she’d been married, he wouldn’t be here, he assured himself. If she’d been married, he would have left her alone, wouldn’t have attempted to contact her again in this lifetime.
But he was pretty sure she wasn’t.
And despite the good reasons he had for staying away from Phoebe Merriman, despite the fact that he’d behaved like a jerk the last time they’d been together, he’d never been able to forget her. Never been able to convince himself that being with her had been a mistake. He’d thought of little else during his long months of recuperation and therapy. He’d nearly reached out to her then, but some part of him had shied away from a phone call or an e-mail.
He wanted to see her in person when he asked her if there was any chance she’d let him into her life again. Sighing, he dragged one of the pillows up and leaned his head against it. If only things hadn’t gotten so screwed up at the end.
It had been bad enough that Phoebe’s twin Melanie had died because of him. Indirectly, maybe, but it still had been his fault.
He’d compounded it in the biggest damn way possible when he’d made love to Phoebe after the funeral. And then he’d run.
Phoebe Merriman jumped when the mobile phone in her minivan began to play the jazzy tune she’d programmed into it. That phone hardly ever rang. The only reason she had it, really, was so that Bridget’s babysitter could always reach her in case of an emergency.
Alarmed, she punched the button to take the call. A quick glance at the display had the dread in her stomach lurching uncomfortably. Phoebe had good reason to fear unexpected phone calls. And just as she’d feared, it was her home number. “Hello?”
“Phoebe?” The babysitter, Angie, sounded breathless.
“Angie. What’s wrong?”
“There’s a man sitting on the front porch. In the swing.”
The news was almost anticlimactic, considering that she’d been fearing a high fever, blood or broken bones.
“Sitting? And what else?”
“Nothing else.” Phoebe realized Angie wasn’t breathless; she was whispering. “He came to the door but I didn’t answer, so he sat down on the swing and I thought I’d better call you.” Her voice quavered a little.
Phoebe remembered how young her sitter was, newly graduated from high school and still living with her parents on the next street over, taking evening classes at a local community college. Phoebe had met Angie’s mother in her Sunday-school class and had felt lucky to find Angie.
“You did exactly right,” she assured the younger woman. “If all he’s doing is sitting there, just stay inside with the doors closed. I’m only a few blocks from home.”
She pulled into her driveway a few minutes later, the cell phone’s line still open. There was a gray sedan with a rental tag parked in front of her house. Maybe it belonged to whoever was waiting on her front porch.
“Okay, Angie,” she said. “I’m home. You stay right where you are until I come inside.”
She took a deep breath. Should she call the police? Common sense told her whoever was waiting on her porch probably wasn’t a criminal. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be here in the middle of the day, unconcerned about the neighbors taking down his license plate or identifying him. She positioned her keys between her fingers with one key thrust outward, as she’d learned in the self-defense class she’d taken when she’d first started college. Then she pivoted on her heel and headed up her front walk.
She started up the porch steps, unable to see the swing because of the trellis of roses blooming across the front of the porch. She knew from experience that a person sitting there on the swing could see out much more easily than anyone could see in.
As she reached the porch, a very large man came into view. Adrenaline rushed through her as he began to rise from the swing. She angled her body to confront him.
“What are—Wade!”
As the man’s identity registered, a wave of shock slammed into her. It couldn’t be.
Wade was dead.
Her knees felt as if they might buckle and she groped for the railing behind her. The keys fell to the floor with a loud jangle. “You—you’re Wade.” An inane statement. Of course it was Wade.
He was smiling but his eyes were watchful as he took a step forward. “Yeah. Hi, Phoebe.”
“B-b-but…”
His smile faded as she took a step backward. One eyebrow rose in a quirk as familiar to her as her own smile in the mirror. That quizzical expression had been only one of the things she’d loved about Wade Donnelly. “But what?” he asked quietly.
“I thought you were dead!” She blurted out the words as her legs gave way and she sank to the top step, dropping her head onto her knees as incredulity warred with a strong desire to cry hysterically.
Footsteps rang out as Wade crossed the porch and then the boards of the top step depressed as he sat down beside her. One large hand touched her back. “My God,” she said, the words muffled. “You really are here, aren’t you?”
“I’m really here.” It was definitely Wade, his distinctly masculine tone one she would recognize anywhere. He touched her back again, just one small uncertain touch, and she had to fight the urge to throw herself into his arms.
He never really belonged to me, she reminded herself.
“I’m sorry it’s such a shock.” His voice was quiet and deep and rang with sincerity. “I was presumed to be dead for a couple of days until I could get back to my unit. But that was months ago.”
“How long have you been home?” He’d been deployed right after Melanie’s funeral. The memory brought back others she’d tried to forget, as well, and she focused on his answer, trying to ignore the past.
“About five weeks. I’ve been trying to find you.” He hesitated for a moment. “June gave me your address and she knew I survived. I assumed she—or someone back home—had told you.”
“No.” She shook her head without lifting it. She’d stopped reading the news from home the day she’d read his obituary. And though she’d sent June a Christmas card this year, they hadn’t exchanged more than signatures since she’d moved.
Silence fell. She sensed that he didn’t know what to say any more than she did—
Bridget! Shocked that she could have forgotten her own child for a moment—particularly this moment—Phoebe leaped to her feet, ignoring Wade’s startled exclamation. “Just—ah, just let me put my things inside,” she said. “Then we can talk.”
Her hands trembled as she turned away from the man she’d loved throughout her adolescent years and into young womanhood. The keys were slippery in her sweaty grasp and she dropped them again. Before she could react, Wade came to her side and stretched down for the keys.
“Here.”
“Thank you.” She took the keys carefully,
