“Just too nice for words,” Emily mumbled, then inched around the chair and sank onto it as her trembling legs refused to hold her for another moment.
Mark sat back down on the sofa and propped one ankle on his other knee. Emily’s gaze was riveted on the taut muscles visible beneath his slacks as he completed the masculine motion. She blinked and redirected her attention to the fingernails of one of her hands as though they were the most fascinating thing she’d ever seen.
“There are a couple of reasons that I stopped over in Ventura,” Mark said. “One of them is to extend an apology to you and Robert, Margaret, for not keeping in better contact with you. Sending a Christmas card once a year just doesn’t cut it.
“If you hadn’t taken me in, welcomed me into your home when my father was killed in that accident when I was a senior in high school, there’s no telling what grief I would have come to in the foster-care system. I owe you a great deal, and I feel as though I’ve been remiss in expressing my gratitude.”
“We were delighted to have you here as a part of our family, Mark,” Margaret said. “Even if we had had a crystal ball to tell us what would eventually transpire between you and…”
“Grandma,” Emily interrupted, “let’s not go traipsing down memory lane, shall we?” She looked at Mark. “You said you had a couple of reasons for being in Ventura?”
Mark nodded. Emily waited for him to continue speaking. One second, two, three…
“Is this a guessing game?” Emily finally said, frowning. “Do you intend to share this other…mission, with us?”
“All in good time,” Mark said, then paused. “Margaret told me that you have a very challenging career, Emily, and that you’ve recently moved your business out of your home and into an office downtown.
“You research the history of old homes and buildings, as I understand it. Fascinating. Margaret also said you do quite a bit of work for the restoration division of MacAllister Architects so they can restore old structures in such a manner they will be eligible for registration with the historical society. Not only that but your reputation for excellence is spreading up and down the coast.”
Emily glared at her grandmother. “Did you remember to tell him that I brush my teeth in the morning when I get up and again before I go to bed, Grandma?”
Margaret laughed. “Don’t be silly. Mark asked how you were, what you were doing, and I told him. A proud grandmother has the right to boast. It’s in our job description. We’d already moved on to the subject of the exciting events of Maggie and Alice’s weddings and their new lives on the Island of Wilshire.”
“Good topic,” Emily said, pointing one finger in the air. “There’s nothing like a couple of royal weddings to put a little zing in the daily grind.
“Jessica is married now, too, Mark. She’s a successful attorney, crazy in love with a police detective named Daniel, and became an instant mother to a darling baby girl named Tessa. We MacAllisters have spent a lot of time going to family weddings in…”
“But you’ve never married?” Mark interrupted quietly, looking directly at Emily.
“Me?” she said, splaying one hand on her chest. “Oh, heavens, no. When I was young and immature and such a starry-eyed child I thought I wanted that type of lifestyle but it suddenly dawned on me that it just wasn’t my cup of tea and…”
She flipped one hand in the air. “Well, you know all that because you and I were inseparable from the time you moved to Ventura until you zoomed off to fame and fortune in Boston and… Well, silly us, we were so sure we were deeply in… We were so young and dumb, weren’t we? Oh, my, yes. Well, that’s enough of that subject.”
It was enough of that subject, Mark thought, to slice and dice him, to hear spoken in Emily’s own words an echo of what she’d written in that letter she’d sent him in Boston so many years ago.
His first instinct then had been to get on a plane and fly back to Ventura, confront Emily, make her look him right in the eye and repeat what was in that letter. But he hadn’t had two nickels to rub together, let alone money for airfare. And besides, she’d made it perfectly clear in that damnable, hateful letter that it was over between them, so what was the point?
And now here he sat in the same room with her over a dozen years later hearing her say it all right to his face. And it still hurt. God, it hurt.
Well, wasn’t this an efficient use of time? During the very first meeting with Emily since arriving this morning in Ventura, he’d gotten the cold, hard facts he needed to begin to retrieve his heart from her uncaring stranglehold.
But…
There was something just off the mark about what she had just said. She made it sound as though they’d mutually agreed that their feelings for each other weren’t what they’d believed them to be, and that wasn’t even remotely close to the truth.
He had left for Boston with the heartfelt promise to send for her just as soon as he could figure out a way to provide a home for her while he attended college on the scholarship he’d received.
Emily had vowed to wait for him no matter how long it took, but about a month later the shattering letter had come and…
“Yo in the house,” a voice called in the distance, jerking Mark back to the present. “I’m here as ordered to dig in the dirt.”
Emily’s eyes widened and she jumped to her feet. “Can’t. No digging in dirt today. Sorry, Grandma, I’ve got a killer headache so we’ll do this tomorrow. I’ll just go tell… Bye, Mark, enjoy your vacation and…”
The front door of the house opened and an adolescent boy came into the living room.
“Oh, dear heaven,” Emily whispered, “no.”
“Hi,” the boy said. “Didn’t you hear me holler? I came right over on my bike when I got home from swimming and saw your note, Mom. Hi, Great-Grandma. We’re going to dig the dirt, plant the plants, do it to it.” His attention was caught by a tall man across the room getting slowly to his feet. “Oh, hi. Sorry. Didn’t know there was company.” He looked questioningly at his mother.
“Yes, well,” Emily said, having difficulty breathing. “I…Mark Maxwell, I’d like you to meet…” She drew a shaky breath. “…my…my…son. Trevor. Trevor MacAllister. Trevor, say hello to Dr. Mark Maxwell. He’s an old school…chum of mine.”
“Cool,” Trevor said, nodding. “Hi.”
“You’re Emily’s…son?” Mark said, his voice sounding strange to his own ears as he stared at Trevor.
“Yep, that’s me. Her genius-level offspring. Do note that I’m taller than she is already. Cool, huh?”
“Very cool,” Mark said. “How…how old are you, Trevor?”
No! Don’t answer that, Emily thought, taking a step toward Trevor.
“Yes, the time has come for this,” Margaret whispered to no one.
“I’m twelve, almost thirteen,” Trevor said. “Closer to thirteen, so just go with that. I’m about to become a bona fide teenager.”
Who looked exactly as he had at that age, Mark thought, his mind racing. Tall, lanky, feet like gunboats, arms and legs seeming too big for his yet-to-fully-develop body, brown eyes, light-brown hair and a cowlick creating a curl on the crown of his head.
This was Emily’s son? Mark’s mind screamed. Oh, he didn’t doubt for a second that she had given birth to him but, by damn, this boy standing a room away from him was more than just Emily’s son.
There