husband is dead. If she loved him, I’m sure she’ll be devastated.”
“What do you mean ‘if she loved him’?” Tory fairly shouted at him.
He saw the spark in her ice blue eyes and was glad to see some of the life come back to her.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, lifting his hands off the wheel in a brief gesture of mock surrender. “I just meant that it’s been, what? Fifteen years? Love and memories fade.”
She turned her head so that he could no longer get a fix on her expression.
“How about you?”
“How about I what?” she answered dully.
“How are you holding up?”
“Are you asking me if I read the newspaper article?” Tory asked, gesturing toward the paper between them.
“Yes.” He realized he was holding his breath, not certain why he had suddenly broached this potentially dangerous subject.
“I don’t believe everything I read in the papers.”
“Smart approach.”
“But,” she said as she turned, “if the police are correct in their early assessment of the case, my father didn’t desert me. He was murdered.”
“They weren’t clear on that point,” J.D. told her.
“One of them stated that there appeared to be a bullet wound in the skull—”
“But that they needed to run tests.”
She scooted closer to the door, as if she wanted as much distance between them as possible.
“I must admit, Tory,” he began in a deliberately soft, nonthreatening tone, “I’m astounded by your composure. If someone told me my father might have been murdered, I think I’d go ballistic.”
“As strange as this may sound, hearing their theory made me feel strangely comforted.”
“How so?”
“Because it means he didn’t choose to walk out of my life. It means he didn’t leave me.”
J.D. hated the effect her soft, almost choked, words were having on his gut. Feeling compassion for this woman was dangerous.
“Turn here,” she said as they approached an exit.
Silently, J.D. followed her instructions for the next several miles. The landscape was little more than swampy grasses and clusters of evergreens. Hardly an ideal sight for a golf and tennis community.
His eyes fixed on a wooden sign about a hundred yards down the road. It swayed gently on the currents of the passing cars, but he could still make out the bold, black print.
“Ashley Villas Convalescent Center?” he read aloud as he pulled into the lot, threw the car into park and killed the engine.
“None other,” she responded, her voice cracking with emotion.
“Your mother lives in a convalescent center?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered as she opened the door and stepped from the car.
Grabbing the folded newspaper, J.D. tucked it under his arm and then jogged to catch up to her. “You could have said something.”
“I did,” she responded without looking at him. “I told you I would have preferred coming alone.”
He inclined his head in respect as he held open one of the center’s shining glass doors.
“Tory!” a male voice bellowed down the otherwise silent corridor. Tory smiled wanely at the dark-haired man sauntering toward her. “I should have guessed I’d run into you here today. Tough thing about your dad.”
He watched as she accepted the huge hand from the man he guessed to be about fifty, though his physique belied his age. His clothes told J.D. two things—first, the guy definitely had bucks; and second, he dressed for the sole purpose of attracting women.
“Cal Matthews,” she said, almost as an afterthought, “This is J.D. Porter.”
The two men shook hands.
Tory continued, “Cal used to work for my dad.”
“Sorry I can’t stay,” Cal cut in, making a point of looking at the Rolex on his wrist, “but you know how it is.”
Tory nodded. J.D. wanted to question her about the guy, when a plump nurse approached
“Poor child,” the large woman with skin the color of chocolate came shuffling forward, her arms held open.
“Hello, Gladys,” she answered before being enfolded in the woman’s ample bosom.
Gladys gave him a once-over that made J.D. feel as if he were back in Sunday school. He didn’t think he’d passed inspection, either—not judging from the wary look on the nurse’s round face.
“I read all about what happened in the paper,” Gladys said, crooking Tory beneath her arm in a purely protective fashion. Her dark eyes continued to assess J.D. “And who is this young man?”
“J.D. Porter,” Tory said. “He’s in Charleston visiting Rose.”
“You told me about him,” Gladys said with a thoughtful nod. “This is the man who’s going to ruin the Tattoo?”
“The same,” Tory admitted without so much as a trace of apology in her expression. “J.D., this is Gladys Halloday, R.N.”
“I prefer to think of my work as improving the property,” J.D. corrected as he offered his hand to the rather imposing woman.
“Change can be good,” Gladys said with a nod of her graying head.
Arms locked, the two women began to move down the hall. J.D. followed, feeling much like an intruder.
The place reminded him more of a hotel than a nursing home. There was no ammonia smell, no hiss of oxygen tanks. The place had carpeting and wallpaper, comfortable chairs and a bulletin board full of scheduled activities.
“There’s Dr. Trimble. He’s been waiting for you,” he heard Gladys say. “He spent a lot of time with your mama this morning.”
J.D. saw a paternalistic look appear in the doctor’s eyes when the man spotted them moving down the hall. It was becoming obvious to J.D. that Tory was a frequent and popular visitor here.
The doctor uttered words of condolence and didn’t bother giving J.D. a second glance. His face was a palette of concerned lines as he took both of Tory’s hands in his.
“I’m afraid I didn’t get any reaction when I told her about Robert.”
“None?”
He
