Garrett cringed inwardly as the pieces fell into place.

“You and my buddy Josh work together?” Disbelief was evident in his voice, but the woman standing before him—who sported a tattoo on her neck, a pierced eyebrow and blue-tipped hair—didn’t look like any of the high school teachers he’d had. Of course, his teachers had all been Catholic nuns.

“I teach freshman English at Paducah Tilghman.” A subtle rise of one of her eyebrows seemed to add, “So there.”

Apparently the mention of Josh’s name loosened his son Dylan’s tongue. “What happened to your hand?” He pointed blatantly at her disfigurement.

“Dylan—” Garrett started to correct him.

“No, it’s okay.” Tara gave him a small smile, but then sobered when she looked back at Dylan. “Motorcycle accident.”

“Cool!” Dylan’s voice was filled with awe.

Bona fide crazy, Garrett thought.

Moonlight in Paris

Pamela Hearon

www.millsandboon.co.uk

PAMELA HEARON grew up in Paducah, a small city in western Kentucky that infuses its inhabitants with Southern values, Southern hospitality and a very distinct Southern accent. There she found the inspiration for her quirky characters, the perfect backdrop for the stories she wanted to tell and the beginnings of her narrative voice. She is a 2013 RITA® Award finalist for her first Mills & Boon® Cherish™ novel, Out of the Depths. Visit Pamela at her website (www.pamelahearon.com) or on Facebook and Twitter.

To my precious daughter, Heather … the one true masterpiece of my life.

ACKNOWLEDGMENT:

Writing a book requires gleaning information from many sources and sometimes becoming annoying in the process, I’m sure. I’m always amazed by the willingness of people to share their knowledge and experiences that add authenticity to my story … and I’m filled with gratitude.

As a small show of my appreciation, I’d like to thank the following people: Coroner Phil Hileman for his expertise on accidental death and suicide; Susan Barack for her contact in Paris; Steve and Jackie Beatty for sharing the opportunity for a Paris vacation; Sandra Jones, Angela Campbell, Maggie Van Well and Cynthia D’Alba for their suggestions, ideas, plotting help and patience; Kimberly Lang for always having the time to talk me through the loopholes and gaps; Agent Jennifer Weltz for her wisdom, insight and approachability; and editor Karen Reid for her gentle guidance, fabulous editing and her innate ability to just “get me.”

Above all, I want to thank my loving husband, Dick, who stays beside me through it all and encourages me to continue following this dream.

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

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Epilogue

Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

“I’VE ALWAYS HEARD life can change in an instant. Guess I’m living proof, huh?”

Tara O’Malley threw a glance out the window to the tangled mass of metal that had been her motorcycle. It sat on prominent display today in her parents’ front yard—a grim reminder to passing motorists that motorcycles travel at the same speed as cars. Tomorrow, it would be junked.

Her mom sat the butter dish in the middle of the table and dropped a quick kiss on the top of Tara’s head. “Living is the important word in that sentence.”

“Yeah, I know.” Tara focused her attention back to the app on her phone where she was entering all the family’s medical history. Her accident had made her aware of the need to have such information at her fingertips, but it was Taylor Grove’s blood drive in her honor today that made her finally sit down and fill in the blanks. “What was Thea’s blood type?”

“A...same as mine,” her mom answered absently. “Do you think Emma would stop and get a bag of ice on her way into town? I’m afraid we might run low.”

“I’ll call her.” Tara pulled up her favorites list and thumbed her best friend’s number.

“Hey,” Emma answered on the first ring.

“Hey, would you stop and get a bag of ice? Mama’s afraid we’ll run out. And while I’m thinking about it, would you resend that class schedule for this week? I couldn’t get the one from the office to open, and I keep forgetting when the junior high students are coming for their tours.” The last full week of school was always crammed with so many activities that it was hard to fit in a lesson.

“Sure. I’m just leaving Paducah. Does your mom need anything else? Paper plates? Paper cups?”

“Do you need anything else, Mama? Are we using paper plates?”

Faith shook her head. “No, I’m doing Memorial Day like Thanksgiving in May this year. I just need enough people to eat all the food.”

“She says to bring people.” Tara relayed the message.

“I haven’t eaten all day, so I’m bringing a three-meal appetite,” Emma promised. “Be there in forty-five minutes or so.”

“Okay. See you then.” Tara pressed the button to end the call, and, before she could think, reached to rub the burning itch on her right hand. As had happened so many times over the past two months since her accident, her breath caught at the empty space her pinkie and ring fingers had occupied, and she sent up a quick prayer of thanks that two fingers and a spleen were all she’d lost. She traced the bright red scar that stopped halfway up her arm. “I’m thinking I might get another tattoo. Maybe some leaves that will make this look like a vine.”

That got her mom’s attention. Faith shot her daughter a pointed look. “Your dad will disown you. He took your first one pretty well only because it’s hidden, and the second with a grain of salt, but he threatened to write you out of the will over the last one.”

Tara didn’t mention the two they knew nothing about. She grinned, remembering the aggravated look on her dad’s face when she’d shown off the Celtic symbol for life just beneath her left earlobe. When she’d explained it was in memory of Grandma O’Malley and their Irish roots, he’d held his tongue, but the hard set of his jaw had indicated his displeasure.

Tara often referred to her dad as the closest thing to a saint she’d ever known. As the preacher at the lone church in Taylor’s Grove, Kentucky, Sawyer O’Malley sought to lead a life above reproach, and for the most part, he’d been successful. A loving and faithful wife...three relatively good kids.

Thea and Trenton had both gone through some rebellious stages during their teenage years, but it was just regular teenage stuff—a little drinking, some partying. But Tara, the “good girl,” had been the surprise to everyone, including herself.

Five years ago, her fiancé, Louis, returned from a mission trip in Honduras with a brand-new wife—an event that threw Tara’s world into a tailspin. Louis, her boyfriend of eight years, had been the only guy she’d ever dated. They’d even signed pledge cards that vowed chastity until marriage. Then he’d shown up with a wife, leaving Tara as an oddity—that rare twenty-three-year-old with her virginity still intact.

She’d made quick work of making up for all the lost time.

“Are Louis and Marta bringing their brood?”

Her mom answered with an affirmative nod as she slid the giant pan of macaroni and cheese into the oven.

Tara’s ex and his wife hadn’t lost any time, either. Three children in five years. And though it had taken a couple of years, Tara was glad she and Louis were friends again. She liked his family—especially Marta and her quiet, kind ways.

Tara set her phone down, feeling guilty that her mom was so busy, and she was doing nothing of great importance. “I’m not an invalid, Mama. Can I at least set the table?”

Her mom chewed her lip for a moment. “All right, you can set the table. But I’ll get Lacy’s china myself.” She disappeared into the other room.

Tara took the hint. Grandma O’Malley’s Belleek tableware was too precious to risk being carried by someone with newly missing fingers.

Trenton came in through the back door, arms laden with cartons of soft drinks and bottled water. With the blood drive in Tara’s honor going on, the annual O’Malley Memorial Day Dinner had swelled to triple the usual number of people. The entire day had been very humbling.

“Hey, pinky.”

Tara snorted and rolled her eyes at her brother’s twisted sense of humor. He’d labeled her with the new nickname before she’d even gotten out of the hospital.

“Would you help me with the chicken?” He found an open spot on the drink-and-dessert table, and unloaded his arms. “I’ve got to get all those pieces turned and basted, and the ribs need a close eye kept on them.”

“Sure.” She eased out of her chair, still aware of the tightness from the scar where her ruptured spleen had been removed. “But I need to know your blood type first. I’m filling in an emergency app for our family.”

“AB,” he answered.

Tara keyed in the information, and then frowned as she glanced down the chart. “What’s with this?”

Her dad came in from the garage just in time to hear her question. “What’s with what, lovebug?” Slipping an arm around her shoulder, he gave her a quick hug and a peck on her temple.

She pointed to the chart. “It doesn’t make sense. Trent’s AB like you. Thea’s A like Mama. I’m the only O negative in the bunch.”

Her mom came in from the dining room with Grandma O’Malley’s china stacked to just below her chin. Sawyer moved quickly in her direction, ready to alleviate her of the load as Tara continued voicing her thoughts to no one particular. “Is that even possible? Can an A and an AB produce an O?” She laughed. “Maybe we need a paternity test, Dad, to see if I’m really yours.”

Faith’s loud intake of breath drew everyone’s attention. Her eyes went wide with a horrific look of mingled shock, pain and undeniable guilt an instant before twelve of Grandma O’Malley’s treasured china plates crashed to the floor.

* * *

FAITH ISABEL FRANKLIN O’Malley had never wanted to die before, but the past seven hours had convinced her that death would be preferable to the excruciating pain she was presently feeling. It was as if she was dangling from a cord attached through her heart and the organ was being ripped slowly from her body. She’d been aware of every second of every minute of every hour that had brought her closer to this time when it would be just the immediate family.

Time for her confession.

People had started arriving before the broken china could be disposed of, so the mess and loss of family heirlooms made a convenient cover for the tears she couldn’t bring under control. Sawyer, Tara and Trenton watched her with guarded expressions throughout the afternoon, and even Thea, soon after her arrival, began questioning the family quietly about what was going on.

Their looks of pain had been almost more than Faith could bear, but Sawyer’s blessing for the food had been her major undoing. She’d lost it completely when he gave his thanks for the spared life of Tara, his beloved daughter. His voice had cracked at the words, and Faith and the rest of her family knew the reason behind the falter.

She knew that he knew. They all knew.

She also knew the next few minutes could bring her family crashing down around her. The china had served as a warning.

Her hands lay on the table in front of her. She clenched and unclenched them, twisted her fingers, then her rings. She swallowed hard, trying to clear the way for the words, knowing in her heart there were no “right” ones—none that could ever make this anything but what it was.

“His name was Jacques Martin,” she said at last, finding no preamble that could ease her into the subject. “He was from France. Paris.”

Tara’s eyes widened at the news. She sat up straighter in her chair and rubbed the side of her hand vigorously—a common gesture for her since the accident.

Faith shifted her eyes to her husband. “We spent one night together. Graduation. He left to go back to Paris the next day.”

Sawyer rubbed his temples as his eyes squeezed closed, and she felt the squeeze in her heart. Was he praying? No. More likely he was running through the timeline, letting all the pieces fall into place.

Their college graduations had been on the same day, hundreds of miles apart. He’d been in Texas while she’d remained in Kentucky. By the time he moved back home ten days later, the pregnancy test had already read positive. Another test ten days after that had been all it took to convince him they were going to have a baby—together. They’d eloped, to no one’s surprise after four long years apart.

Deception had been easy. But twenty-eight years had woven the lie tightly into the center of the fabric of their lives. Now, it was starting to unravel.

No one said anything. Everyone was avoiding eye contact with her except Tara, who sat staring with tear-filled eyes, pulling at her bottom lip. That gesture was unadulterated Sawyer, but Tara’s wide, curvy mouth was the spitting image of her biological father’s. Faith had always found it ironic that Tara’s mouth served as the constant reminder of the lie that remained a secret.

Until seven hours ago.

Trenton stood up quickly, the force sending his chair backward across the wood floor. “I don’t think I want to hear this,” he announced. “Whatever happened back then is between you two.” He folded both arms around Tara’s neck and rested his chin on her head. “Pinky’s my sister. Wholly and completely with none of that half stuff. Nothing’s ever going to change that.” He clapped his dad on the back and planted a quick kiss to the top of Faith’s head before strolling casually from the room.

Thea scooted over into the seat Trenton had vacated, weaving her hand under Tara’s thick mane of red hair until she located her sister’s shoulder. She pulled her close—cheeks touching, tears mingling—as she shot Faith a “how could you?” look. “I feel the same way,” she said. “We’ve never been just sisters. We’ve always been closer than that. There’s no way anything can make us any different than what we are.”

Tara’s chin quivered as she nodded.

