he staying, then?”
“Chad? Not at his mother’s—you can be sure of that. Dorothy is furious with him.”
“But Chad is her son.” And she’d always doted on him over his two older sisters.
“Dorothy’s granddaughter’s well-being is at stake here, too,” Annie reminded her.
“Yes, of course. But if Chad isn’t staying with his mother…”
“He’s shacked up at the clubhouse on his golf course. According to Dorothy, he was spending most of his time there, anyway. Probably that’s where he and this other woman have their rendezvous….”
Miranda held back the temptation to roll her eyes at her mother’s leap in logic.
“He’s a grown man, Mom. Besides, do you have any proof that he’s been unfaithful?”
“Proof? This isn’t a court case, Miranda.”
Just as she’d thought. The rumors were baseless. If anything untoward was going on, Miranda would have picked it up in her regular e-mails with Chad, or heard something different in his voice during their more occasional phone calls.
Her mother raised her wineglass with a flourish. “My dear, you’ve been doing biographies long enough now. You should have a better grasp of human nature. When marriages break up for no apparent reason, you can be sure one of the parties has a replacement waiting in the wings.”
For a moment Miranda felt a flicker of doubt. But this was Chad they were talking about. “Yes, often… But I’m sure there are times when a couple realize their marriage was just not meant to be.”
“Meant to be? Dear, I had no idea you were so romantic. Perhaps that’s why you’re still single. If you’re waiting for Mr. Perfect—”
Miranda began to clear the dishes from the table. “Your idea of my perfect match would be a movie director. He’d cast me in his next film and we’d move to Los Angeles and I’d buy you a big house with a pool and a maid.”
“Please don’t tease, Miranda. It isn’t very funny.”
Annie was right on that score. Miranda let the topic drop. “Why don’t we get the dishes done, then have your brownies in the living room.”
“Would you prefer tea or coffee, dear?”
Knowing how weak Annie made her coffee, Miranda chose tea. What she really wanted, of course, was to find Chad and ask him about the rumors from her mother’s bridge club. That Chad’s own mother had been present should have been validation enough, she supposed.
But she wouldn’t believe a word of it until she’d heard the news directly from Chad.
CHAPTER TWO
WITH TEMPERATURES SETTLED well below zero and a hazy light reflecting off the sprinkling of snow that dusted the harvested fields, Miranda set out for the Addison farm the next morning, following the directions her mother had written out for her over breakfast.
Already the air between the two of them was a little clouded. And they hadn’t been under the same roof for twenty-four hours yet. Maybe staying at home wasn’t such a good idea after all, but she couldn’t see any choice. Annie would be mortified if she moved to a friend’s, or the local hotel.
Miranda turned her car onto the graveled road leading north of Chatsworth. Her cute yellow Volkswagen Beetle jostled on the dried ruts, and the tires crunched over the exposed gravel. So far, not much snow had fallen, and the roads were dry. Miranda dreaded dealing with this route after a heavy snowfall. Especially in her little car. Something with all-wheel drive would definitely be better.
But for now—once she got used to the bouncing—she had to admit that driving here was certainly less stressful than negotiating Toronto’s freeways. She turned on the radio, but paid no attention to the Bach cello concerto playing.
She was thinking of Chad. So far she hadn’t managed to get in touch with him. She’d tried calling the golf course this morning, but no one had answered. She hadn’t left a message, since she couldn’t be sure who would retrieve it and she didn’t want anyone drawing the wrong conclusion from her call. As her mother would say, people would talk. And for once, Miranda saw the benefits of being circumspect.
That didn’t stop her from worrying. Why hadn’t he told her about his problems with Bernie? If others were surmising, like the ladies in her mother’s bridge club, that somehow Chad was responsible for the breakup, then Chad was probably feeling pretty lonesome about now.
Unless there really was another woman…?
No, no, no. That couldn’t be it….
A mailbox caught her eye. She was here. Thoughts of Chad vanished as Miranda contemplated the barely standing box at the side of the road—left over from the days when mail had been delivered rather than picked up at a post office box in town. Stenciled in fading black paint was the name “Addison.” She glanced down the long lane. The road curved gently to the right, then disappeared in a second curve to the left. A stand of poplars, naked without their leaves, huddled on either side of the dirt road. They’d provided enough cover, however, to preserve a thin dusting of snow.
Later in the season this private access would be unpassable unless Warren had it plowed. Oh, well, she could always leave her car on the main road.
Optimistic thoughts for someone who hasn’t even talked Warren into the project yet, she reminded herself. She’d decided early on her chances of success were highest with a face-to-face meeting. Unfortunately, she hadn’t developed her strategy beyond that. Now she felt edgy and nervous. She’d put up such a brave front for others. And she’d deposited Catherine’s check. No way could she fail now that she was here.
She nosed her vehicle along the lane. Her initial glimpse of the Addison farmhouse wasn’t reassuring. The old two-story clapboard desperately needed paint. The utilitarian structure sat unconnected to the surrounding land. No cozy porch or veranda. No flower gardens or shrub borders.
A truck parked by the front door and wisps of smoke drifting from the chimney indicated Warren was home. He must have heard her drive up, but so far he hadn’t made an appearance.
Realizing she was working herself into a genuine case of nerves, Miranda turned off the ignition and jumped out of her car. She couldn’t stand around or she’d lose her courage entirely. Avoiding the front door, which was boarded shut, she went round to the back, where she opened the screen to knock on the wooden door.
Just at the moment her knuckles were about to connect with the wood, the door gave way and she found herself staring at a plaid shirt. Lifting her gaze, she saw a face she never would have recognized—masculine, compelling, mature. No trace of the yearbook boy remained.
Except those eyes. And that funny, twisting smile.
“Warren?”
WARREN ADDISON FELT THE COLD wind blasting in and therefore knew he wasn’t hallucinating. But the improbability of the sight stole his words for several long, awkward seconds. Finally, he regained articulation.
“Miranda James.”
God, but she was still so beautiful. Her blond hair was short, bluntly cut and curly. It framed her exquisite face perfectly. She stood taller than he remembered, slim in her boyish jeans, her upper body bundled into a fleece jacket, with a down vest over top.
“None other,” she agreed cheerfully. “Um, mind if I come in? I may track in a little snow, but other than that my boots are clean. I bought them before I came here—never needed snow boots like this in Toronto—we don’t get much snow there. Slush falls from the sky directly.”
Her words overwhelmed him. He hadn’t heard so many in weeks. At last a basic meaning penetrated. “I’m sorry. Of course, come in.” He took a few backward steps to make room. “And don’t worry about snow—or slush, for that matter.