What Should Have Been

What Should Have Been Helen R. Myers HER PAST WAS STANDING RIGHT IN FRONT OF HER…She' d heard Mead Regan was back in town. But nothing prepared single mother Devan Anderson for her first heart-stopping glimpse of the man who' d changed her world forever one passion–filled night…only to vanish from her life.Mead didn' t want a hero' s welcome. He' d left home prepared to die for his country. Now a woman who seemed hauntingly familiar was tempting him to risk much more than his life. But he wasn' t the man he once was–the man Devan seemed to remember.The question was…was this a good thing? “Can you answer one question?” Devan froze. It had been six years since she’d felt such a mix of emotions, and she was terrified of what he would ask next. Once, she’d made herself his for the taking. She’d risked everything to hear him speak to her and her alone…touch her as she’d never been touched…encourage her to be free, to be truly herself. But just as he’d changed, she had, too. She turned back to him. “What?” “Did you know me? I mean really? Were we…friends?” Friends? For a night, he’d been everything she could dream of wanting or needing…. What should Have Been Helen R. Myers www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) HELEN R. MYERS a collector of two-and four-legged strays, lives deep in the Piney Woods of East Texas. She cites cello music and bonsai gardening as favorite relaxation pastimes, and still edits in her sleep—an accident learned while writing her first book. The bestselling author of diverse themes and focus, she is a three-time RITA Award nominee, winning for Navarrone in 1993. To my dear friend Darese Cotton This one’s for you because you asked most and loudest Contents Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Epilogue Chapter One “M ommy!” Blakeley’s cry had Devan dropping the hot pan of garlic bread onto the kitchen counter. Ripping off her new sunflower pot-holder mittens, she threw them after it, sending one skittering off the edge of the granite top, but she let it go. All she cared about was the panic in her child’s voice. By the time she yanked open the back door, Blakeley was scrambling across the stone patio. At the same time she flung herself into Devan’s arms, the little girl also locked all four limbs around her and clutched handfuls of her glittery autumn-motif sweatshirt. “Sweetie, what on earth…? What’s wrong?” “There’s a man out there! A stranger in my park!” For once Devan didn’t correct or reprove her four-year-old daughter for her habit of calling everything she had a personal attachment to as “mine.” Instead she lifted her gaze to confirm that the back gate on the chain-link fence was open. That was enough to send her imagination into overdrive. She’d warned Blakeley repeatedly never to open the gate on her own, let alone venture beyond it without her—especially into Mount Vance, Texas’s woodsy Regan Park. The headstrong minx had inherited too many of her genes, all the wrong ones! “Are you all right?” she demanded, hugging the child closer until she could feel her small heart through her light red jacket. She inhaled that unforgettable but fading baby scent to help calm her own pounding heart. “Did he touch you? Try to hurt you?” “No.” Blakeley’s voice wobbled with emotion. “Because I ran. He scared me, Mommy. He just stood on the other side of the creek and stared.” She’d gotten as far as the creek? Devan couldn’t believe she had let her out of her sight for that long without glancing outside. Her impulse was to dial 911, but she reminded herself that in the meantime, the creep could be getting away. She needed to find him, to see if she could identify him. The police would need an accurate description. Just then the front door opened and her mother-in-law Connie poked her head inside. Devan had left the door unlocked expecting her at any minute to pick up a box of outgrown children’s clothing for a church fund-raiser this weekend. Setting down Blakeley, Devan grabbed her jacket from the hanger behind the back door and called, “Connie, lock the door and call 911! Blakeley, tell Nana what you told me. Lock this door, too.” “Where are you going?” Blakeley cried, her blue eyes huge. “I promise I’ll be right back, sweetie. Now do as I say.” Planting a kiss on top of Blakeley’s blond head, Devan grabbed Jay’s old baseball bat, which she always took on walks in the park against the threat of some stray, sick dog attacking them. Then she rushed from the house, ignoring Connie’s protest and her daughter’s whimpering; she ran across the yard, and alley, and entered the woods marking the east boundary of their neighborhood. Regan Park framed Regan Creek, land donated by one of the most powerful families in the northeast Texas county. Barely an acre wide and eighteen long, parts of the outer perimeter were deceptively brushy, but the bike trails were well tended, as were the picnic areas. Often used by joggers and weekend cyclists, at odd hours it had been known to be the rendezvous site of occasional drug deals. I should have put a lock on the gate. I didn’t even ask her what the guy looked like. As she berated herself, Devan charged through the thicket of holly and prickly vines, then between stately pines and bushy cedar. She willed the creep who’d scared her baby to still be out there. She could and would stop him—at least long enough to make sure the police were given an excellent description, and to give the man an earful. That scumbag would know what awaited him if he messed with any youngster in Mount Vance. After another few yards she crossed the bike and jogging trail, but when she came in view of the creek, she stumbled to a halt. At first she thought the heavy shade cast by a sinking October sun was playing tricks on her. But no, that was a man standing monument-still on the opposite bank just as Blakeley described. More unnerving was who he reminded her of; there was something so familiar about him. With every shallow breath, her impulse to charge and swing receded like the most fleeting dream and left her feeling…what? “Mead.” She’d seen the article in the Mount Vance Report, had heard the gossip flooding town like whitewater bursting from a broken dam. Most she’d managed to ignore in her struggle to repress the fear that her past could finally have caught up with her. However, there was no hiding from the reality that stood in front of her. She shifted so what sunlight trickled in through the trees worked to her benefit and drew a steadying breath. She remembered those compelling eyes—dark as the promise of Poe’s raven whispering, “Nevermore.” Gone was the near-black mane of windswept hair of his youth, though she’d seen it almost this short on his last visit home. The bristles now appeared to be seasoned with a hint of gray, as was his beard. He had been home for more than two weeks, but he looked as though he was still existing on a diet of air and willpower, the latter no doubt force-fed him by his mother. Devan estimated him to be at least twenty pounds lighter than was normal for his strong-boned, six-foot-plus frame. The blue bandana not quite hiding the scar at his right temple suggested one of the reasons why. Her next step forward was involuntary. “Mead…do you hear me?” Hunkering deeper into the upturned collar of his denim jacket, he stared into the glistening water as though willing himself to merge with the few inches of cold liquid. But her question finally had him raising his eyes in slow motion. As their gazes met, she almost believed she saw a slight flicker of something like a dawning, only to wait with a mixture of disappointment and relief when he failed to respond. “So it’s true…you don’t recognize any of us,” she finally said. He made no reply. She’d known when he left town six years ago that his first destination would be somewhere dangerous…and the next, and the next. Some sixteen months ago, his luck, and that of his crack commando team had finally run out. On a mission to the Middle East that had made national headlines despite the government’s attempts to keep information classified, something went catastrophically wrong, and everyone save Mead had been killed. After that, she’d shut her ears and mind to any more information, and thereafter tried not to think about the Mead Regan who was undergoing operation after operation, was no longer himself, and was reportedly lingering somewhere between “strange” and “scary.” Small wonder that Blakeley had been spooked, she thought, sighing inwardly. “It’s…it’s good to see you on your feet,” she finally added. That was all she could get past the lump in her throat. “Do I know you?” he said at last. Like it or not, that stung. She remembered him as a kidder, the guy with the slow, wicked smile and a “come hither” invitation in his eyes, characteristics she’d insisted for years annoyed her…until, eventually, she had been drawn in like so many before her. This Mead’s countenance was as gray as the stone it appeared to be chiseled from, his deep-set eyes lacking any visible sign of interest in life let alone curiosity about her. Devan decided it would have been easier to deal with news of his death than this. What hell had he seen? What agony had he suffered to come back this far? You do not need to go there. “Ah…not really. Sorry to intrude,” she replied, taking a step backward. It was definitely time to go. Connie was waiting and Blakeley needed reassuring, she reminded herself as she pivoted to return home. She barely registered the meaning of water splashing before strong fingers closed around her upper arm. Devan had neither time to protest nor to catch the bat slipping from her damp grasp; she was spun around and had to plant her hands flat against his chest not to fall into him. “No!” Her cry was torn from some sleeping place inside her and sounded foreign to her ears; she couldn’t