Faith’s spirit lightened momentarily at the show of solidarity. Maybe things were going to be okay after all. But one glance at Sawyer told her that wasn’t so. Her husband was a preacher. A man who made his living talking. He’d counseled hundreds of couples with marital problems through the years, always knowing exactly what to say to clear the air of the fallout from unfaithfulness.

His silence grated her heart into tiny slivers like lemon zest.

“So whatever became of this...Jacques Martin?” Tara’s voice held the same strained edge it had when she realized her two fingers were gone.

“I never saw, never heard from him again,” Faith answered, then added, “I never wanted to. I had all I needed and wanted with you all.” Blood pounded in her temples. How could she make them understand? “Jacques was...” Someone she’d had too much alcohol with that night. Someone she’d gotten carried away celebrating with. Someone who’d helped her bear the loneliness of not being with the person she loved on one of the most important days of her life. “He was someone I barely knew.”

Sawyer swerved around to face Tara and gathered her partial hand into both of his. “You’re my daughter, lovebug. The daughter of my heart. Like Trenton said, nothing’s ever going to change that.” He pressed their knotted hands against his chest. “I hold you right here, and nothing will ever break that grip.”

Faith watched the tears overflow from her daughter’s eyes, unaware of her own until she felt a drop on her arm.

Tara nodded. “I love you, Dad.” She paused and Faith held her breath and prayed that those words would be repeated to her.

They weren’t. Instead, Tara stood, pulling her hand from Sawyer’s grip. “I really, really need to go home. I need time alone to process this.”

Thea followed her to her feet.

A different fear gripped Faith’s insides, a familiar one since Tara’s accident. It recurred every time one of her children left her house to drive back to their own homes. “Will you be okay making the drive back to Paducah? You want me to call Emma?”

“I’m leaving, too. I’ll take you home,” Thea offered.

Tara shook her head. “I don’t want to be with anyone. I’ll be okay.”

Faith stood and reached for her, and her daughter hugged her then, but her arms felt limp and lifeless with no emotion behind them. Her parting hug with her dad had a bit more vitality, but not much.

Faith’s breathing grew shallow when Thea didn’t hug her or Sawyer, but she did take Tara’s hand to lead the way out.

As Tara slid the patio door closed behind her, Faith turned her attention back to her husband. They stood beside the table where their family had shared thousands of happy mealtimes. Would those be enough to blot out the anguish of today?

She took Sawyer’s hand and tilted her head in silent question.

“It’s not the action, Faith. It’s the deception. The betrayal.”

He pulled his hand away and headed for his study, locking the door behind him.

CHAPTER TWO

“BUT HOW ARE YOU HANDLING it, really? And none of that ‘I’m okay’ stuff. I held your hair when you threw up your first beer, so I’ve seen you at your worst.” Emma blew on her spoonful of tomato soup, waiting for an answer.

Tara reached behind her chair to shut the door to Emma’s office, pondering how to put her feelings into words. “You remember that weird, uneasy feeling inside you the first Christmas you no longer believed in Santa Claus? It’s kind of like that. I remember knowing the presents were still downstairs, waiting to be opened. But the magical quality was gone forever. That’s the way I feel. Like some kind of wonderful something has slipped away, and I’ll never be able to get it back.”

Emma’s eyebrows knitted. “But you haven’t really lost anything. Your dad is still your dad....”

“But I’ve lost who I thought I was. Everything I accounted to my Irish heritage—my red hair, my fair complexion, my love of Guinness. I’ve only talked myself into believing they had significance.” Tara popped a grape into her mouth. “And that makes me wonder what other things I’ve believed in that were actually of no significance.”

“Well, maybe you need to talk to somebody.” Emma tore open a package of oyster crackers and sprinkled them over the top of her soup. “You know—” she shrugged as she stirred them in “—a professional.”

“You’re a professional guidance counselor with a master’s in counseling. I’m talking to you.”

Tara watched her friend’s eyebrows disappear beneath her wispy bangs. “Doctors don’t operate on family members, and counselors don’t counsel family.”

“But we’re not—”

“We’re just as close.”

“Who I really want to talk to is Jacques Martin.” Tara blurted out the idea that had kept her awake most of the night. “I just want to take off for Paris and find my birth father.”

“And what good would that do?”

Tara thought about that question while she nibbled on a carrot. What good would it do? “Mostly it would satisfy my curiosity,” she admitted. “I can’t stop wondering what he looks like, what his personality is like. Do I have his nose? His laugh?”

“Your mom can tell you that.”

Tara’s throat tightened around a bite of carrot. She dropped the rest of it back into the plastic container, her appetite suddenly gone. “I can’t talk to her any more about him. At least, not yet.”

“I understand.” The sympathy in her friend’s voice made Tara’s throat tighten again. “So what difference would it make if you found out those things about him?” Emma gave a quick nod in Tara’s direction. “You rub your lip when you’re thinking about something just like Sawyer does. No matter where those little things come from, they make up you.”

Self-consciously, Tara dropped her hand from her mouth. “I just want to look Jacques Martin in the eye and say ‘I’m your daughter’ and see his reaction.”

Emma eyed her warily. “Can’t you just let your imagination play out that scene for you? Paris is way too big a city to find somebody with only a name to go on. And it’s very expensive from what I hear.”

Tara shrugged and glanced out the window to avoid eye contact. “I have my inheritance from Grandma.” She cringed at Emma’s outraged gasp.

“You’re serious! You’ve actually given this some thought...and have a plan. It’s a crazy idea, Tara—one you need to get out of your head right now.”

Emma’s gray eyes bored into her, causing Tara’s cheeks to burn. “Thought you weren’t going to counsel.”

“I’m not counseling. I’m giving my best friend a verbal shake to wake her up.” Emma ran her fingertips through her short bob, fluffing the soft, chestnut ends. “Finding him would take a feat of magic. He might’ve moved. Might not want to be found. Some people don’t. Or...or he might be dead. Have you thought about that?”

“That’s another thing. Family medical history is important.” Tara held up her half hand. “Emergencies happen. Diseases strike. It would be great to at least have a hint of what else I might come up against in the future. Mama’s family doesn’t have any heart disease, but what if it’s in his genes?”

“Then you do all the right things to keep your heart healthy no matter what.”

Tara looked at her friend in earnest. “Even if I didn’t find him, I could learn about my French heritage. The Irish thing I’ve always been so proud of has been jerked away from me, and now I want to replace it with something. I want to find out who I am.”

Emma looked at her long and hard, the steel in her gaze softening to a down-gray. “Know what?” She reached across the desk to place her hand on top of Tara’s. “I’m wrong. If it means that much to you, I think you should do it.”

“Really?” Tara jolted at Emma’s change of heart. “Because I’m thinking I want to do it soon. Like as soon as school is out.”

“That’s short notice. Can you make all the arrangements that quickly?”

Tara shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe through a travel agent.”

“That will run the cost up even more. Do you know anyone who might know somebody over there?” Emma drummed the desk with her spoon. “What about Josh Essex?”

Tara hadn’t gotten far enough in her planning to consider that the French teacher might have connections in Paris, but it was a good idea—he did usually take students to Paris during the summer.

“He was eating lunch in the teachers’ lounge when I got my soda.” Emma got up quickly, abandoning her soup and crackers. “Let’s go talk to him now.”

* * *

“CAN WE PLAY SOME CATCH, Dad?”

Dylan had disappeared a couple of minutes earlier, and now stood in the doorway of the flat holding a ball and wearing the St. Louis Cardinals ball cap, jersey and glove that had arrived from his grandmother that day.

Like I could refuse. Garrett gave a wry smile. “Sure. Just let me get the dishwasher loaded.”

Dylan set the ball and glove in the chair he’d vacated earlier and picked up his plate to help clear the table, something he rarely did. No doubt he was anxious to try out his new equipment.

“Watch your step,” Garrett warned as the six-year-old caught his toe on the frame of the sliding patio door.

When the Paris weather permitted, they ate every meal possible out here on the terrace. The wide expanse of concrete wasn’t anywhere near as large as their backyard had been in St. Louis, but life had its trade-offs. For a second-story flat, the extra living space the terrace afforded was well worth the small amount of extra rent. Although several other flats had windows that looked out on it, only one other had a door leading to it. And that one had been empty for over a year, so Garrett and his son had gotten used to having the entire space to themselves.

They made quick work of loading the dishwasher, and then Garrett grabbed his own glove as they headed back out to their makeshift practice field.

Dylan punched the new leather with his fist. “I’m ready for a fastball.”

That drew a laugh. “One fastball comin’ up.” Garrett made a wild show of winding up, watching his son’s eyes grow huge in anticipation. At the last second, he slowed down enough to toss the ball toward the boy’s padded palm.

Dylan kept his eye on the ball, stretching his arm out to full length and spreading his glove open as far as his short fingers would allow.

The ball landed with a thump, and a pleased grin split Dylan’s face as he hoisted the glove and ball over his head in a triumphant gesture. “Freese makes the play!” he yelled.

“How ’bout we send a picture of you and your new stuff to Nana and Papa?”

“And Gram and Grandpa, too.”

Garrett snapped the picture and messaged it to both his parents and Angela’s. Then he laid the phone down within easy reach to listen for the calls that were sure to come.

His mom and his deceased wife’s mother called every time he sent a picture of Dylan, which was often. The distance was hard for them.

They’d all done their damnedest to talk Garrett out of the voluntary move to Paris three years ago when the brewery he worked for was bought out by a Belgian company. Only his dad had fully understood his need to escape from the constant reminder of his wife’s suicide. And his guilt.

No matter how they felt about it, the move hadn’t been a mistake.

Dylan mimicked Garrett’s windup, minus the slow down at the end. The ball he released sailed wide past his father, who broke into a run to catch it on the bounce. His timing was off. He missed and wasn’t able to catch up to it until it hit the back wall.

“Dad! Your phone’s ringing,” Dylan called.

By the time Garrett got back to answer it, he was winded. “Allô.” He breathed heavily into the phone. “C’est Garrett.”

“Well, your French has definitely gotten better, but the creepy heavy breathing makes me wonder if I’ve caught you at a bad time. My math says it should be around dinner time there.”

Garrett laughed, recognizing the voice of his teammate from college Josh Essex. “Actually, it’s pitch-and-catch after dinner, Josh.”

“Is that the new French phrase for hooking up? ’Cause, if it is, my seniors will want to know.”

“By the time I get around to...” Dylan was within hearing distance, so Garrett veered away from what he’d been about to say. “To needing that information, the deed will probably be obsolete.”

“I can’t even bear that thought.” Josh chuckled. “How’s Dylan doing?”

“Growing too fast for me to keep him in jeans. We’ve resorted to rolled cuffs and belts.”

“Well, let’s hope cuffs, belts and, of course, the deed never go out of style.”

“I hear you,” Garrett agreed. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this call, Monsieur Essex? Especially in the middle of your work day.”

“I have a friend—a colleague—who’s wanting to come to Paris in a couple of weeks and plans to stay a month. Does your building have any short-term rentals?”

Garrett’s eyes cut to the flat across the way, and then wandered on around the terrace to the window boxes devoid of flowers—a dead giveaway in spring and summer that spaces were empty. “Yeah, probably. Hold on.” He fished his wallet out of his back pocket and thumbed through the cards until he found the one he wanted. “You have a pen handy?”

“I’m just waiting on you.”

“Here’s the number to call.” Garrett read it off slowly. “That’s the main office of the company that owns my building. They’ll have listings of what’s available.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

“Will we be seeing you this summer?” For the past three years, Josh had brought groups of his students for ten-day tours of the City of Lights. The visits had certainly been the highlight of the summer for Garrett, who tried to deny to himself how much he missed the U.S.

Josh’s sigh was fraught with frustration. “I don’t have too many interested, and a couple who were had to drop out. June 20 is the cutoff, and I’m still not sure.”

