Chapter Eleven
Ivy sat in the sunshine of the terrace, talking quietly with her mother, while Chester brought her luggage downstairs.
“What were you searching for in the attic?” Ivy asked her mother.
“Something from your father’s past. I’ve been thinking of moving away, of making a clean break, and I wanted to close this chapter of my life. I thought his old albums would disclose who his real parents were.”
“Is that why you went to see David Tisdale?”
Diana nodded. “They’ve always handled the Murdock legal work. He easily found the adoption records. But he told me the biological parents’ identities must remain a secret. I had decided not to pursue it any further.”
Diana’s voice was soft, filled with new expression. “Every time I look at you, Ivy, I marvel. I was never any good at housework, or child care. While you were growing up, I tried a few part-time jobs. I was never good at anything. And here you are, this brilliant, talented artist. It makes me feel even more of a failure.”
Ivy was stunned. She’d always felt inadequate beside this beautiful woman. It had never occurred to her that her mother had insecurities of her own.
“Mother, don’t be silly. You made a loving home for Dad and me. Remember all those beautiful clothes you used to make me?” She chuckled. “Of course, on me they always looked like something I’d slept in. But you were a very talented seamstress.”
Diana nodded. “I’ve always loved clothes and sewing. That’s why I’ve decided to accept a friend’s offer to go to California and work in her dress designing business.”
“Mother. That’s wonderful.”
“I’m not fifty yet, Ivy, and I want to try my hand at something before it’s too late.”
“You’ll be a fabulous designer,” Ivy said with conviction.
“Will you come and visit me sometime?” Diana asked almost shyly.
“Of course I will. I’d love to, Mother.”
They hugged each other, then walked arm in arm through the enormous rooms to the front door. There they greeted Gertrude, who had already bade goodbye to Judge Tisdale and his grandson.
“Something just occurred to me, Diana,” Gertrude said in her staccato voice. “Since William was my son, you were my daughter-in-law.”
Diana laughed. “I’m glad we didn’t know that all those years ago, Gertrude. I would have blamed all our troubles on that fact.”
The old woman smiled and took her hand. “You are always welcome here, Diana.”
“Thank you, Gertrude. I just told Ivy that I’m moving to California. Maybe you’ll come with her for a visit.”
“I think,” the old woman said with a sigh, “that might sound very tempting next winter, when we’ve been snowed in for months.”
“Good. I’ll look forward to seeing you.”
As Diana walked to her little red sports car, Chester lifted the hood. Just then Caine walked from the house. At the mere sight of him, Ivy felt her heart leap.
Caine looked puzzled. “What’s wrong, Chester?”
The old man connected a wire, then closed the hood. “When you told me to keep everyone from leaving, I disabled all their cars. Now I have to make sure they’re able to make the trip home.”
“Good old Chester,” Caine muttered against his aunt’s cheek, as he bent to kiss her.
Darren came bounding out the front door, looking better than he had in days.
“I’ve decided to go back to California and face Melanie with the bitter truth.”
“What truth?” Ivy looked into Darren’s laughing eyes.
“That the playboy’s life is not for me. I’m going to get a job like an ordinary mortal, and try to live a normal life. Without her. I’m not going to contest the divorce.”
“You’d better be sure, Darren,” Gertrude said firmly. “Love is a very fragile thing. Maybe if you two try to work out your troubles, you’ll find the love is even stronger than before.”
He bent and kissed his aunt on her cheek. “Aunt Gertrude, I looked at David Tisdale today and saw myself. I think there was a time when I might have been desperate enough to try something foolish in order to get money. I’ve been in the fast lane too long. Now I’d like to try a slow, easy track.”
“Call me,” Gertrude said, taking his hand. “Let me know what’s happening with you. And Darren, hurry back.”
He shook Caine’s hand, then grabbed him in a bear hug. “Thanks for everything, big brother. Before you know it, I’ll be doing you favors.”
“Good. It’s about time. I intend to take you up on it.’’