blame Mead for frowning at her. “Who are you?” “Devan. Devan Anderson.” Then she grimaced and amended, “You knew me as Devan Shaw.” She could tell he was trying to make some association and failing. Under her hands, she felt his heart beating as powerfully and rapidly as hers, and sweat began to stain his headband. “Are you a reporter?” Of course that would be what was bothering him most. It made sense that he would naturally shun prying eyes and probing questions. His politically savvy, reputation-conscious mother Pamela would have encouraged that caution, warned him to shun the media first and foremost if she wasn’t available to monitor each utterance. Devan didn’t want to think about what she would have to say if she heard about this. “No, I co-own Dreamscapes. It’s a florist-nursery-landscape business in town.” “I—I don’t…” His gaze shifted away as though she’d asked him a question about quantum physics. Dear heaven, she hated witnessing this and had to fight a strange pressure in her chest, making it even harder to breathe. “It’s all right, Mead. It didn’t exist when you left.” And she had been only weeks away from changing her name, but that could remain fried with the rest of his memory. Removing her hands and easing from his hold, she strove to get their focus back to priorities. “Mead…you just terrified my daughter.” He glanced back toward the creek as though rousing from a nap. “There was a child…she left.” “No kidding. She ran home scared to death by some guy skulking around. Was that you?” Slowly he touched his forehead near the angry red scar. “I was walking. I needed air.” Devan refused to let memories or sympathy come before her concern for her precious girl. “Well, could you please walk in your yard until you’re more…more yourself?” “There are walls.” True again, with electronically operated iron gates at the end of the driveway. His mother had long been a person to separate herself from the rest of the world, unless it suited her. Some called her Mount Vance’s Liz Taylor. For a man who always enjoyed the outdoors every bit as much as Devan did, that kind of restriction had to be suffocating, and it momentarily eased some of her maternal fury. “You still have to go home,” she told him. “Your mother’s going to initiate a county-wide search for you if she hasn’t already.” Once again she began to leave, retrieved the bat and started worrying about explaining this to the police—not to mention Connie. “Can you answer one question?” She froze. It had been six years since she’d felt such a mix of emotions and she was terrified what he would ask next. Once, she’d made herself his for the taking. Frustrated, hurt, infatuated, she’d risked everything to hear him speak to her and her alone…touch her as she’d never been touched…encourage her to be free, to be truly herself. But just as he’d changed, she had, too. With no small reluctance, Devan half turned back to him. This time his eyes looked clearer, even curious. “What?” “Did you know me? I mean, really? Were we…friends?” His hesitation was as sad as the question was bittersweet. Friends? For a night, he’d been everything she could dream of wanting or needing. By dawn he’d raced away to adventure, violence and catastrophe, leaving her with a scrawled four-word message. Take care of yourself. She didn’t want to remember. She was a widow with a small child. Mead had been a mistake, a wild indulgence of her youth. “We didn’t have time,” she replied, shrugging. “Why?” This was getting more difficult by the minute. “Pick a reason. There are several that would do.” “I don’t understand.” “I was never in your league.” To her dismay that earned her another one of those vacant looks. She pointed to herself with her thumb, “Devan Shaw, small-town girl.” Then she pointed to him. “Mead Alcott Regan II.” When he failed to indicate he understood the nuances of social status, she drawled, “Your mother will be happy to explain it to you.” Promising herself that this time when she walked away, she would keep going, Devan almost slammed into a police officer. “Are you all right, ma’am?” The freckled, flustered young cop was as breathless as she’d been from running. Devan had seen him before in his patrol car but couldn’t remember if his name was Billy or Bobby something. The town was growing and the police force with it. He had to be three to five years younger than her thirty. “I’m fine, Officer—” she glanced at his nameplate “—Denny. Sorry for the false alarm.” “The lady back at your house, Mrs. Anderson, said your little girl escaped an attempted kidnapping?” Devan’s heart plummeted and quickly worked to keep this from mushrooming. “My mother-in-law, Blakeley’s grandmother. It’s all a misunderstanding, as you can see. This is Mead Regan.” She gestured behind her. “Son of Mrs. Pamela Regan.” As expected, the name had considerable effect on the newcomer. The red-faced officer glanced beyond her. “Uh—sir? You okay?” “Yeah,” Mead replied. When he offered nothing else, Office Denny shifted his attention back to her. “So what happened?” “My daughter disobeyed me by leaving the yard while I was preparing dinner, and I panicked.” Officer Denny studied her for a long moment. “That’s it?” “Yes.” “You’re sure?” “I’m certain.” Denny refocused on Mead. “Why are you here?” “I was walking.” “Maybe you should go home, sir.” The cop glanced down at Mead’s wet shoes and jeans. “Do you need me to call for someone to help—uh, escort you?” Devan winced and wrapped her arms around her waist. At another time, Mead would have turned the guy into a stuttering fool with a mere look…or sent him off laughing, depending what mood he was in. Now all she heard behind her was the sound of footsteps, splashing water and more footsteps. It was all she could do not to go after him and apologize for her part in causing him this humiliation. “Mrs. Anderson?” Accepting she had to play out what she’d started, Devan nodded and led the way back to her house. To her chagrin, at the alley, Officer Denny bent to pick up the Barbie doll Blakeley had dropped. Devan accepted it with shaking hands; she hadn’t seen it when charging into the woods. It was the one Blakeley had received for Christmas. Clearing her throat, she asked, “What happens now? You won’t press charges, will you?” “It’s not up to me, but as you said, it was a misunderstanding.” “Your report, though…these things get out onto the radio and into the newspaper.” As she regained her composure, she was thinking of the repercussions that could occur from this—for him as well as her. “Nothing happened to where names need be used, ma’am.” Devan could see he was thinking, too, concerned about Pamela Regan’s attorney breathing down the neck of the department for declaring her military hero son a public nuisance. “Thank you for your timely response and sensitivity, Officer.” “You take care, ma’am. Keep your little girl in sight.” Devan all but gritted her teeth. “I will.” Officer Denny motioned to another cop in the kitchen doorway. Belatedly, Devan recognized petite Sarah White with her spontaneous smile. Sarah’s reputation with kids prompted her to wave, albeit wearily. As the two cops left, Blakeley came running and Devan scooped up the only child she expected to ever have to hug her close. “I’m sorry, Mommy. “ “I know. It’s over.” “The man was scary.” It was hard not to defend him. “He’s been sick, sweetheart.” “Like flu sick or worst?” “Worse. And I can’t answer that question because Mommy isn’t a doctor. In any case, you’re the one who needs to do some explaining, young lady. What were you doing going out of the yard without telling me?” “I heard a kitty.” This wasn’t a reassuring answer whether it was the truth or not. “Blakeley, you’re allergic to cats. If anything, you should run in the opposite direction of a mewing kitten.” “But she was an orphan and in trouble.” Although “orphan” was a new word in her daughter’s vocabulary, and “trouble” sounded adorable as “twubble,” Devan studied her for a third reason, wondering if Blakeley had inherited another undesirable gene of hers. The one that could shift one’s fantasy world and imagination into overdrive, and fabricate stories way too well? Terrific if you were a writer. Potentially problematic when you were trying to teach your preschooler to always tell you the truth. “We are going to talk. In the meantime, you don’t do anything like this again, understood?” Blakeley hugged her tighter and added a kiss on her cheek. “I love you.” Devan’s heart swelled. “I love you, too, but you’re still going to bed tonight without TV.” The child dropped her head limply onto her shoulder. “I figgered as much.” Pressing her lips together so as not to smile, Devan replied, “Can you figger it’s past time to wash up? Dinner will be ready in a minute…what hasn’t turned into bedrock.” “What’s bedrock?” Setting her on her feet, Devan pointed her toward the house. “Get going before I haul you into court and change your name to Jabberwocky.” Giggling, Blakeley ran inside and straight to the bathroom. Devan followed, shutting and locking the back door, preparing herself for Connie. She adored her late husband’s mother and was glad she’d arrived in the nick of time to help, but Mead Regan was the last person she wanted to discuss with her. “What happened?” the youthful-looking, sixty-two-year-old asked. With her short frosted hair and hopeful gray eyes, she still turned heads whether cheering for Blakeley at her gymnastics class or mowing the lawn in her size four Capri pants. Devan had been blessed to call her “friend” as well as mom-in-law; however, there was no way this friend could ever understand her connection to Mead. “Nothing,” she replied, slipping off her jacket. “An embarrassing misunderstanding, that’s all.” Her gaze fell on the loaf pan that Connie had placed on a cooling rack. “Thanks for your timing—and your help.” “Don’t mention