Page 26 of Deadline

Amelia smiled woodenly. “Don’t let me keep you from the fun.”

Grinning like a young boy himself, he hobbled out.

She tried without success to convince herself that there was a logical explanation for the ball, just as there was for the porch light. Forcibly shaking off her uneasiness, she cleared the table and put the dishes in the dishwasher. Then, taking a last cup of coffee with her, she went out onto the front porch and sat down in one of the rocking chairs.

The kite-flying was well under way. Stef was doing the running for Bernie, who was gesturing wildly and shouting instructions. The boys were running alongside Stef and were so excited watching the kite, their feet got tangled up with hers and all three of them stumbled and fell into the sand. The pirate ship crashed bow first into the surf.

But they all came up laughing. Bernie reeled the kite in and soon it was aloft again.

Amelia’s throat became tight with mixed emotions: joy in watching her boys play with such unbridled happiness; and sorrow that they were doing so with a hired nanny and an elderly neighbor rather than with their dad.

One day, probably sooner than she hoped, they would question her about him. They knew he had died, but of course they were too young to know the circumstances. Eventually, they would want to know.

She kept a picture of Jeremy on the nightstand between their beds, but she doubted they actually saw it. It was part of the furnishings in their roo

m, nothing more. They mentioned him less and less frequently, especially Grant who was barely old enough to remember him at all. Most of their memories would be of angry shouting, slamming doors, boozy breath.

In the picture in their room, he was wearing his Marine dress uniform and a stern but noble expression. The first time she saw the photo, she had teased Jeremy about it.

“You look grimly determined.”

“I am,” he’d said with exaggerated gravity. “Grimly determined to bed you and make you my woman.”

“Well, if that’s the case, I’ll surrender without a fight.”

They’d laughed and kissed and made love. Life had been good. The future had seemed bright.

She would emphasize to her sons that aspect of their father’s personality, his ability to tease and laugh. She would tell them stories about the months leading up to their wedding, when he’d courted her sweetly and with an earnest desire to please.

He’d been intimidated by the plantation house in which she’d grown up, awed by the number of statesmen and dignitaries with whom she and her father were friends. His efforts to fit into their circle had won her heart.

Friends and colleagues were impressed by his distinguished-service record in Iraq. When it was called for, he exercised a courtly politeness that charmed even the most discriminating of their acquaintances. By the time they walked down the aisle, he’d been wholeheartedly accepted into their society.

When she talked to her sons about him, she would emphasize those good times. Of course, she inevitably would have to tell them about the bad ones as well. She would wait until they were old enough to understand, but not so long that they heard about his downfall from a crueler source.

The thought of that brought tears to her eyes.

As she blinked them away, something in her peripheral vision glinted. She turned her head to see what it was and for several moments stared with incomprehension. Then, gripping the armrests of the rocking chair, she slowly levered herself out of it and walked the length of the porch to the corner of the railing.

There lay her watch, the clasp open, the band stretched out along the wooden rail, as though it had been carefully placed.

She knew positively that she hadn’t been the one who’d put it there.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when Stef bounded up onto the porch. “The boys are asking for a drink. They’re having a blast, although I worry about Bernie’s hip giving out. Are you coming down?” Then she paused and asked, “Something wrong?”

Amelia picked up the watch and turned to her. “I found my watch.”

“Great! Where was it?”

That wasn’t the response Amelia had hoped for. If Stef needed to ask where she’d found it, then she hadn’t put it on the porch railing, either.

* * *

Dawson glanced down at the LED of his jangling cell phone. Headly. He answered dispiritedly. “Hey.”

“What’s up?”

“Why ask me? You’re the one taking Viagra.”