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“Welcome back home, Tory Marlowe.”
She wanted to deny it, but his low voice, threaded with amusement, seemed to have taken away her ability to speak. Or maybe it was his sheer masculine presence, only inches from her.
Adam wasn’t the boy he’d been at seventeen. That boy had haunted her dreams for a good long time. Grown-up Adam was twice as hard to ignore. He was taller, broader, stronger.
The lines around his eyes said he’d dealt with pain and come away cautious, but he had an air of assurance that compelled a response.
MARTA PERRY
wanted to be a writer from the moment she encountered Nancy Drew, at about age eight. She didn’t see publication of her stories until many years later, when she began writing children’s fiction for Sunday school papers while she was a church educational director. Although now retired from that position in order to write full-time, she continues playing an active part in her church and loves teaching a class of junior high Sunday school students.
Marta lives in rural Pennsylvania but winters on Hilton Head Island, South Carolina. She and her husband have three grown children and three grandchildren, and that area is the inspiration for the Caldwell clan stories. She loves hearing from readers and will be glad to send a signed bookplate on request. She can be reached c/o Steeple Hill Books, 300 East 42nd Street, New York, NY 10017, or visit her on the Web at www.martaperry.com.
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A Time to Forgive
Marta Perry
Speaking the truth in love,
we will in all things grow up into Him
who is the head, that is, Christ.
—Ephesians 4:15
This story is dedicated to my son,
Scott, and his wife, Karen,
with love and thanks.
And, as always, to Brian.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
Letter to Reader
Chapter One
Adam Caldwell stared, appalled, at the woman who’d just swung a sledgehammer at his carefully ordered life. “What did you say?”
The slight tightening of her lips indicated impatience. “Your mother-in-law hired me to create a memorial window for your late wife.” Her gesture took in the quiet interior of the Caldwell Island church, its ancient stained-glass windows glowing in the slanting October sunlight, its rows of pews empty on a week-day afternoon. “Here.”
He’d always prided himself on keeping his head in difficult situations. He certainly needed that poise now, when pain had such a grip on his throat that it was hard to speak. He put a hand on the warm, smooth wood of a pew back and turned to Pastor Wells, whose call had brought him rushing from the boatyard in the middle of a workday.
“Do you know anything about this?”
The pastor beamed, brushing a lock of untidy graying hair from his forehead. “Only what Ms. Marlowe has been telling me. Isn’t it wonderful, Adam? Mrs. Telforth has offered to fund not only the new window, but the repairs on all the existing windows. God has answered our prayers.”
If God had answered Henry Wells’s prayers in this respect, He’d certainly been ignoring Adam’s. Adam glanced at the woman who stood beneath the largest of the church’s windows, its jewel colors highlighting her pale face. She was watching him with a challenge in her dark eyes, as if she knew exactly how he felt about the idea of a memorial to Lila.
She couldn’t. Nobody could know that.
He summed up his impressions of the woman—a tangle of dark brown curls falling to her shoulders, brown eyes under straight, determined brows, a square, stubborn chin. Her tan slacks, white shirt and navy blazer seemed designed to let her blend into any setting, but she still looked out of place on this South Carolina sea island. Slight, she nevertheless had the look of a person who’d walk over anything in her path. Right now, that anything was him.
“Well, now, Ms.—” He stopped, making it a question.
“Marlowe,” she said. “Tory Marlowe.”
“Yes.” He glanced at the card she’d handed him. Marlowe Stained Glass Studio, Philadelphia. Not far from his mother-in-law’s place in New Jersey. Maybe that was the connection between them. “Ms. Marlowe. Caldwell Island’s a long way from home for you.” His South Carolina drawl was a deliberate contrast to the briskness she’d shown. A slow, courteous stone wall, that was what was called for here. “Seems kind of funny, you showing up out of the blue like this.”
She lifted those level brows as if acknowledging an adversary, and he thought her long fingers tightened on the leather bag she carried. “Mrs. Telforth gave me a commission.
