blinked.
Damn. He’d already crossed the interstate and driven right past Sooner Mall. He was well beyond the area where he could look for a place to stay. Swearing under his breath, he swung into the left lane, executed a U-turn and told himself to pay attention to the task at hand.
He found a hotel a few minutes later. It wasn’t until after he’d checked in and called his office in Chicago to see how things were going there that thoughts of Tory crept into his mind again.
He ordered those thoughts away. The hotel had a small gym. He went down there and worked out for an hour. Then he spent some time sweating in the sauna. And after that, he cleaned up.
By then it was a little after six. And he was thinking of Tory again. What, he wondered, was her life like now?
Had the old man been telling the truth? Did she still live in that big brick house on that wide tree-lined street in Westwood Estates, with her parents?
Bygones and sleeping dogs, he thought.
Let her alone. She would not want to see you….
Still, he got the phone book out of his sitting-room desk drawer and turned to physicians in the yellow pages. He found no listing for a Dr. Seth Winningham. He flipped to the white pages. No Seth or Audra Winningham there, either. It could have been, of course, that they had merely decided to go unlisted.
But then he saw it: V. J. Winningham. V for Victoria. J for Justine. Same address, same phone number. Just as the old man had said. The doctor and his wife had probably retired, moved down to Florida or out to Arizona and left the house to their only child.
And her last name was still Winningham. She hadn’t married—or at least, it appeared that way. But then, you could never tell for certain by a name. Some women kept their maiden names even after they’d said, “I do.”
Marsh sat for a long time with the open phone book in his lap, staring at the number he remembered so well and coming to grips with the inevitable.
He wasn’t going to be able to stop himself from giving that number a try.
Chapter Two
“Tory?”
That was all the voice on the other end of the line said. Just her name. Cautiously. On a rising inflection.
Just her name.
And the sound sent Tory Winningham’s world spinning into chaos.
She would know that voice anywhere. Even after ten years.
Her stomach churning, she cast a frantic glance at the table a foot away.
“Tory?” His voice in her ear again, more insistent now. “Hello? Tory?”
Kim was watching. And she picked up on her mother’s distress. The pixie face scrunched into an apprehensive frown. “Mama. Who’s that? What’s the matter?”
Tory spoke into the phone. “Just a minute, please.” She wrapped her hand around the receiver, so the man on the other end couldn’t hear. Then she summoned every ounce of will and self-control she possessed and mustered a reassuring smile. “It is just an old friend of mine, honey. No one you know. Eat.”
For a split second that felt like infinity, Kim stared at Tory, still frowning. Then her expression relaxed. She shrugged and picked up her fork again.
Turning her back to her daughter, Tory spoke to her caller. “Yes.” Her windpipe clamped shut. She had to swallow to make it open, to get air. At last she managed to fill her lungs. “This is Tory.”
“It’s Marsh,” he said. Then he added his last name, “Bravo,” as if she might have—or even could have—forgotten.
Stay calm, girl, she thought. Don’t let your voice go giving you away. “Yes. Yes, I know.”
After a taut, agonizing moment, he spoke again. “This is pretty crazy, I realize. After all this time…” His deep voice was hesitant, hopeful.
“Yes.” She kept thinking, Breathe. Relax. Speak calmly. Her throat felt so terribly dry. “Crazy,” she said. “That’s the right word for it.”
“You’re not…” He paused. She could hear him, doing what she kept doing. Breathing. Slowly. Deliberately. With such painful care. Finally he spoke again. “I don’t know how to ask, except to just say it. Are you married?”
Why? she longed to demand. What do you care? It is too late now, Marsh Bravo. You made your choice ten years ago.
“Tory?”
“No,” she said, very softly. “No, I am not…” She let her voice trail off rather than say that dangerous word: married.
Another silence. Behind her, Kim had just taken a gulp of milk. Tory knew this because she heard the clink of her glass as she set it back on the table.
“Is it…a bad time?” he asked, his tone suddenly hushed.
She didn’t like the hesitancy of his question or the lowered tone. What did it all mean? Did he…? Was it possible that he knew?
“Tory, are you still there?”
She sent a swift glance over her shoulder at her daughter, who, thank the good Lord, was concentrating on her tuna casserole. “As a matter of fact,” she said into the phone, “I am eating dinner now.”
Yet another silence, but this time a brief one. Then he said, “Look. I know I’ve got no damn right to ask you. I know I told you to forget all about me. But I…Tory, I’d really like to see you. Can you meet me somewhere? For a drink, maybe?”
He does know, she thought. He must know. That’s why he’s called. He probably talked to his father and that awful old man has finally told him.
Tory closed her eyes—and saw Blake Bravo’s face. Grinning at her, that ugly, mean grin of his. She shook her head to banish the image—and found herself wondering why, if Marsh knew, he didn’t just say so.
“Listen,” she said, “is there a number where I can call you back a little later tonight?”
“You mean you can’t talk now.” It was a statement, and a grim one.
“Yes, that is what I mean.”
“Let me give you my cell phone number.”
Those words caused faint hope to rise. Maybe he wasn’t even in town yet. Maybe he was miles away, in another state. Maybe it was all just talk, and he would never come at all. Maybe—
But then he spoke again. He mentioned the name of a certain hotel, and an address less than two miles from her house. Her dread returned full force, making her heart thud loudly and bringing a faint taste of copper to her mouth. He said something about his father. About a heart attack.
Still painfully aware of Kimmy behind her, she gave out a bland expression of sympathy. “I am so sorry to hear that.”
“Why?”
