April's Promise (Forever Love Series) (19 page)

"Clare?"

The
tiny crack in her mother's voice made Clare pull in a breath.  "What's
wrong?  Has something happened to Dad?"

Although
her father and mother had divorced two years after Lynnie had disappeared,
Clare had desperately tried to hold onto bonds with both of them.

"I
haven't heard from your father in weeks.  The last time I saw him was at the
picnic you had Labor Day weekend."

It was
really strange.  Her parents had once had a good marriage until Lynnie was
taken.  Now they were awkward together whenever they had to be in the same
room.  Clare always felt as if she were the cause of that awkwardness, always
felt as if she should do something to make it all better, always felt as if she
was the neutral territory in the middle of a decades-old war.

After a
short pause, her mother explained, "Detective Grove called me.  He already
spoke to your father."

Clare's
heart skipped a beat.  "Detective Grove?"  The picture of a tall lean
man in a rumpled suit flashed in her mind—the man who had taken over Lynnie's
investigation after the patrol officers' first visit.

"Do
you remember him?" her mother asked gently—too gently—and Clare had a
shivery premonition of what could be coming.

"Didn't
he retire?" she asked her mom, her heart racing now.

"Yes,
he did.  But he's not really keen on retirement and he's been...working a few
cold cases."  Her mother's voice was edgier than usual and a little
wobbly, too.

"What
are you trying to tell me, Mom?"  Clare's hands became sweaty as she
thought about all the possibilities.  Lynnie's face at three and a half was
still so vivid in her mind—the face they'd used on posters...the face she'd
envisioned floating in a river...the face on the body in nightmares that had
been buried in a ditch.  The
not
knowing had always been worse than knowing. 
The
not
knowing is what had torn them all apart.  Clare really believed
that if the police had found Lynnie's body somewhere, maybe they could have
gone on as a family.

Maybe.

"He
wants to meet with us tomorrow morning.  You, me and your dad.  He thinks he
has a lead."

Clare's
throat went desert dry.  Even though she'd only been five, she remembered the
hope that had filled her parents' faces whenever a new lead had been phoned in,
whenever the police had gotten a tip from an informer on the street, whenever
there was a chance that Lynnie might have been spotted.  She also remembered
the expression on their faces when all those hopes had been dashed and one day
had turned into the next without teaching them anything new.

Except
that they were losing each other, hour by hour, day by day, week by week.

"What
kind of lead?" Clare asked, trying to control the shakiness in her voice.

"He
wouldn't tell me over the phone.  He's working out of his home, so I offered
the use of my office at
Yesteryear
.  Can you be there tomorrow at
ten?"

Her
father wouldn't like meeting at her mother's shop.  Now and then he'd
complained to Clare that her mother was lost in the past.  He didn't like the
mustiness of the store or what the old furniture represented—a history that
couldn't be changed...a child who would never come home.  Her mother didn't see
it that way at all.  Her mother liked to relive every memory she had.  She
wrapped herself in the reminiscence of what she told Clare were the happiest
years of her life.  More than that,
Yesteryear
had given her a reason to
get up each day, a reason to search for old furniture if not for her daughter,
though Clare suspected she still looked for Lynnie everywhere she went.

Trying
to prepare herself for the meeting, she shored up her courage and asked,
"Did Detective Grove say whether this lead means Lynnie's alive or
dead?"

A sharp
intake of breath met her question and then her mom answered, "He didn't
say, and I didn't ask.  I still have hope, Clare.  I always have."

Yes,
her mother had held onto the hope that Lynnie was still alive, that some
misguided woman had taken her and raised her for her own.  But a misguided
woman didn't steal a child from someone's house in the middle of the night.

False
hope was worse than no hope at all.  Clare and her dad understood each other on
that one point, at least.

"I'll
be there tomorrow, Mom, but please don't—"   She wasn't sure how to say
it.

"Please
don't believe in the best rather than the worst?  Oh, Clare.  Maybe as you get
older you'll learn that believing in the best is the only way to get through
some days.  I'll see you in the morning, honey."

Clare
and her mother weren't on the same wavelength...would never be on the same
wavelength.  Just like her and Shara?

She
said goodbye, hung up the phone and went to her daughter's room.  Arguing with
Shara would postpone thinking about the meeting tomorrow morning...a meeting
that could shake up all of their lives once more.

BUY: 
HER
SISTER on Amazon

****

Excerpt
from
WHEN MOM MEETS DAD

Finding
Mr. Right
series,
Book 3

Chapter
One

The
bell over the door at the ice cream shoppe dinged as Alex Woodsides entered and
waited until his daughter preceded him inside.  "Cone, sundae, or banana
split?" he asked Kristy as they stepped up to the counter.

"Banana
split," she replied with a wide smile, her brown curls bobbing around her
face, her green eyes twinkling.  At nine years old she looked like him rather
than her mother, and Alex had always thought, at least in that instance, fate
had been fair.

The
teenager at the counter took their orders.  Alex remembered his parents taking
him for ice cream after the last day of school.  It was a tradition...one of
those traditions he meant to keep.  His father always said, "Tradition
makes a man feel secure."  At thirty-three, Alex had come to believe his
father was right.

A few
minutes later Alex sat across from his daughter at one of the round,
glass-topped tables.  "So tell me what happened to your math grade,
honey.  Your teacher said you didn't have any problems before the last few
weeks.  Maybe you and I need to work on it over the summer."

His general
law practice limited his time with Kristy more than he liked.  But if she
needed help with schoolwork, they'd find time for that and other activities,
too.  He'd never regretted accepting sole custody of Kristy from the moment she
was born.  She was the joy of his life.