Garrett didn’t know who was more disappointed, he or Josh. “That’s too bad.”

“Yeah, well, it’s the damn economy. How about you? You and Dylan planning a trip stateside any time soon?”

Garrett had been thinking this might be the year to go home for Christmas, but he was keeping mum on it in case he backed out. “Economy here’s just as bad. I might have to hock Dylan to buy tickets.”

Dylan perked up at the mention of his name, but not enough to tear his concentration away from his task. The ball he was bouncing off the wall shot back at him. He missed it, but not for lack of trying. Garrett took that as a sure sign his boy was meant for the big leagues, and the thought made him smile.

The familiar jangle of a school bell reverberated in the background. “Gotta go, man.” Garrett could tell his friend was on the move. “It’s the last week of school, and I’m showing The Diving Bell and the Butterfly to my third-year students.”

“Great movie.” Garrett motioned a thumbs-up to Dylan, who’d made a successful catch. “I hope you get enough students to make your group, so we’ll get to see you.”

“Me, too.” The background sounds heightened as lockers slamming joined the mix. “And thanks for the number. Maybe I’ll see you in a couple of months.”

“We’ll look forward to it. See you, man.”

“Later, dude.”

The call ended before Garrett realized he hadn’t asked who needed a flat for a month—hadn’t even asked if the interested party was male or female. Man, he was slipping.

While he liked the idea of having someone from close to home in the building, he hoped whoever it was wasn’t interested in the flat across from them. He and Dylan would hate to give up their private recreation area. Would hate to give up their privacy, in general.

After the years of chaos with Angela, this terrace had become his and Dylan’s oasis of tranquility. Beyond the walls was one of the most exciting cities in the world, but here was quiet space.

He didn’t want anything to interfere with that.

Not even for a month.

CHAPTER THREE

TARA BREATHED A RELIEVED sigh as the key turned in the lock. Getting lost twice in the maze of dark, windowless corridors had her convinced she’d entered some kind of Parisian warp zone and might never find the flat she’d rented. The lights in the hallways were on a timer, and didn’t stay on very long. Just finding the switches was like being on a treasure hunt...blindfolded...with no map.

Elbowing the door open, she rolled the duffel into the small foyer, dropping it and her shoulder bag as she took in her new surroundings.

“Well...thank you, Josh...and whomever you got that number from.” Tara tried to recall the name—some college friend of Josh’s. It didn’t matter. What did matter was that this place, with its warm wood floors and modern furniture, was cheery and chic and perfect for a month’s stay. She would have to pick out a nice thank-you gift for the French teacher.

A quick tour found the rest of the apartment much to her liking, too. The bathroom seemed antiquated with its pull-chain to flush the toilet, but the living room and the bedroom both looked out on a terrace rimmed with ivy-covered lattice work and flower pots brimming with color.

A notebook lay prominently on the dining table. Lettering across its front spelled out the word tenant in several languages. She flipped the book open to the section labeled English. Coming to Paris had been such a quick decision that there’d been no time to study the French language in any depth. She’d hoped her two years of high school and college Spanish would help, but it hadn’t yet.

Everyone she’d been in contact with so far had spoken at least a little English, except for Madame LeClerc at the front desk. Hand gestures had been the language that had landed Tara the key to the flat. There were a few other gestures she’d wanted to use with the awful woman, but she would have hated to get kicked out before she got moved in.

Inside the notebook, Tara found a note of welcome, which she scanned for important information. “Oven temperature displayed in Celsius...shutters on a timer, which can be reset to your schedule...take key when you leave as the door locks automatically...terrace shared by one other flat...call if you are in need of any assistance.”

The words blurred on the page. The excitement of being in Paris for the first time and facing the opportunity to find her birth father was fast losing ground to jet lag. What she needed was a breath of fresh air, and with rain imminent, she’d better make it quick.

She unlatched the sliding door and stepped outside into the heat of the sultry morning, careful to close the door behind her so as to not allow any of the precious air conditioning to escape.

Latticework placed strategically around the large concrete patio gave some definition to what area belonged with each of the flats. Her section was a bit smaller than the other, but still quite large.

The sliding door to the other flat directly across from hers was open as were many of the windows of other flats. Vague sounds of morning with families and children drifted through.

Around the corner from her door and several yards away, a railing hung with flowerboxes added an explosion of color to the gray day. Below lay a courtyard with a lovely formal garden and a huge wooden door that looked as if it was left over from the Middle Ages.

She heard a shout, and a boy who looked to be eight or nine ran through the courtyard below, trying to make it to the wooden door ahead of something—or someone. At that point, the first drop of rain hit the top of her head.

Maybe the boy was trying to beat the impending downpour?

But then a second shout filtered up toward her, and two more boys appeared, larger and older than the first, who was frantically working to open the massive door.

One of the older boys pounced on the child from behind, pinning his arms behind his back while the third boy approached menacingly.

Tara’s schoolteacher persona pushed to the forefront. She had to do something, but if she vaulted over the railing, she’d break her neck. And there was no way she could find her way back downstairs to that area in time to save the boy from whatever the ruffians had in mind for him. In desperation, she used her teacher voice and yelled over the railing, “Hey! Stop that! Leave him alone.”

The older boy paused midstride and turned toward the voice. He looked up with a sneer and made a gesture toward her that needed no translation. When he started back toward the younger boy, the child started to shriek and thrash about.

A whirring sound nearby jerked Tara’s attention from the tableau below to the sight of metal shutters closing over the windows of her flat. Mechanical storm shutters. Thank heavens! They would buy her more time here.

A shout obviously from an adult male came from below, and then a short, burly guy appeared, and the big boys immediately stopped their attack. With the rain coming harder, Tara could feel her curly hair growing bushier by the second, but she had to stay long enough to make sure everything was okay.

Even without understanding the language, she caught the word papa from all three boys often enough to figure out they were siblings and Papa was taking care of things. And just in time, as the sky opened up then, and rain pelted her full force.

Relieved that she was no longer needed, she sprinted in the direction of her door and rounded the corner, letting out a shriek of her own. “Eek! No!”

Storm shutters had been installed over the door, as well. She got there just in time to see them clamp down tightly, a metal fortress barring anything—or anyone—from entrance.

Frantically, she looked for a button. Surely there was an override. Lifting a metal flap exposed a numerical keypad, but, try as she might, she couldn’t recall anything about a code in the note she’d read. She tried a few random numbers...0000...1234...but soon gave up, realizing the futility. She wasn’t even sure it would be a four-number code.

“Damn it!” She gave the metal a swift kick. The barrier didn’t budge, but the action bruised her toe and her ego.

She was already soaked. The lemony, cotton sundress, which had made her feel so chic, now clung to her legs, directing the water flow into sodden ballet flats. She squished back around the corner, checking the windows, hoping for a breakdown somewhere in the system, but finding everything in dismally perfect working order.

She would have to wait it out. Crossing her arms, she leaned against the wall, and she was surveying her surroundings when the open door gaped at her from across the terrace. How many times had her dad preached about the open doors in life and choosing the right way?

Shielding her eyes from the pelting rain, she studied the door. No movement came from that apartment. The owners might be gone...might be trusting souls who left their back door open because they usually had no neighbors.

If she cut through their flat, she could find her way back down to Madame LeClerc—not a pleasant thought, but standing in a downpour wasn’t exactly the way she’d pictured her first hour in Paris, either. She could get...beg...the spare key, come back up and let herself in through her own front door.

While she pondered the plan, the sky grew blacker, and despite the heat, she began to get chilled.

A crack of lightning nearby made the decision for her. She loped across the terrace toward the safety of the open door, praying the occupants had left for work...or at least had a good sense of humor.

She paused for a few seconds just inside the door and knocked on the wall. “Bonjour?” she called. She was met by silence, but the luscious aroma of fresh coffee told her that the owners were out of bed...or awake, anyway. The scent had a magnetic pull that drew her a couple of steps deeper into the room.

“Bonjour?” she repeated, at a total loss to say anything else in her limited French. She cocked her head and listened, becoming aware of a sound only when it stopped. Running water, which she’d initially attributed to the rain outside. But this was inside. Someone who was in the shower had now gotten out.

Good Lord! Her predicament thudded into her stomach full force. What if the owner wasn’t sympathetic or amused? What if he or she called the police? She was in a foreign country where she knew no one.

Wouldn’t that be a lovely way to meet the father who didn’t know she existed? Hi there. I’m the daughter you didn’t realize you had. Would you mind coming to the police station to bail me out?

She shivered—not from a chill this time.

Thunder was coming right on top of the lightning, so going back outside was unthinkable. She’d choose arrest over electrocution any day.

Most people paused in the bathroom to put on lotion or shave after a shower. Maybe she could still make it out the front door without getting caught.

She started to tiptoe across the floor when the squish between her toes reminded her how wet her shoes were. Toeing out of them, she clasped the soggy slippers in her hand.

She crossed the room and turned down a hallway only to find light creeping from beneath the door along with a shower-fresh scent.

An about-face focused her on the door at the other end, where the hallway widened into a small foyer with a desk and, obviously, the front door.

She tiptoed as fast as she could in its direction, not even hesitating as the floor creaked and groaned beneath her.

A little boy appeared through a doorway to her right, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

He took one look at her and let out a terrified shriek.

* * *

HIS SON’S SCREAM propelled Garrett out of the bathroom with the towel he’d been drying himself off with still in his grip and his brain moving at warp speed to assess the situation before him.

Dylan’s eyes lost some of their terror as he scampered to safety behind his dad, but the same look remained fixed in the eyes of the stranger standing in their foyer—a young woman...obviously deranged.

Garrett scanned her quickly for a weapon but didn’t spot anything. The way the yellow dress plastered against her body would make it difficult to hide anything. She looked as though she’d just stepped out of the shower herself...fully clothed. The bright red bush of hair that sprouted from her head was tipped in blue and had an undeniable Medusa quality about it. The hand she used to push it out of her eyes was only half there.

Nine years with Angela made him a freakin’ expert on handling crazy women. No sudden moves. No shouting. But he gripped the towel tighter, thinking he could throw it over her head, then tackle her and keep her pinned while Dylan called the police.

“Pardon.” Her voice shook on the word as she raised her hands to shoulder height, one palm out in a show of surrender, the other clutching a pair of shoes. “Um...bonjour?”

Garrett tilted an ear in her direction to pick up more of the weird accent.

“Je...Je got locked out of my flat in the rain.” She kept her hands up, but flicked her fingers in the direction of the door that opened onto the terrace.

The accent dropped a pin on the map in Garrett’s brain—America...and most definitely the South. His guard dropped a smidgen by sheer reflex. “You’re American,” he said, at last.

“Oh, you speak English. Thank God.” The woman’s shoulders sagged and her eyes closed momentarily as if she were actually in prayer as she said those words. Her hands dropped limply to her sides. “I just got here.” Her eyes flicked from him to the terrace door. “I’m renting that apartment over yonder.” As she made jerky movements with her head in the direction of the terrace, the words came streaming as fast as her drawl would allow. “The automatic storm shutters closed, and I don’t know how to get them open.” Her eyes came back to him, flitted downward and upward just as quickly before a crimson flush started to steal its way from the neckline of her dress into her cheeks. “And I left my key inside on the table, so even if I get back to my apartment, I can’t get in.” She gave a frustrated sigh, running her fingers through her hair and squeezing the roots. “I’ll have to beg another one from Madame LeClerc, which won’t be easy because I’m pretty sure she already hates me.”

The Southern accent had started to lull Garrett into complacency. He relaxed completely when she called Madame LeClerc by name. Nobody got by Ironpants LeClerc without a confirmed reason to be in the building. He dropped the idea of using the towel to subdue the young woman, and used it instead in a more appropriate manner by wrapping it around his middle. “So you’re our new neighbor? Which flat are you in?” he asked as a final test of her veracity.

“Four C,” she answered, somehow making the phrase three syllables long. “We share the terrace.”

