she even had to let them keep her overnight; it was healthier and kinder to let the child stay warm and get good rest than to drag her in and out of the SUV in the damp, chilly night air.
Today, however, they’d managed to finish in time for Devan to spend the evening with her child. Nevertheless, it was all she could do to get Blakeley bathed and tuck her into bed before feeling ready to collapse, too.
“’Night, sweetheart.”
“You didn’t read me a story, Mommy. Nana has been reading me a story every time.”
“So do I, remember? But Mommy’s throat is a little raw tonight.”
“Are you catching a cold from chasing the all mighty?”
Her hand on the light switch, Devan paused. “What?”
“Gramps told Nana that’s what you’ve been doing. He said that it would be better if you stayed home and didn’t chase it. All mighty what, Mommy? I heard that name in Sunday school, but that was God. I thought God was in heaven. Did he move to Mount Vance?”
Did she need this? Devan wondered. She certainly didn’t feel she deserved such a remark behind her back. It didn’t surprise her, though. Connie was quite good about accepting that their generation’s lifestyles were different than today’s. Or at least she didn’t force her opinion on people. For some reason Jerrold seemed obliged to protect his son’s memory, maybe males in general, and he didn’t care for her to be a businesswoman.
It was true that Jay had been a good provider and hard worker. The profit from selling the three dry-cleaning stores had been safely invested to guarantee Blakeley her future. His life insurance had paid off the mortgage on the house and still could take care of them on a day-to-day basis, too. But what about her? Didn’t she deserve to challenge herself and pursue goals?
Sighing, she smiled at Blakeley and gave her a last kiss before turning off the light. “Gramps was just sharing an opinion with Nana. He didn’t mean for you to hear.”
“Because it’s secret stuff? He didn’t whisper.”
Devan bet he didn’t. “No, boring grown up stuff about work. Sweet dreams, darlin’.”
Returning to the kitchen to load the dishwasher, tears burned in her eyes, and that wasn’t because virtually every muscle in her body screamed with fatigue. Afraid she was going to burst into tears, she buried her face in her hands.
She couldn’t let what Blakeley told her pull her down. Mind-sets like Jerrold’s were steeped in generations of Southern living. It didn’t mean he disapproved of her or had been pretending to care about her all this time.
You’ve got to be hormonal.
Knowing that as tired as she was, she would just lie there and watch the numbers on her digital clock change, she poured herself a glass of Shiraz, switched off the TV, and put on a CD of New Age music Lavender had asked her to listen to. They were considering carrying some romantic CDs to offer in their gift baskets and arrangements.
By the stereo was one of the vases with the white roses Mead had insisted on giving her the other day. There were vases in both her bedroom and Blakeley’s as well as on the dining room table, and their scent continued to fill the house and stir her emotions. She couldn’t get over what he’d done, or stop staring at the blossoms wondering why life was taking this latest twist.
Two years ago this would be the time of night when Jay would flip the TV remote through the financial shows, then the sports channels while she would polish the kitchen whether it needed it or not. Afterward, she would soak in the tub with a steamy novel that soon had her aching and wishing he wasn’t such a robot about their relationship. Their marriage hadn’t been a failure—there was an easiness, a tenderness that others said they’d envied—but she couldn’t deny that sometimes she was bored to desperation with its predictability.
Well, she thought yet again, who said life was supposed to be the Fourth of July every day?
How about one night a month? At least one night a year?
She knew uncontrollable passion existed. Sweet heaven, did she.
Heat rose in Devan like a furnace switched to full blast. She took a sip of wine, pulled one of the roses out of the vase and slipped out the back door to cool off. It was either that or ditch the wisteria-blue tunic-sweater she wore over a white turtleneck.
The porch light was off, but the rising moon illuminated the yard adequately for the minute or two she would be out here. Her rose looked all the more magical in that light and she stroked the velvety petals against her cheek.
Tomorrow she needed to remember to ask Lavender if she wanted to dry the petals for potpourri. Taught by her mother, Lavender was gaining a following for her experimentation of unusual scents. Devan had forgotten to ask her this evening due to a last-minute phone call from Pamela Regan demanding yet another change for the Chamber banquet on Saturday. Pamela didn’t bring up Mead, the episode in the woods, anything, but Devan didn’t doubt she knew and was continuing to harvest information on her and any additional meetings with her son better than any U.S. intelligence agency.
Oh, Regans, get out of my head!
As though to mock that thought, a shadow separated itself from the woods and sprang across the fence. Devan’s breath locked in her throat. But just as she was about to dash back inside and bolt the door, she recognized the intruder’s stride, the breadth of his shoulders and the way he hunkered into the upturned collar of his jacket.
“I wondered if I could will you outside,” he said once he got near enough where a murmur could be heard. “I was watching you through the window.”
For how long? She didn’t want to think about it. Thank goodness her hands were full, though, to keep her from exposing her self-consciousness and touching her messy ponytail. This evening she’d been so drained she hadn’t combed it out before dinner as she usually did.
“Mead…you shouldn’t be here.”
“Your neighbor went by when you put Blakeley to bed. Her dog picked up my scent and growled. She got so scared she didn’t bother turning her flashlight beam on me, she just rushed the rest of the way down the alley.” He sounded amused.
“Don’t you realize if she had spotted you, you would seem like the stalker she suggested?” Weak-kneed, she lowered herself onto the flat bench against the garage wall.
“It’s turning out to be my favorite time of day to walk. Could be more of that training I can’t remember.” He shrugged. “Anyway, it beats being stared at.”
That was anything but reassuring. Devan had the option to either think of his life as a commando, or wonder if rumor was right that his injuries had left him a walking time bomb.
“Don’t brood over it,” he added when she failed to reply. “You’re upset enough. What’s wrong?”
She made a small negative movement with her head. “Nothing worth repeating. A small family thing.”
Mead sat on the knee-high patio wall between pots of chrysanthemums. “You’re a slightly built woman, Devan. Resilient, no doubt, but finely made. And I don’t need a memory to recognize that you have a lot on your plate. My returning here seems to have added to that.”
“This is your home. You have a right to be here.”
He looked away. Despite the soft light, his profile was stone-hard and grim. “I don’t know about that. I’m not sure I want to stay. Being here is like being in a virtual joke, except that everyone but me knows the punch line—and it is me.”
“Oh, Mead.”
He shrugged again. “It’s appealing in a way, the idea of leaving. At least whoever I met would be as clueless about me as I am about them.”
“Your mother would be devastated.” In truth, Devan didn’t entirely believe that, but it was a way to avoid acknowledging