But a customer showing up out of nowhere, clearly having tracked her to her home…that was stalker territory. He had decided to risk it because he suspected she wouldn’t agree to talk to him if she knew who he was. Still, he hoped she didn’t have pepper spray and an impulsive trigger finger.
“Hey,” he said. “I’m sorry to bother you at home, but I was hoping to get a chance to talk to you privately. I’m Red Malone. I’m the guy who—”
“I know who you are.” Frowning, she pressed the bundle of baby closer to her chest. The kid whimpered, as if she held on too tightly. “What do you want? Is it about Bill?”
“No.” He smiled. “No, our insurance companies are handling that fine. My car’s already been towed to San Francisco and put on the lift. I’m actually here about something else.”
“Really?” She still looked suspicious. “What?”
He glanced around. The street wasn’t exactly crowded, but the April weather was balmy, the kind that made people open all the windows to let the breeze blow through. Anyone could be listening. “It is personal. Is there somewhere we might talk privately?”
Her eyebrows drove together, and she took a step backward. She clearly thought that was pushy as hell.
“I don’t think so, Mr. Malone. I’m not sure how you got my address, or what you think we have to talk about. But I don’t know you. I certainly am not going to invite you into my home.”
“Please, call me Red,” he said. “I’m sorry. I know it seems strange, but I promise you I’m not some creep who followed you home from the café. I’m here on behalf of a mutual friend. It’s important.”
At that her eyes widened. The setting sun lit their honey-brown depths. It also pinked her freckled cheeks and full lips. The effect was amazing, and he felt a purely male reaction that he clamped down on instantly. Panting like a pervert wouldn’t be at all helpful in the I-am-not-a-creep department.
“A mutual friend?” Her voice sounded tight, as if her breathing had accelerated. Her nostrils flared subtly. It looked a little like anger. He wondered who she thought he meant. Was it possible she’d already begun to suspect the truth?
The baby began to fuss and wriggle, as if he reacted to his mother’s emotions. She dropped a kiss on top of the blanket to soothe him, then looked at Red. “What are you talking about? What mutual friend?”
Okay, moment of truth. He met her gaze squarely. “Victor Wigham.”
She lifted her chin, but not before he saw the contempt that flickered behind her eyes. “Victor Wigham is not my friend.”
“Okay. That might be the wrong word.” Red tried to remember that he’d been chosen for this task because he supposedly understood how to be diplomatic. “But, as I understand it, he was the father of your child.”
She didn’t even blink. “And since that fact doesn’t seem to interest Victor in the least, I’m afraid I don’t see how it could possibly interest you, either, Mr. Malone.”
Red hesitated. She was using present tense when she mentioned Victor, just as he sometimes found himself doing. But why? He was struggling with grief, but clearly she had no affection for the man who had fathered her child.
Which had to mean…she didn’t realize Victor had died.
Hell. That complicated things. For some reason, he’d taken it for granted that she knew. But how? The Wighams owned a vacation house here in Windsor Beach, but they kept it rented out, so they wouldn’t be considered locals. His obituary wouldn’t even have made it into the back pages of the Windsor Beach Bulletin.
And obviously the “other woman” wasn’t likely to be mentioned in the will. So unless she kept tabs on him via the internet, how would she have found out?
The baby sneezed. She pulled the blanket up, covering the last inch of downy forehead that had still been visible. “I’m afraid I need to get Eddie inside. It’s too chilly for him. So if you don’t mind—”
“Allison.” He decided to say it. “Victor died two months ago.”
Her body froze in place, but a dozen different micro-expressions swept across her face. Surprise, definitely. And…could that have been fear? Anger? Something negative…but it all happened too fast. He would have loved to capture the display in slow motion, so that he could decipher even half of them.
When the baby began to cry, she blinked, and all visible emotions disappeared.
“I see,” she said. She picked up her purse with her free hand and gestured toward the stairs. “Then I guess you’d better come in.”
HALF AN HOUR LATER, Allison still hadn’t recovered from the shock. She had gone through the motions of playing hostess, getting Red a cup of coffee—two sugars, no cream—and inviting him to sit while she changed Eddie and put him in bed.
Thankfully, Eddie was exhausted and fell right asleep. Afterward, she stood at her bedroom door for a couple of frozen seconds, still numb and reluctant to emerge. Her mind wasn’t working. She couldn’t think where to begin.
She wasn’t sure why the idea of Victor’s death bothered her in the first place. She’d long since accepted that he wouldn’t be a father to Eddie. But obviously somewhere, buried very deep, the hope had lingered that someday he might wonder what he’d missed. That he might find his son and try to make up for lost time.
But now her son truly did not have a father. And never would.
She had to go out there. She could see enough of the living room to know that Red had picked up a magazine. He leaned back, comfortable and relaxed on the scratchy plaid sofa.
That kind—the completely confident kind—always claimed their personal space with ease. Victor had looked equally at home on that sofa. Fat lot that had meant, in the end.
She couldn’t stall forever, though. So she straightened her spine and walked down the hall.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“No problem.” He half stood, maybe because his mom had raised him right, and maybe only to set down the magazine on the coffee table. “I learned a lot about fat-free casseroles.”
She bought some time by circling the living room, turning on the lights to banish the twilight gloom. Then she sat on the opposite sofa and folded her hands in her lap.
“So, what happened?” she asked. “To Victor.”
Red leaned forward, his hands dangling near his knees. He looked sober, but under complete control. She couldn’t tell from his manner how close he and Victor might have been.
“Throat cancer. He was diagnosed about a year ago, more or less. He didn’t tell any of us until about six months ago.” He seemed to be watching her closely. “I take it he didn’t tell you, either?”
“Victor and I haven’t spoken for at least that long,” she said. “But, no. He didn’t tell me he was sick.”
She worked to keep her expression neutral, too. They were like two poker players, neither willing to give the other an iota of advantage.
But her mind was racing. About a year ago…that would have been close to the time she met Victor. He’d been a regular at her dad’s restaurant. He’d clearly been sad—a bad divorce, he’d told her. And she had been keeping a death vigil on the restaurant. On the night she closed the restaurant doors for good, she and Victor had finally made love.
She wondered whether he had known about the cancer then. She wondered whether his sickness had anything to do with his leaving her.
Not that it was an excuse. Sick or not, he shouldn’t have walked away without a word. Their relationship had