“She talks funny, Dad.” Dylan had moved around to stand beside Garrett—not clinging, but Garrett was aware of the shoulder pressing into his thigh.

The woman squatted down to be on eye level with his son. “Bless your heart. I’m so sorry, scaring you like that.” She offered her half hand for Dylan to shake. “I’m Tara O’Malley, by the way.”

Garrett felt his son tense as he gazed at the three fingers extended in his direction. Tara O’Malley didn’t move forward, just waited patiently as if she expected him to sniff it first. Finally Dylan stepped forward and took the hand, shaking it vigorously. “I’m Dylan Hughes.”

Pride swelled in Garrett’s chest. He offered his hand and helped Tara up as they shook. “I’m Dylan’s dad. Garrett Hughes.”

“Oh!” Tara’s face broke into a wide smile. “You’re Josh Essex’s friend. The one who gave him the number I used to find my flat.”

Garrett cringed inwardly as the pieces fell into place. “That’s right.” He was at least partially responsible for the crazy woman being here. “You and Josh work together?” Disbelief was evident in his voice, but the woman standing before him—who sported a tattoo beneath her ear, a pierced eyebrow and blue-tipped hair—didn’t look like any of the high school teachers he’d had. Of course, his teachers had all been Catholic nuns.

“I teach freshman English at Paducah Tilghman.” A subtle rise of one of her eyebrows seemed to add, “So there.”

Apparently the mention of Josh’s name loosened Dylan’s tongue. “What happened to your hand?” He pointed blatantly at her disfigurement.

“Dylan—” Garrett started to correct him.

“No, it’s okay.” Tara gave him a small smile, but then sobered when she looked back at Dylan. “Motorcycle accident.”

“Cool!” Dylan’s voice was filled with awe.

Bona fide crazy, Garrett thought.

Tara continued to address Dylan. “Yeah, motorcycles can be very cool, but they can also be very dangerous. Sometimes people driving cars don’t notice them, or they think of them as a bicycle. So don’t ever get on one without a helmet, and don’t ride too fast.”

“I won’t,” Dylan assured her.

“Well.” She sighed, and Garrett followed her eyes to the rain that was coming down so hard that her flat across the way was barely visible. “I’ve been enough trouble to y’all this morning. I’ll just mosey on back to my place.”

“Stay and have breakfast with us!” Dylan blurted, and Garrett’s jaw tightened at the suggestion.

“Oh, no, I can’t. I’m soaked to the skin. My hair’s a mess.”

Garrett’s logical side urged him to let her go on her way, but his emotional side, which was being suckered by the sultry, Southern accent, chided him for even entertaining the possibility.

“You can’t go out in this,” he said, ignoring the warning sirens blaring in his brain. “Although we’re just across the terrace, we’re actually on opposite sides of the building. You’d have to go literally halfway around the block to get back to the main entrance.”

“Well...”

She chewed her bottom lip as a visible shiver ran through her, making her suddenly appear delicate and fragile. Garrett felt a stirring below and realized he was still standing there wearing nothing but a towel.

“I’ll go get dressed and find you some dry clothes to put on. I think this rain has set in for a while.” He motioned to the pot of French-pressed coffee on the counter in the kitchen. “Help yourself to some coffee. We’ll be right back.”

“I’ll bring you some clothes!” Dylan was obviously excited to have an unexpected guest for breakfast. He ran ahead into Garrett’s bedroom.

Garrett lost no time rifling through a bottom drawer for the long shorts he shot hoops in. No doubt they would swallow Tara, but they had a drawstring that might, at least, help her keep them up. He grabbed a T-shirt from another drawer and thrust the pair toward Dylan, who was still in his pajamas. “Take these to our guest, sport, then go get dressed.”

A smile spread across his son’s face. “I like her, Dad. She’s cool.” He ran from the room, clutching the bundle.

“Of course you like her.” Garrett muttered under his breath as he closed the door. “She’s crazy. Just like your mom.”

He wasted no time getting dressed. Time alone between his son and the crazy woman wasn’t going to happen.

CHAPTER FOUR

PEOPLE STAYING AT bed-and-breakfasts do this all the time, Tara told herself as she passed the plate of croissants to the little boy who’d insisted on sitting beside her. Of course, it would probably have been easier to convince herself there was nothing weird about eating breakfast in a new country with total strangers if she hadn’t seen one of them naked a few minutes earlier.

She tried to focus on the inch-long scar that cut diagonally through the left side of Garrett’s upper lip—the one that disappeared almost completely when he smiled—rather than let her mind wander to the foot-long one on his thigh that pointed like an arrow to his masculine assets.

“I finally decided it was time to see Paris.” She answered Dylan’s last question just shy of the complete truth. “How long have you lived here?”

Dylan piped up before his dad could answer. “Three years. We moved here when I was three, but I’ll be seven soon, so I guess then I’ll have to start saying we’ve been here four years.”

Garrett used his spoon to point at his son. “Quit talking so much, sport, and eat your breakfast.”

With a grin that could charm the sweet spot from a Louisville Slugger, Dylan opened his mouth wide and shoveled in a spoonful of Greek yogurt and fresh berries.

The boy’s grin was a replica of his dad’s, as was the sandy color of his hair. But the jade-green hue of his eyes was a far cry from the walnut-brown of his elder’s.

No mention had been made of a wife or mother. And something about Garrett Hughes’s manner seemed standoffish, despite the fact he’d invited her to stay for breakfast. If he’d kidnapped his son and moved to a foreign country, Josh Essex would’ve let her in on that, wouldn’t he?

“So you’re originally from St. Louis?” Tara probed, trying to get Garrett to continue where he’d left off before Dylan had started in with questions again.

Garrett held up the carafe as a question, and Tara offered her cup in response. “I grew up in St. Louis,” he said, “and moved back there after college. Not too long after my wife died—”

Ah, a widower. “I’m so sorry.” She took another sip of the incredibly strong brew and settled a hand on her chest to check for any hair it might cause to sprout through the T-shirt.

“Thanks.” Garrett acknowledged her condolences with a curt nod. “The brewery I worked for was bought out by a Belgian company that was expanding. Dylan and I moved here with that expansion.”

“How exciting that must’ve been.”

Garrett shrugged one of his broad shoulders, and even though a sport coat now covered it, Tara’s mind flashed back to how it had looked unclothed and damp from the shower. “It came at the right time,” he answered.

The concoction Garrett called coffee had chased away any effects of jet lag and set her mouth to chatty mode. “And what do you do at the brewery?”

“I’m head of the marketing department.”

The formality of the country she was visiting struck her as she wiped away the last remains of the buttery croissant from her lips with the linen napkin that had been part of her place setting. “Were you already fluent in French before you moved here?”

Her question brought a low chuckle from Garrett that tickled at the bottom of her spine. “Whether I’m fluent now is still debatable.” He jutted his chin in his son’s direction. “Dylan’s the language wizard. He speaks it like a native.”

Dylan paused, the spoon halfway to his mouth. “C’est vrai, Tara. Je parle le français très bien. La langue n’est pas difficile.” He cocked his head and grinned, looking like the cat that ate the berry-and-yogurt-covered canary.

Garrett shook his head as his mouth rose at one end. “And he’s obviously quite modest about it.”

Tara smiled, her heart touched by the endearing relationship between these two. Would she and Jacques Martin ever have anything that approached this? The thought caused her hand to tremble as she set her cup back on its saucer. “How did you get so good, Dylan?”

“Only French at school. Only English at home.”

“And speaking of school, we need to be on our way.” Garrett stood and started clearing the table. “Go brush your teeth and get your stuff, bud. We’ll walk Tara down to the front entrance.”

Hearing her name from Garrett’s lips sent an unexpected, pleasant zing through Tara. She gathered her and Dylan’s dishes as the child hurried to the bathroom.

“With our key, we can get in the courtyard below and take the shortcut through the building.” Garrett loaded the dishwasher while he talked, and Tara stored the items that needed to be refrigerated. “Madame LeClerc is quite taken by Dylan. If she balks about giving up the extra key, he’ll be able to talk it out of her.”

Tara glanced around, noting that everything was done. “I’ll change back into my dress as soon as Dylan gets out of the bathroom.”

“Don’t bother.” Garrett’s eyes met hers, and then darted away as he waved at the outfit she had on. “You can return those...whenever.”

Tara’s stomach did a quick flip. She’d just been given an invitation to come back. A little offhanded, maybe. But, nonetheless, an invitation.

* * *

“EARTH TO FAITH. Can you hear me?”

Sue Marsden’s annoyed tone broke through the deep fog of Faith O’Malley’s thoughts. She glanced around the small circle of women who made up the Ladies’ Prayer Group, noting all twelve eyes were on her.

Being the preacher’s wife, she was used to that, but she still hated it...had always hated it. Living in the glass house had taught her to never throw rocks, but that wouldn’t stop the community from verbally stoning her if word got out of what she’d done.

Sue Marsden would be the first to start flinging.

“I’m...I’m sorry. What did you say?” Even that comment was an admission that she hadn’t been listening and would give Sue something to gossip about later.

Sue gave that laugh of hers, which wasn’t really a laugh at all but more of a tsk-tsk. “I asked if you had any prayer requests. We are a prayer group. Remember?”

We don’t have enough time for my list, lady.

Prayer requests from the group too often gave Sue her weekly start on new items of gossip.

Time and again, Faith had seen it happen, had warned the group that what was shared within the group should stay within the group.

But Sue’s pious contention was that the more prayers rallied on a person’s behalf, the better the chance of God’s listening. She’d back her ideas with much Bible-thumping and scripture quoting. And, yes, the prayer chain she’d formed after Tara’s accident had been much appreciated.

But to have the matters of Faith’s heart bandied about Taylor’s Grove like an item in a tabloid was unthinkable, and even the slightest hint of turmoil in the O’Malley household would start the rumor mill turning.

On the other hand, if she didn’t share something, the ladies would think she was being either secretive or uppity. She’d walked this tightrope for years and knew well how to perform on it without losing her balance.

“Tara called this morning,” she said, at last. “She got to Paris last night around midnight our time. I’d like y’all to remember her in your prayers...her safety.”

Nell Bradley spoke up. “I’ve worried so about her ever since I heard she was gallivanting off to a foreign country. And in such a hurry about it. I’ll never understand why kids these days have to have everything right now.”

“Well, I’m not at all surprised.” Sue waved her hand dismissively. “Ever since she and Louis broke up, Tara’s been a different person. She has a capricious nature that none of us had ever seen. She needed someone like Louis to keep her reined in.”

The comment jarred Faith’s composure, causing it to slip. “Tara’s twenty-eight. She doesn’t need anyone to rein her in. Certainly not a man.”

“You can’t be okay with all her shenanigans, Faith. Motorcycles and tattoos.” Sue rolled her eyes. “Last Sunday, she came to church with her hair tipped in blue, for heaven’s sake.”

That brought out the lioness in Faith. No one was allowed to attack her cubs...her pride. “Sue, I am very proud of my daughter,” Faith said quietly before she gave a swipe, claws extended. “And, yes, her hair might be tipped in blue, but, at least, she was in church last Sunday.”

The astonished looks of amusement told her that everyone picked up on the thinly veiled reference to Sue’s daughter Quinn, who made it a habit of sleeping in on Sunday.

Faith’s cheeks burned with shame that she’d stooped to Sue’s level and had given everyone a story to repeat this week.

Well, at least the talk would focus on her and not Tara.

A muscle twitched in Sue’s jaw, proof that she’d felt the stinging blow. “Let’s pray,” she snapped.

Faith bowed her head and took deep breaths to slow her racing heart.

Another week had passed and her secrets were still secure by all indications.

No one had mentioned the increase in Trenton’s visits home as opposed to the decrease in Thea’s.

No one had brought up the haunted look in Sawyer’s eyes, or the despair that Faith felt was surely reflected in her own.

