it made her smile, and it brought her to him once again.
She moaned softly.
“Do you like that?” he asked, his voice low.
“I think you should do it again, just so I can be sure.”
This time he chuckled, but he acquiesced, and yes, she liked it. Maybe it wasn’t ecstasy. Accepting the weight of him, and the warmth of him, it was enough.
Ecstasy was overrated, anyway.
“I love you,” Jeff said. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” He sauntered to the foyer, bending to pet each cat on his way. He looked back at her from the door. Giving her a smile, he was gone, sated and content.
She envied him that contentment.
Where had that thought come from? Turning, she found all three cats staring at her, as if Jeff’s leaving was somehow her fault. Jeff worked long hours. And when he wasn’t working, he was at her place. It made sense that his cats were better off here.
“What? He has his house. I have mine.”
The white cat jumped onto the back of the sofa. The yellow two continued to stare at her from the easy chair.
“You heard him. He’ll call tomorrow.” And then, because she couldn’t be cold or cruel, even if she wasn’t a cat person, she added, “Don’t worry, he’ll be back.”
No swish of their tails. No meows. No purring. Nothing.
Why anybody bothered talking to cats, she didn’t know. Cinching the sash of her long silk robe, she padded to the kitchen. The moment she started the electric can opener, all three cats came running.
She doled out the bribe, and watched them enjoy it. The white one even let her pet him, and she had to admit, his fur was soft and warm. Leaving them to their late-night snack, she wandered through her little house. It was nearing the witching hour, and it had been an eventful day. Her hairstyle had been salvaged, she was learning to coexist with Jeff’s cats, and she’d avoided a blowup with her mother. Maybe she’d finally grown up—perish the thought—but she was thirty-six.
She looked out the kitchen window. The rain had let up and the wind had died down. Dark, damp and cold, it was a good night to brood. It was what the old Mya would have done. What good had it ever done? What good would it do tonight?
She did an about-face. Instead of brooding, she was going to leave this mess for tomorrow and go to bed. She hadn’t taken three steps when a knock sounded on her door. She paused at the lamp she’d just turned off. Her neighbors never stayed up this late. Jeff had a key, so it couldn’t be him. Maybe Claire or Suzette had returned for some reason. She doubted it was her mother.
The knock came again.
Turning the lamp back on, she went to the door and peered through the peephole. The room pitched, and one hand flew to her mouth.
A girl wearing faded blue jeans and no jacket stood on the porch. Mya felt frozen in time and in place, and yet she opened the door, a wild gust of wind hitting her in the face.
After looking Mya up and down, eyes the same brown as her own narrowed. “I would have knocked sooner but I was waiting for the Minute Man to leave.” With a snide curl of her lip, the girl said, “Hey, Mom. Long time no see.”
CHAPTER 2
M ya moved only enough to force a deep breath.
All these years she’d wondered what her child looked like. Here she was, technically no longer a child. Her pale blond hair was shorter than Mya’s, even after today’s fiasco. Brown eyes cold with fury, she was the spitting image of Mya at that age, anger, belligerence, bitterness and all.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to faint.”
Still holding perfectly still, Mya said, “I’ve never fainted in my life.”
“Lucky you.”
Although she’d tried not to, sometimes Mya had imagined a mother-daughter reunion. Some of the scenarios had been tearful, others awkward. None had depicted a nineteen-year-old girl skinny enough to be blown away on the ocean wind, glaring at Mya with eyes as cold as stone.
Mya glanced at her watch. “It’s after midnight.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Happy birthday.”
Elle Fletcher clamped her mouth shut. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but it sure as hell wasn’t the emotion burning her eyes and throat. Other than the funky hairstyle and the whisker burn on her neck, the woman looked pretty normal. It was disturbing, how much the brown eyes reminded Elle of her own, right down to the tears brimming in them.
The hell with that! This woman wanted to cry, let her. Elle wasn’t about to do the same.
She’d been parked down the street long enough to see two women get in a four-by-four and drive away. Not long after, an older woman had climbed behind the wheel of a red boat on wheels and left, too. The man stayed the longest, which wasn’t saying a lot, but he’d finally cleared out, too.
That left her.
Her name was Mya Donahue. She was single and thirty-six, and she owned this house as well as a clothing store called Brynn’s over on Market Street. Some of the information had been in the file at the adoption agency. Most of it had required a little digging to uncover. The rest would have to come from Mya, herself, if Elle decided to continue. She didn’t want to. She wanted to turn tail and run as far away as she could get.
It was as if Mya knew. Her expression still and serious, she took a backward step, and opened the door farther.
If she’d voiced the invitation, Elle wouldn’t have taken it. As it was, she glanced over her shoulder, torn. The night was dark, the street empty except for her rusty Mazda.
She’d come this far. Might as well see if any of it had been worth it. Drawing herself up, she went in.
Not about to allow her relief to show when she closed the door against the damp and the cold, she glanced around the small room, taking in the eclectic mix of furniture and color. There was a throw over the back of the sofa, the usual magazines and junk mail on the end tables, a pair of shoes on the floor next to an assortment of feather toys. “You have a cat?”
“They’re my fiancé’s.”
Elle snorted, then went and got caught looking at the open bag of potato chips and a plate of cheese. Her guard back up where it belonged, she glared at Mya, silently challenging her to make something of it.
“Would you like to sit down?”
Elle shook her head. And the woman, her birth mother—Elle welcomed back her anger—seemed to accept that.
“What’s your name?”
“Eleanor. If you want me to answer, call me Elle.”
“Hello, Elle. You’re shivering.”
“That’s