Kristy
shoved in a spoonful of ice cream.  "I was thinking, Dad," she
mumbled as she swallowed.  "It might be better if Heather's mom helped
me.  After all, she's a teacher and all.  And I really like her.  Since she's
home for the summer, she has gobs of time."

Instantly,
Alex pictured Amanda Carson, her shoulder-length, honey-blond hair sweeping
along her cheek, her blue eyes sparkling with friendliness whenever they had
occasion to speak at parent-teacher meetings or when he dropped Kristy off at
Heather's.  He knew Amanda was a single parent too, and more than once, he'd
thought about asking her out.  But ever since Kristy's mother had bailed out,
he preferred work and his daughter to tempting fate a second time.

"Don't
you think letting Mrs. Carson tutor me would be a good idea?" Kristy
prodded.

Alex
knew he could help his daughter with math, yet his patience sometimes ran a
little thin.  A teacher might be able to analyze Kristy's problem much faster. 
"All right.  I'll call her when we get home."

Kristy
licked whipped cream from her spoon.  "Why don't we just stop there on the
way?"

He
couldn't say no with his daughter looking at him so hopefully.  "Sure. 
Why not?"

***

As Alex
walked up to the door of the compact brick rancher with its carport, its white
shutters and pink geraniums planted along the front garden, he compared it to
his four-bedroom, two-story Tudor on a two-acre lot only a block away.  His
gardener maintained a well-kept lawn and trimmed the yews on either side of the
front porch into symmetrical roundness.  But this little house with its
personally cared-for look was charming.

Kristy
jabbed the bell and Heather appeared as if by magic.  "Hi, Mr. Woodsides. 
C'mon in.  My mom's out back."

He
looked at his daughter.

She
shrugged.  "I told Heather we might stop so you could talk to her
mom."

His
daughter and Amanda's were together as often as they could manage.  They'd
probably thought up this idea.  He addressed Heather.  "Does your mom know
we were coming?"

Heather
exchanged a look with Kristy, then shook her head, sending her blond ponytail
swinging.  "Kristy didn't know if you'd go for it."

Her
honesty made him smile.  "I see.  Well, now we'll ask your mom if she'll
go for it."

Heather
led the way through a living room decorated with rose-and-yellow flowered
upholstery and lace curtains, into a kitchen with maple-stained cabinets and a
table and chairs to match.  The small hutch hosted delicate white china.  He'd
never been inside Amanda Carson's home before.  It was charming.

Heather
led them out onto the back porch with its old-fashioned wooden swing and
pointed down the yard.  "She's having problems with the lawn mower.  It
doesn't want to start.  Maybe you can help, Mr. Woodsides."

Amanda
Carson's nine-year-old looked up at him with the same expectant expression
Kristy often wore.  Just from things Kristy had said, he realized the Carsons
were on a tight budget.  A lawn mower repair bill was probably an additional
expense they didn't need.

"I'll
see what I can do," he assured her, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt in
deference to the warm weather.  In air-conditioning all day at the office and
at home, he'd forgotten how warm June could be.

But
then he saw Amanda Carson and realized the temperature suddenly felt a lot
warmer.  She was standing over the lawn mower, a furrow between her brows.  Her
short cotton blouse tied under her breasts, emphasizing their swell.  The skin
of her slim waist peeked from between the blouse and her short denim shorts. 
She'd tied her hair high on her head with some kind of yellow band.  This was a
different Amanda Carson than he'd seen in the past.  She certainly didn't look
like a sedate third-grade teacher now!

She
looked up when she heard him approach.  A smudge of grease on her cheek was as
appealing as her long, nicely curved legs.  Alex's body stirred, startling
him.  It had been a very long time since the mere appearance of a woman had
affected him.

"Mr.
Woodsides!  Is something wrong?"  She blushed prettily as her gaze passed
over his navy dress slacks and white shirt.

Suddenly,
he wanted to wipe that smudge from her cheek.  Just as suddenly he wanted to
touch her skin.  "No, nothing's wrong.  There's something I'd like to
discuss with you.  But it looks as if you could use some help.  Heather said
the lawn mower won't start."

Amanda
gave the machine a disgusted look.  "I thought maybe if I let it sit a
while, I could coax it.  But this isn't your problem..."

A sense
of chivalry prodded him.  "But if I can fix it, it won't be your problem,
either.  Let me take a look."

Amanda
stepped away from the mower and smiled.  "I won't turn down an offer like
that.  How about something to drink?"

"Sounds
good."

Alex
forced his attention away from her midriff to the lawn mower.  But when she walked
to the house, he couldn't keep his gaze from following the sway of her hips.  A
fantasy popped into his head and he shook it off.  He was here for his
daughter's sake, and he'd better remember that.

***

For the
life of her, Amanda couldn't figure out why she was disconcerted that Alex
Woodsides was crouched in her yard, fidgeting with her lawn mower.  She'd
probably said twenty words to him since she'd moved to Cedar Grove.  Well,
maybe fifty.

Opening
the refrigerator door, she picked up the pitcher of iced tea.  All right.  So
he'd appeared unbidden in a dream or two.  With his tall, muscled physique, his
green eyes, his dark brown hair, her libido had snatched him out of the world's
population to give her a midnight thrill.  She remembered one dream in
particular...

With a
sigh, Amanda poured two glasses of iced tea, wondering where the girls had
disappeared to.  It was steaming hot in Heather's room where they usually hung
out.  Heather was her best reason for dismissing dreams as well as handsome men
in her back yard.  Hadn't her marriage and divorce taught her anything?

As she
took oatmeal cookies from a canister and arranged them on a plate, she glanced
out the window.  Good heavens!  Alex Woodsides had removed his shirt.  All she
could do was stare as he pulled on the starter rope.  Muscular arms.  Broad
back and shoulders.  Slim waist.  And when he turned...