Darren caught Ivy by the shoulders and held her a little away from him. “And you’re still the best looking woman in the county. Next to Aunt Gertrude, of course.”
Ivy laughed and pulled his face down for a kiss. “And you’re the second best looking man.”
“Really? Who beat me out for the title?”
She turned to Caine. “Oh, some funny looking guy I ran into in the dark.”
Seeing the look on his brother’s face, Darren punched him playfully on the arm. “Better watch out, Caine. I think she’s got plans for you.”
As Darren’s car and Diana’s shiny sports car appeared along the driveway, Chester rolled Ivy’s motorcycle from the garage.
“What will I do with this bag, Miss Ivy?”
She took the travel bag from his hand and secured it to the rear of the bike. Picking up her helmet, she walked back to the steps where Gertrude waited.
“It’s been quite a birthday, hasn’t it?”
The old woman nodded. “In my eighty years, this has been one of the most remarkable times ever.”
“I’m not used to calling you Grandma. I may slip and say Aunt Tru.”
“Just so you call me often, and let me know how your life is going.” She drew the young woman close and hugged her. “Oh, how I wish you could live here. I’m going to miss you so much more now that I know how many years we’ve lost.”
“I’ll come back often. Goodbye, Aunt... Grandma.”
Both women laughed, as they fondly embraced.
Ivy turned to Caine, and found that she couldn’t think of a thing to say. They stared at each other for long, awkward moments. Finally, Caine broke the silence.
“I’m leaving too, Aunt Trudy. But I’ll be back often. I’m going to start remodeling the cottage soon.”
He turned to Ivy, tousling her hair. “So long, Weed. It’s been—different. Try to stay out of trouble.”
“Yes. You, too.” She stared down at her helmet, then pulled it on. “Goodbye, Caine.”
She held out her hand and he took it.
Gertrude watched with amusement. “If you two don’t mind, I’m feeling rather shaky. I’m going inside for a cup of tea, or something stronger.”
“Something stronger, I’m willing to bet,” Caine muttered as she made her way inside.
Glancing down at the small hand in his, he ran a thumb over the slender fingers. “Such long, tapered fingers.” He thought of those hands on his skin and felt a tightening deep inside.
She withdrew her hand and walked to the motorcycle. Say you care, she thought. Ask me to slay. She started the bike with a roar, and fastened the strap of her helmet. A glance in Caine’s direction assured her he hadn’t moved. She hoped the visor of her helmet hid the tears that were stinging her eyes. Engaging the gear, she began to take off in a roar of sound and smoke.
As the bike moved along the curving driveway, rough hands clutched her shoulders. Caine dropped his weight behind her, nearly knocking them both off balance.
She lifted her visor and turned her head slightly.
“You could have killed us both. Are you crazy?”
“Yes.” The wind whipped away his words. “Ever since I met you, I’ve become a little bit crazy.”
“Where are you going?”
“Wherever you’re headed.”
“Now I know you’re crazy.” She gunned the engine, taking the cu
rves with ease.
He held her firmly around the waist, and pressed his lips to her ear. “I used to be normal until I met you.”
It was true, he thought. All his life he had known exactly what he wanted. For the first time, nothing mattered except this woman.
They skimmed past the duck pond. Past the woods. Past the clearing. To the cottage.
“Stop here, Ivy.”
The sun glinted off the gleaming chrome of the bike. As they dismounted, Caine lifted the helmet from Ivy’s head and watched as the familiar dark silk drifted about her face and shoulders.
Taking her hand, he dropped the helmet to the ground and led her to the front door of the cottage. He shoved open the door, then led her inside. She hadn’t even been aware that she was crying until this moment.
Strong arms wrapped around her, drawing her against a solid wall of chest. Work-roughened fingers smoothed the tangled hair, and drew her face into the hollow of a warm throat. A voice, deep, vibrant, cooed unintelligible words to her.
She felt his shirt blotting her tears.
