The Seven Year Secret. Roz Fox Denny

Instead, he drew Claire’s attention to remembered landmarks as they drove past. “Look, there’s the old capitol. Over there’s the new one. Clyde’s is a locally famous bar. By day,” he said, grinning, “state legislators conduct high-level meetings there. After hours, college students swarm the place.”

      He rattled on with such fondness for the sights that Claire finally interrupted. “You miss Tallahassee, don’t you.”

      Connor, who still had his nose pressed to the side window, turned to stare at her. “I haven’t thought much about it. The culture’s more Old South here than in Miami. I like that. Remember, I was born and raised here. But there are good memories, and bad.” A muscle in his jaw jumped as he studied the landscape over her shoulder. “Ah—there’s the cemetery where my mother is buried.”

      “Really?” Claire spun to see it.

      “Yes. I’d like to bring flowers, maybe tomorrow. It’s been a while since I’ve visited. Too long.” He craned his neck to keep the wrought-iron fence in view.

      “Mrs. Forrest’s buried there, too.” Davis glanced at Connor in the rearview mirror. “The senator takes white roses by her grave every Monday, rain or shine. White roses were the missus’s favorite.”

      “Then you’ll be able to direct me to a florist. I’m afraid that when I lived here before, I never had money for extras—like flowers.”

      Claire gave a little snort. “Only hand-blown glass elephants. And that’s a pretty ritzy cemetery.”

      “Meaning what? There’s a difference in cemeteries?”

      From Claire’s dry expression, Connor figured there must be. “I…uh, didn’t purchase the plot.” He paled under his robust tan. “I guess I was too out of it at the time to notice. Mallory took charge. She handled the entire funeral.”

      “She was how old? Sixteen? Obviously her parents made the arrangements.”

      “No. I’m absolutely sure she got no help from them. She did it all by herself.”

      “I forgot. St. Mallory.”

      Connor gnawed on his upper lip, deciding silence was the safest bet. Which was okay, because Davis slowed and turned into a driveway facing a massive set of iron gates. One gate swung open when he pressed a button under the dash.

      Forrest House, an antebellum, white-columned structure, commanded the entire top of a grassy knoll. Stately magnolias and spreading live oaks flanked the residence. The postcard picture it presented was grand enough to draw a gasp from Claire.

      “Intimidating, isn’t it?” Connor muttered.

      “Impressive,” she said in a small voice. “Oh, my, is that a pool near those cabanas off to the left? Um…maybe we shouldn’t be too hasty about finding another place, Connor. This is like a five-star resort.”

      “What about privacy?” Connor twisted in his seat, realizing belatedly that Davis had circled a bronze sculpture of towering pine trees and stopped at the bottom of marble steps leading to an even more imposing set of carved wooden doors. Troublesome memories assailed him. Connor helped Claire out of the car this time, and Davis drove on to a detached seven-car garage situated at the end of the cobbled terrace.

      “Place looks deserted,” Connor observed, trailing Claire up the broad steps.

      “Just ring the bell,” she said, still attempting to take in all the sights around the parklike grounds. “Surely the senator’s staff is home. Davis said the housekeeper would take care of us. I can’t recall her name. Do you remember?”

      Connor shook his head as he pressed the bell. Suddenly, he wished he’d heeded Claire’s first preference and found another place to stay.

      INSIDE HER FATHER’S HOUSE, Mallory, who’d entered moments before, having indulged in a rare after-work swim, heard the door chimes. “I can tell you’re busy cooking something delicious, Marta, judging by that wonderful smell. I’ll get the door. Are you or Dad expecting anyone?” she called into the kitchen, her voice muffled as she toweled her wet hair.

      Marta responded from the depths of the commercial-size kitchen. But her words didn’t penetrate the fleecy towel.

      Concerned more with the water tracks she was leaving on the black marble entry floor than with who might be calling on her dad, Mallory hurriedly yanked open the heavy door, expecting at most to direct a deliveryman elsewhere.

      It’d be impossible to judge who was more shocked by her sudden appearance in a skimpy bikini—Mallory, Connor or Claire, whose breath escaped audibly. “I thought you said she had her own place,” Claire muttered in an accusing voice.

      “Mallory?” Connor sounded incredulous. And Mallory’s hands shook so hard, she had trouble dragging the wet towel off her head. She made a fumbled attempt to cover the greater expanse of flesh left open to the scrutiny of her unwelcome guests.