No one knew that they hadn’t touched each other for going on four weeks now. That the happy faces they put on in public dissolved once they stepped through their door at home. That Sawyer pulled away every time she tried to reach out to him. That their conversations were cordial, but lacked any kind of intimacy, as if they were acquaintances meeting on the street.

That he’d moved into Trenton’s room.

That her family was fractured just like she was on the inside.

That she was searching desperately for something to hold them together. To hold her together before she fell apart completely.

No one knew what she was going through.

No one could ever know

Amen.

CHAPTER FIVE

HENRI LEANED FORWARD in his seat across the table and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Now that we are alone, perhaps you should share with me some details about your unsettling morning, eh? Is Dylan well?”

“Damn, I’m sorry.” Guilt took a swipe at Garrett’s insides. He should’ve realized that his friend would jump to the conclusion that the unsettling morning he referred to in their meeting might mean something had happened to Dylan. “Yeah, he’s fine. But we both got quite a scare.”

“Pourquoi? What happened?”

The approaching media blitz for Soulard Beer had the head of production wringing his hands, but Garrett’s marketing staff and Henri’s IT staff had been treated to a well-earned lunch with the company’s owners. They’d be working late again tonight, so they’d been told to take their time getting back to the office. Garrett and Henri intended to do just that.

“I’d just gotten out of the shower, and I’m standing there buck naked, when all of a sudden, Dylan lets out a scream that would’ve made even your well-lacquered hair stand on end.”

Henri smirked at the mention of his perfect coif. “Jealousy does not sit well on you, mon ami. Now, quickly, tell me what happened to Dylan.”

“Dylan was fine. But I go running out with a towel in my hand—” Garrett held up his napkin in his fist “—and there stands a woman in my foyer, who’s also dripping wet, but she’s fully clothed.”

“Did Dylan allow this woman into your flat?”

The threat of a lecture to Dylan lay in Henri’s tone, so Garrett hurried on to reassure him. “No. She came in through the terrace door, which I’d left open. Turns out she’s an American who’s renting the empty flat that shares our terrace. In fact, she’s a friend of Josh Essex. You remember Josh?”

Henri nodded, and Garrett continued his tale. “She just arrived this morning, and was on the terrace when the rain started, and her storm shutters closed. She was locked out in a downpour, so she came over to our place.”

“But what made Dylan scream?”

“Well, for one thing, she startled him. He’d just woken up. But, damn, Henri, you should’ve seen her. She looked like something out of a slasher movie.”

The side of Henri’s mouth twitched. “Oui? A woman in a wet T-shirt? I am thinking that is not so terrible.”

Garrett shook his head. “No, you’re not getting the picture. She had on this yellow dress that’s soaked and clinging to her, and she’s got bright red hair—” he held his hands out beside his head to indicate how far Tara’s had stuck out “—with the curls tipped in blue. Her eyebrow’s pierced, and she’s got a couple of tattoos. One on the side of her neck, and one right above her ass.”

Henri’s head cocked in interest. “And how do you know this?”

Garrett gave a sheepish grin. “The wet dress was practically transparent, so I noticed that one when she walked past me.”

“Ah, oui. It is always a man’s duty to check out a woman’s ass if it is presented.”

“Exactly,” Garrett agreed. “But the really freaky part was, on top of all this other stuff, half of her right hand is missing. She lost it in a motorcycle accident.”

“Mon dieu!”

“Yeah, exactly. And, of course, Dylan goes from being terrified to being fascinated in about fifteen seconds and invites her to stay for breakfast.”

Henri laughed. “So, did she behave herself at breakfast?”

“Oh, yeah...sure. She was very nice, in fact. She’s from Kentucky, and she’s got this strong Southern accent.”

“Mmm.” Henri smacked his lips appreciatively. “Two very sexy things, oui? An American woman speaking French with the American accent, and a woman from the southern United States saying anything at all.”

Garrett didn’t respond. He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the ideas of Tara and sexy being linked.

Henri dabbed the sides of his mouth with a napkin-swathed finger. “I see you brood all morning and now I have to wonder why an unexpected breakfast with a-little-wild-yet-nice woman would make you do that?”

Garrett twirled the demitasse spoon between his thumb and index finger. “She made me uncomfortable.”

“But you said she was very nice.” Henri’s bottom lip protruded in the quintessential French pout. Garrett had noticed Dylan doing the same thing lately.

“Oh, I don’t think she’s dangerous or anything...”

Henri pressed him more. “Then what is it about this woman that bothers you?”

“I don’t know.” Garrett was beginning to wish he hadn’t brought up this morning’s escapade. He’d only meant to entertain his friend with the story, and now Henri was trying to turn it into some deep analysis that Garrett was in no mood for. No doubt, the woman had dug up some buried emotions, but it was better to leave them in that dark hole within his psyche.

“Then you are in luck, my friend. I am the world’s greatest expert on...” Henri gave a vague nod in the direction of a middle-aged brunette wearing a power suit with a one-button jacket and, by all appearances, nothing underneath. “A-little-wild-yet-nice women—this new neighbor reminds you of Angela, oui?”

“No, not really.” Garrett shifted his gaze away from Henri’s knowing smirk. “Maybe a little...”

“Mais...?”

“When Angela went off her meds, there was no telling what she might do. She might disappear for hours with no hint of where she was and come home with a new piercing or another tattoo.” Garrett tossed the spoon on the table. “And once, after Dylan was born, when she wouldn’t take her meds and was swinging from one extreme to the other, she dyed her hair a hideous shade of pink.”

Every time he thought he was over his pity and his anger toward his wife, something would happen and those emotions would wash over him, drenching him and making him feel just as exposed as Tara had been in that damn transparent dress. He picked up the spoon again so he could have something to squeeze and transfer the emotion to.

“Many women have colored hair and piercings and tattoos, Garrett.” Henri checked his reflection in his own spoon and adjusted his tie. “This woman. This...”

“Tara. Tara O’Malley.”

Henri leaned forward again, peering closely at Garrett. “This Tara O’Malley is not Angela.”

“But she’s obviously got some of the same idiosyncrasies.”

Henri’s face broke into a wide grin. “You like her.”

Garrett saw where this was going. “Don’t. Don’t even start with all your matchmaking nonsense. Even if I liked her, which I don’t, at least not like you’re thinking...she’s only here for a month. I don’t want Dylan getting attached to anyone who’s just going to leave.”

“Pfft!” Henri waved away his argument. “You have already picked up on something within her that attracts you.” He wagged his finger “And you don’t want to get attached to her, either.”

Garrett opened his mouth to stretch away the tightness in his jaw. “You’re such a damn know-it-all, Henri. But you’re wrong this time. I’m not worried about getting attached to that freakin’ woman. She’s not my type.” He ran his hand through his hair. “The thing is, despite all my efforts to be everything he needs, Dylan misses having a mom. He’s vulnerable with women. I sure as hell don’t want anybody who’s just passing through—be it Tara O’Malley or someone else—to get close to my son. He doesn’t need another major loss in his life.”

Snap!

Garrett opened his hand and sheepishly dropped on the table two pieces of metal that had been a demitasse spoon.

“We will charge that to the company, oui?” Henri calmly adjusted his starched cuffs until the perfect amount showed from below the sleeve of his suit coat. “A spoon that is broken can be quickly replaced. The heart that is broken requires a longer time.”

* * *

MOTHER NATURE PROVIDED Tara with the perfect excuse to give in to the jet lag and slightly delay both her exploration of Paris and her search for Jacques Martin. She napped the rainy day away until late afternoon gave way to clear skies at last.

Calls were made to her family and Emma to let them know she’d arrived safely. They’d all been entertained by her tale of the morning’s adventure. And they’d all mentioned how typical it was for her to have such a strange thing happen, as weirdness seemed to keep her in its sights—but she’d only shared with Emma the splendid details of Garrett’s atypical nude appearance.

Need for sustenance finally prodded her out to rue du Parc Royal in search of a market, but not before she double-checked to make sure the key to her flat was in her possession. With no Garrett or Dylan in tow, it was doubtful that Madame LeClerc would give up the extra key a second time without requiring a pound of flesh as a deposit.

The third arrondissement, part of the area commonly known as le Marais, was every bit as charming and quaint as Josh had described. Narrow, cobblestone streets were lined with small, yet elegant boutiques and art galleries. Cafés occupied nearly every corner, and entire blocks were taken up by sprawling apartment buildings, whose ancient courtyards were protected by electronically locked wrought-iron gates that allowed spectacular views but no access.

Cars parked willy-nilly along the curb—and some up on the uneven stone walkways—gave the area a delightfully chaotic touch. Pedestrian traffic was heavy, and since the sidewalks were too narrow to accommodate two people passing, most people walked in the streets, stepping aside to let the occasional automobile by while dodging the plethora of bicycles.

A market turned up just two blocks from her building, but she passed it by for the chance to explore a bit longer with empty arms. A few more blocks brought her to a wide avenue—boulevard Beaumarchais—with one specialty food shop after another lining its sidewalks.

A variety of savory sausages hanging in the window of the charcuterie made her mouth water, enticing her to give it a go.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” the elderly butcher called as soon as the bell heralded her entrance.

“Bonjour,” she answered, to which he immediately replied something she didn’t understand. “Je voudrais...” She didn’t know the word for sausage, so she simply pointed to the kind she wanted in the case.

He smiled. “English?”

“Oui. Yes.” She gave a grateful nod.

He pulled the sausage from the case and cut off a small piece for her to try. The bite filled her mouth with a salty, savory burst that begged for a chardonnay to wash it down. Her accompanying “Mmm” brought a proud smile to the butcher’s lips.

“Is very good, oui?”

“It’s delicious. I can’t wait to have a glass of wine with it.”

“But of course.” Obviously, the wine was a given. “How much would you like?”

“A quarter pound?”

His eyebrows drew in. “No pounds in France. Kilos.”

Tara cringed. Kilos? She had no idea. “Um...” She hesitated.

The butcher picked up on her distress. “How many people?”

“One. Just me.”

He tilted his head and gave her a glance as if sizing her up. “No, mademoiselle. You are too beautiful to eat alone. This is Paris!” He gave a dramatic sweep of his arm toward the street. “Find someone to share.”

Tara’s cheeks warmed. She’d already laundered the borrowed clothes and had thought about inviting Garrett and Dylan over for a light meal to repay their hospitality when she returned his things—having bought too much food for just her would be the perfect excuse.

The butcher’s mouth turned up in a knowing grin. “Ah, I see you have someone in your thoughts. Bien.” Using his knife as an appendage, he pointed to where he thought the cut should be made. “Enough for two, oui?”

“Actually, three.” Tara held up three fingers. “But one is a little boy with a big appetite.”

He laughed pleasantly and moved the knife over a couple more inches before making the cut and wrapping the portion in the quintessential white paper. He insisted she try some of the fresh pâté, which was exquisite, and she bought some of that also.

Before she left, he gave specific instructions on what to pair the purchases with. “Serve with le fromage, the honey, une baguette, les cornichons and, of course, le vin. If you do this, you will never eat alone.”

She thanked him and left the shop feeling as if she’d made a new friend. He’d given her advice on where to find the best of everything on his list, even pointing out the specific shops that were his personal favorites, so those were her next few stops.

Everyone who waited on her immediately switched to English as soon as she started trying to speak French. Josh had told her that just the effort on her part would be appreciated, and that seemed to hold true. The Parisians, it appeared, would rather speak English than hear their beautiful language butchered by her American tongue.

The two cloth totes provided with the apartment filled up quickly with the butcher’s suggestions and the fresh produce from the open-air market. After tasting the samples, she couldn’t pass up the tender asparagus spears or even the turnips, which she would never have considered serving raw at home.

She had to rein in her sweet tooth at the pâtisserie with its shelves crammed with decadent, scrumptious-looking pastries. She escaped with only three items by promising herself she could have one treat each day.