“This whole weekend has been overwhelming for you. It’s all too much to take in at one time. Your father’s adoption. Aunt Tru turning out to be your grandmother.”
“And falling in love with you.”
The hands at her hair stilled. She heard his sudden intake of breath. He lifted her chin and stared down into her tear-filled eyes.
“Say that again.”
The tears spilled over, running down her cheeks. Between sobs, she said, “I love you.”
“That’s what I thought you said.” With his thumbs, he wiped away the tears. His hands cupped the sides of her face. He stared down at her, loving the way her green eyes shimmered.
“I love you, too, Weed.”
“Weed.” She wiped a hand across her eyes. “Is that any way to address someone you’re supposed to love?”
“Ivy, my beautiful little weed.”
He rubbed his nose over hers. His lips brushed hers lightly. His voice was so husky, it sent shivers through her. “I love you, Ivy Murdock. And I don’t ever want you to leave me.”
She kissed him back. “You’re never going to get rid of me.”
The kiss deepened. He felt the familiar flames leap, then race through his veins, heating his blood, his flesh, his mind.
“Think you could manage to paint in Europe for a little while?”
She struggled to clear her mind. “Europe?”
“I just heard that my European project has been approved. I’ll have to spend quite a bit of time there this year.”
“I could paint in an underground tunnel, if that’s where you had to be.”
He grinned and kissed the corners of her eyes. “Hmmm. I might try that. Sounds like fun.”
“When will we have to leave?”
“How about right away. We can be married and spend the time in Europe as an extended honeymoon before you have to start work on the mural for the Blayfield Building. And we’ll be away from all the family.”
“Careful. I just acquired all this family. I’m not sure I want to leave it for too long.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, dragging his lips across her cheek. The heat was growing. He could already feel his control slipping. “Knowing Aunt Trudy, if we stay away too long, she’ll find some reason to come visit us. She’s a woman with a mind of her own.”
Ivy wrapped her arms around his waist, and buried her lips in his throat. Her voice was a sultry whisper against his skin. “I hope you can stand another woman with a mind of her own.”
“They’re the best kind.” He lifted her in his arms and carried her to the loft. Against her lips he murmured, “Let’s see if we can finally make love without any interruptions.”
“Didn’t Aunt Tru say Chester only checks this building once a week?”
“Umm. Yes. Why?”
She laughed and turned her mouth up to his to be kissed. “Then you can count on all the privacy you want.” Ivy opened her hand to reveal a shiny key.
“I knew it,” he breathed. “That scatterbrained image was all an act. You definitely have a mind of your own.”
She chuckled, a warm, sultry sound that whispered across his heart. “Your brother Darren was right. I definitely have plans for his big brother.”
Epilogue
Gertrude St. Martin returned from her brisk afternoon stroll and gathered the mail. As she climbed the stairs she sorted through the letters until she came to a plain white envelope. Sitting down on the top step, she dropped the others and tore the letter open, reading quickly.
Europe is wonderful. Feasting on museums and galleries, and of course, architecture.
Of course, the old woman thought with a smile. She could still recall being that young and wildly in love. All you can see from a hotel window.
She must plan a party for the newlyweds when they returned from their honeymoon.
Flush from her success as a matchmaker, her mind whirled. Whom could she invite for Darren, now that he was alone? Whom did she know who would love him despite his occasional lapses?
His mate would have to be generous and sweet, with long blond hair and laughing hazel eyes. Yes. Someone like dear Sara.
She stood, and with a girlish gait strode to her sitting room to write the invitations. If she hurried, she might still fill this old house with the laughter of generations.
The End
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Ruth Ryan Langan
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New York Times best-selling author Ruth Ryan Langan, who also writes under the pseudonym R. C. Ryan, is the author of over 100 novels, both contemporary romantic-suspense and historical adventure. Quite an accomplishment for this mother of five who, after her youngest child started school, gave herself the gift of an hour a day to follow her dream to become a published author.
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