it, dear. I’m glad I was on schedule. But do you mean you didn’t see anyone out there?” “Blakeley ran into Mead Regan,” Devan admitted reluctantly. That much would get around town fast enough; to keep it from her would only make her wonder. “He tried to get her?” Devan quickly shook her head. “No one threatened Blakeley, Mom. He was just walking and—” she gestured, groping for the most concise explanation possible “—you’ve heard the gossip. He’s still recovering.” “Yes, I have heard. Bev Greenbriar says he’s downright spooky and if it wasn’t for the Regan fortune, he would be locked away in a you-know-what.” “I’d bet anything that big-mouthed Beverly hasn’t been within a mile of Mead. For the record, he was extremely polite to me.” Devan tried not to think about how she continued to feel his strong hand around her arm. “Let’s look at the positive—Blakeley is fine and she learned a good lesson out of this.” “Yes, but—” “It’s over.” Devan quickly hung her jacket and rushed to the cabinet where she stocked the aluminum foil. She was grateful Connie had been here to help, but she didn’t want to discuss Mead with her another second. “Let me wrap some of this bread for you, and get you some lasagna. With all of your running for the sale, you’ll be too tired to cook dinner for Dad.” Connie glanced at her watch. “Are you sure you have enough to spare? It does smell yummy.” “Thanks. No problem. I always make a full batch to portion and freeze anyway.” Devan continued her mindless chatting until she escorted Connie out the door and waved her down the street. Then she called to Blakeley, who she could hear had detoured from the bathroom to her bedroom—probably to delay that conversation that was promised. As she waited for Blakeley, she glanced out the back door again. It was almost dusk. Had Mead made it back home? Was he all right? The questions barely started in her mind before she thrust them away. She wouldn’t let him turn her head again. The first time had cost her too much. “I’m sorry for what’s happened,” she whispered against her clasped hands. “But stay away. Don’t tempt me to care. I can’t afford to care.” Chapter Two M ead didn’t break any speed records returning home. He knew what awaited him there and slowed his pace to prepare for the inquisition, one that would be particularly grueling if the police had beat him there. He wasn’t ungrateful for his mother’s attention toward his recovery and understood she’d called in some serious IOUs to get him the best medical help beyond what the military had provided, which had been pretty damned fine from what he could tell. But what he craved was space in all of its ramifications. Since it was increasingly clear that he wasn’t going to remember who he had been, he’d like to decide for himself who he wanted to be from here on. If he didn’t grasp that before, that episode in the park with the little girl and her mother convinced him. No doubt the poor kid had been scared. And her mother…Devan Anderson…who was that woman? It was nuts, but the moment she’d arrived, he’d felt as if the stream in the park had shifted ninety degrees and was suddenly carrying her energy straight to…no, through him. Whether she wanted to discuss it or not, he was convinced they had more of a history than she had admitted. Getting truthful answers would be the tricky part. It would happen, though, because until a few minutes ago, he hadn’t been convinced that he belonged here, let alone figured out whom he wanted to gamble on trusting. Spotting Pamela’s majordomo at the back gate of the mansion, he steeled himself for the next step through his foggy maze. “Evening, Philo,” he said to the compact man in the tailored gray suit. Pryce Philo’s burr haircut was a duplicate of his except that it was completely silver and had him increasingly wondering if they didn’t have more in common than easy-to-manage hair. “Are you all right, sir?” the manservant asked in his polite, mid-Atlantic voice that gave away little of his background. “You ask that a lot.” “Because Mrs. Regan expects regular and full reports, sir.” Mead paused outside the wrought-iron gate to study the man with the winter-cold eyes who had yet to release the lock. What did anyone know about Philo other than that he took as much pride in his appearance as he did his work, making him integral in keeping the estate running smoothly and its owner on schedule, if not out of trouble? Only Pamela and her CPA knew how valuable that was—and only she knew the full realm of his responsibilities. “How long have you known me now, Philo?” It was a question he asked whenever he was totally frustrated with the puzzle and his environment and willing to push buttons, even if that meant shooting into the dark. “I don’t know you at all, sir,” the manservant replied as usual. “But I’ve been privileged to be serving you on your mother’s behalf for two weeks, two days…and almost a pair of shoes ago, Mr. Regan. It looks like you’ll need a new pair yourself.” It was more than he and Philo usually had to say to each other, and Mead glanced down at his soggy athletic shoes and damp jeans to hide his smirk. Philo didn’t like babysitting him any more than Mead cared for his salaried shadow. “Look at that.” “You might also like to know the police are here,” Philo added. “They came to inquire about your whereabouts this afternoon.” “Did you sell me out?” “You wound me, sir.” Mead didn’t believe it for a minute. “I went for a walk beyond the sacred walls. Big deal.” “But there’s the matter of a 911 call in the area. A child living on the other side of the park was feared—” Philo coughed discreetly “—attacked.” Tightening his fisted hands in his pockets, Mead replied coldly, “She wasn’t. We ran into each other down there.” He nodded in the direction of the park. “One look at me and she wanted her mommy or the marines—whichever she could find faster—and hightailed it home.” “Excellent. Allow me.” Philo punched the security code into the keypad built into the wall and the gate lock opened with a subtle click. “Would now be a good time to ask how you managed to leave in the first place, since you don’t have the code?” “No.” Mead stepped into the yard and waited for the sound of Philo closing up behind him. “Have mercy, sir. Mrs. Regan is already in a state. In case you’ve forgotten, she’s hosting another of her fundraiser dinners this evening, and I think she and Mr. Walsh had something of a row earlier.” Mead had only observed Riley Walsh of Walsh Development and Construction, Inc.—his mother’s choice as the next mayor of Mount Vance—from a distance, but even with his diminished abilities, his gut told him Pamela would be better off if the guy was dispatched to build ice condos in Antarctica. “Sir?” “If I tell you, will you let me slip upstairs and avoid your boss and the law?” Pryce Philo laid his hand over his heart. “‘A man cannot serve two masters.’” “I bet you’ve tested that theory,” Mead muttered. Shrugging, he gestured, “Lead on, faithful Philo.” One thing he couldn’t deny as he returned to the house was that Regan Mansion, and its remaining twenty acres, was an impressive accomplishment. Having achieved centennial status, the three-story, Grecian-style mansion stood on what had been a massive pine and peach tree farm. Today it was a shutterbug’s fantasy: acres of dogwood, red bud and azaleas in the spring, and magnolia mixed into the various pines in the summer. Was his mother’s decision to sell off the land a good thing? Heaven knows, from the looks of things, she didn’t need the money, but it was how the town had gotten the park. He’d gleaned that much information from one of the yard workers. Was it what the father he couldn’t remember would have wanted? He suspected that was another question he would never get answered. Mead followed Philo inside through the living room French doors and immediately heard his mother’s second soprano voice resonating with anger all the way from the foyer. “Really, Officer Brighton, I expect a formal apology from Chief Marrow. My son is a medaled war hero, was honorably discharged, and yet this is the manner with which he’s welcomed home? Accusing him of such vile behavior?” Cursing under his breath that his mother would use a messenger to vent her frustrations with Walsh—and him, too—Mead stepped into the foyer. “If you’d give the man a chance to hear his radio, I think you’ll both learn that the situation is resolved.” In front of him he saw Pamela Niles Regan—his mother if documentation was to be believed—resplendent in a red, white and blue sequined jacket and an ankle-length, navy-blue skirt. The massive chandelier over her head accented the honey-gold highlights in her short, brunette coif, and her five-foot-three ripe body teetered on three-inch heels. With a grateful glance, the flustered policeman keyed his shoulder mike. After a bit more static and some vague jargon Mead didn’t understand, he heard the officer reply, “Copy.” To them the young man said with some chagrin, “It’s confirmed. False alarm. Just doing my job, sir. Ma’am. Good evening to you.” As soon as the front door closed behind him, Pamela seethed, “Incompetent man. I’ll have his badge.” “Don’t.” Mead slipped off his bandana, wearier from listening to those few moments of his mother’s railing than from what happened earlier. “It was a misunderstanding. Let it go.” “Excuse me? Insult a national hero?” “Stop it,” Mead replied more tersely. “You don’t know that.” Pamela lifted her chin. “Of course I do. They presented me with your ribbons and medals on your behalf. It’s not my fault that you refuse to look at them.” Mead wrestled with a dark emotion he couldn’t quite name. “The mission failed. People are dead. There’s nothing to honor.” Once he’d gotten a fraction of his wits about him, he’d demanded someone tell him the truth. He couldn’t confirm or deny anything said, but