A Soldier's Secret

The rooms beyond this door had been his haven when he was a kid. The one safe anchor in a tumultuous, unstable childhood—not the house, he supposed, as much as the woman who had been so much a part of it.

No matter what might be happening in his regular life—whether his mother was between husbands or flushed with the glow of new love that made her forget his existence or at the bitter, ugly end of another marriage—Abigail had always represented safety and security to him.

She had been fun and kind and loving and he had craved his visits here like a drunk needed rotgut. He had looked forward to the two weeks his mother allowed him with fierce anticipation the other fifty weeks of the year. Whenever he walked through this door, he had felt instantly wrapped in warm, loving arms.

And now a stranger lived here. A woman who had somehow managed to convince an old woman to leave her this house.

No matter how lovely Anna Galvez might be, he couldn’t forget that she had usurped Abigail’s place in this house.

It was hers now and he damn well intended to find out why.

He drew in a deep breath, adjusted his sling one more time, then reached out to knock on Abigail’s door.

Chapter Three

She opened the door wearing one of his aunt’s old ruffled bib aprons.

He recognized it instantly, pink flowers and all, and had a sudden image of Abigail in the kitchen, bedecked with jewels as always, grinning and telling jokes as she cooked up a batch of her famous French toast that dripped with caramel and brown sugar and pralines.

He had to admit he found the dichotomy a little disconcerting. Whether Anna was a con artist or simply a modern businesswoman, he wouldn’t have expected her to be wearing something so softly worn and old-fashioned.

He doubted Abigail had ever looked quite as appealing in that apron. Anna Galvez’s skin had a rosy glow to it and the friendly pink flowers made her look exotically beautiful in contrast.

“Good morning again,” she said, her smile polite, perhaps even a little distant.

Maybe he ought to forget this whole thing, he thought. Just head back out the door and up the stairs. He could always grab a granola bar and a cola for breakfast.

He wasn’t sure he was ready to face Abigail’s apartment just yet, and especially not with this woman looking on.

“Something smells delicious in here, like you’ve gone to a whole lot of work. I hope this isn’t a big inconvenience for you.”

Her smile seemed a little warmer. “Not at all. I enjoy cooking, I just don’t get the chance very often. Come in.”

She held the door open for him and he couldn’t figure out a gracious way to back out. Doing his best to hide his sudden reluctance, he stepped through the threshold.

He shouldn’t have worried.

Nothing was as he remembered. When Abigail was alive, these rooms had been funky and cluttered, much like his aunt, with shelves piled high with everything from pieces of driftwood to beautifully crafted art pottery to cheap plastic garage-sale trinkets.

Abigail had possessed her own sense of style. If she liked something, she had no compunction about displaying it. And she had liked a wide variety of things.

The fussy wallpaper he remembered was gone and the room had been painted a crisp, clean white. Even more significant, a few of the major walls had been removed to open up the space. The thick, dramatic trim around the windows and ceiling was still there and nothing jarred with the historic tone of the house but he had to admit the space looked much brighter. Cleaner.

Elegant, even.

He had only a moment to absorb the changes before a plaintive whine echoed through the space. He followed the sound and discovered Conan just on the other side of the long sofa that was canted across the living room.

The dog gazed at him with longing in his eyes and though he practically knocked the sofa cushions off with his quivering, he made no move to lunge at him.

Max blinked at the canine. “All right. What’s with the dog? Did somebody glue his haunches to the sofa?”

She made a face. “No. We’re working on obedience. I gave him a strict sit-stay command before I opened the door. I’m afraid it’s not going to last, as much as he wants to be good. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t mind. I like dogs.”

He particularly liked this one and had since Conan was a pup Abigail had rescued from the pound, though he certainly couldn’t tell her that.

She took pity on the dog and released him from the position with a simple “Okay.”

Conan immediately rushed for Max, nudging at him with that big furry red-gold head, just as a timer sounded through the room.

“Perfect. That’s everything. Do you mind eating in the kitchen? I have a great view of the ocean from there.”

“Not at all.”

He didn’t add that Abigail’s small kitchen, busy and cluttered as it was, had always been his favorite room of the house, the very essence of what made Brambleberry House so very appealing.

He found the small round table set with Abigail’s rose-covered china and sunny yellow napkins. A vase of fresh flowers sent sweet smells to mingle with the delicious culinary scents.

“Can I do anything?”

“No, everything’s all finished. I just need to pull it from the oven. You can go ahead and sit down.”

He sat at one of the place settings where he had a beautiful view of the sand and the sea and the haystacks offshore. He poured coffee for both of them while Conan perched at his feet and he could swear the dog was grinning at him with male camaraderie, as if they shared some secret.

Which, of course, they did.

In a moment, Anna returned to the table with a casserole dish. She set it down then removed covers from the other plates on the table and his mouth watered again at the crispy strips of bacon and mound of scrambled eggs.

“This is enough to feed my entire platoon, ma’am.”

She grimaced. “I haven’t cooked for anyone else in a while. I’m afraid I got a little carried away. I hope you’re hungry.”

“Starving, actually.”

He was astonished to find it was true. The sea air must be agreeing with him. He’d lost twenty pounds in the hospital and though the doctors had been strictly urging him to do something about putting it back on, he hadn’t been able to work up much enthusiasm to eat anything.

Nice to know all his appetites seemed to be returning.

He took several slices of bacon and a hefty mound of scrambled eggs then scooped some of the sweet-smelling concoction from the glass casserole dish.

The moment he lifted the fork to his mouth, a hundred memories came flooding back of other mornings spent in this kitchen, eating this very thing for breakfast. It had been his favorite as long as he could remember and he had always asked for it.

“This is—” Aunt Abigail’s famous French toast, he almost said, but caught himself just in time. “Delicious. Really delicious.”

When she smiled, she looked almost as delectable as the thick, caramel-covered toast, and just as edible. “Thank you. It was a specialty of a dear friend of mine. Every time I make it, it reminds me of her.”

He slanted her a searching look across the table. She sounded sincere—maybe too sincere. He wanted to take her apparent affection for Abigail at face value but he couldn’t help wondering if his cover had been blown. For all he knew, she had seen a picture of him in Abigail’s things and guessed why he was here.