She had held his grandmother’s hand when they had buried his grandfather, and again when he had gone away to university. It was Maggie who had held his own hand when he came back for his grandmother’s funeral.
When he and Hailey had decided to build on this land that had been his grandparents’ it had been Maggie who had welcomed them home as if they belonged here.
Had he already known, even at those initial stages, that Hailey would never belong here?
Jefferson glanced at the date. The fund-raiser was two weeks away, the day before the magazine crew was showing up. He cursed under his breath. It was the second time in one day that honoring Hailey had come up. Just like with the photo shoot, how could he refuse? Plus, he didn’t want to let Maggie down. But he had a horrible feeling the whole thing was just a ruse—not to honor Hailey but to parade the whole town’s eligible women before him.
The people of Anslow meant so well, but none of them could believe a life worth living could be had without family. They thought it was “time” for him to get over it and get on with it, as if these things could be done on a schedule. But couldn’t they see? For him family was forever connected to loss. And it was loss he could not bear any more of.
“I’ll think of a way,” he decided. He wished his new housekeeper had never handed him the envelope.
His new housekeeper. He listened. He thought he would hear sounds of her rummaging around, but there was nothing. In fact, he was pretty sure, now that he thought about it, that he had not heard a sound for hours.
He slipped out of his office and into the hallway. Night was falling and his house was in deep shadow. He sniffed the air. He knew there was hardly anything to cook with, so why was he disappointed that she had not made him dinner, and then sharply annoyed at his disappointment.
He had done fine without her for all these years.
He noticed the doorway at the end of the hall was open, and he went toward it, and then quietly up the dark staircase.
He paused as he came into the room. There was very little light left in it. It had been Hailey’s favorite room in the whole house design.
“Like a secret room,” she had said.
It had seemed to him it was the kind of room their kids might have adored, back then, when he had still held the hope he would one day create a family of his own.
But Hailey had designed the room not for kids but for crafts.
Crafts? He remembered the astonishment in his voice. Because his wife, the consummate professional, did not do crafts any more than she did double ovens.
The knife ache of pain throbbed along his temples. Because he had had a dream of settling here, and having kids here, and the night that Hailey had run off into the storm, it had been apparent their dreams were entirely different.
He had failed her so colossally.
Then, as his eyes adjusted to the dimness in the room, Jefferson saw Brook on the bed. She was curled up on her side, facing him, and she was fast asleep, her golden sand curls scattered over the white pillow cases.
It occurred to him he should feel annoyed. This was hardly the way for her to make the stellar impression she had promised. And yet seeing her sleeping, the anxiety completely relaxed from her face, Jefferson did not feel annoyed.
He felt as if he had done the right thing, and maybe the only thing. A thing that would have made his grandparents proud of him. This was his grandparents’ land. They would have never turned away someone in need. That was the unspoken creed they had lived their lives by, and no one had benefited more than he from their strict adherence to the golden rule.
He stood there for a moment too long, because Brook’s eyes opened, sleepy and disoriented at first, and then they widened.
She sat up on the bed. A scream of pure terror erupted from her. She scrambled backward, knees to her chin, pulling the covers along with her and putting her back into the corner.
“Hey,” he said. “Hey, Brook, it’s okay. It’s me.”
That apparently was not reassuring, as she screamed again, a scream of fear so primal it made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
“Jefferson Stone,” he said, but then it occurred to him he had not volunteered his name as of yet, so it might not reassure her at all. It also occurred to him, the light in the room was very dim. All she could see was a hulk standing in her doorway.
He stood there for a moment trying to get his eyes to adjust more fully. She scooted out of the corner bed, and he lost sight of her in the darkness. And then something crashed down on his head. By instinct, he reached out, connected with the arm of his attacker and pulled her in close to him.
“Let me go,” she screamed, fighting like a wildcat.
Instead of letting her go, Jefferson pulled the panicky woman into his chest and held her hard and tight. She pummeled him with her fists. She reared back and hit his chest with her head. He was afraid she might bite him. But he would not let go.
“Brook, stop it,” he said quietly. “Stop it. It’s just me. Jefferson.”
Finally, his voice seemed to penetrate all that panic. The wriggling strength of her went suddenly still, though he could feel the rabbit-fast beat of her heart against his chest.
“Jefferson?” She tilted her face up at him, and he could see the glitter of gold in her eyes as she stared up at him, frightened and baffled.
“Jefferson Stone, your new boss?”
Silence. And then, recognition pierced the glaze in her eyes, and for the first time he thought she might actually be wide-awake.
“Oh, my God! My new boss. I just hit my new boss with a lamp.”
“Yes, you did.”
“I’m so sorry. No. I’m beyond sorry. I’m mortified. Devastated. Appall—”
“I get it,” he said drily.
She seemed to realize she had made no effort to pull away from him. He realized how delicate she felt pressed into the length of him. He realized what he wanted to realize the least: that his life had become too vacant, lacking almost completely in this most basic of human needs. To be touched.
Jefferson Stone was far too aware that Brook felt good. And smelled good, and that a man could live to see eyes like that searching his face for goodness.
And finding it.
She seemed to realize now that rather than fighting to get out of his arms, she was clinging to him. Embarrassment painted her cheeks a delicate shade of pink. She dropped her arms to her sides and took a wobbly step back from him. After a moment, she lifted her arm and pushed her hand through her rumpled curls.
“I think you should sit down,” he said.
No argument. She retreated to the bed. She sat on the edge of it, peering through the darkness.
He reached over and flicked on the overhead light.
Jefferson