Who was she kidding? Everything she ate for the next month was sure to be a treat. Like the butcher said, this was Paris!

She purchased a small bouquet of daisies from a wizened old woman who stood on the street corner with two pails of flowers—they would be perfect for what she had planned. And two bottles of wine—one white and one red—from the wine shop filled her second tote to the top, giving her arms as much weight as they could bear for the walk home.

Once she moved away from the wide avenue, the side streets all looked the same. Twice she lost her bearings and had to backtrack to the park with the rose garden surrounding the statue of the man on the horse, but eventually she found her way back to the apartment building and surly Madame LeClerc.

This time, Tara would follow her dad’s lifelong advice to win over the enemy with love. She held out the bouquet of daisies and said the little speech she’d looked up in the phrase book and memorized before she left to go shopping. “Bonjour, madame. Merci beaucoup pour votre aide ce matin.”

The woman looked stunned, her eyes moving from Tara’s face to the daisies and back. For an uncomfortable moment, Tara thought she was going to refuse them. But then, the woman’s demeanor changed. She smiled a smile so sweet, Tara would’ve thought it impossible a few minutes before.

“Merci, mademoiselle.” Madame LeClerc’s voice shook a little as she spoke. “Merci beaucoup.” She lifted the flowers to her nose for a quick sniff as she buzzed Tara through.

Thanks, Dad.

The thought closed her throat as she headed up the stairs. She hoped her mom and dad had worked out their problems. Oh, they’d tried to act as if everything was okay when she and Thea and Trenton were around. But there was a heaviness that pervaded the atmosphere around them, as if the elephant in the room was sitting on everyone’s chest. How long would it take until someone from the church took notice? If Sue Marsden got the slightest whiff of the juicy tale that lay within her grasp, she would burn up the telephone lines.

Tara unlocked her door and entered her flat, her shoulders now heavy with guilt. She tried to distract herself by putting her purchases away. It was too late for regrets. She was here to find her birth father, and she was prepared to face any ramifications that may come.

Her good friend Summer Delaney had once talked to her about the ripple effect—how every action is like a rock thrown into the pond of our lives. The first ripple causes a second, then a third. They multiply and spread, yet they’re all connected at the source. And there’s no stopping any of them.

Her mom and Jacques Martin had thrown a rock into the water one night, and twenty-eight years later, the ripples just kept coming.

She poured herself a glass of wine. Grabbing her laptop, her handheld GPS and the phone book from the apartment, she headed out to the terrace to kick off the official search for the stranger who gave her life.

CHAPTER SIX

“HI, TARA!”

Dylan sprinted across the terrace, a baseball glove clutched to his chest and a delighted grin on his face. When he came to an abrupt stop beside the table she was working on, Tara saw the ball nestled in the glove.

“Hi, Dylan. Have you been playing ball?”

“Not yet. My dad’s not home.”

An uneasiness gripped Tara’s insides. “Do you stay home alone?”

Dylan shook his head. “Monique stays with me.”

Ah, there’s a Monique. Why she was surprised—maybe even a tad disappointed—by the news that her sexy neighbor had a woman in his life? He hadn’t mentioned anyone that morning, but she should’ve figured a guy like him would be attached...on some level.

Right then, a petite young woman—maybe even a teenager—stepped onto the terrace. Her glossy black hair was pulled into a high ponytail and she had a cell phone to her ear.

“That’s her.” Dylan waved.

The woman spotted him and gave an answering wave, then went back inside.

“She talks on the phone a lot to Philippe. They’re going to get married soon.”

Tara scolded herself for the little flutter that news caused. “So Monique is your babysitter?”

“Yeah.” His attention made an abrupt swerve to the small GPS device she held. “Whatcha doing?”

“Well.” Getting into personal details wouldn’t be prudent, but the child’s curiosity was natural. “I may have some family in Paris. So, I’m looking up names in the phone book, then I’m using the laptop to map where that address is, and then I’m putting the address in my GPS to get directions in case I decide to visit...um, that location.”

“Cool! Can I see?”

She handed over the small device and watched the child’s unabashed wonder as he examined it thoroughly. The kids at the summer camp where she’d been a counselor had the same reaction, and that memory gave her an idea. “Have you ever been geocaching?”

Dylan shook his head. “What’s that?”

“Here. I’ll show you.” She logged into the geocaching website she was a member of and typed Paris into the search box. A list, several pages long, appeared instantly. She pointed to a few of the items. “Each of these gives a description and the location of something that’s been cached—that means hidden—here in Paris. But the location is given in latitude and longitude.” When Dylan’s bottom lip protruded in thought, she reminded herself he was only six. Precocious, but still only six. “Those are just numbers like addresses. Anyway, you put those numbers into the GPS, and it leads you to the thing that’s hidden.”

“Like a real treasure?” The child’s jade eyes glowed with excitement.

“It’s sort of a treasure—a small one, though. Usually, it’s a little box with various items inside, and a notepad and pen. You get to choose an item to keep, and you leave behind one of your own. Once you sign and date the notepad to prove you were there, you hide it back where you found it.”

“I want to do that! I want to go geochashtering!”

“Geocaching,” she corrected. “And maybe we’ll go sometime if it’s okay with your dad.”

“Can we go tonight? Right now?”

Tara chuckled at the child’s enthusiasm. “No. We have to wait for your dad to say it’s okay. Plus, he’d probably need to go with us, too, since I don’t know my way around very well.”

“He has to work late tonight, but he said he’d be home in time to play some pitch-and-catch, so maybe we can go when he gets home.” The boy’s exuberance had taken over his mouth, which was moving a mile a minute.

Tara held up her hand to slow him down. “Tonight’s probably not a good night, Dylan. Your dad will be tired after working late, and y’all will have to eat.”

“What’s y’all mean?”

“You all. All of you, or in your case, both of you. But what I’m saying is, we can’t go tonight, but we’ll definitely try to go sometime while I’m here...if it’s okay with your dad. Deal?”

“Deal.” The glum look only stalled his face for a few seconds. “You want to play some catch?” He held up his ball and glove.

It was plain that she wasn’t going to get much more done tonight. Besides, she’d been at her research for over two hours and was ready to stand up and move. “Sure. Do you have a glove I can use?”

“You can use Dad’s.” Dylan laid his gear on the chair and headed back to his flat in a run while Tara gathered her material and deposited it on the coffee table in her living room.

By the time she got back outside, the child had returned. He handed her a ball and a worn glove. “Will it hurt your hand to throw?”

What a sweetie—showing concern for her hand. Tara picked up the ball with her two fingers and thumb and wiggled it in front of his nose. “It will give me a mean curveball, I think.”

His face relaxed in a grin, and he backed away a few feet and took his stance.

The man’s glove swallowed her left hand. “Ready? Here it comes,” she warned Dylan, and tossed the ball lightly.

He caught it easily and tossed it back. “You need to wind up.” It was clear by his tone that he’d meant what he said to be an admonishment—he was not to be thought of as some wimpy, little kid.

Tara blew the dust off her high school softball career and wound up like a pro for the second pitch. She didn’t let loose a fastball, but still threw one hard enough to bring a gleeful laugh from her opponent when he found the ball once again lodged in his glove. Dylan wound up and threw it back with surprising force for a kid his age.

“You’ve got a good arm, buddy.”

His eyes gleamed with pleasure. “My dad says I’ve got his arm. He used to play in the minors.”

Tara tucked away that interesting tidbit for conversation with Garrett later. “Well, no wonder you’re good. It’s in your genes.”

Dylan’s mouth drooped at the corners, and he pointed to his cotton shorts. “I’m not wearing jeans.”

Tara laughed as she threw the ball back to him. The child’s mastery of the language made her forget he was only six. “Not the kind of jeans you wear. The things you inherit...um, you get from your parents. That kind of genes.”

“Oh, like my eyes. Dad says I got my mommy’s eyes.”

His words caught in Tara’s chest, making her next breath heavier than the last. “Well, she must’ve had beautiful eyes. They’re very handsome on you.” She coughed to clear away the sudden congestion in her throat. Which of her own physical characteristics came from Jacques Martin? Eyes? Height? Build? She would have an answer soon perhaps.

Dylan’s next pitch went a little wild, and she had to chase it down. When she got back into place, she moved the conversation to a less emotional common ground. “So, tell me about your school. Where do you go?”

“I attend L’école primaire publique ave Maria.” He was obviously enthused about the subject because for the next hour of pitch-and-catch, with frequent breaks, Dylan educated Tara on the French education system.

She learned that students only attended school four days a week, with Wednesdays as well as weekends off. But school days were long, lasting from eight-thirty to four-thirty.

This was the last week of school, and then Dylan would be on summer break for the months of July and August. Monique would be staying with him most days. And some days, he would go to Pierre’s house. Pierre was his best friend and a baseball enthusiast, also.

During their game of catch, Monique came out to check on him occasionally. “She doesn’t like to play catch,” Dylan explained. “I usually just throw the ball against the wall until Dad comes home.”

“What time is that?” It was already past seven-thirty, so Garrett was putting in a really long day.

“He’s working late this week, but he’ll be home by eight.” The words were hardly out of his mouth before a deep voice brought their game to a halt.

“Dylan!” As if their conversation had transported him to the spot, Garrett stood in the doorway of their flat. The sport coat and tie he’d worn at breakfast were gone, and his white dress shirt and khaki pants accentuated the broad shoulders and narrow waist of his athletic form.

An image of his naked torso flashed across Tara’s brain, and she felt her face heat in reaction.

“Hey, Dad.” Dylan ran to meet him with a hug, which Garrett greeted with a smile.

But, as she headed his way, Tara watched the facial expression transform into a scowl when Garrett’s eyes shifted up to meet hers.

* * *

DAMN IT! Garrett cursed his own shortsightedness. He should’ve told Monique not to allow Dylan to bother Tara. But he’d been so absorbed with work when she called to tell him they were home, he hadn’t given it a thought.

A quick glance at the happiness on his son’s face told him an attachment was already forming...and it was easy to see why.

The woman headed toward him held little resemblance to the freaky one he’d had breakfast with this morning. The wet yellow dress was gone, replaced by a pair of cream-colored shorts that showed off a set of long and toned legs. A peach T-shirt was the perfect complement to her fair complexion. No makeup disguised the adorable smattering of freckles that dotted her cheeks and nose. Had those even been there this morning? And what about the pierced eyebrow? Oh, yeah, there it was.... Her red curls—and a few of the blue ones—curved softly around her face and neck.

The entire effect was light and feminine, and Garrett fought down a wild urge to search among the curls for the tattoo nestled under her ear...with his mouth.

“Tara’s a good catch, Dad.”

The words stunned Garrett speechless for a couple of seconds, by which point she was already upon him.

Caution dimmed her bright eyes as she gave him a tentative smile. “We were just playing around some. I hope that’s okay.”

Garrett gathered his composure and shoved his sexual awareness to a deeper, safer place in his psyche. He took the glove she held out, searching for the appropriate words that wouldn’t sound overly harsh in front of the boy. “Dylan shouldn’t be interrupting your private time.”

Her wariness gave way to a relieved smile. “He didn’t interrupt anything. I had a good time.” She held up what remained of her right hand, stretching the fingers apart. “It was good therapy—mentally and physically.”

Garrett’s spine stiffened at her words. If she needed mental therapy, she needed to get it from someone other than Dylan.

Her thumb caught her middle finger, leaving her index finger pointed to the sky. “Oh, be right back.” She turned and jogged across the terrace to her flat.

Garrett had no idea what she was up to, but he used the time to get Dylan out of hearing distance. “You need to go get washed up for dinner.”

“Can we invite Tara to eat with us?”

Oh, hell. The entreaty in Dylan’s eyes solidified that Garrett’s fears were justified. He squatted down to eye level with his son—time for some damage control. “No, bud. Tara didn’t come to Paris to visit with us. She’s only going to be here for a month, which isn’t really too long, so we need to leave her alone, and let her do what she wants with her time.”

