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“Oh, June,” Mara sighed, slumping into a chair near the bed.

“Don’t worry, I had already guessed that Angie wasn’t Peter’s child. I took a few courses in genetics when I was in school, and I know the odds against two blue-eyed people having a dark-eyed child. Nearly impossible. And,” she sighed wearily, “I . . . I intercepted some letters that were forwarded to the house four years ago . . . I just had the feeling that Angie’s natural father was alive somewhere.” Tears began to pool in June’s aging blue eyes. “I . . . still have the letters, and I didn’t open them . . . I wanted to, but I just couldn’t . . .”

“It’s all right,” Mara said, touching June’s arm.

“No . . . no, it’s not. I’m just a foolish old woman looking out for my own best interests, fooling myself, telling myself that I was helping everyone else . . . but it’s just not so. And when, on the day of Peter’s funeral, Shane Kennedy appeared on the doorstep, I remembered the name on the return address of the envelopes, and knew that he was Angie’s father. I . . . I hoped that he would go away, disappear again, but I knew he wouldn’t . . . he was so damned insistent that he see you.”

Mara’s throat seemed to have swollen shut, and she found it difficult to blink back the tears of pain she felt for her mother-in-law.

“I did it because I love Angie so much,” June sobbed. “I . . . couldn’t bear the thought of losing her . . . and you. I was afraid of becoming one of those lonely old women that you see walking in the park . . . all alone.” She breathed heavily. “Oh, Mara, I’m so sorry . . . I put my happiness before yours . . .”

Mara looked up to see Shane standing in the doorway, holding Angie. How much of June’s confession had he heard? He set the little girl down, and she scampered over to her grandmother’s bedside. “Grammie, you okay? Look, I brought you flowers!” she said excitedly and held up a bedraggled bunch of daisies and dandelions.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” June mumbled.

Shane strode to her bedside and watched the older woman. “I heard what you said to Mara.”

“I’m sorry,” June admitted.

“I just want you to know that I will never interfere with your relationship with Angie. I realize how important she is to you, and how much she loves you. I don’t condone what you did, but I do understand it.”

“Go . . . Mara . . . in the desk in the living room,” June commanded. “The letters are in the bottom drawer.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“Get them,” June insisted, some of her color returning. “Angie can stay in here with me.”

Unsteadily, Mara walked back into the living room toward the antique secretary that June used as a desk. She knew that her fingers were trembling, and it was with difficulty that she found the unopened letters, addressed to her in Shane’s bold scrawl.

“Oh, dear God,” she moaned, and opened the first of three. Tears stained her cheeks and dropped onto the sheets of paper that swept her back in time four long years: Words of love dominated the pages and in the last letter was a proposal of marriage, dated over four years in the past. “If only I had known,” she sobbed, looking into Shane’s eyes. “If only I had known. I loved you so much . . .”

Shane folded his arms around her and pressed his chin against her head.

“You know now,” he murmured, and his arms tightened around her, securing her to him. “God, Mara, I loved you . . . and I still do . . . and nothing matters but that we’re together again.”

“What about June . . . and the toy company?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ve bought up some of the shares from family members, and I think, now that Dena and June have reexamined their lives, that they won’t object to moving the company to Atlanta, as long as they retain part interest.”

“Are you sure?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he said with a knowing smile. “As for right now, let’s go in and tell Angie and June that we’re getting married . . . I have a feeling that neither will object.”