he didn’t believe that he should have been rewarded for such pitiful results. Right now he wasn’t sure he should believe he really was Mead Regan, or someone cosmetically altered to take his place. In the privacy of his bedroom, he’d looked for the telltale scars indicating plastic surgery and was almost disappointed to note that while he had scars, none were from that. “The point is that you’ve repeatedly risked your life for your country, and this time almost lost everything. I nearly lost you.” Pamela crossed to him and gripped his arm until perfectly manicured nails bit into the sleeve of his jacket. “You deserve respect and since you’re too modest and noble to ask for it yourself, it’s my job to see you get it.” Her saccharine smile turned into a grimace as she finally took notice of his appearance. “Good grief, Mead. I hope you haven’t left a trail of mud on the carpet. Never mind, I’ll have Philo look into that as soon as we finish. Now, I want you to go upstairs and shower. You can make up for giving me a fright by accompanying me at dinner tonight. Check the closet for your dress uniform. It might still be a bit loose on you, but it’s been cleaned and you’ll see I have all the medals on it.” Mead almost admired her. From day one after arriving here he’d noticed Pamela’s steely determination. Her problem was that she directed it toward all the wrong things. Carefully disengaging himself, he replied, “No.” “No? Tonight is important to me.” “I thought this event was all about your buddy Walsh?” Pamela’s aging porcelain features hardened a second before she pressed her hands together and shifted her gaze over his shoulder. “Ah, Philo. Check the living room carpet for dirt, will you? And have the car ready at six.” “Very well, madam.” As the butler withdrew, Pamela refocused on Mead. “Darling…the fact of the matter is that I hate having to leave you yet again. I’ve had commitments so many times since your return, and we could use this as an opportunity to catch up. Besides, it’s not good for you to be alone so much.” She was only now concluding that? “Last time I checked,” Mead replied, “my birth certificate says I turn thirty-five in November. The head doctors wouldn’t have authorized my release if I weren’t relatively safe to be left on my own. For that matter, don’t you think it’s time to tell your watchdog that around-the-clock monitoring isn’t necessary?” “Philo has only made sure you didn’t have an episode and had everything you need.” “The doctors told you I haven’t since they changed my medication, and I’ve been off of all of it except aspirin for several days.” “That’s wonderful. Then we can use tonight to celebrate.” Pamela attempted a pout and coaxed, “I’d love to show you off to my friends.” He couldn’t think of anything less appealing. “Did I ever enjoy performing for crowds?” Stiffening, Pamela brushed past him and headed for the study. “I’m going to make myself a drink. Would you care for something?” Mead’s first impulse was to decline and seek refuge in his room, but on second thought he followed. He had more questions and, like it or not, she probably knew many if not all of the answers. “Beer sounds okay.” The tap of her high heels grew louder on the Italian tile. At the ornate antique huntboard that served as a bar, she filled two crystal glasses with ice from an open crystal bowl, then added a healthy splash of bourbon. “If I succeed at anything regarding your return,” she said, handing him a glass, “it’ll be to cure you of your pedestrian tastes.” Had his hunch that he’d always preferred beer to the expensive stuff been correct? Mead inspected the amber liquid. Contact with the person he’d been… Pamela eyed him over her glass. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, it’s bourbon not tea leaves. Drink…and then tell me where you were to get in that condition.” He did sip…and with a frown put the glass back onto the huntboard. “Walking. Down by that creek behind this place. Who is Devan Anderson?” he added. His mother stopped her glass inches from her lips. Her eyes narrowed, but not as though she was trying to remember. “Who did you say?” Mead recognized that he had made a mistake, and worried how bad. “The mother of the child who ran off. Surely Officer Brighton told you the little girl’s name? Mrs. Anderson came into the park, too. She knew me.” Pamela took a second sip. “Everyone knows us.” There was no missing her pride, but that didn’t help him one iota. His memory remained as void as his soul was troubled. Thinking became especially difficult in this museum of a house with its cathedral ceilings, furniture no one of size dared sit on without concern for their safety, and limited memorabilia to offer hints of any immediate family past. There wasn’t so much as a photograph around, and the paintings were all of people in white wigs or breastplates. “That doesn’t answer my question.” Mead knew his reluctance to address her as “Mother” irked Pamela, but in his opinion people earned titles as much as they did endearments. “Who is she?” “Just a local.” Pamela’s sequined jacket glistened as she gestured with dismissal. “Dreamscapes Floral and Landscape Design. I use them on occasion. When their quotes are competitive.” “They? Is this a family business?” “A partnership.” Pamela rolled her eyes. “I suspect there were financial reasons to compel her to do it. Her husband Jay died over a year ago, and, no, I barely knew him except to figure out he wasn’t exactly a rocket scientist. Anyway, by partnership, I mean Devan and that awful Lavender Smart. Lovechild of the sixties,” she intoned with a look of distaste. “Devan must have a self-destructive streak in her as bad as yours.” Mead filed away the information—and Pamela’s reaction—but decided not to push his luck by asking more. It was his inner reactions that intrigued him anyway. He didn’t understand his strong curiosity…or was that attraction? “I think I’ll go lie down,” he murmured, all but lost in his thoughts. Pamela immediately transitioned into concerned mother. “What’s wrong? Are you feeling ill?” “No. I just want to—” He’d almost said “think.” His mother would have pounced on that like she did new tidbits of gossip. “I must have overdone it walking.” “Are you sure? You do look drawn, now that you mention it. And I so wanted your company tonight.” Pamela smiled bravely. “All right, darling, I’ll manage on my own. You go rest. I’ll give everyone your regrets.” Wondering who would care since he wasn’t meant to attend in the first place, Mead climbed the stairs two at a time. Chapter Three “G ood night, dear. Be sure to bring Blakeley to our house for Halloween.” Connie Anderson hugged Devan, planting an air kiss near her ear. “I’m making caramel apples.” Devan hoped her chuckle sounded sincere. “It’s what she’s been talking about since she recognized the date on the calendar. You keep spoiling her and I’ll send you her dentist bills. Call you tomorrow. ’Night, Dad!” With a wave to her pipe-smoking father-in-law standing in the background, Devan followed her daughter to the SUV and checked to make sure she got buckled in. Then she climbed behind the wheel, fastened her own belt and pulled away from her in-laws’ home. Although they’d just seen Connie yesterday, Devan did her best to have dinner with her and Jerrold at least once a week to keep the relationship between them and Jay’s child alive and close. They were sweet—if rather staid—people and it had been reassuring to be surrounded by their kindness and concern in the first months after Jay’s death. She felt more blessed than she deserved to be. So why didn’t the pressure in her chest ease until she was a block away from their house? “Mom?” “Blakeley?” They enjoyed that little tease to get each other’s attention. Grinning, Blakeley continued, “You think it would be okay to tell Nana that I like candied apples more than the caramel ones? D’you think she knows how to make them?” “Ah, darlin’, your daddy loved everything caramel. That’s why she keeps up the tradition.” “What’s tradition?” For a moment Devan had the impulse to burst into song, namely the one from Fiddler on the Roof. She’d seen it at the Dallas Summer Musicals when she was a teenager. “Things people from one culture and era do that’s unique to them. Like having turkey at Thanksgiving. Like having roast beast in Dr. Seuss’s Whosville.” “Ooooh.” After a considerable pause, Blakeley asked, “Then she must still love Daddy more than me.” Checking for nonexistent traffic, Devan eased the white Navigator through an intersection and passed the cemetery where her husband was buried. Mount Vance had a population under six thousand, and yet the cemetery was getting crowded. The balance of populations would get narrower if they didn’t do more to keep people here and woo their young, educated people back to raise families. “Not getting your way isn’t a sign of rejection, Blakeley,” she said at last. “Daddy was her baby, the way you’re mine. Her only one.” “Maybe I could remind her ’bout my favorite things?” Devan ran her teeth over her lower lip, recognizing shadows of her own youthful self-focus in her child. “No, sweetie, that’s not a polite way to think. As we grow up, it’s important to consider the feelings of others.” A sound of panic burst from Blakeley. “I could end up eating a lot of yucky stuff for a long time!” The minx was going to make her burst out laughing yet. “Aw, c’mon. Doesn’t it make you feel good when you see Nana’s eyes sparkle down at you with pleasure when you say ‘thank you’ for something she worked on a long time? More than once I’ve surprised myself and tasted something I ended up really liking.” “Like what?” “Oh…blue cheese dressing.” When all her daughter did was cover her face and moan, Devan did chuckle and added, “Okay. How about we share Nana’s treat and get a candy apple for you from the bakery? I happen to