“Have you always lived here?”

Grant shrugged. “Maine is home. I always knew it was where I belonged.”

“But didn’t you ever aspire to more?” Morgan asked.

“I have my faith, my family and work I love. What more is there?”

Morgan didn’t know how to respond to that. Grant seemed like a man who had found his place in the world and was content with it. There was no restlessness, no grasping, no struggle to meet some definition of worldly success. He was a man at peace with himself. She envied him that.

Morgan suddenly shivered, and she knew it was time to go. But she didn’t want to. Here, in this man’s presence, she felt a sense of calm, of caring, that was a balm to her soul. And she didn’t want the moment to end.

IRENE HANNON

is an award-winning author who has been a writer for as long as she can remember. She “officially” launched her career at the age of ten, when she was one of the winners in a “complete-the-story” contest conducted by a national children’s magazine. More recently, Irene won the coveted RITA® Award for her 2002 Love Inspired book Never Say Goodbye. Irene, who spent many years in an executive corporate communications position with a Fortune 500 company, now devotes herself full-time to her writing career. In her “spare” time, she enjoys performing in community musical theater productions, singing in the church choir, gardening, cooking and spending time with family and friends. She and her husband, Tom—whom she describes as “my own romantic hero”—make their home in Missouri.

The Unexpected Gift

Irene Hannon

Though the mountains leave their place and the hills be shaken, My love shall never leave you.

—Isaiah 54:10

To the many special friends who have supported my writing career through the years—especially Caroline, Janice, Jo Ann and Lori—and to all of the readers who have taken the time to write me such wonderful, heartwarming letters. I read them all.

Thank you!

Contents

Prologue

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

Epilogue

Letter to Reader

Prologue

Morgan Williams frowned as she read the e-mail message on her Blackberry. Great. Just great. Her newest client at the agency was requesting a meeting first thing tomorrow to discuss ideas for the next ad campaign. Unfortunately, Morgan didn’t have any. She’d been too busy with Aunt Jo’s funeral to give the campaign more than a passing thought. Which wasn’t good. And would not be looked upon kindly by her superiors. In her world, work came first. Period. To paraphrase the postal service motto, nothing—neither rain, nor snow, nor sleet…nor a funeral—should keep her from her appointed task. Not when she had her eye on a top spot in the firm.

Her frown deepened, and she typed in a reply, asking if the meeting could be delayed a day. Even then, she’d be scrambling for ideas. But she’d come through. She always did. That’s why she was on the fast track.

Morgan finished the e-mail and hit Send. As she leaned against the plush back of the settee in the attorney’s elegant waiting room, she glanced impatiently at her watch. “I wish he’d hurry. I have a plane to catch.”

A.J. turned from the window, which framed a row of flame-red maples against a brilliant St. Louis late-October sky. “Chill out, Morgan,” she advised. “The advertising world can live without you for a few more hours.”

Shooting her younger sister an annoyed look, Morgan rummaged in her purse for her cell phone. “Trust me, A.J. The business arena is nothing like your non-profit world. Hours do matter to us. So do minutes.”

“More’s the pity,” A.J. responded in a mild tone, turning back to admire the view again. “Life is too short to be so stressed about things as fleeting as ad campaigns.”

Morgan opened her mouth to respond, but Clare beat her to it. “Don’t you think we should put our philosophical differences aside today, in respect for Aunt Jo?” she interjected in a gentle, non-judgmental tone.

Morgan and A.J. turned in unison toward their older sister, and A.J. grinned.

“Ever the peacemaker, Clare,” she said, her voice tinged with affection.

“Somebody had to keep the two of you from doing each other bodily harm when we were growing up,” Clare said with a smile. “And since I was the only one who didn’t inherit mom’s McCauley-red hair—and the temper that went with it—I suppose the job had to fall to me.”

A.J. joined Morgan on the couch. “Okay. In honor of Aunt Jo, I declare a truce. How about it, Morgan?”

Hesitating only a second, Morgan ditched her cell phone in her purse. “Truce,” she agreed with a grin. “Besides, much as I hate to admit that my kid sister is sometimes right, I am occasionally guilty of taking my job too seriously.”

“Occasionally?” A.J. rolled her eyes.

“Enough, you two,” Clare admonished with a smile.

“Okay, okay,” A.J. said with a laugh. “I bet you whip those kids into shape whenever you substitute-teach. In a nice way, of course. Their regular teacher is probably astounded at their good behavior when she gets back.”

Her smile fading, Clare looked down to fiddle with the strap on her purse. “I do my best. But I still have a lot to learn. It’s been so many years since I taught…it’s harder some days than others.”

A.J. and Morgan exchanged a look. “Hang in there, Clare,” Morgan said. “We’re here for you.”

“It does get easier. Not overnight. But bit by bit. Trust me,” A.J. added, her own voice a bit uneven.

As Clare reached over to squeeze A.J.’s hand, Morgan looked from one sister to the other. Both had known their share of trauma. More than their share, in fact. Yet they’d carried on, with courage and strength. She admired them for that, more than words could say. And she was also glad they were family. Because even though they had their differences, one thing remained steady. They always stood together, like the Three Musketeers—one for all and all for one. It gave Morgan a sense of comfort to know that her sisters loved her just as she was, and that she could count on them if she ever needed their support or help.

But she hadn’t done much in recent years to earn their love, she acknowledged. She kept in touch, but her contact with them was sporadic at best. A call here or there, a card on special occasions. Which wasn’t enough. Family was important, after all. And with Mom and Dad gone they were all she had now. On occasions like this when they were all together, Morgan was reminded that she should make more of an effort to keep their bond strong. And each time, she left with good intentions of staying in closer contact. But the demands of her career always undermined her resolution.

The door to the inner office opened, interrupting her thoughts, and the sisters turned their heads in unison toward Seth Mitchell.

For a long moment the distinguished, gray-haired attorney standing in the doorway studied Jo Warren’s three great-nieces with a look Morgan recognized at once. She’d seen it often enough in the business world. He was sizing them up. And Seth Mitchell was good at it. He didn’t reveal a single emotion as he took in A.J.’s long, unruly strawberry-blond hair, eclectic attire and interested expression. When he looked at her, Morgan was sure he noticed the sleek, shoulder-length style of her copper-colored hair, her chic business attire and her impatient expression. As for Clare—no doubt she fared the best, Morgan concluded. Her honey-gold hair, which was swept back into an elegant chignon, complemented her designer suit and Gucci purse. But did he also notice the deep, lingering sadness in her older sister’s eyes?

