him. He could have his lawyers stall and negotiate for years. By the time Emma Hewitt won custody—if, in the end, she did win—Mandy would be all grown-up and running her own life, anyway.
By Monday, one week before the deadline set out in Blythe’s will, Jonas had become certain that he would not hear from the Hewitt woman until the deadline had passed and her lawyer got in touch with his lawyer to begin the custody suit.
That night, she came to him at Angel’s Crest.
Chapter 5
It was eleven-thirty at night and it was raining when Palmer got the call from the gatehouse. The butler found Jonas at his desk in the study.
“Ms. Emma Lynn Hewitt at the main gate, sir.”
Jonas shut the lid on his laptop, aware suddenly of the feel of his own blood, the hot surge of it through his veins. “Tell them I’m expecting her and let security know she’s on the way up.”
“Of course.”
“Show her in here when she gets to the house.”
“I’ll do just that, sir.”
Palmer left him.
Jonas got up and went to the bank of windows nearest the desk. He stared out at the night, at the lacy shadows of the jacarandas moving in the wind and the waving branches of the palms. The hard warm August rain pinged against the leaded-glass panes, glittering as it slithered down.
The study was at the front of the house. After a time, he saw her headlights cut the night. The lights slid past the window where he stood and stopped not far from the front portico. They went dark.
Jonas didn’t move. He waited, standing absolutely still.
Soon enough, he heard the door behind him open. “Ms. Hewitt,” Palmer announced.
Jonas turned.
She stood in the doorway, Palmer close behind her. She wore an ordinary gray raincoat thrown over a curve-hugging shirt of some sort of elasticized lace. The shirt didn’t quite meet the waist of her clinging white bell-bottomed pants. His glance moved down. She wore rain-wet platform sandals on her feet. There was purple polish—polish the same color as the tight lace shirt—on her toes.
“Hello, Jonas.”
He met her gaze. Her eyes were very green right then. And troubled. Raindrops glittered in her pale hair.
“Thank you, Palmer,” Jonas said.
The butler left them.
“I want to see Mandy,” Emma Lynn said.
“She’s asleep.”
“I’m not going to wake her up. I just…I have to see her.”
“Why?”
“I meant what I told you, Jonas. I have been making up my mind.”
“Fine. Why is it necessary for you to see my sister?”
She seemed at a loss for a reason, only looked at him, an urgent kind of look, through those troubled green eyes.
He left the window and approached her. Her eyes widened as he got close, as if she feared his nearness. But she didn’t step back.
He went past her. “This way.”
Emma followed Jonas out to the entry hall, with its ebony-inlaid walnut floor and its coffered and arched cathedral ceiling rising three stories high. The grand foyer, Blythe had always called it.
Jonas began to climb the curving staircase. Emma fell in step behind him.
Mandy’s rooms were on the second floor. Jonas went past the dark playroom and entered the bedroom. Lightning flashed once, bright and hard, outside. For a split second, the yellow and blue walls stenciled with dragonflies and dancing frogs were cast into sharp relief.
Then the room plunged into shadow again. The rain drummed away outside, a low sort of sighing sound.
Mandy had graduated from her crib to a big white four-poster several months ago. She lay in the center of the roomy bed, on her side, the quilted yellow and green comforter covering her to her waist, both hands tucked beneath her plump chin. Her thick, silky curls looked very dark against the yellow pillow.
Emma tiptoed to the bed and stood looking down, painfully aware of Jonas, so silent and watchful, in the shadows behind her.
Mandy yawned, then let out a small, contented sigh. She rolled to her back, flopping her arms up and out, so that her hands lay palms-up on the pillow at either side of her head. Her little fists tightened, then went lax again.
As Emma stared at those small, perfect hands, it almost seemed she could hear Blythe’s voice in her mind….
“Am I crazy, Em? Am I totally irresponsible, to want a baby so much at this time in my life?”
“No, you are not crazy. Not crazy at all.”
It had been a Saturday. The Saturday after Thanksgiving. They’d been Christmas shopping. And they’d stopped in at a Mexican restaurant on Melrose for lunch.
Blythe had leaned toward Emma across their table, her face earnest, her voice low. “I want…I guess I want a chance to do right by a child, to help someone grow up and to do a good job of it. I wasn’t there, when it mattered, for Jonas.” She sat back, her eyes suddenly far away and dark with pain. “And with my other baby, I never even had a chance.”
Emma was the one leaning closer then. “Blythe, don’t do this to yourself. What happened was not your fault. Not in any way.”
But Blythe shook her head. “I could have been stronger. I should have been stronger. Jonas needed me then. And I failed him terribly.”
Emma had said what Aunt Cass would have said. “You can’t live in yesterday. You can only live right now.” Then she’d added what she really thought. “And right now, today, you would make a wonderful mother.”
“Oh, do you think so?”
“You bet.”
Blythe looked so young at that moment, sitting back in the booth, a soft smile on her face—but then, she had always looked years younger than her real age. And she’d been blessed with lots of energy. Until the illness that claimed her so suddenly, she was a person who just brimmed with life.
Emma asked, “But could you? I mean, aren’t there laws about how old you can be?”
Blythe picked up her water glass and raised it, as if in a toast. “Money and influence do have their uses.” She set the glass down without drinking from it. “However, there is no getting around the problem of Jonas. He would be furious.”
Emma dipped a chip in salsa and popped it into her mouth. “Well, fine. Let him be furious. It is not his decision.”
“But if anything happened