have told them to reserve you one.” “Wow! Thanks, Mommy!” Hoping that she wasn’t setting herself up for an unexpected dentist visit, Devan made another turn, bringing them to Redbud Lane. But she delighted in her daughter’s glee, for tonight had drained her more than family dinners generally did. Lately, as much as she respected her in-laws, they left her feeling increasingly stifled—as if she needed more of that in her life. Since Jay’s death sixteen months ago, people seemed to have narrowed down her existence to being Blakeley’s mother and Jay’s widow, and not much else. Even devoted and respectful customers of Dreamscapes often overlooked what it took to be a reliable entrepreneur in a town where two-thirds of the businesses were proprietorships or partnerships fighting to stay afloat, let alone out of bankruptcy court. How had this happened? And what was it doing to her personality? She used to be so independent and fearless. When everyone was sporting the Valley Girl look complete with big hair, she was into Flashdance fashion and cut her waist-length locks pixie short. When the uppity clique in school shunned a pregnant senior, Devan didn’t just ruin her cheerleader chances by befriending her, she dumped her Jell-O into the squad captain’s chicken noodle soup. Insignificant fluff compared to what was going on in the world today, but patterns were patterns. Mead… All of this analysis was about seeing him again. Granted, she was grateful that he was alive, but she hadn’t been happy to find herself face-to-face with her past. To realize that her child had been exposed to the unknown commodity he’d become had almost caused her an internal meltdown. Why hadn’t he remained where she’d hidden him—deeply suppressed in her memories? Odds are he should be dead. Would that be better? Almost hiccuping as she pushed away those thoughts, Devan glanced into the rearview mirror. “Sweetie, are you sure there isn’t anything we need to do before tomorrow?” “No…the permission slip for the trip to the Christmas tree farm is in my backpack.” “Good. Then we can—” Blakeley’s gasp silenced her. “Who’s that, Mommy?” Beginning to turn into her driveway, Devan was slower than her daughter to see the person sitting on the front stoop; the porch light only gave her the benefit of identifying the person as male, an adult male, and yet fear never came into play. A sense of fatalism did. Somehow she knew from the first who it was. He had owned part of her mind since the instant she’d recognized him yesterday. That didn’t mean her heart didn’t start pounding harder as adrenaline surged through her veins. Knowing it would be only moments before Blakeley recognized him as the man from the park, Devan said quickly, “He’s an old friend, sweetheart. The man in the woods? He’s a soldier come home.” Blakeley said nothing. A glance in the rearview mirror told Devan that her daughter was confused and apprehensive. Parking and shutting down the engine, she said gently, “Let’s get you inside and you can watch a little TV, while I talk to Mr. Regan, okay?” “Should I call 911?” Devan swept her shoulder-length hair back as she realized this was no lightweight decision. “No, ma’am. When you get inside, change into your pj’s, wash up and brush your teeth, and then you can see if there’s something on your TV channels in my room. Okay?” “No. But I guess.” Heaven help her, Devan didn’t know what else to say to reassure her. Exiting the truck and slipping her purse strap over her shoulder, she circled around to Blakeley’s door. Opening it, she stroked her daughter’s cheek. “It will be fine. Fine. This man has never, ever, been unkind to me or to children, sweetie. Ever.” “Okay. Hurry, though.” Mead stood as they approached. He waited down on the lawn as she ushered her daughter inside. Blakeley kept her head down all the while, then ran to the back of the house as Devan shut off the alarm system and set down her purse. Then Devan stepped outside again and closed the door behind her. When she joined Mead on the lawn, her confidence wavered slightly. “Do you realize what it was like for her to see you sitting here?” “I can’t say I did before,” he began, glancing at the door. “I do now. Sorry.” He was wearing the denim jacket and jeans again, but tonight the weather was milder and the jacket was open. She could see he had on a white T-shirt and noted that while she was right about him being thinner than she remembered, his body appeared toned. The lack of a bandana was the only other difference. Instead a clear Band-Aid covered his scar. Devan wondered about it. Was covering it for her or Blakeley’s benefit? It had been a long time since he’d been hurt, so surely he didn’t need a bandage anymore. “What are you doing here?” she asked more kindly. “I’m surprised my neighbors haven’t already notified the police that a stranger is lurking about.” Exhaling, he rubbed the back of his neck. “At the risk of upsetting you more, they’re, um, not home.” She could have seen that if she had been more alert. Everyone on their block had full lives with most families including several children who were heavily involved in extracurricular activities. She bit her lower lip. “I only came to apologize,” Mead said wearily. The simple, humble remark drew her focus back on him. But for Blakeley’s sake if not her own, she had to remain cautious. “At this hour?” “It’s barely—” he glanced at his watch “—eight.” His confusion reminded her that even without his injury, he probably would know little to nothing of the kind of concerns and routines of young families. “Mead. As unfair as this may sound, these are difficult times, crime happens everywhere, even in small towns, and people can’t be too careful. Especially not when children are involved.” “Yeah, I’ve been watching the news a lot. I don’t know what it was like before, but it’s sure a mess now. I should have realized how this would look.” He grimaced and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I really am sorry, Devan. Everything is a learning experience for me these days.” That remark slipped straight through her defenses and touched her heart. She couldn’t begin to imagine what his ordeal was like. “How are you doing with that?” she asked slowly. He uttered a brief, mirthless laugh. “I don’t know. Compared to what?” Devan saw a flash of vulnerability in him, and barely restrained frustration. Unwise as it was, the urge to reassure was instinctive and strong. “At least you’re alive. Physically—” she gestured to encompass his tall form “—you’re all there.” “Yeah, two hands, two feet, two eyes that work…if only we could locate my mind.” He sounded so sad Devan ached to go to him, to slip her arms around his waist and rest her head against his chest. She didn’t dare, though, for so many reasons. Dear God, he could just have warned her that he wasn’t to be trusted. “Do the doctors say, um, that you’ll regain your memory someday? Any of it?” she added as his expression went from serious to grim. “I’ve heard ‘the brain is the least understood part of the body’ so many times, I’ve stopped asking the doctors. Or keeping therapist appointments,” he replied. “They’re about as clueless as I am because I didn’t just experience psychological trauma, I survived a head injury. As one surgeon put it without mincing words, my brain is going to let me know what and who it wants me to be. I can either go along for the ride, or opt out.” “‘Opt out…’” Devan felt a cold finger race along her spine. No wonder there was such a haunted look in those dark eyes. He had to be constantly wondering—could he lose his mind rather than regain his memory or should he save himself prolonged torture by—she couldn’t think the word let alone accept he would consider it. The thought of a world without him did exactly what she’d hoped to avoid, and she pressed her left hand against her heart. “Oh, Mead.” “Too much honesty, huh?” He shrugged. “Sorry. It’s all I’ve got.” “You were always honest,” she said gently. She saw him look at her hand, realized he was looking at her ring. Self-conscious again, she quickly stuck her hand into her suede jacket’s pocket. “Was I? No one has told me that. Thank you.” Melting under his steady inspection, she tried to lighten the moment. “I’m not saying you were a saint—” “Oh, my mother has pointed that out to me,” he noted dryly. “—But you never pretended to be anything you weren’t.” “That’s good to know.” His gaze roamed slowly over her face and his eyes warmed. He’d done that before, once relentlessly, and she couldn’t help remembering what had followed. “Can I ask you another question?” Suddenly she felt like a minnow on a hook. “I guess.” “That baseball bat you had yesterday…do you play?” She laughed, thinking self-deprecatingly, That’ll teach you. “No, it was Jay’s. My husband’s. He coached Little League when he wasn’t busy taking over his parents’ three dry-cleaning stores.” “He died.” Devan wondered how he knew? Had he asked Pamela? Of course, he must have; hadn’t she told him to? “Yes. It was one of those freak things, an aneurysm. “I’m sorry I can’t say more, but I don’t remember him.” “You didn’t know him.” “Would I have liked him? I mean, could we have been friends?” Although the five o’clock shadow that had made him appear more threatening yesterday was gone, Devan couldn’t imagine two more different people. Jay had dressed in a tailored shirt and slacks no matter where he was except for the ballpark, and had shaved twice a day whether he needed to or not. He’d never missed church or Sunday dinner with his parents. In contrast, Mead ignored social dictums and charmed his way out of faux pas. He had apologized to her once and smiled so beautifully, she suspected he wasn’t being quite truthful. By his own admission, it had been years since he’d been to church, and while he was cited as a good soldier, she knew he had never been a diplomat. Add to that knowledge of what he wanted from a woman—and it wasn’t compassion—she couldn’t see them as having more than three words to say to each other except by accident. “No, I doubt you would have been,” she replied. A flickering up the street caught her attention and she realized it was a flashlight. Of course, it was the usual time for Beverly Greenbrier to walk Jacque Blacque, her obnoxious standard poodle who had a rude fixation on the azalea bushes circling her mailbox and framing one side of the driveway. The second dose of emotional abuse was that Bev was a career gossip ranking right up there with Pamela Regan. “Oh, God. Let’s go inside,” she said to Mead. “What’s wrong?” he asked, glancing around. “A neighbor down the street is heading this way. She’s too nosy not to stop and ply us both with questions, and she’ll spend half of tomorrow on the phone sharing every word she gets out of us.” Not waiting for him to reply, she led the way inside. Once in her living room, Devan gestured toward the kitchen. “Do you want a cup of coffee? I can make you a cup of coffee.” Inwardly she groaned over her inane redundancy. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Mead replied, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. “If it’s okay with you, I’ll just let myself out the back.” “You might want to wait a minute. She’ll go around the corner and up the alley. I’m not kidding—she’s as relentless as she is annoying.” “Maybe we should get away from all windows?” He was teasing her, but she didn’t mind that. She thought it was silly herself; however, he didn’t understand the South and Southern women anymore. “Huh. This is more like it.” She noticed he was looking around. “Pardon?” “I like your house. I’m having trouble adjusting to my mother’s.” “You said that before about the mansion…to her.” “Did I?” “She was devastated.” “Somehow I doubt it.” Already cited as a monument to taste and quality, Pamela’s house was a testament to the fortune she had spent after Mead Sr.’s death, trying to make it Texas’s answer to the Biltmore Mansion. Glancing around, Devan was pleased that he approved of her far more modest home. No more than an eighth the size of the Regan mansion, the brick ranch was furnished with plush, inviting couches and chairs in sage and ivory. Across the room, a huge armoire encased the TV and stereo system. The cedar coffee table was large enough for someone to rest his feet on and still have room for assorted magazines, as well as Blakeley’s coloring books and crayons. In the center a crystal bowl held the potpourri that filled the air with a fine pumpkin-cinnamon spice. It was only as she turned back to him that she realized Mead was studying the family photo of her, Jay and Blakeley on a side table. “Your daughter favors you.” Devan thought so, too; they shared the same surprisingly abundant blond hair, same blue eyes and fair skin that somehow managed to tan easily in the summer. She was grateful, however, that her daughter had inherited her father’s voice. Jay had been a soloist in the church choir. “Her name is Blakeley.” “How is she coping—and you, for that matter? I mean, without having her dad around.” “It’s sad but no longer painful. And as strange as it might sound, I’m somewhat relieved for Blakeley because she was almost too young to remember him. We live close to Jay’s parents, though, and that gives her a grandfather and a connection to the paternal side of her family.” “What about your parents?” “My mother died the year I got engaged. My father hadn’t been in our lives for a long time.” He hadn’t been the stick-to-it kind and had walked away from them before Devan turned thirteen. She was forgetting what he looked like, too, but there were times she felt his itch for adventure, for passion. That’s the last thing you need to think about. She gestured to a chair. “Would you like to sit down?” “I’d better not,” he replied. “I may get too comfortable and forget that my mother is due home soon.” Devan couldn’t help touching her fingers to her lips. “You couldn’t sound less like yourself, Mead. It’s…strange.” “Tell me about it.” “I guess it’s ten times harder on you.” “No, I mean tell me about me. Us. What were we, Devan, really? I sense something.” What could she say? Confess that he’d been the man to jump-start her heart, that he had been the one—not her fianc?—to release that passion she’d been keeping locked tightly inside her? No, in this case, his lost memory was a blessing. “It was a long time ago,” she replied. “Not that long. You’re quite young and, at the risk of frightening you again, dare I say lovely. And despite what I see in the mirror, I’m not a total relic. How long could it have been?” “I’d rather hear about you. What was recuperation like?” “Six weeks in intensive care. Two—no, three operations. Another few months in the hospital. More in some clinic where people taught me what arms and legs were supposed to do, followed by even more time with a barrage of head doctors.” Mead took a step closer to her. “What do you see when you look at me? Frankenstein’s monster?” Mesmerized by his voice as she was by his dark brown eyes, she admitted, “Hardly. But you look terribly sad…and you were never that. No Regrets Regan is how you referred to yourself.” “We were lovers.” His words held such conviction, Devan’s throat locked trapping her with her own mixed emotions. “No,” she rasped. She glanced down the hall, worried that Blakeley would hear some of this. “The truth, Devan.” “Mead…it was one night.” “For some people that can be enough. If it’s all they’re given.” He shook his head, his gaze once again moving over every inch of her face. “I wish I could remember. I’ve been trying every minute since yesterday. How did we part?” “You went away. Exactly as you said you would.” “Did I say goodbye?” Dear God, he was torturing her. “In a manner of speaking.” “Did I break your heart?” “You couldn’t, you never asked for it.” Mead’s eyes narrowed. “I was going to come back to you.” The air left her lungs in a brief, mirthless laugh. “Ah…no. Promises and commitment weren’t for you.” “Then I was an ass.” In her weakest moments, Devan had imagined having this conversation. But that was restricted to late at night, on the worst nights when she lay alone and lonely in her bed; when her memories refused to let her sleep and her body ached with the need for someone as hungry as she. As she saw curiosity become desire in Mead’s eyes, she realized he had seen that…and was going to kiss her. Yes, her soul whispered. Just as he started to reach for her, someone knocked at the storm door. Startled back to reality, Devan launched herself across the room. Her heart pounded anew as she recognized Officer Billy Denny on the front stoop. “Mrs. Anderson,” he said as she opened the door. His gaze shifted to Mead. “Everything all right?” “Why, yes, Officer Denny. Is there a problem?” “Well, your neighbor saw a stranger outside of your house and when she saw him follow you inside, she was concerned you were in danger. She’d heard about the trouble in the park.” Devan glanced around him and saw Bev Greenbriar stretching to see what was going on. The old busybody, she fumed to herself; she knew perfectly well who Mead was, and by morning this was going to be all over town. “That’s very kind of her,” she said with a forced smile. “But as you can see, everything is fine. Mr. Regan was just apologizing again for yesterday and checking to see if Blakeley is okay.” “Fine. Would you like a lift home, sir?” the young cop asked. “I’d feel better if you’d allow me. We had a rabies incident today, and you’d best not take any chances that some infected critter might cross your path or something in the park.” “I’d appreciate it,” Mead replied. At the door, he met Devan’s apprehensive gaze. “Thanks for being so understanding.” “It was good of you to stop by,” she said with equal formality. As soon as he was outside and he and Officer Denny were heading to the car, Devan locked the storm door and shut and locked the inner one. She didn’t want to take any chance that Bev would have the nerve to charge up here to fish more information out of her, while rude Jacque defiled their pumpkin display. But as she leaned back against hardwood, she knew that wasn’t why her heart was pounding, or why her face was feverishly hot. Touching her fingertips to her lips she closed her eyes. What had she almost done? Exactly what she’d promised herself she would never do again. Chapter Four “I promise, Laureen, I’ll talk to him about starting his motorcycle under your bedroom window and waking you and the birds.” Lavender rolled her eyes as Devan entered Dreamscapes. “Okay. I’ve got customers, hon, gotta go now. Make love not war. ’Byee.” Hanging up the phone, thirty-four-year-old Lavender Smart swept her wild mane of flaming red hair and purple extensions from her face and noisily purged the air from her lungs. “Is it happy hour yet?” Devan gave her a droll look as she shifted the thigh-high rabbit yard ornament by the door to keep it open. “Please. Not only is it barely past eight in the morning, but half this town is Baptist. Keep it down.” However, she’d recognized the name of her partner’s neighbor, Laureen Moyers. “Is Rhys in trouble again?” “Heck, yeah. How can she complain about having a cop right next door adding to her personal security?” Lavender finished tying a green Dreamscapes apron over her jeans and favorite kitten T-shirt with the slogan, I Am Leo, Hear Me Roar. “Oh, I imagine it has something to do with your active love life and her comatose one.” Devan recalled that fifty-something-year-old Mrs. Moyers was a widow three times over and only months after moving in and getting to know her highly critical neighbor, Lavender had had the poor judgment to suggest to her that each spouse had seen their demise as the preferred