She didn’t have time to wonder, because he moved toward them. “Good morning, ladies. I’m Seth Mitchell. I recognize you from Jo’s description—A.J., Morgan, Clare,” he said, identifying the sisters in turn as he extended his hand to each. “Please accept my condolences on the loss of your aunt. She was a great lady.”

They murmured polite responses, and he motioned toward his office. “If you’re ready, we can proceed with the reading of the will.”

He didn’t speak again until they were all seated, at which point he picked up a hefty document. “I’ll give each of you a copy of your great-aunt’s will to take with you, so I don’t think there’s any reason to go through this whole document now. A lot of it is legalese, and there are some charitable bequests that you can review at your leisure. I thought we could restrict the formal reading to the section that affects each of you directly, if that’s agreeable.”

“Absolutely,” Morgan replied. “My plane for Boston leaves in less than three hours. I know Clare needs to get back to Kansas City, and A.J. has a long drive to Chicago.”

Seth looked at the other two sisters. When they nodded their assent, he flipped through the document to a marked page and began to read.

“‘Insofar as I have no living relatives other than my three great-nieces—the daughters of my sole nephew, Jonathan Williams, now deceased—I bequeath the bulk of my estate to them, in the following manner and with the following stipulations and conditions.

“‘To Abigail Jeanette Williams, I bequeath half ownership of my bookstore in St. Louis, Turning Leaves, with the stipulation that she retain ownership for a minimum of six months and work full-time in the store during this period. The remaining half ownership I bequeath to the present manager, Blake Sullivan, with the same stipulation.

“To Morgan Williams, I bequeath half ownership of Serenity Point, my cottage in Seaside, Maine, providing that she retains her ownership for a six-month period following my death and that she spends a total of four weeks in residence at the cottage. During this time she is also to provide advertising and promotional assistance for Good Shepherd Camp and attend board meetings as an advisory member. The remaining half ownership of the cottage I bequeath to Grant Kincaid of Seaside, Maine.

“To Clare Randall, I bequeath my remaining financial assets, except for those designated to be given to the charities specified in this document, with the stipulation that she serve as nanny for Nicole Wright, daughter of Dr. Adam Wright of Hope Creek, North Carolina, for a period of six months, at no charge to Dr. Wright.

“Should the stipulations and conditions for the aforementioned bequests not be fulfilled, the specified assets will be disposed of according to directions given to my attorney, Seth Mitchell. He will also designate the date on which the clock will begin ticking on the six-month period specified in my will.’” Seth lowered the document to his desk. “There you have it, ladies. I can provide more details on your bequests to each of you individually, but are there any general questions that I can answer?”

“Well, I might as well write mine off right now,” Morgan said in disgust. “There’s no way I can be away from the office for four days, let alone four weeks. And what is Good Shepherd Camp?”

“Who is this Dr. Wright?” Clare asked. “And what makes Aunt Jo think he would want me as a nanny?”

“When can I start?” A.J. asked.

“Let me take your questions and comments one at a time,” Seth said. “Morgan, you have the right to turn down the bequest, of course. But I would advise you to get some legal and financial counsel first. Jo bought that property years ago, when Seaside was just a quiet, backwater village. The area is now a bustling tourist mecca. So her property has increased significantly in value. As for how to meet your aunt’s residence stipulation—I’m afraid I can’t advise you on that. Good Shepherd is a summer camp in Maine for children from troubled homes. Your aunt has been involved with the organization for many years.”

He went on to answer Clare’s and A.J.’s questions, but Morgan tuned him out. This was so like Aunt Jo, she fumed. In life, she hadn’t approved of Morgan’s single-minded pursuit of success. In death, she’d done her best to derail it. In all honesty, Morgan hadn’t even expected to be remembered in her great-aunt’s will. Until Seth Mitchell had called to tell her she was a beneficiary, she’d expected nothing more than a cursory remembrance of some sort, if that. Instead, it sounded as if she’d been left a windfall. With strings. Strings that would require her to juggle the demands of her career with Aunt Jo’s stipulations.

It was not a task she relished.

Seth paused, and she tuned him back in when he began speaking again. “Let’s officially start the clock for the six-month period on December 1. That will give you about a month to make plans. Now, are there any more general questions?”

The three women looked at him, looked at each other, then shook their heads

“Very well.” He handed them each a manila envelope. “But do feel free to call if any come up as you review the will more thoroughly.” He rose, signaling the end of the meeting, and extended his hand to each sister in turn. “Again, my condolences on the death of your great-aunt. Jo had a positive impact on countless lives and will be missed by many people. I know she loved each of you very much, and that she wanted you to succeed in claiming your bequests.

“Good luck, ladies.”

As Morgan followed her sisters from the office, Seth Mitchell’s final words echoed in her mind. Luck would help, of course.

But she knew it was going to take a whole lot more than that for her to find a way to claim her inheritance.

Chapter One

“You’re working over Thanksgiving?”

Morgan heard the surprise—and disapproval—in Grant Kincaid’s voice, and frowned in annoyance. It was the same reaction she’d gotten from A.J., who had made it clear that she thought her sister was a workaholic without a life. Morgan hadn’t liked it then; she didn’t like it now.

“I happen to be committed to my job,” Morgan replied stiffly. “In my world, working on holidays is a way of life. That’s how you get ahead.”

She braced herself for another negative comment. But he surprised her.

“Well, just let me know when you plan to come up and I’ll have the cottage ready,” he said.

“I’ll do that. In the meantime, I’d like to get an appraisal done on the property.”

There was a note of caution in his voice when he responded. “May I ask why?”

Her patience waning, Morgan glanced at her watch. “It will be extremely difficult for me to meet the residency stipulation in my great-aunt’s will, Mr. Kincaid. I have trouble taking off four days, let alone four weeks. So before I spend a lot of time and energy trying to figure out how to juggle my life to allow for several weeks in Maine, I want to make sure it’s worth my while. Besides, we’ll need to get an appraisal before we sell, anyway.”

“You’re planning to sell?” He made no attempt to disguise the shock in his voice.

“Of course. What would I do with a cottage in Maine?”

“Maybe the same thing your aunt did. Spend time here, relax, regain perspective. It’s a beautiful spot.”

Morgan gave a frustrated sigh. “I’m sure it’s lovely, Mr. Kincaid. But as I explained, I have little time for that kind of thing.”

“The cottage was very special to your aunt.”

“I understand that. But holding on to a place I’ll never use doesn’t make good business sense. Of course you’d certainly be welcome to buy my share at the end of six months, assuming I even make it that far.”

“That’s kind of you. But the property is way out of my price range.”

Was there a touch of sarcasm in his comment? Morgan couldn’t be sure, but she didn’t have time to waste wondering about it. She had a presentation to finalize for a meeting that would be starting in less than an hour. Further discussion of Aunt Jo’s cottage would have to wait.