Dylan’s bottom lip protruded in advance of his protest. “But—”

“No buts. You’re not to bother Tara. Understand?”

Dylan sighed. “Yeah.” He dropped his glove and ball inside the door and slunk off toward the bathroom, looking like a whipped puppy.

Garrett watched him until the bathroom door closed. When he turned back, Tara was headed toward him from across the terrace. He stepped out to meet her, sliding the door closed behind him.

The clothes he’d loaned her this morning were arranged in a neatly folded bundle, which she held out to him. “I figured out the washer and dryer, so these are clean.”

Garrett took them from her. “Thanks. You didn’t have to do that.”

She slid her hands into her back pockets, which stretched her shirt tighter across her breasts. “Well, y’all didn’t have to help me out this morning, but I sure did appreciate it. I...um...” She cleared her throat and tossed her head in the direction of her place, flashing the tattoo under her ear in Garrett’s direction. “I picked up some sausage and cheese and wine and a few nice pastries. I plan to have a light supper on the terrace, and I was wondering if you and Dylan would like to join me? Give me a chance to pay you back for breakfast?”

Her accent coupled with the expressive, vivid green eyes battered at Garrett’s resolve, but the cautious voice inside him whispered its repeated warning about getting too friendly. “It’s nice of you to offer, but I don’t think we’d better. I work long hours, so dinnertime is special for Dylan and me. Alone time, you know?”

“Oh, sure.” A deep blush crept up her neck into her face. “I should’ve thought of that.”

The disappointment in her voice was palpable, but the first snip was made, and Garrett was determined to stop any more buds of friendship before they blossomed. “Well, there isn’t a lot of privacy around here, so we’ll try to respect yours as much as possible while you’re here.” A movement from the corner of his eye told him Dylan was headed back toward them. Garrett laid his hand on the door handle. “I’m sure you’ll do the same for us,” he added before sliding the door open and stepping back through it.

His escape wasn’t quick enough to keep him from catching the hurt look in Tara’s eyes—the same look that was reflected in his son’s eyes when he met them.

“Now, how about some dinner?” Garrett clapped his hands together in a fake show of enthusiasm.

Dylan shrugged, looking like lead weights were attached to his shoulder. “I’m not very hungry.”

Garrett’s gut twisted at the words.

But they also told him without a doubt he’d done the right thing.

CHAPTER SEVEN

FAITH PUSHED THE BEIGE DRESS to one side, and studied the next one carefully—a sleeveless shift in a pretty shade of mint green that Sawyer had always liked on her. But, like everything else in her closet, it was modestly cut and gave no hint that the creature clothed in it had a clue that such a thing as sex existed.

Just once, she’d love to wear a dress that was a little provocative...that showed a little cleavage or more of her back than was strictly proper. Nothing vulgar. Just something feminine and sexy. Something that would remind her...and Sawyer...who she was at her center. The way God made her before the congregation of Taylor’s Grove Church had molded her into who it wanted her to be.

The green dress was her best option for tonight, though.

Changing out of her white slacks and navy blue knit top into the new pink lace and satin bra and panties gave her a rush as if she was doing something scandalous...and fun. She paused to look in the mirror and evaluate the effect. A subtle attack was what she was going for. Just a touch of sexiness that would spur Sawyer on if she got him to the stage where he wanted to undress her.

The idea came to her after prayer group this morning. She’d never had to seduce her husband before, so shopping for sexy underwear this afternoon with that motive had been venturing into foreign territory.

Until four weeks ago, Sawyer had pursued her with a vigor that sometimes made her question all the jokes about middle age. She’d counted herself blessed to have someone who’d always made her feel attractive and desired despite the frumpy clothes and the weight gain that had crept up on her in her forties. They both understood that the preacher’s wife had to be appropriately dressed at all times. They’d accepted that fact and had made ultimate use of their private time. And when all the kids finally moved out, she and Sawyer had had plenty of...how did the younger generation put it? Bow-chicka-wow-wow?

Well, this chicka was going to try her darnedest to coax the wow-wow out of the bow tonight.

She swiped on just a touch of foundation, and a light application of mascara defined her lashes. The salesperson had assured her that the pink lip gloss would make her lips irresistible. It looked like any other pink lip gloss, but maybe the extra price indicated it had some esoteric qualities perceived only by men. If the manufacturer truly wanted to make it irresistible, it would’ve been bacon-flavored.

A quick brush-through to fluff her hair, a squirt of cologne and a pair of beaded flip-flops finished the look that she hoped was casual yet sassy.

Back in the kitchen, the timer indicated it was time to put the cornbread in to bake alongside the meatloaf. The green beans were done, tomatoes sliced, and ears of fresh corn were buttered, wrapped in waxed paper and ready to be popped into the microwave.

New sexy underwear. Sawyer’s favorite dress. His favorite meal. Fresh strawberries waited in a bowl on the counter, but she hoped she would be his dessert of choice.

Her heart skipped a beat when she heard the door open.

“Hey,” he said as he entered the room.

She watched his eyes skim over her. “Hey,” she answered, trying to keep it casual. “Supper’s almost ready. You hungry?”

“Famished.” He paused, and she saw his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. “You, uh...you look pretty.”

That’s a start. Don’t scare him away. “Thanks.” She started the corn cooking in the microwave and pointed to the plate of tomatoes. “I was out in the garden—you can put those on the table—and I got sweaty and itchy. I had to take a shower to cool off. By tomorrow, we should have a nice mess of okra.”

The light came on in his eyes—the one she hadn’t seen in far too long—as it dawned on him that tonight she wasn’t going to try to talk about their problems. She watched the transformation as his shoulders relaxed and the lines disappeared from between his eyebrows. With an easy, compatible fluidity, they fell into their routine of her dishing up the food and him setting the table, and for the first time since Memorial Day, her hopes ran high that perhaps the dry spell was over.

After supper, she set the second part of her plan into action. “Let’s walk down to the park. Are you up for that?”

His hand hovered motionless for a moment before he placed the dish into the dishwasher. “Yeah. Sure. If you want.”

Faith’s pulse quickened. That he was willing to face the park together was a positive sign. She adjusted the strap of her new bra and smiled to herself.

Sawyer wiped off the countertops while she swept, and when the kitchen was clean, they started their stroll to the park at the center of town.

They’d managed to stay under the radar because, since Tara’s accident, their park visits had become more sporadic rather than a daily occurrence. One or the other of them would show up a few times each week, armed with plausible excuses about the other’s absence. Tonight’s two-minute walk was a journey of a thousand miles as it was the first time they’d made it together since the Memorial Day Faith would never forget.

The park, which had no other official name because it was the only one in town, was the official gathering spot for the whole community. On any given night, you could catch up on the happenings of the day within a ten-minute period.

It was the park where everyone came after weddings to celebrate, after funerals to mourn and after births to pass out cigars and roses.

It was the park where Sawyer had proposed to her in the gazebo under the stars after everyone had gone home for the night.

It was the park where Tara had taken her first step in an endeavor to join the children playing on the swings.

The park at the center of town was the center of the town’s life. The heart of Taylor’s Grove.

As they approached, the sweet strains of “Gentle Annie” being played by Ollie Perkins on his violin met Faith’s ears, and the poignant tune encouraged her to slip her hand into Sawyer’s and pull him in the old man’s direction. He didn’t protest. While macular degeneration was doing its best to steal away the last vestiges of Ollie’s sight, his ability to make the violin sing seemed to increase in an indirect proportion to what he lost. His renditions of Stephen Foster tunes could squeeze a tear from the devil himself.

Bobo Hudson vacated his seat beside Ollie and motioned for Faith to sit down. She could hardly refuse, but felt the sting of disappointment when she had to let go of Sawyer’s hand.

Ollie finished his song. “Ev’nin’, Faith.” He turned his head slightly and nodded in her direction.

“How’d you know it was me?”

The disease had wiped out Ollie’s central vision almost completely, but left a bit of the peripheral. He wiped his forehead with his trademark red bandanna. “I recognized your cologne.”

She patted his knee affectionately. “You gonna play my favorite?”

She always requested “Shenandoah,” and he always obliged, but, this time, he shook his head and tucked the bandanna between his chin and the chinrest on his instrument. “Nope, not yet, anyway. Got something different tonight. I was thinking today about Tara, and how she’d always ask for something Irish she could dance a jig to. Well, since she’s in Paree, I thought we might just join her there, instead.”

Faith cringed inwardly and cut her eyes to Sawyer, who blanched at Ollie’s words as “Pigalle” rolled off the strings. The subject of Tara’s being in Paris still cut Sawyer to the quick. He barely lasted until the song was over, then hurried away to join a small knot of men who always discussed the county’s politics while they refereed the checker game between Johnny Bob Luther and Kimble Sparr. Faith, however, was stuck in Ollie’s audience for a while longer.

She tried not to despair...hoped the mood of the evening hadn’t been spoiled completely by Ollie’s innocent comment.

When Al and Mary Jenkins walked up, Faith gave up her seat to them and found her way back to her husband’s side. He and Tank Wallis were discussing how badly the crumbling steps on the front of the church needed repair. The project had been at the top of Sawyer’s list for months now, but he couldn’t get the maintenance committee, which Tank was the chairman of, to get off dead center with it.

“Some of those cracks are getting so big, it’s just a matter of time before somebody catches a toe in one and breaks a hip,” Sawyer declared.

“I hear you, Preacher, but it’s not time to fix them until Sue says it’s time.”

The mention of Sue’s name reminded Faith of their little verbal skirmish that morning, and with it came a flicker of irritation. The woman’s power over the church, over the town and, yes, over Sawyer, was sickening.

Sue hadn’t earned that power. Her daddy, Burl Yager, was the one who sold a huge tract of land on Kentucky Lake to a developer. And it was Burl who built the Taylor’s Grove Church out of that money and set up the trust fund that paid for the upkeep of the building, as well as the preacher’s salary. Burl had been a fine man who loved the church and wanted it to thrive.

When Sawyer, as a teen, had surprised everyone in town by accepting God’s call to become a minister, it was Burl who’d paid for his college and seminary study. But, when Burl died, Sue had inherited everything, except his benevolence. The church had tried to circumvent her ways by forming committees. But that had done little good. Sue held the purse strings.

“I’ll talk to Sue again,” Sawyer said, but his tone indicated he doubted that would do any good.

A chuckle rolled out of Tank’s big belly. “Maybe you ought to send Faith this time.” The big guy gave her a knowing wink. “Word from the prayer group says it’s one to nothing in Faith’s favor.”

Sawyer sent her a questioning glance. He hadn’t heard yet. Good. At least she could give him her side first.

She smiled and rolled her eyes. “No scorekeeping in Taylor’s Grove. We’re all playing for the same team.” Turning her attention to Sawyer, she added, “Strawberries are going to get mushy if we don’t get back and eat them pretty soon.”

He nodded. “Can’t let that happen. See you tomorrow, Tank.” He patted his friend’s shoulder in parting. They crossed Yager Circle and headed down Main Street before he finally asked, “So are you going to tell me what happened at prayer group?”

She dreaded bringing up the subject of Tara’s trip, and related the incident to him as innocuously as possible, stressing Sue’s general displeasure of Tara’s nature.

Just as she’d hoped, his eyes flashed anger at Sue’s snide comments, but his guarded chuckle about her own retort came with a warning. “You know she’s not going to let you have the last word.”

“I don’t care.” Which wasn’t exactly the truth. She did care...too much. About Sue’s opinion, and everybody else’s in this antiquated fishbowl of a town. She and Sawyer turned up their driveway, bypassing the front door and going around to the patio doors in the back. “I just get so tired of her holier-than-thou attitude.”

“You know better than to let Sue get to you.” Sawyer opened the door, letting her pass through first, then followed her in. “She means well.”

The irritation that started with the mention of Sue’s name flickered higher. “You always take up for her.”

