might as well be now.

He took a step forward, frowning. Tory had leaned over perilously far, long fingers outstretched to touch some flaw she must see in the window.

“Hold it.”

She jerked around at the sound of his voice, the ladder wobbling. His breath caught as she put a steadying hand on the wall. He hurried to brace the ladder for her, annoyed with himself for startling her.

She frowned at him. “Are you trying to make me fall?”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m trying to keep you from falling.” He gave the elderly wooden ladder a shake. “This thing isn’t safe.”

She jumped down, landing close enough for him to smell the fresh scent that clung to her. “I do this all the time, you know. Scrambling around on rickety ladders comes with the territory.”

“You might do that elsewhere, sugar, but not in my church.”

Her dark eyes met his, startled and a little wary. The red T-shirt she wore under the white shirt seemed to make them even darker. “What did you call me?”

“Sorry.” But somehow he wasn’t. “Afraid that slipped out. It’s usually Jenny I’m lecturing about dangerous pastimes.”

Her already firm jaw tightened. “I’m not eight, and I’m doing my job.”

She reminded him of Gran, intent on doing what she wanted to no matter how well-intentioned her family’s interference was. The comparison made him smile.

“Are you always this stubborn?”

“Always.” Something that might have been amusement touched her face. “I’m not your responsibility.”

“Well, you know, there’s where you’re wrong. In a way, you are my responsibility.”

She lifted level brows. “How do you figure that?”

He patted the ladder, and it shook. “Everything about the building and grounds of St. Andrews is my responsibility. Including rickety ladders.”

She grimaced. “I’ve been on worse than this one, believe me.”

“You shouldn’t be up on a ladder at all.” An idea sprang into his mind, and it was such a perfect solution he didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to him sooner.

Steel glinted in Tory’s eyes. “If you think I’ll give up the project because I have to climb a ladder, you have the wrong impression of me, Mr. Caldwell.”

“Adam,” he corrected. “I think my impression of you is fairly accurate, as a matter of fact. But I was referring to the ladder, not your personality, Ms. Marlowe.”

A faint flush stained her cheeks, and she fingered the fine silver chain that circled her neck. “Maybe you’d better make that Tory. What about the ladder?”

“It’s not safe. I’ll have a crew come over from the boatyard to put up scaffolding so you can inspect the windows safely. That’s what we should have done to begin with.”

He was taking charge of the situation. That, too, was what he should have done from the word go, instead of letting himself get defensive.

“You don’t need to—”

“As far as working on them is concerned—” he swept on “—we’ll take the panels out completely. That way we won’t have to worry about St. Andrews getting slapped with a lawsuit.”