“Look, I need to run. We can talk about that at some point in the future. In the meantime, can you take care of the appraisal?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. I’ll try to get up to Maine soon. The cottage looks to be about a four-hour drive from Boston. Is that right?”

“More like five, if you’re not familiar with the back roads.”

“Okay. I’ll try to make a weekend trip soon.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

This time there was no mistaking the sarcasm in his tone. Nor the fact that he didn’t think much of her priorities. Just like her sister. Come to think of it, he and A.J. would have been ideal co-owners of the cottage, Morgan reflected. Too bad Aunt Jo hadn’t paired them up.

Grant replaced the receiver and turned to find his father watching him.

“I take it that was Jo’s great-niece?” Andrew Kincaid said.

“None other.”

“Sounded like an interesting conversation from this end.”

“Were you eavesdropping?” Grant asked with a smile.

“Of course. That’s what family is for,” he replied, his blue eyes twinkling.

Grant chuckled. He and his father didn’t have many secrets. Nor did anyone in his extended family. He’d always been close to his sister, Kit, and her husband, Bill, the pastor at their church. And he doted on his fifteen-year-old twin nieces. He also had a deep love and affection for his uncle, who worked with him and his dad in the cabinet shop. They were a small but close-knit bunch.

Except for his mother, of course.

Which brought him back to Morgan Williams.

“Interesting is a good way to describe the conversation.” He shook his head. “She’s a piece of work.”

“How so?”

“When I suggested she come up to take a look at the cottage over Thanksgiving, she told me she’d be working.”

“On Thanksgiving?”

“My exact reaction. And she did not appreciate it.”

“So when is she coming up?”

“Who knows? But in the meantime, she asked me to get an appraisal on the property, because she plans to sell.”

The older man pondered that. “How do you feel about letting the place go?”

Grant shrugged, but his eyes were troubled. “There won’t be much choice if she wants to sell, unless we can find someone who’s willing to buy her half and take me on as co-owner.”

“Maybe she’ll change her mind when she sees it.”

As Grant replayed their conversation in his mind, he shook his head. “I wouldn’t place any bets on that. She’s one tough cookie. A hard-nosed businesswoman through and through. I can’t figure out why Jo left the place to her.”

His father pulled on a pair of work gloves. “I imagine she had her reasons. Jo was a smart lady. I can’t remember her ever doing anything that didn’t make sense.”

“Well, there’s always a first time.” Grant reached for his own gloves. “Now let’s go sort through that load of maple.”

Morgan punched in the number for Good Shepherd Camp and drummed her fingers on the desk as she waited for someone to answer. At least this stipulation in her aunt’s will should be manageable. Serving as an advisory member of a charitable board for six months and offering a bit of advice on a fund-raising drive was a piece of cake compared to spending four weeks in a remote cottage on the coast of Maine.

The phone continued to ring, and Morgan was just about to hang up when someone answered.

“Good Shepherd Camp,” said a breathless female voice.

“Good morning. This is Morgan Williams. May I speak with the person in charge?”

Her crisp request was met with an amused chuckle. “You’ve got her. Mary Stanton. I’m the chief cook and bottle washer around here in the off-season. How can I help you?”

“Actually, it’s more like how I can help you.” Morgan explained the provision in Aunt Jo’s will. “So I just need to see how you’d like me to get involved,” she finished.

“I’d heard about your great-aunt’s death,” the woman said, her voice sympathetic. “She was a long-time supporter of the camp. Going back well before my time, in fact. I’m sorry for your loss. And ours.”

“I’m sure my great-aunt will be missed by many people.” Morgan kept her reply innocuous.

“I’m a bit surprised by the stipulation in her will, but we’re always happy to have more help. We run this operation on a shoestring. There are just a couple of full-time employees—me, in the office, and Joe Carroll at the camp, who does maintenance. He and his wife, Elizabeth, live there year-round. We beef up the paid staff a bit in the summer, but most of our counselors are volunteers. So we’re always looking for free help.” She paused as if considering the best next step. “I’ll tell you what. Let me have the president of the board give you a call to discuss your involvement. That’s really who you should talk to, since the board makes all the decisions, anyway. I’m just a worker bee,” the woman said with a laugh.

“That would be great. Let me give you my number.” As she did so, Clark, her boss, appeared at her door and began making urgent motions. “Um, look, I need to go. It seems some sort of crisis has arisen here.”

“Of course. We’ll be in touch. And thank you again. Good Shepherd Camp is a very worthwhile effort. Your time won’t be wasted.”

Morgan wasn’t sure she agreed. No matter how much or how little time she spent on Aunt Jo’s pet project, it was still time away from her job. And since she had her sights set on a top spot in the firm in the not-too-distant future, she couldn’t afford to let her focus waver.

But unfortunately, Aunt Jo had done her best to see that it did.

As Grant stared at the message from Mary Stanton, then read it again, a slow smile spread over his face. Morgan Williams must just love this, he thought with perverse enjoyment. Not only had Jo put a residency requirement in her bequest, she’d ordered her niece to help out at Good Shepherd. Morgan Williams didn’t strike him as the type of woman who liked to take orders. Which Jo must have known. So what was the older woman up to?

Grant didn’t have a clue. But it didn’t matter. Extra hands were always welcome at Good Shepherd, willing or not. As president of the board, he’d done his share of recruiting volunteers, and it wasn’t easy. People these days, even those who called themselves Christians, were too busy to take time out to help others. So he was glad Jo had recruited this “volunteer” for him. Morgan Williams might be reluctant, but they were in dire need of her expertise. The camp’s financial situation was precarious at best, and Grant was willing to do just about anything to shore up the coffers. Even conspiring with Jo’s workaholic niece.

The bell over the front door of the cabinet shop jangled, and Grant looked up to find his uncle juggling a large white bag, a tray of drinks and a stack of mail.

“I ran into Chuck at the sandwich shop and offered to take our mail off his hands,” Uncle Pete said, his usual ruddy face even redder, thanks to the biting wind.

“December’s a bear for the postal service. Figured I’d save him three stops. Where’s Andrew?”

“In the back.”

The older man peered at the slip of paper in Grant’s hand. “I see you got your message.”

“You could have let it roll to the answering machine.”

“Never did trust those things. Come on back. Let’s eat.”

Eying the bag, Grant shook his head, exasperation mingling with affection. “You don’t have to bring me lunch, Uncle Pete. I can take care of myself.”

“So what’re you going to eat today?”

“I’ll grab something on the way to Brunswick.”

The older man gave a skeptical snort. “I’ve heard that before. What’d you eat yesterday?”

Grant felt his neck grow warm. “I skipped lunch yesterday.”

