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?” he asked dryly. “I don’t think anyone else is.”
“Is he—”
He answered before she completed the question. “He’s still alive. As of now. But it doesn’t look good. They’ve got him over at Norman Regional.”
She wanted to cry out, What did he say about me? Did he tell you? Is that it? Is that why you’ve called?
She asked, very carefully, “Have you…talked to him yet?”
“I saw him a couple of hours ago.”
“And?”
“He’s very sick. Other than that, he hasn’t changed a bit. What time will you call?”
She bit the inside of her lip and accepted the fact that if Marsh did know about Kimmy, he wasn’t going to talk about it now.
Which was a good thing. She couldn’t afford to talk about it now, anyway.
She glanced at the stove clock—6:23. After dinner Kim would be busy with homework. “In an hour?”
“Good enough.”
She hung up, gave herself a few seconds to compose her features, then turned back to the table and slid into the chair across from her daughter.
Kimmy, always a good eater, had finished her casserole and her salad. She’d started in on a drop biscuit. The biscuit was giving her trouble, breaking apart as she tried to butter it.
“Here.” Tory held out her hand—which surprised her by not shaking one bit. Kim passed the biscuit across. Tory buttered it. Kim watched the process with great interest. “Jam?” Tory asked.
“Um. Yes, please.”
Tory spooned a dab of strawberry jam onto each crumbly biscuit half. “There you go.” She set the halves back on Kim’s plate.
Kim picked one up and brought it to her mouth. Before she bit into it, she asked, “Who was that you were talking to?”
Tory’s smile felt like something glued onto her face. “Just an old friend.”
Kim set the biscuit half down again. “You said that before. What old friend? Who?”
“No one you know.”
“You said that before, too.”
Tory faked a warning frown. “And that is all I am going to say, Miss Nosy Pants.”
Kimmy groaned. “Mama. Pants can’t be nosy.”
“Eat that biscuit. And finish your milk.”
“Then can I have a Ding-Dong?”
“The milk and the biscuit. Now.”
Tory spent the next hour trying not to let her daughter see her distress, and seesawing back and forth between acceptance of the fact that she would have to meet with Marsh and frustrated fury that such a thing should be necessary.
After all this time.
After she’d accomplished what she would once have called impossible—letting go of her lovesick dream that Marsh would someday return to her, would go down on one knee and beg her to marry him, would swear he couldn’t live another minute without her at his side.
It hadn’t been easy, but lately Tory had managed to achieve a pleasant, peaceful kind of balance in her life. Her parents, in their forties when she was born and now both nearing seventy, had retired to New Mexico. They had left their roomy ranch-style house to Tory and their beloved granddaughter. Tory owned her own business and enjoyed her work. Her daughter was beautiful, healthy, bright and well adjusted.
Things were going great.
And now this.
Marsh Bravo—back in town.
His return could shatter everything, could turn