A Time to Forgive. Marta Perry
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not safe. I’ll have a crew come over from the boatyard to put up scaffolding so you can inspect the windows safely. That’s what we should have done to begin with.”
He was taking charge of the situation. That, too, was what he should have done from the word go, instead of letting himself get defensive.
“You don’t need to—”
“As far as working on them is concerned—” he swept on “—we’ll take the panels out completely. That way we won’t have to worry about St. Andrews getting slapped with a lawsuit.”
He thought her lips twitched. “Is that what you’re worried about?”
“Definitely.”
She nodded. “Well, in that case, since you’re being so cooperative, I will need a workroom, preferably with good light, where things won’t be disturbed.” She glanced around. “Is there a space in the church that would do?”
“Nothing,” he replied promptly. Ms. Tory didn’t know it, but she was walking right into his plans. “We have just what you need at the house, though. It’s a big room with plenty of light and a door you can lock. We’ll move in tables or benches, whatever you need.”
He could see the wariness in her face at the idea. “I don’t think I should be imposing on you.”
“It’s not an imposition. It’s my responsibility, remember?”
“Having me work at your home sounds well beyond the call of duty. I’ll be in your way.”
“You haven’t seen our house if you think that. It’s a great rambling barn.”
“Even so…” She still looked reluctant.
“You don’t want me to bring up the big guns, do you?”
“Big guns?”
“Pastor Wells and my grandmother. They’ll agree this is the best solution. You’d find them a formidable pair in an argument.”
The smile he hadn’t seen before lit her face like sunlight sparkling on the sound. “Thanks, but I think you’re formidable enough. All right. We’ll try it your way.”
“Good.” He was irrationally pleased that she’d given in without more of a fight. “I’ll have a crew over here later this afternoon to set up scaffolding, so you can inspect the rest of the windows tomorrow. Don’t climb any ladders in the meantime.”
She lifted her brows at what undoubtedly sounded like an order. “Are you always this determined to look after people?”
“Always.”
She turned to grasp the ladder. He helped her lower it to the floor. Her hair brushed his cheek lightly as they moved together, and he had to dismiss the idea of prolonging the moment.
Just get through it, Matt had said. Okay, that’s what he’d do. He’d take control of this project instead of reacting to it. And the first step in that direction was to have Tory’s workroom right under his eyes. Of course that meant that Tory herself would be, as well.
He could manage this. All right, he found her attractive. That didn’t mean he’d act on that attraction, not even in his imagination.
Chapter Three
“Well, what do you think? Will this be a comfortable place to work?”
Adam looked at her for approval. Light poured into the large room he called the studio from its banks of windows. On one side Tory could see the salt marsh, beyond it the sparkle of open water. At the back, the windows overlooked a stretch of lawn, then garden and stables. Pale wooden molding surrounded the windows, and low shelves reached from the sills to the wide-planked floor. Anyone would say it was an ideal place to work.
“This should do very nicely.” She couldn’t say that his home had taken her by surprise. This wasn’t a house—it was a mansion. And she didn’t want to say that she’d lived like this once, before her mother’s downward spiral into depression, alcoholism and poverty.
She took a breath. She’d been handling those recollections for a long time. She could handle this reminder. Besides, being here was a golden opportunity to find out what she needed to about the Caldwells. She just had to get Adam to open up.
“Why do you call it a studio?”
He shrugged. “We always have. My mother used it that way. Dad turned the space into a playroom for us kids after she died.” He pointed to a small easel in the corner, the shelves behind it stacked with children’s books, paints and crayons. “Jenny likes to paint in here when she’s in the mood.”
The room seemed uncomfortably full of his family with one notable exception. He hadn’t mentioned his wife. “Was your mother an artist?”
“She painted, did needlework, that kind of thing.” Sadness shadowed Adam’s face for a moment. “I can remember her sitting in front of the windows with some project on her lap. She died when I was eight.”
“I’m sorry.” Tory had been five when her father died. She hesitated, torn. If she told Adam about it, that might create a bond that would encourage him to talk, but she didn’t give away pieces of herself that easily.
She walked to the long table that held the first of the panels they’d removed from the church that morning. Everything she’d asked for was here, ready and waiting for her. She longed to dive into the work and forget everything else. If Adam would leave—
“What about you?” Adam leaned his hip against the table, crossing his arms, clearly not intending to go anywhere at the moment.
She looked at him blankly, not sure what he meant by the question.
“Family,” he added. “You’ve met Jenny and my grandmother, heard about my mother. What about your family?”
It was the inevitable question Southerners put to each other at some point. She’d heard it before, phrased a little differently each time, maybe, but always asking the same thing. Who are your people? That was more important than what you did or where you went to school or even how much money you had. Who are your people?
“I’m alone.” That wouldn’t be enough. She had to say more or he’d wonder. “My father died when I was quite young, and my mother last year. I don’t have any other relatives.” At least, not any relatives that would like to claim me.
“I’m sorry.” Adam’s eyes darkened with quick sympathy. “That’s rough. They were from this part of the world, weren’t they?”
The question struck her like a blow. “What makes you think that?”
He smiled slowly. Devastatingly. “Sugar, you’ve been slipping back into a low-country accent since the day you arrived. You can’t fool an old geechee like me.”
Geechee. She hadn’t heard that word since she’d left Savannah, but it resounded in her heart. Anyone born along this part of the coast was a geechee, said either affectionately or with derision, depending on the speaker. Apparently she couldn’t leave her heritage behind, no matter how she tried.
Tory managed a stiff smile in return. “I’m from Savannah originally, but I’ve been up north so long I thought I passed for one of them.”
“Not a chance.” He pushed himself away from the table, the movement bringing him close enough to make her catch her breath, making her too aware of the solid strength of him. “Welcome back home, Tory Marlowe.”
She wanted to deny it, to say she didn’t have any intention of belonging in this part of the world again. 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 been charming enough to haunt her dreams