“That’s what I figured. Come on back and eat. No more arguments.”

“How about a thank-you instead?”

“Not necessary,” Uncle Pete said, his voice gruff.

“Wish I could do more, in fact. You’ve had a tough time, still do, and if I want to help you out in little ways, let me. Come on back.”

Before Grant could respond, Uncle Pete headed for the back room. Grant took his time following. Thank you, Lord, for this loving family, he prayed, as he had so many times in the past two-and-a-half years. I couldn’t make it without them.

By the time Grant got to the worn pine table where the three men had shared so many lunches, his father had cleared off a spot and Uncle Pete was spreading out the food and sorting through the mail. He looked at the two men with affection as he moved a T-square and hand-drawn plans for a mahogany entertainment center off to the side. His bachelor uncle and his father had lived together ever since Grant had gone off to college. It had been a good arrangement, providing both men with much-needed companionship. They’d invited Grant to join them a couple of years ago, but for now he wanted to remain in the tiny bungalow where he’d known so much joy. Leaving it would somehow seem to signal a loss of hope.

Yet there were times when he was tempted to accept their offer. As much as he liked quiet, and as comfortable as he was with solitude, the loneliness…no, emptiness was a better word, he decided…sometimes got to him. Maybe someday he would move in with them, if… Grant cut off that thought. He wouldn’t let himself go there. He never did.

“Looks like your mother remembered your birthday,” Uncle Pete remarked, handing Grant a blue envelope with the logo of a well-known greeting card company on the back.

Grant took it without comment, laid it aside, and turned his attention to his turkey sandwich.

“It’s nice that she remembered,” his father commented.

“Yeah. Only a week late.” There was a bitter edge to Grant’s voice.

His father reached over and laid a work-worn hand on Grant’s shoulder. “Let it go, son. It’s ancient history now.”

“I can’t forget what she did, Dad. I don’t know how you can.”

“I haven’t forgotten. But I made my peace with it a long time ago. It’s time you did, too.”

Uncle Pete generally watched this exchange without a word. It had been replayed numerous times over the years—and always with the same result. But this time he spoke. “Andrew’s right, Grant. Give it to the Lord. Get on with your life.”

“What she did was wrong, Uncle Pete.”

“I’m not sayin’ it was right or wrong. Just that it’s over. Holdin’ on to anger don’t help nobody.”

Grant crumpled the paper that had held his sandwich, then tossed it into the bag. “I wish I could. You two put me to shame.”

“Hardly. What you’ve done these past two-and-a-half years would have finished me off,” his father said.

“I doubt that. I come from strong stock. Besides, people do what they have to do.”

“Not everybody,” Uncle Pete disagreed. “And you’ve never wavered all this time, either. You’re just as faithful now as you were at the beginning.”

Uncomfortable with the praise, Grant glanced at his watch. “Which reminds me. I need to run. I’ll be back by about two-thirty.”

“Take your time, son. And give her our best.”

“I always do. See you guys later. Thanks for lunch, Uncle Pete.”

“Glad to do it. Don’t forget to return that call.”

That brought a smile to Grant’s face. “It’s right at the top of my list as soon as I get back.”

As he walked down the quiet hallway, Grant raised his hand in greeting to the woman behind the desk. “Hi, Ruth. Any change?” He’d been asking the same question for more than two years. And getting the same answer.

“No. She’s holding her own.”

He continued down the hall, stopping outside the familiar room where he’d spent so many hours. He took a deep breath, then stepped inside, closing the door halfway behind him.

After all this time, he still harbored a faint hope that one day he’d walk into the extended-care facility and find his wife waiting to greet him with her sweet smile. But he was always disappointed. Though less so now. Hope, once strong, had dimmed as days became weeks, and months became years.

Grant moved beside the bed and stared down at the face of the woman who had stolen his heart, the woman to whom he had pledged his life six-and-a-half years ago—for better or worse—before God. And he’d meant every word of that vow. He just hadn’t expected the worst to happen so quickly, just four short years into their marriage. Now the woman around whom he’d planned his future, the woman with whom he’d hoped to raise a family, the woman with whom he’d wanted to grow old, lay suspended between life and death, her once-strong limbs wasted, her passionate, laughter-filled eyes shuttered.

Closing his eyes, Grant took a steadying breath.

Lord, give me strength to carry on, he prayed. I don’t know why you’ve given Christine and me this cross to bear, but I place my trust in you. Please continue to watch over us.

He left his eyes closed for a long moment, drawing what solace he could from the prayer he uttered every day at his wife’s bedside. Then he leaned down to kiss her cool forehead, reaching over to take her unresponsive hand in his. “Hi, Christine. It’s Grant. I brought a new novel I thought you’d enjoy. And the Bible, of course. But first I’ll give you all the family news.”

He sat beside her, keeping her hand in his, and talked with her about his surprising bequest from Jo, filled her in on the latest commissions they’d received at the shop, and reminded her how much everyone missed her. It was a routine he’d begun soon after the accident, at the suggestion of her doctors, who had told him that comatose people could sometimes hear voices. They’d encouraged him to share his day with her, to read to her, saying that it might make a difference in her recovery. They didn’t push him to do that anymore. But he still continued the practice.

At the end of an hour, he opened the Bible to Psalms and picked up where he’d left off the day before. He always ended his visits with the Good Book, and today the verse seemed especially appropriate.

“‘Only in God be at rest, my soul, for from Him comes my hope,’” Grant read, his voice mellow and deep and steady. “‘He only is my rock and my salvation, my stronghold; I shall not be disturbed. With God is my safety and my glory, he is the rock of my strength; my refuge is in God. Trust in Him at all times, O my people! Pour out your hearts before Him; God is our refuge.’”

As Grant closed the book, he let the words soothe his soul. Then he stood and once more leaned down to press his lips to Christine’s forehead.

“Rest well, sweetheart. Never forget how much I love you,” he whispered.

Grant moved to the door, taking one final look at Christine’s still form. As he stepped outside, Ruth was just passing by.

“See you tomorrow,” she said.

Grant nodded. “I’ll be here.”

Chapter Two

“Morgan Williams.”

As her voice came over the wire, Grant’s lip tipped up into wry grin. He’d tried her office number first, somehow knowing she’d still be there at eight o’clock at night. And her tone captured her personality to perfection. Crisp. Pleasant. Efficient. Businesslike. Except the pleasant part might go out the window when she found out why he was calling.

“Ms. Williams, it’s Grant Kincaid.”

He could almost hear her frown over the phone, and when she spoke her voice held an edge of impatience.

“What can I do for you?”

“I think the question is, what can you do for me?”

