a supreme act of will he broke off the kiss and pulled away from her, listening to the mingled sounds of their harsh breathing. She rested her head against his rapidly beating heart for a moment before stepping out of his arms. He felt immediately bereft.
She took a step toward a stairway that led to her home. To her bed. Her smile was shy. “Are you coming?”
He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the tempting picture she made. But he could still see her, as though her image was imprinted on the insides of his eyelids. He’d probably always be able to conjure up the way she looked right now.
He swallowed, tasting regret, and opened his eyes. “I already told you, Sara. I want to, but I can’t.”
Her smile faltered but didn’t disappear altogether. “Sure, you can. I already know you’re leaving in the morning. You won’t be taking advantage of me.”
“This isn’t you, Sara. Didn’t you just say you never have one-night stands?”
“Maybe it won’t be just one night. You have friends in town. Maybe you’ll come back to visit.”
He shook his head. “I won’t.”
“Then you won’t. I’m a big girl. I accept that. I know what I’m doing.”
Maybe so, but she didn’t know who she’d be doing it with.
Tell her about Chrissy, a voice inside his head urged.
In the end, all he could do was present an argument she couldn’t refute.
“I’ll probably kick myself for this, but I can’t make love to you one day and disappear from your life the next.”
She bit her lip, her disappointment as clear as his regret. “I suppose I should thank you for that, but I don’t think I can.”
“I understand.” He stepped forward, laid four fingers against the smooth curve of her cheek. “Goodbye, Sara.”
He was halfway out the front door before her voice stopped him. “Michael.”
He turned around. She looked almost ethereally beautiful standing in the empty office in front of the antique desk she’d enthused about.
“Mr. Pollock was right,” she said. “You are a good man.”
He didn’t even have the courage to refute that.
T HE NEXT MORNING Michael trudged up the narrow flight of stairs that led from Aunt Felicia’s basement to the main part of the house, carrying a cardboard box of things he didn’t want.
Old clothes that would no longer fit. High-school report cards and test papers that didn’t do him proud. A tattered baseball glove he’d found lying discarded in a field when he was a teenager.
He’d already decided to donate the stuff to a thrift store. He didn’t need any reminders of Indigo Springs when he was gone.
The steps ended at a cheerfully decorated country kitchen that smelled of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. A plate of them sat on the counter near where Aunt Felicia stood between two rows of white cabinets. She hadn’t yet changed from the blue dress she’d worn to church.
“Did you find everything?” She wrung her hands, betraying her uneasiness. They’d barely exchanged two sentences when he’d arrived before he asked about his unwanted belongings and she directed him to the basement.
“I’ve got it all unless there’s more than one box.”
“No.” More hand-twisting. “Just the one.”
“Then I’ll get out of your way.”
“I made cookies after church,” she blurted, halting his progress. “Would you like one?”
It was well known his great-aunt liked to bake, but he was surprised she’d come straight home and made the cookies. Maybe she baked something every Sunday. The ultimate homemaker, she seemed to enjoy doing the things that made a house a home.
“Sure,” he said, because it seemed rude to refuse. He carried the box to the table and set it down before taking a cookie. He bit into it, the gooey, chocolate taste bringing back one of the rare pleasures of his childhood. “It’s good.”
She half smiled, the compliment seeming to please her. “How was the wedding?”
“Fine.” He finished off the rest of the cookie. “Johnny’s a lucky guy.”
“I heard…” She stopped, started again. “I heard you didn’t stay long.”
So the locals were already gossiping about him. He’d been up most of the night, second-guessing himself for not accepting Sara’s invitation. But he’d done the right thing. He couldn’t risk having somebody spot him leaving her house at an odd hour.
“I was at the wedding long enough.” He noticed the handle of a cabinet door was loose and thought about offering to fix it, then changed his mind, knowing that would only prolong a visit that was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. “I should get going.”
Aunt Felicia finally moved, only to cut off his exit from the kitchen. “Could you, um, look at something for me first?”
The loose handle?
“All right,” he said.
She picked up a manila envelope from her kitchen table and wordlessly handed it to him. The envelope was stamped Registered Mail and contained the return address of a local Indigo Springs bank. The first paper he pulled out was a Notice of Intent to Foreclose. A letter stated that Aunt Felicia was several months behind on her loan payments.
He flipped through the papers, trying to make sense of them. The house should be paid off. Aunt Felicia had inherited it when her parents died, and that had probably been twenty-five years ago.
His head jerked up. “It says here you took out a home equity loan.”
“I didn’t,” she said miserably. “Murray must have. I trusted he knew best about money matters. When he’d tell me to sign something, I would.”
Michael didn’t need to ask why Murray needed money. Even as a teenager, he’d been aware of her late husband’s gambling problem. And the bastard had put up Aunt Felicia’s house as collateral to finance it.
“I didn’t know about the loan until I got the letter,” Aunt Felicia explained. “It says the mortgage statements were going to a post office box.”
“You’ve been doing business at this bank for years. Why didn’t somebody tell you about this sooner?”
“They’re all strangers now. Even Quincy retired about a year ago.” She hugged herself. “I don’t know what to do. I didn’t even know Murray had a post office box.”
Michael swallowed his anger. Railing about her no-good late husband wouldn’t do Aunt Felicia any good. If he was going to help her, he needed to keep a level head. “When did you get this notice?”
“Friday,” she said.
“It says the entire mortgage is due in thirty days and if you don’t pay the amount, you’re in default. Can you cover it?”
She shook her head, her expression strained. “I used my savings for funeral expenses.”
“Didn’t Murray have life insurance?”
“He cashed in the policy before he died.” She blinked as though to keep from crying. “I’m going to lose my home, aren’t I?”
Michael wished he could pay off the money his aunt owed, but the Peace Corps didn’t pay a salary, just a stipend covering basic necessities. His meager bank balance reflected that reality. But lose her house? Not if he could help it.
“You should go to the bank Monday morning and try to straighten this out,” he advised.
“I