escape from the woman. Ever since that Laureen had taken exception to whomever Lavender invited to share her bed with…and there had been several invitees. To Lavender the opposite sex was like a candy store: too many choices to settle on just one. “Well, she better get over it. Is it his fault that he’s on the early shift?” Passing a display of gifts, Devan shifted a ceramic box adorned with pansies that looked too close to the edge of the table. “You don’t think he’s pushing her buttons?” “Of course he is ’cuz he’s caught her peeking into the bathroom window whenever he’s showering, and in the kitchen window when he’s grabbing a beer after we’ve given the mattress a little workout. Mr. Cute Butt just figures she wants to get another look at him as he heads to the station.” Never knowing what will come out of Lavender’s mouth, Devan gnawed on her cheek to keep from bursting into laughter. “It sounds like you and Mount Vance’s newest uniform are made for each other.” “Now don’t go getting ideas. He’s closer to your age, not mine. Heck, I’ll be menopausal like that rottweiler next door and Rhys Atwood will still look like a Playgirl centerfold.” Lavender fanned herself with her hand. “Oh, help. I’m thinking myself into a hot flash already.” Devan gave up and giggled as she rounded the counter and patted her friend’s back. “I swear it would take a naval fleet for you to suffer seximus maximus, Lav.” “Ho-ho, you’re one to tease, guess who called before Laureen asking about a certain somebody being at your house last night? Yvonne Ledbetter. Now tell me, Ms. Look Not Want Not, what on earth made you cut the steel corset and finally open your door to a man—Mead Regan no less?” Devan had made it to the closet where she and Lavender put their purses, personal things, and kept the safe. She’d just come from dropping off Blakeley at day care and was only ten or twelve minutes late. She couldn’t believe so much had happened already. “So Beverly Big Mouth’s speed dial finger strikes again. Incredible. I knew she’d be spreading gossip, but I never thought she would call Yvonne Ledbetter.” Yvonne was Bev’s ex-sister-in-law. Although that marriage ended fifteen years ago, they would as soon toss each other’s car keys in a public commode than be the first to suggest bygones be bygones. “Ah,” Lavender countered. “But Yvonne’s Charlie is city manager and you said yourself that Mrs. Regan’s car is parked outside of city hall more often than the mayor’s. My guess is that Bev couldn’t resist tempting Yvonne to be the first to pass on the news seeing as I’m your partner and she keeps my mane so marvelous.” Locking the door again, Devan considered all that could trigger, but the machinations were too much for her tired mind. “There are more dysfunctional people in this town,” she fumed under her breath. “Don’t make me one of ’em.” Lavender leaned a generous hip against the counter. “Tell me what’s going on.” Devan owed her friend and business partner an explanation but could only bring herself to share the official version. The full story was too private, as was her history with Mead. Even so, Lavender’s hazel eyes were twinkling. “I should rename you Sleeping Beauty. You get more male attention saying ‘get gone’ than most of the single girls in this town do primping and preening. If I wasn’t financially bound to you like an umbilical cord, I’d hate you.” Which was one of the reasons Devan and Lavender got along so fabulously. There wasn’t an ounce of envy between them, and sharing the same birth month, they understood each other like twins, even though they seemed to be personality opposites. “When you run out of gush, let me know,” Devan said with a tolerant smile. Inside, however, she was worrying about how Pamela Regan was going to take this. Lavender snatched up two faxed orders from the tray. “I’m done because I really should be mad at you. Why didn’t you call and tell me he showed up again?” “I had to get Blakeley into bed, get a load of laundry in the washer, pay some bills. And I was already exhausted.” “Okay, but you let him into your house? Didn’t you feel a bit uncertain? I mean, the man was trained to kill people, probably has killed people.” Devan couldn’t help wincing. “Lav, he was a soldier, what do you expect?” “And now he’s a human time bomb, what with the lost mind and everything.” “Memory! He’s lost his memory, not his mind.” “Well, Bev said he’s on drugs they give psychotics or something.” “When did Beverly Greenbriar meet Mead and get that information? And I can’t recall her being a friend of Pamela’s.” “Then tell me. What’s he like now? I saw a photo of him in the paper and he looks kind of gray and grim.” Devan kept her gaze on the clipboard she’d retrieved from under the counter that contained today’s job sheets. “You would, too, if you’d gone through what he has. He’s a quieter man now, and thoughtful. He was very kind and concerned about Blakeley. And for the record, he looked much better than the day before.” “Did he now?” Hearing the note of speculation entering her friend’s voice, Devan knew it was time to run. “I’m getting the guys and going to work.” “Wait—I’ve got an order for an orchid basket. Will you pick out a pot for me while I go choose a plant? You seem to understand those things so much better than I do. I swear those and African violets are killers for me.” “Sure. Go. Just tell the guys to finish scarfing down the sausage and biscuits you brought them this morning,” she added, referring to Jorges Luna and the other four young boys they hired for various jobs. “I know, I know. I’m corrupting them, but the younger ones are so far from home, and look so lonely at times. Back in five.” Devan shook her head as Lavender dashed through the French doors to the nursery and hothouse beyond. She had earned her spread-the-love attitude honestly from her flower child parents who these days ran an organic vegetable farm in Oregon. An older brother painted set scenery on Broadway—when he wasn’t honing his mime technique at Central Park—and a younger sister worked at a private animal rescue farm in California. Relieved they’d cleared the subject of Mead, Devan got herself a last cup of coffee from the machine in the workroom and checked their computer to see what else was pending for today. Lavender had already posted three orders for Mrs. Enid Coe at the workstation table. Poor soul was eighty-something and had been a good customer, often scouring the greenhouse looking for African violets and roses out in the nursery. What a shame to think she was in the hospital yet again. Wanting to send something herself, she was back at the counter filling out an order sheet, and was slow to notice that the shadow falling over the counter was a person and not moving limbs from the trees across the street in the square. “Hi, can I help—” she blinked “—you.” Mead stood on the other side of the counter looking tall, freshly shaved and more respectably dressed in a white dress shirt, pressed jeans and a blue windbreaker. “Morning,” he said. As if that wasn’t surprise enough, out of the corner of her eyes she noticed movement and to her consternation realized two of the morning park bench sitters were on their feet and leaning over their canes and walkers to peer from across the street at them. Closer yet was Judy Melrose from Melrose Insurance next door, who had stopped at the far end of the display window, mostly hidden by the life-size scarecrow, to stare at Mead. “How did you get here?” Devan didn’t see a car out front—she didn’t know if Mead could even drive yet. “I mean, it’s so early.” “The sign says you open at eight.” “True.” Accepting that she was acting like a fool, she took a stabilizing breath and smiled her welcome. “What can I do for you?” He glanced toward the display cooler. “I wanted to place an order. But that’s a lot of flowers to choose from.” Devan considered that a compliment. “We’re fortunate to still be the only florist in town and that brings us considerable business from the outer areas of the county.” Struggling to ignore the commotion as Judy was joined by one of her office staff, Devan added, “Did you have something in mind? A certain flower, style, price range?” He remained silent for several more seconds before asking, “What would you choose?” She and Lavender were often asked for their advice—or were left to their own discrimination. “It all depends on the occasion and what you’re trying to say.” She grew hesitant. “This isn’t for a funeral, is it? You didn’t get a bad phone call last night? Your mother didn’t get ill on another rubber chicken dinner?” “Well, she did eat out, but all seems okay so far.” Clearing her throat, Devan tried to restrain an outright grin. “Then this is a birthday, anniversary, thank you or…just because gift?” “Is it possible to…blend the latter two?” “Sure, and how nice.” It was good to see him again and Devan hoped this meant his mother wasn’t upset that he’d stopped by last night. Or was this some last gesture before the ax fell? “That leaves you with lots of choices, in fact just about anything will work aside from calla lilies—although, personally, I adore them for elegant evening centerpieces.” “You do?” “Aside from just loving white flowers, they’re graceful yet surprisingly sturdy.” She gestured toward the long-stemmed beauties in the lower bucket. “If you’re sending these to a lady, white embodies everything—beauty, spirituality, nature at her most gentle. Whatever the flower—gladiola, carnation, rose—okay daisy is a bit impish—but the rest are saying a dozen things with each blossom via their purity.” Remembering that Lavender would be back in a moment, she cleared her throat and resumed her hastier sales pitch. “But those yellow roses are particularly vibrant this week, and so are the coral ones. On the other hand, we can do a sparkling bouquet with multiple seasonal colors. Your