Her sigh was audible. “Look, Mr. Kincaid, I don’t have time for riddles. Is there a problem with the cottage?”

“First of all, since I expect we’ll be talking quite a bit for the next few months, can we dispense with the formality? Just call me Grant. Second, this isn’t about the cottage. It’s about Jo’s requirement that you assist with Good Shepherd Camp.”

“How do you know about that?” She sounded surprised—and wary.

“I’m president of the board.”

He expected her to groan. But if she did, she hid it well.

“I see,” she replied tersely.

“I understand from Mary that you are to provide advertising and promotional assistance for Good Shepherd and attend board meetings as an advisory member for the next six months. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know anything about the camp?”

“No.”

Nor did she want to, if her tone was any indication.

“I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I send you some literature? That will give you a lot of background. The board doesn’t meet in December, so you’re off the hook until January. But you’ll be a welcome addition. The camp is in pretty serious financial straits, and we need to come up with a way to generate significant income. Some sort of advertising or promotional campaign may be the answer. So we can use your expertise.”

“I don’t have any experience in the non-profit area, Mr. Kincaid. So don’t get your hopes up.”

“It’s Grant,” he reminded her. “And any help you can provide will be much appreciated. The camp is a very worthwhile cause, and we want to do everything possible to make sure it stays solvent. A lot of lives have been changed for the better because of Good Shepherd. All of the kids who go there have some kind of problem. They come from broken or abusive homes, or they’ve had run-ins with the law, or they have minor physical disabilities that have led to social or emotional problems. The camp experience has been a godsend for countless young people.”

Even though Morgan had little personal interest in the project, she was struck by the passion and conviction in Grant’s voice. She may not like the man, but she admired his willingness to help those less fortunate.

“I’ll look over whatever you want to send when I have a minute,” she promised.

“Okay. On a different subject, any idea when you’ll be coming up to the cottage?”

Good question. She’d gotten the appraisal, and Seth Mitchell had been right. The property was far too valuable to toss aside. So she had to give this her best shot. She glanced at her schedule, which was packed, as always. But Christmas was on a Saturday, she noted. Which meant the office would be closed Friday and Monday. So she could make a long weekend of it without missing any official work time.

“Probably over the holiday. Would you be available to meet on Christmas Eve?”

“Sorry, no. I have family activities planned for that day,” he said, making no attempt to hide his disapproval.

“Could we make it Monday?”

“How about Sunday?” she countered.

“I usually reserve Sunday for God. And family.”

Morgan expelled a frustrated breath. She’d hoped to leave on Sunday and put in a full day at the office on Monday, even though the firm was closed. But Grant didn’t sound as if he was going to bend. “Okay,” she relented. “As long as we can make it early.” At least she’d be able to get in half a day of work.

“No problem. If you give me your number, I’ll fax you directions to the cottage.”

After complying, Morgan ended the call and tried to turn her attention back to the latest campaign she was developing for a new brand of soft drink. But it wasn’t easy.

Although, she’d more or less resigned herself to the fact that she’d have to be civil to Grant for the next few months, however much his obvious disapproval rankled her, she’d consoled herself with the knowledge that she really wouldn’t have to communicate much with him. However, if he was chairman of the board of Good Shepherd, there was very little chance she could avoid talking with him on a regular basis. Which was not a good thing, since they were about as compatible as the proverbial oil and water.

Plus, the clock had started ticking on Aunt Jo’s six-month window, and Morgan figured she’d be spending two, maybe three days at the cottage in December. Tops. It didn’t take a math genius to figure out that at this rate, there was no way she was going to meet the four-week residency requirement.

She had to come up with a better plan.

So much for a good night’s sleep. As the crash of the surf and the howling wind outside Aunt Jo’s cottage jarred her awake for the umpteenth time, Morgan peered bleary-eyed at the illuminated face of her travel alarm. Twelve-thirty.

Merry Christmas, she thought grumpily.

She scrunched her pillow under her head, pulled the blankets up to her ears, and tried by sheer force of will to ignore the unfamiliar sounds of the elements raging outside her window. But it was no use. It was too noisy and she was too tense.

Morgan had ended up working until midafternoon on Christmas Eve, and by the time she’d arrived in Maine and wandered for what seemed like hours on the back roads in search of Aunt Jo’s isolated cottage, she’d been forced to contend not only with the dark, but with sleet, snow and ferocious wind.

When she’d at last pulled to a stop in front of the weathered clapboard structure, she’d had to sit in her car for a full minute until her nerves stopped vibrating. She’d ruined her twenty-dollar manicure as she’d tried without success to pry open her frozen trunk. She’d slipped and slid toward the door in her high-fashion, expensive boots, which had not been designed for the backwoods of Maine. And she’d lost her Saks scarf in a tug-of-war with the gale-force winds.

It had not been an auspicious arrival.

Taking a deep breath, Morgan tried to force herself to relax, but sleep remained elusive. Finally, when the first light of dawn began to creep in under the window shades, she gave up. If she was the praying type, she’d send a desperate plea heavenward for a fortifying cup of coffee. As it was she just crossed her fingers and headed for the kitchen.

But a quick search of the pantry turned up only Spartan supplies—two cans of soup, some stale crackers, salt and pepper, a can of tuna and a couple of stray tea bags. She wasn’t much of a tea drinker, but at this point she’d settle for anything with caffeine.

As she filled a mug with water and put it in the microwave, she glanced around. The cottage might have appeared rustic on the outside, but Aunt Jo had created an impressive kitchen. Though compact, it was very functional, with state-of-the-art stainless-steel appliances. And the adjacent eating area, tucked into a bay window that afforded a clear view of the churning waves in the gun-metal-gray water of early dawn, was inviting.

After making her tea, Morgan wandered into the living room. Despite their philosophical differences, she had to admit that Aunt Jo had good taste. The bright walls were hung with what looked like original paintings and watercolors, and plaid and chintz fabrics in cheerful colors covered the upholstered furniture. A small deck opened off the living room, again affording a panoramic vista of the ocean just seventy or eighty feet away.

As she stood at the window sipping her tea, dawn began to stain the sky an ethereal pink. She watched, transfixed, as the color deepened and spread, dispersing as the sun crept over the horizon. It seemed the storm had passed, for the sky was clear now and the wind had all but disappeared. As the sun rose higher, its rays reached out to touch the ice-encased trees and the snow-laden boughs of the fir trees, turning the scene into a magical, sparkling wonderland and filling the world with dazzling, brilliant light.

Which was a good thing. Because all at once the lights in the cottage flickered and went out.

With a look of dismay—and a sudden feeling of fore-boding—Morgan walked over to the phone and picked it up. Dead. Why wasn’t she surprised? So far, nothing about this trip had gone as planned. And with the electricity out, she could pretty much write off the possibility of getting much work done once her laptop battery gave out, she thought in disgust.

