McKettrick's Heart. Linda Lael Miller
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Arizona, after getting off the afternoon bus from Phoenix. Lucas wasn’t her child; he was Psyche’s.
The little boy was eighteen months old now—eighteen months, two weeks and five days. He’d been a newborn, pink and squalling, when she’d last seen him, held him in her arms—all too briefly—before giving him up. Psyche had sent a few snapshots in the interim—Lucas was solid, handsome and blond, with bright green eyes. Molly’s own coloring, though her hair had darkened over time, but despite that, he resembled his late father more than her.
Now, in a very few minutes, maybe even moments, Molly would see the baby she still thought of as her own, at least in weak moments.
Perhaps she’d be allowed to hold Lucas. She ached to do that. To breathe in the scent of his hair and skin…
Careful, her practical side admonished.
It was miracle enough that Psyche, a virtual stranger and, it was to be remembered, a betrayed wife, had summoned Molly to this little town, with its shady streets, given all that had happened. She mustn’t move too fast, or make a wrong move—miracles were rare and fragile things, to be handled with infinite care.
Molly worked the latch on the shiny black iron gate. The metal felt hot and smooth to the touch. A discreet little sign, fastened to the ornate fence, proclaimed the place a registered historic site.
Psyche had explained, in one of her emails, that the house on the corner of Maple and Red River Drive, her childhood home, had stood empty for nearly a decade. But today the vast lawn looked manicured, lilacs and roses bloomed in freshly mulched beds and the many mullioned windows shone. The white wooden trim looked freshly painted, and the brick, though time worn, was still damp in places from a recent power wash.
Molly forced herself to walk slowly up the walk, toward the front porch, part of which was screened in. No doubt there were patio chairs there, a little table and maybe even a wooden swing.
Molly pictured herself sitting in that swing, rocking Lucas to sleep on a warm summer evening, and her heart beat a little faster.
Psyche’s child, she repeated to herself in a silent mantra. Psyche’s child.
She had no idea why Psyche had summoned her, or how long she’d be staying. The woman had graciously offered first-class airfare from LAX, with a car and driver to meet her in Phoenix. But Molly, perhaps as a form of penance, had chosen to take the bus instead.
She’d have been wiser not to come at all, of course, but she hadn’t been able to resist the chance to see Lucas.
The heavy front door swung open just as Molly reached the bottom step, jolting her out of her travel-weary speculations, and a middle-aged black woman appeared, thin and tall, clad in a crisp white uniform and sensible, crepe-soled shoes.
“You her?” she asked bluntly.
Molly was “her,” all right. Lucas’s birth mother, the woman who had slept with Psyche’s husband. It didn’t matter that Molly truly hadn’t known he was married until it was too late. That was always the excuse, wasn’t it? She was intelligent, with a college education, her own business. Thayer had been a facile liar, but she should have seen the signs.
There were always signs.
Molly swallowed. Nodded in glum acknowledgment.
“Well, get yourself on in here,” the woman said, fanning herself with one hand. “I can’t stand on this porch all day with the door hanging open, you know. Air-conditioning costs money.”
Molly hid a rueful smile. Psyche had mentioned her housekeeper several times over the past several weeks—said she was cantankerous, but kind, too. “You must be Florence,” Molly said mildly, swallowing an urge to explain that she wasn’t a home wrecker.
Florence frowned, spared an unfriendly nod. “Is that backpack all the luggage you brought?”
Molly shook her head. “I have some more stuff at the gas station,” she replied. “It was too heavy to carry.” Some of her private regrets were like that, too, but she slogged on, mostly because she didn’t know what else to do.
Florence, practically bristling with disapproval, gave a sniff and adjusted her glasses. It was no great wonder that she hadn’t put out a welcome mat, figurative or otherwise, given the things Psyche must have told her. Most of which, unfortunately, were probably true.
After issuing a harrumph, Florence stepped aside to let Molly pass. “We’ll take the station wagon down there later, and fetch it all,” Florence said. “Right now, Miss Psyche’s upstairs resting, but I’ve got to keep an eye on her just the same.” Behind her thick glasses Florence’s chocolate-brown eyes glazed over for a moment, and she gave a sad huff of a sigh. “My poor baby,” she added, addressing the shrubbery more than Molly. “It practically wore her out, getting this house opened and moving us in. If it was up to me, we’d have stayed right in Flagstaff, where we belonged, but there’s no reasoning with that girl once she takes a notion.”
Molly longed to ask about Lucas, but she had to tread carefully, especially around this longtime family retainer. Florence Washington had been Psyche’s nanny until Psyche was old enough to go to school, then the family maid. When Psyche married Thayer Ryan, Mrs. Washington had stayed on to run the new household.
Molly felt a sick little flutter way down in the pit of her stomach.
Thayer was dead—he’d suffered a massive coronary a year before, at the age of thirty-seven—and while Molly wouldn’t have wished him into an early grave, even after he’d all but ruined her life, she certainly hadn’t mourned him, either.
She hadn’t gone to the funeral.
She hadn’t sent flowers, or even a card.
After all, how would she have signed it? “With sympathy, your late husband’s mistress”?
Florence trudged off through an entryway with a grandfather clock and a curving staircase, and then down a long corridor, massive, drape-darkened rooms lining the passage on either side. Molly followed circumspectly, and they finally emerged into a sunlit kitchen with floor-to-ceiling windows forming the back wall and overlooking another enclosed porch. A flower-bright, sprawling yard lay beyond.
Molly finally shrugged out of her backpack and set it down on one of the chairs at the huge antique table in the center of the room.
“You might as well sit,” Florence said.
Might as well, Molly thought. She was tired—she’d ridden more than one bus since leaving L.A. two days before—but her first inclination was still to ransack that mansion room by room, flinging open doors until she found Lucas.
She drew back one of the heavy oak chairs and sagged into it.
“Coffee?” Florence asked. “Tea?”
“Water would be good,” Molly said.
“Fizzy stuff or regular?”
“Regular, please.”
Florence brought her a glass of ice and a bottle. While Molly poured, Florence took up an obstinate pose over by the sink, leaning against the counter with her arms folded.
“What are you doing here?” Florence demanded, evidently having withheld the question as long as she could.
Molly, about to take a sip of water, set her glass down again. “I don’t know,” she answered truthfully. Psyche had contacted her by phone a week before and issued an urgent summons, with very little accompanying explanation.
“We have to talk about this in person,” she’d said.
“Seems to me you’ve done enough damage,” Florence told her, “without coming here. Especially now.”
Molly swallowed. She was thirty years old, and she ran one of the biggest literary agencies in L.A., dealt with egotistical, high-powered authors, editors and movie people practically