looks and brooding mouth had always brought to mind the night sky, where secrets could hide. Stan had always been quick to smile and tease, while Matt had been quiet and thoughtful.
Matt had grown into a fine young man. Stan had continued to be a boy, and his little-boy attitude had killed him…. At the thought, Amanda felt tears threaten. Shuffling the memories aside, she concentrated on the man who had been more to her than merely her brother-in-law’s son.
Part of the reason she’d been able to accept Danny as her grandson, even though she’d suspected differently, was because she’d always regarded Matt as her second son, loved him and wanted his happiness as much as she did Stan’s.
When Matt had left without a word, it had hurt her deeply, but she knew too well what he lived with in Kevin Logan’s house. What did surprise her was that it had taken so long.
“Amanda, I’m so sorry I didn’t—”
She placed her fingers over his lips. “I told you before, no regrets, Matt. I knew why you didn’t come back for the funeral, and I don’t blame you one bit.”
He kissed her cheek, then backed away to sit across from her wheelchair. Where did he start, in telling her about the events of the morning? “I know about Danny.”
She smiled. “Honey told me about your little chat this morning. I’m glad the air is cleared.”
“Amanda…why did Honey marry Stan? Was it just because of Danny?”
Amanda straightened the throw over her legs, then centered all her attention on him. “No, but that’s all I’ll say on the subject. This is between you and Honey. I have no right telling her story.”
Impatient, Matt frowned at her. “You had no problem inviting me to stay here when you knew I’d find out about my son.”
She shook her head, her mane of perfectly coiffed, snowy hair turning golden in the afternoon sunlight coming through the sitting room windows. “Ah, but that was just some innocent maneuvering to get two stubborn people to face their problems. I’m an old woman who is not above a little meddling, Matthew Logan. However, I will not divulge confidences.”
It irked him that Honey would trust Amanda enough to tell her why and not him. Honey didn’t trust him. He should have guessed. Still, the realization brought with it an almost physical pain. “Then she told you?”
“Not everything.”
“Then—”
“I’m old, not stupid. I did figure some of this tangle out for myself. Then Honey filled in the blanks this morning after she spoke with you.” A serious expression transformed her face from the gentle woman who had held his hand, to the woman he had faced as a teenager after sneaking into the house after curfew. “Just remember, Matt, you’re not the only person in this world with problems.”
Now, what did that mean? Before he could ask, she went on. “So, what are you going to do about your son?”
Matt had spent the better part of the day thinking about Danny. He would not turn his back on his son. He wanted to be part of his child’s life. “I’m not sure, but one thing I do know, I won’t walk out of Danny’s life, no matter what. Honey be damned.” He sighed heavily and stood, then bent to kiss Amanda’s cheek. “In the meantime, I guess I’d better check on the house and see what needs to be done. See you at dinner.”
Amanda, noting the pain in his expression, watched Matt leave, then shook her head. She never doubted that Matt would want to be a part of his son’s life. But did he realize that he’d have to learn to love himself before he could love the child—and quite possibly the child’s mother?
Through the window, she watched as he shooed the stray orange cat off the hood of the truck, then climbed in and drove away. For the first time since she’d agreed to Matt’s coming here, she wondered if she’d done the right thing. Had she given those she loved an opportunity to heal old wounds or had her interference paved the way for new ones?
Chapter Four
The rumble of his truck’s motor filled Matt’s ears, but the noise couldn’t block out the childhood memories tripping through his mind. Memories that had begun buffeting him the minute he’d pulled into the driveway of his former home. Gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled hands, he stared at the weathered building that had haunted him for seven years.
The ghosts had assembled like a ghoulish welcoming party. The dogwood tree he and his mother had planted on his fifth birthday. The porch swing where he’d presented that handmade tie rack to his father, who had merely grunted and set it aside, reaching for the Giants tickets Matt’s older brother, Jamie, had given him.
Matt managed to combat most of them, but one persisted. Before him, as if projected on the landscape by an invisible camera, his father and he stood on the lawn. His father threw a baseball, and Matt strained to catch it in the oversize mitt. He missed.
“Put your glove in front of you. Remember the way Jamie taught you? You can do it,” his father had instructed in a gruff and impatient voice.
“I’m trying,” Matt had replied.
“You’re not trying hard enough. Don’t be afraid of the ball.”
Holding the glove exactly as he remembered Jamie had instructed him, he waited for his father’s pitch and put every ounce of effort he had into catching the ball. Again he missed. He could still hear his father’s words as he’d thrown his mitt to the ground, glared at his young son and then stalked off in disgust. “You’re not even trying. You’re never going to be able to do it if you don’t concentrate.”
What Matt heard was You’ll never be your brother.
No one had to tell him he’d never take the place of the older brother he’d loved and admired, sometimes hated and envied, and missed to this day. In an effort to fill the gaping, empty spot in Kevin Logan’s heart, Matt had lived through a repetition of that day, trying against all odds to live up to his father’s expectations. But Matt had been fighting a losing battle. No matter how much he wanted to please his father, he would never be his brother. Finally, he’d just stopped trying.
With a heavy sigh, Matt reminded himself of his vow not to let the past ruin his homecoming. He climbed down from the truck, then headed toward the one place that had brought him the small measure of true happiness he’d known as a kid—his mother’s greenhouse. As he made his way toward the back of the house, tall weeds snagged at his jean legs, leaving dried burrs clinging to the material. A rabbit scurrying from the recesses of the vine-covered woodpile startled Matt, then hurried out of his way.
As he neared the rear of the house, the annoying racket of a machine coughing and sputtering to life shattered the silence. Curious, Matt slowed his pace and peeked around the corner. The back lawn spread out before him, mowed and neatly trimmed. A portly man in bib overalls guided a gas-powered weed-whacker around the foundation of the small greenhouse, its recently cleaned glass glittering in the morning sun.
Matt studied the man’s stooped body. When he’d paid the back taxes, not an hour ago, the clerk had told him the house belonged to him. So who was this guy?
Just as Matt opened his mouth to call to the man, the weed-whacker went silent. The man turned. His ruddy face,