Setting her tea aside, she fumbled in her purse for her cell phone. She didn’t have much hope that it would function in this remote area, but it was worth a try. She’d promised to call Clare and A.J., who were spending Christmas together in North Carolina.

Much to her surprise, she got a signal, and a moment later Clare answered.

“Morgan! Did you get to Aunt Jo’s cottage okay? We heard on the news that there was a pretty bad storm in Maine, and we’ve been worried.”

“I’m here, safe and sound,” Morgan assured her.

“So how’s the cottage?”

“Remote. Isolated. And without electricity or phone right now. I’m on my cell.”

“Do you have heat?”

“I spotted a kerosene heater, so I should be okay. This must happen on a regular basis.”

“So what are you going to do today?”

Morgan dropped into a chintz-covered chair. “Well, I’d planned to work, but without electricity my laptop won’t last long.”

“Maybe you could think about going to church. After all, it is Christmas. Remember how we all used to go together early in the morning, then come home and open presents? And Mom always made a wonderful dinner. I can still taste her roast lamb and oven-browned potatoes.”

Morgan glanced at the cans of soup and tuna she’d taken out of the pantry, along with the stale crackers. It was a far cry from the holiday meals of her childhood, when she’d been surrounded by family in a house filled with love.

“Yeah, I remember,” she replied, her lips curving into a wistful smile. “Those were good years.”

“I wish you were here, Morgan. We miss you. And I hate for you to spend Christmas alone.”

“I miss you guys, too. But I’m used to being alone, so don’t worry about me. Can you put A.J. on?”

“Sure.”

After a few seconds of silence, her younger sister spoke. “So what’s this about working on Christmas?”

“Don’t start with me, A.J.,” Morgan warned.

“Hey, I only have your best interests at heart. Nobody should work on Christmas. It’s a day for God and family. So just chill out and relax for once. Maybe even go to church, like Clare suggested. It couldn’t hurt, you know.”

“I haven’t decided yet what I’m going to do.”

“What are you having for dinner?”

Again, Morgan glanced at her meager supplies. She’d planned to stop and pick up a few things during the drive yesterday, but she’d gotten a late start, and when the weather turned bad she’d just kept going. She’d tossed a couple of frozen microwave dinners in the car with her luggage, but even if she could get the trunk open, the dinners weren’t going to be of much use without electricity.

“I’m not sure yet.”

“We’re having roast chicken with garlic mashed potatoes, and Clare made a wonderful chocolate mousse for dessert.”

Morgan’s mouth started to water. “Think of me while you’re eating.”

“You know we will. Listen, Morgan, Clare was right. We miss you.”

“I miss you, too. How’s it going at the bookshop?”

“Okay, I guess.” A.J. said with a chuckle. “But I think I’m driving my partner, Mr. Conventional, nuts. He’s the Oxford-shirt-wearing, let’s-plan-everything-out-down-to-the-last-detail type.”

Morgan laughed. “And how’s Clare doing with her assignment from Aunt Jo?”

“She seems to be ensconced in the Wright household. But I’d say she has her work cut out for her with the good doctor and his problem child.”

“Well, tell her I wish her luck. And stay in touch, okay?”

“You, too. Merry Christmas.”

As the line went dead, Morgan felt oddly bereft. She’d told Clare that she was used to being alone, and that was true enough. She liked her independence, and she’d created the precise life she wanted. But as she recalled the happy Christmases of her youth, she wished now that she could have found a way to join her sisters for the holiday. All at once the notion of spending the entire day alone, with only her work for company, held no appeal. Maybe she’d drive into Seaside and try to scrounge up some food. And if she saw a church, maybe—just maybe—she’d stop. After all, as both A.J. and Clare had reminded her, it was Christmas.

The trunk of her car was more cooperative this morning, and after a quick shower and change of clothes, Morgan tackled the drive into Seaside. The snow-covered roads were far easier to negotiate in the daylight, and within fifteen minutes she was in the tiny town. Maybe she’d find a nice restaurant or café and have a decent Christmas dinner after all, she thought, her sprits rising as she turned onto the main street.

But there was one little problem.

The streets were deserted and everything was closed and locked up.

As Morgan sat in her car debating her next move, a tall white spire in the distance caught her eye. She wasn’t in the mood for church, but a twinge of guilt about her lapsed faith niggled at her conscience. And it wasn’t as if she had anything else to do. Including eat, she thought, with one more glum look around the shuttered town. Besides, it might be nice to attend services, for old time’s sake. If nothing else, it would break up what otherwise promised to be a long, empty day. At least she could check it out. If she happened upon a service, great. If not…well, then it wasn’t meant to be.

But as Morgan drove past the church, the steady in-flux of people made it clear that she was just in time for a ten o’clock service. A wry smile tipped up the corners of her mouth. Clare and A.J. would be pleased to find their wayward sister back in the fold—at least for one day.

Morgan found a parking spot down the street and made her way toward the tall spire that rose in splendor toward the cobalt-blue sky. As she slipped into the back of the spruce-and poinsettia-bedecked church, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, the choir was singing a pre-service program of familiar carols. And with sudden vividness and poignancy, memories of her childhood came rushing back—memories of the warm and loving family she had been blessed with, of a life that was simple but good, of the sense of security she’d always felt as she’d observed the steady, deep love between her parents.

Over the years, those happy, younger days had become just a distant recollection, but today the memories were startling in their intensity, perhaps because the setting reminded her of the Christmas services they’d all attended together in a church very similar to this one. It had been a holiday ritual.

But everything had changed forever the year her father died. Her sense of security had been shattered as her mother struggled to hang on to the farm her husband had loved. Clare had gone off to college. And life had never been the same again. She had left, when the time came, without a backward glance. Yet in this place, on this day, she wished she could recapture that sense of closeness, of family, that had once been such an integral part of her life. Her eyes grew misty, and she bowed her head, hoping no one would observe her uncharacteristic display of emotion.

But she wasn’t quick enough. Grant was making his way back down the aisle to retrieve his father’s glasses from the car when he noticed the striking woman with the dark copper-colored hair seated in a back corner, alone. In the instant before she bowed her head, he caught the glimmer of unshed tears in her eyes. His step faltered, but he quickly regained his stride. The woman was a stranger to him, and whatever her problem, it was none of his concern.

Still, he was curious. He knew most of the members of the congregation, even the ones who only attended services on special days. In fact, he knew most, if not all, of the year-round residents in town. And though Seaside was becoming a summertime mecca for those seeking peace and quiet, it had few visitors in the off season. The woman could be someone’s relative, visiting for the holiday, he supposed. But if that was the case, why was she here alone? Especially on a day that most people spent with those they loved?