“I just try to understand where she’s coming from.” He got two bowls from the cabinet and set them on the kitchen counter.

Faith clutched his arm, and pulled him around to look at her. “How about me? Have you tried to understand where I’m coming from?”

His look lasted a long moment, his lips pressed together in a thin line. “We’re not talking about prayer group anymore, are we?”

“We’re talking about the fact that you haven’t touched me for nearly a month. Are you even trying to understand?”

The cloak of sadness that had been absent in his eyes during supper dropped back into place. “Faith, I can’t—”

“Can’t or won’t?” Emotion sent a tremor through her body. “Why can’t you understand? Why won’t you let yourself understand?” She reached behind her and jerked the zipper of the shift down. “I love you.” She pushed the dress off her shoulders and arms, exposing her breasts clad in pink. The dress caught on her hips. She hooked it with her thumbs and shoved it free to pool around her ankles. “You always forgive Sue. I want you to forgive me. I want you to want me.” She stepped into him, sliding her arms around his waist, plastering her body against his.

His hands found her shoulders, and he pushed her gently away to hold her at arm’s length. “I want that, too, Faith. I pray for that every night.” He let go of her, his arms dropping like heavy weights to his side. “But, it’s not happening. My prayers get clogged by other thoughts like, what if I lose Tara completely? What if she finds Jacques Martin and chooses him over me?”

“That’s not going to happen, Sawyer.”

“It could happen. The man was able to lure you away from me.” He turned his gaze away from her toward the back window. “Oh, I know it was only one night and alcohol was involved. I get that. But your night with him caused a major change in us. It changed the way you relate to me. I tell myself that he gave us Tara...and she’s so precious to me...but what if finding him changes the way she relates to me?”

Faith stayed quiet. She would let him talk and get it all out. Surely, that could only help.

He wiped a hand down his face, leaving a glistening dampness below his eyes, and turned back to her. “And every night I try to talk myself into going to you in our room.” He looked her up and down, his face contorted with anguish. “You’re a beautiful, vibrant woman, Faith.”

She stepped into him again, pleading with her eyes. “Then do it. Make love to me. Please.”

The anguish settled into a look of despair. “I can’t.” He took her hand and moved it slowly to his groin.

It was a familiar gesture, but it took on a surreal quality as her hand groped for something that wasn’t there. Nothing. No detection of even the first stirring of an erection. The bulge she’d expected was instead a small mass as soft and pliable as putty.

His whisper was coarse and strangled. “I. Can’t.”

He released her hand, and she stepped away from him quickly. Her eyes blurred as she leaned over to gather her dress, snatching it up and making a dash for the bedroom.

She slammed the door and locked it behind her, then collapsed against it onto the floor as the wave of understanding washed over her.

Sawyer—the only man she’d ever loved—couldn’t get an erection for her.

He didn’t want her.

And maybe never would again.

* * *

TARA SAT AT the café in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, still ogling the beauty of Paris’s quintessential landmark while practicing her lines. The addresses of forty-three Jacques Martins were programmed into her GPS, and, though she was aware of the challenge she faced linguistically, she was armed emotionally for whatever happened. Or so she hoped.

Garrett Hughes’s stuffy behavior last night had been good practice, reminding her that first impressions weren’t always reliable. What a surprise he’d turned out to be—and not the pleasant kind. She’d been looking forward to some occasional American conversation while she was here, and yeah, maybe a little casual flirting, as well. But the guy had turned out to be a contrary curmudgeon who obviously resented her staking a claim to part of the terrace that he used like it was his sole dominion.

Well, he could go piss up a rope. She’d paid the rent for a month, and that gave her terrace privileges. Much as she liked the apartment, she wasn’t going to spend all her time inside when she could be taking her meals and her books outdoors.

Besides, Dylan was a delight. He made her feel at home. And from where she was sitting at the moment, looking out over a park that could very likely hold a huge chunk of Taylor’s Grove, it was obvious she wasn’t at home anymore.

She signed the receipt the waiter brought and picked up her things. The GPS dangled from her wrist, where she could check it often. She punched up the set of coordinates for the maybe-father closest to the Eiffel Tower and began her first search, following the map toward the blinking dot. It was just like the geocaching she’d explained to Dylan yesterday, but with what could be a priceless treasure as the find rather than a box of trinkets.

The exquisite beauty of the city with its wide, tree-lined avenues and perfectly proportioned balances of lines and curves, man-made and natural, tempted Tara to forget the hunt and give in to the desire to explore. But her mind kept running ahead to her destination, and her heart pumped fast to keep up.

The map guided her around the final turn to a street filled with small boutiques rather than homes. The internet search had yielded all addresses—business and residential—that had a Jacques Martin linked to it, but she was surprised nonetheless...and maybe a little relieved...to see that the first address was that of a shop. Walking into a store was easier than ringing a private doorbell.

She stopped outside the address and took several deep breaths before pushing the door open and stepping inside. The strong, pervasive scent of formaldehyde greeted her from the bolts of materials hanging from chains, which covered the walls in brocades, damasks and linens. Her eyes and nose started to water simultaneously. The reaction was familiar, and her memory scampered back to hours she’d spent in fabric stores with Grandma O’Malley. She’d had the forethought to bring tissues in case the reunion with her father involved tears...of any kind.

She snatched one from her pocket and dabbed, trying not to smear her carefully applied mascara.

Several customers milled about, eyeing the rich colors in the woven tapestries, running their palms over the nap to change the shading of the velvet. Tara ran her fingertips across a bolt of deep brown fabric—its hue reminded her of Garrett’s eyes.

Jerk, she reminded herself.

Soon, an elderly woman with silver hair pulled back into a severe bun turned her attention to Tara. A head-to-foot scan pinched her expression into a condescending sneer. “Bonjour, mademoiselle.”

“Bonjour, madame.” Tara’s eyes jerked involuntarily to the door—yes, it was still there—before settling back on the woman. “Je m’appelle Tara O’Malley. Je cherche Jacques Martin. Est-il ici?”

A short pause allowed the woman time to exchange her sneer for a knowing smirk. “Oui. Un instant.”

She disappeared into a back room, giving Tara time to become all-too-aware of the sound of her pulse swishing through her ears.

The woman appeared again, followed by a striking, middle-aged man in an impeccably cut gray suit that set off his salt-and-pepper hair, which was combed back and heavily gelled.

His age looked promising, and Tara’s breath stopped as she scanned his face for a trace of anything familial and stalled on his mouth. It was wide like hers, and it curved upward into a smile as he approached.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle.” His deep voice was pleasant and welcoming, and she felt her courage bolstered at the sound.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Martin?” He nodded and Tara extended her hand, pumping it a tad too enthusiastically when he took it. “Je m’appelle Tara O’Malley. I...uh...” She caught her breath before plunging into the script she had memorized. “Je viens des États-Unis, et je cherche un ami de ma famille. Il s’appelle Jacques Martin. Il habitait à Murray, Kentucky.” A family friend who had lived in Murray, Kentucky had seemed like the most nonthreatening approach. She watched him closely for a reaction.

The man’s gray eyes held a hint of disappointment as his smile thinned. “Ah, ce n’est pas moi. Je suis désolé.”

Tara swallowed her own disappointment, becoming aware of the way his thumb caressed her hand, which he still held, not even seeming to notice the missing digits. Obviously, they were coming at this conversation from very different angles.

She pulled her hand, but he gripped it tighter and leaned in to whisper something. She didn’t understand the words, but his tone took on a smooth and oily quality like his hair. His mouth curved again into a leer that drove the scene past extreme ick and into dimensions all its own.

Tara jerked her hand from his, mortified at the turn things had taken. “Au revoir, monsieur.” She didn’t say thank you or try to ask her other memorized questions about whether he knew any other Jacques Martins she could contact. All she could think about was getting to the door and into fresh air. Once outside, the shudder that passed through her could’ve rocked a seismic score on the Richter scale as she allowed herself to express it verbally with a loud “eww!”

She took off at a fast walk, not even stopping to get her bearings for a couple of blocks. When she did, she was in front of Rodin’s studio and museum—the perfect place to get her mind off of her creepy encounter with Jacques Martin number one.

The garden was especially inviting, quiet and relatively uncrowded compared to the area around the Eiffel Tower. She spent the entire afternoon in the shadow of Balzac and The Thinker, taking pictures of the statues and attaching them to text messages to family and friends.

Emma called as Tara boarded the metro late in the afternoon to head back home. She reacted with the proper “eww” as Tara related her tale of the first Jacques, and when she heard about Garrett Hughes’s request for privacy, she replied with “What a jerk!”

As she had so often in their years together, Tara reminded herself how fortunate she was to have a best friend who viewed the world with a similar enough perspective to her own to make them compatible, yet still different enough to keep their conversations interesting.

Back at her flat, Tara poured a glass of wine and took it and her journal out to the terrace to write about the experiences of her day—another of Emma’s suggestions to help her work through the emotion of her search for her birth father.

She’d thought the idea a little silly at first, but as she started to chronicle not only her emotions but her impressions as a first-time visitor to Paris, her hand flew across the pages, filling up one after another. She was especially surprised at the depth of disappointment today’s encounter churned up. But plenty more addresses remained to be searched.

“Hi, Tara.”

She looked up to see Dylan standing a few feet away, ball and glove in hand.

“Hi, Dylan. How are you today?”

“I’m fine.” He stayed awkwardly planted to his spot. “What are you doing?”

She held up the book she’d been writing in. “I went to the Eiffel Tower and the Musée Rodin today, so I’ve been writing in my journal about those places. Have you ever been to the Musée Rodin?”

“Yeah, lots of times.”

She patted the empty seat beside her. “Come tell me what you like best about it.”

He hesitated for only a second, then hurried to plop down in the proffered seat. “Dad says I’m not supposed to bother you, but I don’t guess I’m bothering you if you invite me. Isn’t that right?”

Tara smiled at the child’s honesty. “That’s right. If I invite you, it means I want some company.”

The warmth in Dylan’s smile thawed the icy coating that had surrounded Tara’s heart as she wrote her review of today’s father search.

“What I like best about the Musée Rodin is the ice cream,” he answered her original question. “But the statue I like best is The Burghers of Calais.”

“That was my favorite, too!” Tara was intrigued that she and the six-year-old were both taken by the same piece out of all the choices. “Why do you like that one best?”

“Because my dad told me the story about those guys being heroes. They’re not superheroes like Iron Man and Thor, but they saved a lot of people, so I like them.”

“Yeah, me, too...for the same reason.” Tara made a mental note to include this delightful conversation in her journal. “Is your dad home yet?”

Dylan shook his head. “He has to work late again tonight.”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind playing a little catch if you’d like.”

Dylan shot out of his chair. “Cool! I’ll get Dad’s glove for you.”

They played for almost an hour, but as it neared the time when Garrett had gotten home the night before, Tara thought about what the man had asked of her.

“Whew! I’m getting tired, Dylan.” She faked it a little, but not too much. “I think I’d better call it a night and go grab a bite of supper.”

“Okay.”

She handed the glove back to him and ruffled her hand through his hair. “Thanks for playing with me. It was fun.”

“Maybe we can play again tomorrow,” he said and then hurried to add, “if I don’t bother you.”

“Maybe.”

She gathered up her things and went inside as Dylan continued his game by throwing the ball against the wall by his terrace door.

Tara heated some soup and fixed a salad for a light meal. When she sat down at the table, she saw that Garrett had gotten home and was on the terrace playing catch with his indefatigable son.

The guy may be a jerk, but he was obviously doing something right. Dylan seemed well-adjusted and was a delight to be around.

Maybe giving them their private terrace time wasn’t such a big deal. She could sacrifice a little.

The Burghers of Calais had been willing to sacrifice everything for the people they loved.

Watching Garrett play with his son—a single dad in a foreign country, a young man who lost his wife—it struck her that Rodin could have immortalized him, as well.

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