Land's End. Marta Perry
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get through the next few minutes. Fill out the registration card, exchange comments about the weather. Follow the bellman, tip him, don’t think about staying here with Miles when they’d first arrived on the island.
Finally the door closed behind him, and she was alone in the quiet room with its cool white shutters, bamboo furniture and four-poster bed. Staying here was no worse than staying in any other room. No place on the island would be free of memories.
That was why she’d fled, wasn’t it? And that was why she’d come back.
Her parents hadn’t seemed surprised at Sarah’s abrupt decision to return to the place of Miles’s death. Duty loomed large in six generations of New England virtue, and they clearly felt Sarah had left duty unresolved, racing home the day after Miles’s death, hiding from reporters, evading even her friends.
But then, her parents had never believed Miles Wainwright could be guilty of betraying both his marriage and his employer by having an affair with his employer’s wife. Or by dying with her. Not Miles Wainwright, descendant of his own six generations’ worth of Puritan values.
She hadn’t believed it either, in spite of overwhelming evidence that Miles had, indeed, had an affair with Lynette Donner and died with her in a gas heater accident at the cottage where they’d met. She hadn’t believed, couldn’t believe, what Lynette’s husband so obviously did.
For weeks, maybe months, Sarah’s mind had winced every time it came too close to the thought of Miles and Lynette together. If she didn’t think about it, it didn’t happen.
Over time, the anguish and grief receded to a dull, hollow ache, only flaring painfully when unexpectedly jostled, like a deep wound beginning to skin over with tender, fragile flesh. Work had helped. She’d taken on emergency room duty at the hospital, grateful for the killing schedule that let her fall into bed, exhausted enough to sleep, every night.
Eventually she could actually look at the possibility of Miles’s betrayal for more than a moment at a time. Look at it, assess it, bring reason to bear.
And find that she still, more than a year after the fact, didn’t believe it. Miles—loyal, upright Miles—was not a man who’d betray his marriage and his employer. He wasn’t.
To the weight of her faith in Miles, Sarah added faith in her own perceptions. I couldn’t not have known that Miles was deceiving me, could I, Lord? If her perceptions were that skewed, the earth was no longer solid under her feet.
So she’d come back to St. James. Everyone—Lynette’s husband, the police, the coroner—everyone was wrong. Whatever Miles had been doing at Cat Isle that day with Lynette, he wasn’t having an affair. Somewhere on St. James there were answers, and this time she wouldn’t run away. This time she wouldn’t leave until she found them.
A knock shattered the stillness. The manager, having forgotten something in his nervous haste? She smoothed her linen slacks, wrinkled from travel, and opened the door. And confronted Trent Donner, filling the doorway with well over six feet of fury, all of it radiating directly at her.
“What are you doing here?” He surged inside on the words. Sarah stumbled back a step or two, heart hammering against her ribs. Trying to keep him out would be as futile as trying to stop the tide.
“The manager called you,” she stated flatly.
She should have known he would do that. She should have been prepared, instead of standing here with her mouth dry from shock. She’d forgotten the aura of power Trent brought with him into a room, as if everyone and everything rotated around him.
“Of course.” Trent dismissed the man with a negligent gesture.
Sarah found her temper at the unconscious arrogance of the man. Good. One always needed an edge in dealing with Trent Donner, and anger seemed to be the only edge she had.
“Why shouldn’t I be here?” Answer a question with a question. Catch your breath. Slow your pounding heart.
“I’d think that would be obvious.” Trent’s voice was hard, incisive, with an edge of mockery. He took a swift step forward, and the afternoon sun crossed his face, lighting the harsh angles of cheekbone and jaw.
Sarah drew in a breath. The last time she’d seen him, it had been across two motionless bodies and the wreckage of too many lives. His normally impassive face had been etched with pain, grief and a kind of hopeless rage.
Now the lines seemed permanently engraved, turning the strong planes of his face into a marble mask. Only his clear gray eyes were alive, blazing with feeling. With fury. Her heart jolted, sickeningly. She was trapped by his presence.
“I didn’t…”
Sarah heard a faint waver in her voice, stopped and swallowed. She could face drug overdoses and multiple fatalities in the E.R. She could face him.
“I’m sorry if my being here upsets you, but I do have ties here.” She forced herself to meet his fierce gaze calmly. “My husband died here.”
“I hardly need a reminder of that.” His voice, normally deep, roughened and deepened still further. Shared pain flicked past the anger Sarah held like a shield, catching her on the raw.
That elemental pain must be the only thing they shared. She wanted, suddenly, to comfort him, and knew in the same instant that she was the one person who never could.
Perhaps he saw her wince, perhaps he only heard the revelation in his own voice. He paused, another feeling quarreling with the anger.
“I’m sorry.” He brushed a strand of black hair from his forehead with a swift, economical movement, and she saw that his hair was touched now with white at both temples. The year had aged him, as it had her. “I’ve never had much in the way of manners.” His mouth twitched in what might have been a smile. “I’m forgetting myself. How are you, Sarah?”
The reluctant concern in his voice disarmed her, touching something that seemed to reverberate to the timbre of his voice.
“I’m…all right. I went back to work. That helped.”
“At Boston General?”
She nodded, vaguely surprised that he remembered the name of the hospital where she’d interned before she’d moved south and married Miles. But Trent had always had an encyclopedic memory, as well as an unerring ability to rearrange odd pieces in unexpected ways. That gift that had fascinated Miles’s more prosaic intelligence.
“How is Melissa?” His daughter would be twelve now, a crucial age for a girl. How had she coped with the tragedy?
Trent’s face tightened, if marble conceivably could. He’d never looked his nearly forty years, until bitterness and grief etched their mark on him. “She’s all right.”
The shortness of his answer told Sarah Melissa was not all right, and fresh pain gripped her heart. Poor child. She’d had problems enough before tragedy had shattered all their worlds.
Well, little though she’d wanted to see Trent today, he’d given her the opportunity to get on with what she had to do. “I’d like to see her…”
“No!” Trent’s eyes blazed, and her heart lurched into over-drive. She’d always felt something wild lurked under that expensively tailored gray business suit, and now it seemed about to surface.
“Trent, just hear me out.” What could she say that would make him listen?
“I don’t want you anywhere near my daughter.” A muscle twitched at the corner of his mouth and was ruthlessly stilled. “I don’t want you anywhere on St. James at all.”
The momentary truce was over, the brief span of shared emotion banished. Sarah stopped attempting to control her anger. When Trent had been Miles’s employer, she’d had to be polite to him. That constraint didn’t exist anymore.
“Or anywhere in Georgia? I’m not sure my whereabouts is your concern.”
“It