Grant knew he should just forget about the woman. He’d probably never see her again. But his brief glimpse of her had left him disturbed. Because in her eyes he’d seen what he had often experienced these past two-and-a-half years, despite his faith and the love and support of his extended family. Loss. Abandonment. Emptiness. And the sense that things would never be the same again.

Grant knew there was nothing he could do about his own situation except pray. Which he did. Every day. And that gave him great comfort.

But from the desolate look in her eyes, he somehow sensed that the solitary woman in the back of church didn’t have that kind of faith to rely on, that despite her presence here today, she didn’t expect to find any solace in the Lord. And perhaps she wouldn’t even try.

So he did it for her.

Lord, please watch over Your daughter, who seems in need of comfort. Let her feel Your healing presence and give her guidance, as You have done for me. And on this Christmas Day, don’t let her feel alone or abandoned. Instead, let her feel Your love and care in a tangible way. Amen.

Chapter Three

The low-battery light gave an ominous blink, and as Morgan shut down her laptop in frustration, her stomach rumbled. Again.

Her foray into Seaside to buy food had been useless, so she’d had to make do with the meager provisions in the cottage. And she was rationing those. Which wasn’t easy, since her last real meal had been a late lunch yesterday. So far, she’d eaten one can of cold soup and a few crackers, all the while thinking about the meal A.J. and Morgan had planned. The pitiful can of soup, tin of tuna and handful of crackers that remained just depressed her, so she knew she needed to do something to distract herself. Namely, more work.

Her face resolute, she moved her laptop aside, reached for her bulging briefcase, and withdrew the latest layouts and copy for an upcoming ad campaign. Looking at photos of toothpaste and reading about the merits of the product wasn’t the most exciting activity for Christmas Day, but it had to be done sooner or later. And since she had nothing else planned for the day, she might as well get it over with.

But as Morgan tried to focus on the layouts, she found her attention wandering to the scene outside the bay window. It was just as lovely in the early afternoon as it had been this morning. The view of the sea was framed by a few fir trees, and there appeared to be a small beach. The rough water was dotted with frothy whitecaps that peaked and dissolved in rapid succession, and the vast expanse of open sea was mesmerizing. She set her pen aside and propped her chin in her hand, the ad copy forgotten for the moment.

A sudden knock on the door startled her out of her reverie, and she looked toward it in surprise—and with more than a little trepidation. No one in town knew she was here except Grant Kincaid. And he was unlikely to make an appearance on a holiday, she thought wryly. In Boston, she never answered the door without having the security guard in her building screen visitors. However, she didn’t have that luxury out here. And this was a pretty isolated spot.

She reached for her cell phone, then made her way to the door and checked for a peephole. No luck. She moved to the window. A pickup truck was parked next to her sporty car, but she couldn’t get a glimpse of her visitor from this angle.

Another knock sounded, this time with a bit more force, and she moved back to the door. At least there was a chain lock. Not that that would do her much good if someone was determined to get in. But it would slow them down while she called 911.

Sliding back the chain, Morgan opened the door just enough to peer out with one eye. A man with vivid blue eyes and neatly trimmed sandy brown hair stood on the other side, dressed in a wool topcoat with a scarf wrapped around his neck. He appeared to be several inches taller than Morgan, maybe close to six feet. And he definitely did not look like a derelict.

“May I help you?” she said, her voice muffled through the door.

“I’m Grant Kincaid. May I come in?”

Morgan’s eyes widened. “Of course. Sorry for the caution, but I’m a big-city girl. I wasn’t expecting anyone today.” She slid the lock back, then moved behind the door as she opened it to give him access to the small entry area.

Stepping inside, Grant pulled off his gloves while she shut the door behind him. “Sorry to disturb you on Christmas, but…” His voice died as he turned and found himself face to face with the woman he’d seen in church. The one who had been fighting off tears, who had looked so alone and sad. Which was not at all the image he’d formed of Morgan Williams. In his mind, he’d come to think of her as cold, calculating and rather hard. This slender woman, dressed in black slacks and a soft angora sweater the exact color of her jade-green eyes, didn’t look hard at all.

But there was surprise on both sides The man with whom she shared ownership of this cottage wasn’t at all what Morgan had expected, either. For some reason she’d thought he would be older. But he looked to be only in his late thirties. And what was the reason for that odd expression on his face? As the silence lengthened, she grew uncomfortable. “Is something wrong?” she asked at last.

Grant forced himself to take a deep breath. “Sorry for staring. I was expecting a stranger, but I saw you in church this morning.”

“A rare occurrence, I assure you,” Morgan told him, feeling hot color steal up her neck. “But it is Christmas. And I didn’t have anything else to do. With the electricity out, I knew I wouldn’t get much work done today once my laptop battery died. I see you found my scarf.”

He held it out. “A fir tree out front was wearing it. The wind here can be pretty fierce.”

“So I discovered last night. Thanks for rescuing this.” She draped the black cashmere scarf over a convenient chair. “What brings you over on a holiday?” she asked, emphasizing the last word.

She was sounding more and more like the Morgan he’d dealt with before, Grant thought.

“I tried to call several times yesterday to make sure you’d arrived safely and had settled in, but you never answered. Then, when I called this morning, I discovered the phones weren’t working. I also heard the electricity was out in parts of the peninsula, and Jo’s cottage is often affected when that happens. So I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” He glanced toward the fireplace. “I laid a fire in the grate, but I see you discovered the back-up kerosene heaters. Is everything else okay?”

Morgan looked at the fireplace. She hadn’t even noticed the stacked kindling, waiting to be lit. She was touched by the thoughtful gesture—and by his visit. Even though it was Christmas, Grant had gone out of his way to check on her. For the first time since his arrival, there was genuine warmth in her voice when she replied.

“Yes, thank you. I’m sorry to have interrupted your holiday.”

“I was on my way to my sister’s, so it wasn’t a problem. Did you find the candles?” He started to pull his gloves back on.

“I didn’t even look. It was already light when the electricity went out.”

“There should be some on the bottom shelf of the credenza by the table. Let me check.”

As he moved through the living room and into the dining area, he glanced at the table. Morgan was sure his perceptive eyes missed nothing—neither the ad copy spread across the surface nor the soup, tuna and crackers. She expected him to make some comment about working on Christmas, but when he turned back to her, his question surprised her. “Is that your dinner?”

“I planned to stop on the way up and get a few things, but I left the office late and the weather turned bad, so I just kept driving. I have a couple of frozen microwave dinners, though, if the electricity ever comes back on.”

“That could take a while.”