choice—I promise Dreamscapes never disappoints.” Mead studied the cooler once again. “I guess the white roses are the way to go.” Pleasure warred with regret as Devan reached for the order pad. She’d loved looking at them since they arrived yesterday afternoon and hoped whoever received them would appreciate how special they were—as was the person taking such care in choosing them. As she filled in his name, she said, “Lucky whomever. Okay, how many?” “All of them.” A muted cough drew Devan’s attention outside again. In the doorway stood Barry Sweat, Precinct 2 Constable in Franklin County. The one and only time he’d been into the shop had been to buy three carnations for his third wife for Valentine’s Day. Devan wanted to go out and suggest he pay more attention to the potholes over by their neighborhood than to eavesdropping. Instead she leaned across the counter to keep her voice low. “Mead, there are three dozen.” “That’s what I figure.” She didn’t doubt he could afford them but didn’t want to be seen as taking advantage. On the other hand, the sooner she got this over with, the sooner she would stop being the morning entertainment. “Just checking. Do you want us to bill you? Your mother has an account.” Mead pulled out his wallet. “I’ll take care of it.” Expecting a credit card, Devan was surprised to see him pull out cash. “Fine. Now where do we deliver?” “Three twenty-seven Circle.” The seven ended up looking like one of those tin curlicue wind-catchers, and for good reason. The address was hers. Almost. Looking up, she met his calm scrutiny. “Do you mean Lane?” “Is it Lane? Lane.” “What are you doing?” she demanded, not believing this was happening. The carousel of sentiment cards stood on the counter and he turned it, studying the offerings. “Can I choose and write my own?” “No. Yes. I mean…Mead, you can’t come in here and—send me flowers.” “Where else should I go?” “Nowhere. There’s no reason to do this. No need.” Through the French doors she saw Lavender heading back. How her friend would eat this up. A born romantic as well as an optimist, Lavender had come into town almost three years ago with her then boyfriend in a beaten-up van. The boyfriend and van had moved on, but she had stayed. Seeing Devan “matched up better” was always on her mind. “Please, Mead. It’s a lovely gesture, but no.” He studied her and some light dimmed in his eyes. “You’re embarrassed that I’m here.” “No.” Impulsively, Devan put her hand over his. “It’s not that simple—and hopefully, I’m not that shallow. But this enterprise isn’t just about me. I have a partner and we have debt. There are customers we can’t afford to lose.” “My mother.” “Among others.” “Riley Walsh?” “It would be unethical for me to say anything else.” “Let me worry about my mother,” he said, nodding to the pad. “Take the order or I’ll figure some other way to do this.” Why? Did he even know? No, he seemed stable enough; she wouldn’t listen to gossip. But even so, fear gripped her. Was this incredible gesture the sign that he intended to continue with the mind-set that he’d broached last night? She couldn’t let him. On the other hand, losing the sale and explaining the reason to Lavender would be no party, either. Devan decided to total his bill, then she took the cash to make change. “Thank you.” She kept her eyes on what she was doing. “Really. This is…lovely.” “You’re welcome. When can I see you again?” He was going to scrape her insides raw. “Mead, I’m so shaken, I’m about to lose the breakfast I barely ate.” Confusion shadowed those dark eyes. “I’ve made you sick?” “Oh, no! It’s because—” how did she make him understand? “—I did an extra good job convincing myself that I’d never see you again. And then there’s the man you were. I don’t believe he…you would be doing this.” “But I am.” He leaned closer to force her to meet his gaze. “Would you be hoping I would?” She couldn’t bring herself to answer. That won a real smile from Mead and he dropped the bulk of the cash she’d returned to him onto her copy of the invoice. “Add the yellow roses.” “Oh, no, Mead, please—” “Think about me, not who you think I should be, or the people you keep looking at outside. Not my mother.” As he left, Lavender burst through the French doors with her usual energy and curiosity. “Who was that? Whoa—long legs, tight butt and shoulders so wide he wouldn’t notice if I ate a pint of ice cream every night. Did he place an order?” “Does the word Rhys ring a bell with you?” Devan said, a little exasperated. “Of course.” Lavender set a glorious purple orchid on the counter. “I’m just asking.” “Yes, he placed an order.” “Super, so we’ve got his phone number.” “We already have it on file.” “We do? “It’s the same as Pamela Regan’s.” “Oh. Oh…wow.” Devan sighed. “You can say that again.” Chapter Five I t was a relief that Dreamscapes’ business increased by the day to help keep Devan preoccupied. While Lavender continued to tend to the floral orders, she and her team were forced to spread themselves thin to fulfill all of the requests to create holiday porches and scenescapes, and still finish landscaping yards for Riley Walsh’s new houses. That entailed longer hours and, as a result, the necessity to take up the Andersons’ offer to pick up Blakeley from day care and feed her dinner. Yesterday had been so grueling 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 how her own insides were plummeting and she feared the rest of her would cave in on the resulting emptiness. Mead responded with a low sound of scorn. “Come on, Devan, one thing I recognize about Pamela is that she’s a survivor. I have a feeling the only reason she had me was to give my father an heir.” “Now you sound like a soldier.” “As in cold-blooded?” “Pragmatic.” “Was I that way before?” She was the wrong person to ask. “I didn’t see you every day, so I can’t judge fairly. You’re five years older than me, too, and that put you way ahead in school.” “My mother made sure the yearbooks in my room are open to strategic pages.” He rested his elbows on his knees to allow him to be closer. “I looked for you in them, but couldn’t find you.” “I started Mount Vance High the year you left for college.” “So when did we meet?” “Rather, when did you finally notice me?” His gaze caressed her. “You’re a beautiful woman, Devan. I figure I noticed from the moment you hit puberty.” “Not with the likes of Megan Maples, Darcie Tracy, Carly Ferris and others competing for your attention.” An involuntary chuckle burst from his lips and Mead self-consciously rubbed his jaw. “My mother put sticky notes by Megan’s and Darcy’s names. She wrote that Megan is the daughter of the bank president, and the bank remains independently owned and has three branches in neighboring communities, while by Darcy’s name there’s just one word—oil. Oh, and she also noted they were both single.” Devan wasn’t surprised at Pamela’s not-so-subtle assistance in helping Mead with his memory. Pedigree was all-important to her, as it was to many Southerners. “Who are your people?” and “What church do you attend?” were common and acceptable icebreakers when welcoming a newcomer to a community that continued to embrace old Southern traditions. “What she left out is that they’re accomplished women,” she replied. “Meg owns the most successful real estate firm in the county. Darcie happens to be an attorney in her father’s oil company.” “Why do you suppose she left out Carly?” Mead asked. “Carly’s fortune is inherited and she recently buried her second husband. Stunning though she is, you may be too young for her tastes.” This time Mead threw back his head and laughed out loud. “Well, I can’t begin to think of what we’d talk about now.” Too aware of Pamela’s determination, Devan could only smile. “It was good to see you laugh anyway.” “Don’t think I didn’t notice you changing the subject away from you.” In an attempt to keep things light, she quipped, “Ah, but we were discussing your long list of conquests.” He didn’t even smile this time. “Was I a skirt-chasing SOB, Devan? Is that why you kept me at arm’s length, as you apparently did…and are trying to do again?” She didn’t use such expressions, even on people who clearly deserved them, and it was painful to hear he worried he could be one of those. “You were never that. You could seem aloof, but that’s because you never wasted time suffering fools, and when a girl failed to get a proposal out of you, they sometimes stroked their injured pride by announcing that you were emotionally cold and that ending the relationship was their idea. You remained a gentleman, graciously never contradicting them.” His chest rose and fell on a deep breath. “Talk about being gracious…you really did understand me, didn’t you? Is that what I felt when we met again? It was like nothing else I’ve experienced since waking in that hospital bed.” Devan had to put down her glass for fear of him seeing how his comment left her hands shaking. The one holding the rose she rested in her lap. “Mead, a lot of people understood you, you just haven’t been exposed to them yet. You didn’t lack for friends or attention.” “My father’s fortune could explain that.” No one except the most naive could deny that possibility for some, but Devan couldn’t let him miss something important. “You loved life, and that enhanced your natural charisma. You were always seeking something, eager for experience. At least, that was my impression,” she quickly concluded, suddenly embarrassed. What nerve she’d had accusing Lavender of gushing the other day. With her motor mouth, she would yet expose that she hadn’t just watched him from afar, she’d studied him with rapt fascination every chance she’d had. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/helen-myers-r/what-should-have-been/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. 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