he wasn’t going to let anybody take his Rosebud from him. But she’d stirred a different kind of uneasiness that ate at him from the moment he set the phone down in its cradle again.
Saturday seemed a century away and, at the same time, too close. What would he feel when he saw her, that little girl with his eyes and Jennifer’s face? Would there be some instant connection? In a way, he hoped not. He didn’t want anything to affect his love for Rose. To lessen it. Emotions shouldn’t be so insubstantial. They shouldn’t be dependent on blood tests or facial features.
It had unnerved him, though, to see how much of Rose had come from her mother. That hair. On the ride down in the elevator, it had been all he could do not to touch it, see whether the texture was the same as Rose’s.
The sweetness of her face had stunned him. He’d arrived certain he would hate her, but how could he hate someone who looked like his Rosebud?
Now he didn’t know what to think of her. Her ex-husband had thought her capable of having an affair, which didn’t speak very well for her morals. And yet, she’d defended her Shelly as fiercely as he had his Rose. Whatever her other flaws, she seemed genuinely to love the little girl she’d raised.
Or had it all been an act?
He sank into the leather chair behind his wide bird’s-eye maple desk and sighed. How could he know? How could he trust her?
Did he have any choice?
CHAPTER FOUR
O TTER B EACH REMINDED A DAM of Cannon Beach, just up the coast: charming, but self-consciously so. Inns, bed-and-breakfasts, bakeries, restaurants and shops lined the brick main street. It was one of those towns that existed for visitors, not for the people who lived there. Where did they buy groceries? he wondered. Or get tune-ups for their cars, or their teeth cleaned?
On the other hand, this was truly a beautiful spot. Maybe, living with this view, you didn’t mind having to drive an hour just to go to a hardware store. Between shingled cottages that were now shops and restaurants, he caught glimpses of the pebbly beach and the two famous sea stacks just offshore. Bright, tailed kites rose in a brisk breeze, and beachcombers wandered. Tendrils of smoke gave away the presence of small fires shielded by driftwood. He cracked his window and breathed in the scent of the ocean.
Rose was sound asleep in her car seat, he saw with a glance in the rearview mirror. Good. He wasn’t in the mood for her excitement. He’d told her only that they were going to spend the day with a friend who had a daughter Rose’s age. They’d go to the beach, he promised. Maybe out for lunch. The trunk of the car was full of plastic buckets and shovels, sand molds and towels, plus an ice chest with drinks and snacks. Rose was ready for anything.
Adam wasn’t. He was doing his best not to think about what lay ahead, about why they were here. He didn’t care about Otter Beach. If he let the crack in his self-control open, his mind filled with images, people—Shelly, Lynn, Jennifer lying in the hospital pale as marble. Questions. What would he feel when he saw Shelly? Would Rose notice how much she looked like Lynn? What would they talk about? And after today, what?
How could they pull this off?
Sheer willpower allowed him to slam the crack shut. Brooding would get him nowhere.
Per Lynn’s directions, Adam turned down a side street. Then right one block. He heard stirring behind him. The tires on brick had woken Rose. On the corner was an antique store, the windows filled with bottles and knickknacks. Next door, espresso was being served on the canopied sidewalk, where half-a-dozen wrought-iron tables jostled for room. Finally, the bookstore.
A simple, old-fashioned wooden sign declared, Otter Beach Books. Beneath it dangled a smaller sign, Open. The old house was painted butter-yellow with the trim deep pink—rose colored, he supposed, aware of the irony. The white picket fence was a nice touch. Yellow and white
Saturday seemed a century away and, at the same time, too close. What would he feel when he saw her, that little girl with his eyes and Jennifer’s face? Would there be some instant connection? In a way, he hoped not. He didn’t want anything to affect his love for Rose. To lessen it. Emotions shouldn’t be so insubstantial. They shouldn’t be dependent on blood tests or facial features.
It had unnerved him, though, to see how much of Rose had come from her mother. That hair. On the ride down in the elevator, it had been all he could do not to touch it, see whether the texture was the same as Rose’s.
The sweetness of her face had stunned him. He’d arrived certain he would hate her, but how could he hate someone who looked like his Rosebud?
Now he didn’t know what to think of her. Her ex-husband had thought her capable of having an affair, which didn’t speak very well for her morals. And yet, she’d defended her Shelly as fiercely as he had his Rose. Whatever her other flaws, she seemed genuinely to love the little girl she’d raised.
Or had it all been an act?
He sank into the leather chair behind his wide bird’s-eye maple desk and sighed. How could he know? How could he trust her?
Did he have any choice?
CHAPTER FOUR
O TTER B EACH REMINDED A DAM of Cannon Beach, just up the coast: charming, but self-consciously so. Inns, bed-and-breakfasts, bakeries, restaurants and shops lined the brick main street. It was one of those towns that existed for visitors, not for the people who lived there. Where did they buy groceries? he wondered. Or get tune-ups for their cars, or their teeth cleaned?
On the other hand, this was truly a beautiful spot. Maybe, living with this view, you didn’t mind having to drive an hour just to go to a hardware store. Between shingled cottages that were now shops and restaurants, he caught glimpses of the pebbly beach and the two famous sea stacks just offshore. Bright, tailed kites rose in a brisk breeze, and beachcombers wandered. Tendrils of smoke gave away the presence of small fires shielded by driftwood. He cracked his window and breathed in the scent of the ocean.
Rose was sound asleep in her car seat, he saw with a glance in the rearview mirror. Good. He wasn’t in the mood for her excitement. He’d told her only that they were going to spend the day with a friend who had a daughter Rose’s age. They’d go to the beach, he promised. Maybe out for lunch. The trunk of the car was full of plastic buckets and shovels, sand molds and towels, plus an ice chest with drinks and snacks. Rose was ready for anything.
Adam wasn’t. He was doing his best not to think about what lay ahead, about why they were here. He didn’t care about Otter Beach. If he let the crack in his self-control open, his mind filled with images, people—Shelly, Lynn, Jennifer lying in the hospital pale as marble. Questions. What would he feel when he saw Shelly? Would Rose notice how much she looked like Lynn? What would they talk about? And after today, what?
How could they pull this off?
Sheer willpower allowed him to slam the crack shut. Brooding would get him nowhere.
Per Lynn’s directions, Adam turned down a side street. Then right one block. He heard stirring behind him. The tires on brick had woken Rose. On the corner was an antique store, the windows filled with bottles and knickknacks. Next door, espresso was being served on the canopied sidewalk, where half-a-dozen wrought-iron tables jostled for room. Finally, the bookstore.
A simple, old-fashioned wooden sign declared, Otter Beach Books. Beneath it dangled a smaller sign, Open. The old house was painted butter-yellow with the trim deep pink—rose colored, he supposed, aware of the irony. The white picket fence was a nice touch. Yellow and white
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