Faith, Hope and Family

“Then what, exactly, did you mean when you asked why Gideon allowed Adrienne to accept Dylan as a client?”

Deborah gave a gusty sigh and shoved a hand through her hair. Because there was no way to clarify her outburst without making it worse, she asked, instead, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’d been asked to keep it confidential for the time being. I don’t spread secrets or gossip.”

“You could have told me,” Deborah said quietly. “Especially me. You shouldn’t have let me find out like this.”

Her mother’s expression changed from annoyed to regretful. “I’m sorry, Deborah. I didn’t realize it would matter quite this much to you.”

Deborah drew her shoulders straight and lifted her chin. “It doesn’t matter that much,” she lied. “I just don’t like hearing family business from outsiders.”

“I can understand that. But you really shouldn’t let it worry you, dear. Adrienne certainly won’t be bringing her clients home for dinner. You won’t have to deal with Dylan any more than you have for the past few years. After all, he didn’t even attend Gideon and Adrienne’s wedding.”

Regretting now that she had allowed her emotional control to slip, Deborah masked her feelings behind an impassive expression and a shrug. “Where’s Isabelle?” she asked, firmly changing the subject.

“She’s in the kitchen making a collage with magazine cutouts and scraps of fabric, rickrack and buttons. It’s a terrible mess, of course, but she seems to be enjoying herself.”

“I’m sure she is. I think I’ll go catch up on my e-mail.”

“I’ll call you when dinner is ready.”

“Thanks.” Suddenly eager to be alone—even if it meant she was a terrible houseguest—Deborah turned and left the room.

She should have spent the afternoon thinking about Lindsey’s unanticipated business proposition—and she did, a bit. She thought especially about how accepting the offer would mean spending more time in Honesty, most likely increasing the amount of time she would spend around Isabelle and the number of occasions on which she would encounter Dylan.

A writer. She growled beneath her breath and plopped down heavily on the side of her bed. She had just gotten accustomed to thinking of the former teenage bad boy as a respectable officer of the law. And now this?

As irrational as she knew she was being, she couldn’t help suspecting that he had done this just to get under her skin. And probably Gideon’s, as well. After all, Gideon had been published for several years, his thrillers having built a loyal and enthusiastic following. It had been through his writing that Gideon had met Adrienne, his agent of two years. When she’d visited him here in Honesty for business purposes a few months ago, their first face-to-face meeting, they’d fallen in love almost immediately.

Now Gideon and Adrienne were away on their honeymoon and Deborah had discovered that Dylan was also one of Adrienne’s clients. What was she to make of that?

Nothing, she told herself. It was none of her business. If Gideon was okay with having Dylan Smith as part of his wife’s life, Deborah had no reason to get involved. Except for the inevitable small-town encounter, Dylan was completely out of her life now.

Exactly the way they both wanted things to remain.

Isabelle attended preschool the next day, and Lenore had her usual busy calendar, so Deborah was alone in the house for several hours, something she assured her mother she didn’t mind at all. She spent the morning studying the thick file of materials Lindsey had provided about the furniture franchise. She had finally succeeded in putting Dylan out of her mind, for the most part, and she was able to concentrate on business, except for three annoying incidents when the phone rang, but no one was on the other end of the line. Telemarketers, she assumed, hanging up irritably after the third non-call. She shared Gideon’s extreme dislike for the pesky profession.

She had to admit that Lindsey’s proposition was intriguing. She spent a long time leafing through catalogs of furnishings, and she liked what she saw. The furniture was of as high a quality as Lindsey had claimed, combining versatility with clean, modern styling. She could envision these pieces fitting very well into her clients’ decor and daily usage.

Sales wasn’t Deborah’s area, but Lindsey was apparently good at it. With Lindsey’s sales expertise and Deborah’s design experience, she could see how they could build a successful business.

She just hadn’t convinced herself she was interested in making that sort of long-term commitment. Nor in working with a partner. As much as she liked Lindsey, how was she to know Lindsey could be depended on for the long run?

Deborah had learned from experience that it wasn’t always wise to put her faith in others, no matter how likeable or trustworthy they might initially appear to be.

Finally, driven from her room by hunger, she wandered toward the kitchen for a late lunch. She was a bit surprised to find her mother standing beside the kitchen counter, her back to the doorway Deborah had stepped through.

“Hi, Mother. I didn’t realize you were back.”

Lenore gasped, jumped and whirled around.

“Sorry,” Deborah said, holding up both hands in apology. “I didn’t mean to—what’s wrong?”

Lenore’s face was unnaturally pale, and her mouth was drawn into a tight line. She clutched a single sheet of paper in her unsteady right hand. “You startled me. I didn’t hear you come in.”

Deborah wasn’t buying it. “What are you holding?”

“I, um—” Lenore looked down and Deborah would have sworn her mother’s face lost even more color. “It’s nothing.”

She didn’t accept that, either. Because every fiercely protective filial instinct she possessed had just kicked into overdrive, she held out her hand, speaking in the no-nonsense voice she had learned from Lenore. “Let me see.”

“It’s just some small-minded busybody’s attempt to throw her—or his—weight around. Someone who gets a sick sense of power by intimidating other people.”

“Let me see,” Deborah repeated patiently.

Sighing, Lenore held out the paper. “It’s trash, of course. Nothing at all to worry about. I shouldn’t have even given it a second thought, much less let it upset me.”

Deborah scanned the terse paragraphs with a hard knot of anger forming in her chest. “When did you get this?”

“It was in today’s mail. No return address, just an Honesty postmark, dated Saturday.”

“And this is the first time you’ve gotten anything like this?”

When Lenore didn’t immediately respond, Deborah looked up with narrowed eyes. “Mother?”

“It’s not the first,” Lenore admitted reluctantly. “But it’s the most unpleasant.”

“How many?”

“Three—maybe four. I don’t know. I threw them away.”

“Has there been anything else? Phone calls? Any other personal contact?”

“No. Just the letters. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”

“You’re probably right.” But she agreed only to ease the lines around her mother’s mouth. Deborah was furious and, no matter what she’d just said, she was worried.

As much as she hated it, there was only one person she could think of to turn to for advice.

Dylan’s mobile home was old but in good repair, and he kept it relatively neat, for a bachelor. It sat on three partially wooded acres that backed up to a small fishing lake just outside of town, giving him a nice view of the water from the wooden deck he’d built across the back of the trailer. He’d bought the place two years ago with vague plans of building a house here someday. When he was ready.

He had the money to build now, if he wanted. But, as he told all those who asked what he was waiting for, he wasn’t ready. There never seemed to be any urgency to build a house just for himself, and he hadn’t met anyone in the past few years he wanted to ask to share it with him. His dogs were company enough for now.

It was the barking of the dogs that let him know he had company Monday afternoon. Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was just after two, an unusual time for anyone to come calling. Putting away the lunch dishes he’d just finished washing, he wiped his hands on a dishtowel, tossed it on a counter and headed for the front door just as someone knocked.

If there was one person he would not have expected to find on his top step, it was Deborah McCloud.

Seeing her at his door, her blue eyes meeting his with the direct challenge with which she had always faced him, her dark-blond hair tossing in the spring breeze, it suddenly occurred to him exactly what he’d been waiting for all this time.

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