“Well, at least I won’t have to worry about gaining weight over the holiday,” she said with a rueful smile.

“Besides, I’m sure the stores in town will be open tomorrow. I can stock up on what I need then.”

But that didn’t solve her problem today. Instead of responding, Grant turned and pulled open the door of the credenza, crouching down to check out the bottom shelf—and buy himself some time. He and Morgan might be reluctant partners with major philosophical differences, but he didn’t feel right about leaving her alone to eat tuna and a bowl of cold soup on Christmas Day. Not when Kit always made enough food for an army and would be the first to invite Morgan to join them if she was here. Even though Morgan wouldn’t be among Grant’s first choice of holiday guests, he couldn’t in good conscience leave her out in the cold, figuratively speaking. Not after just listening this morning to the familiar Christmas tale about no room in the inn. And not after his prayer in church, when he’d asked the Lord to let Morgan feel His love and care in a tangible way. It seems that he’d been appointed the instrument to make that happen. Maybe God had a sense of humor, he thought, a smile quirking the corners of his mouth.

Standing, he brushed off his hands. “Looks like you’re well-fixed for candles. And I found a flashlight, too.” He flicked it on and off, verifying that the battery was still working, then set it on the top of the credenza.

“Thanks again for stopping by,” Morgan said.

“Look, why don’t you join us for dinner?” Grant said before his charitable impulse deserted him. “My sister, Kit, always makes plenty, and she won’t mind one more guest.”

Startled, Morgan shook her head. “I couldn’t do that. It would be too much of an imposition, especially on Christmas. Besides, I’m not that hungry. This will be fine. But I do appreciate the thought.”

Okay. He’d done his Christian duty by inviting her to dinner, and she’d refused. So he was off the hook. He could walk away and enjoy the afternoon with his family, Grant rationalized.

But for some reason, the image of Morgan in church, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, kept replaying in his mind. She didn’t strike him as someone who often gave in to such displays of emotion. Although she seemed to be fine now, he couldn’t forget that moment in church. Or the pain he’d seen in her eyes. And for that reason, even more than basic Christian charity, he felt the need to make one more try.

“Are you sure I can’t tempt you with prime rib and glazed carrots and homemade rolls, not to mention a fabulous white chocolate raspberry cheesecake?”

Morgan’s resolution wavered. She glanced at the proofs spread across the table, then at her meager dinner. Neither were appealing. But she couldn’t just barge in on Grant’s family. It wouldn’t be right. “I can’t do that to your sister, Grant. But I do appreciate the invitation.”

Hesitating only for a moment, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a cell phone.

“What are you doing?” she asked, puzzled.

“Calling Kit. I’ll double check, if that will make you feel better about it.”

“Oh, no, please don’t put her on the spot like…”

“Kit? It’s Grant. Listen, I’m at the cottage with Jo’s niece. There’s no electricity here and she didn’t have a chance to stop and buy any groceries. All she’s got is a can of soup and some tuna.” There was a pause before Grant spoke again. “That’s what I told her. But she doesn’t want to impose.” Another pause. “Okay. I’ll put her on.”

He held the phone out to Morgan, who had no choice but to take it.

“This is Morgan.”

“Morgan? Kit Adams. I hear you’re in need of a meal.” The woman’s voice was friendly and open.

“As a matter of fact, I’m not. I told Grant that what I had was fine. I’m sorry he bothered you.”

“He’d be a lot sorrier if he hadn’t and I found out later what you had for Christmas dinner. Trust me, I have enough food to feed a dozen people, let alone eight. Please come. Jo was very special to us, and she always came for dinner if she was here on a holiday. We’d be honored to have you in her place.”

Grant was leaning against the island that separated the kitchen from the dining area, arms folded across his chest, an I-told-you-so look on his face when she looked his way.

There didn’t seem to be any polite way to decline the invitation. Not that Morgan wanted to. As the day had worn on, her thoughts had drifted with increasing frequency to A.J. and Clare and Christmases past. She’d felt more and more alone, and her work had grown less and less appealing. Now, thanks to Grant and his sister, she had another option.

“All right. If you’re sure it’s no trouble?”

“None at all. We’ll see you in a few minutes.”

Hitting the Off button, Morgan handed the phone back to Grant. “Your sister is very persuasive.”

For the first time since he’d arrived he gave her a genuine smile, and Morgan felt her heart beat double-time. Of course she’d noticed that Grant was a nice-looking man. But that smile…it transformed his face, and in the blink of an eye he went from nice-looking to heart-stopping handsome. Morgan met lots of attractive men in her business, but most of them knew they were good-looking. The appealing thing about Grant Kincaid was that he seemed completely unaware of his charm. Which made it all the more potent.

“Tell me about it. Kit is very diplomatic but single-minded. Most of the time she accomplishes whatever she sets out to do,” Grant replied, his voice tinged with affection. “How soon can you be ready to leave? Kit is pretty laid-back about most things, but when she plans a big dinner, she expects her guests to be on time.” He checked his watch, revealing a crisp white cuff and gold cuff link below the sleeve of a dark-gray suit. “I figure we’ve got thirty minutes, at best.”

Morgan looked from his formal attire to her black pants and angora sweater, feeling underdressed. “I didn’t bring any fancy clothes for this weekend.”

He gave her a quick but thorough once-over. “You’re fine just like that. I’m going to change into more casual clothes when I get to Kit’s. I just went right from church to…I had another stop to make.”

“In that case, give me five minutes.”

Morgan took only enough time to run a comb through her hair and touch up her makeup before rejoining Grant in the living room. He stood when she entered, then reached for her coat and held it as she slid her arms inside.

“Thanks,” she murmured, turning to face him as she buttoned it. “I’ll just follow you there.”

“It might be better if I drove you. These back roads can be tricky.”

She smiled, but she wanted to be able to leave at the time of her choosing without disrupting the party for anyone else. When she spoke, her voice was firm. “I found that out last night, after I drove in circles for an hour. But I’ve already been to town today and I have a better sense of direction now. Thank you for offering, though.”

Given the determined tilt of her chin and the uncompromising expression in her eyes, it was clear that her mind was made up. So Grant didn’t push. “Okay. Let’s head out.”

He took her arm as they made their way across the slippery drive, his grip tightening when she lost her footing on a patch of ice.

When he glanced at her boots, she gave him a wry smile. “Don’t even say it. These were bought for the streets of Boston, not the wilds of Maine. And, as I discovered last night, the two do not mix. I’ll be better prepared on my next trip.”

“Well, be careful in the meantime. Falling on ice can have nasty, long-term results. I have a bad knee to prove it.”

Once in her car, Morgan took her time maneuvering out of Aunt Jo’s driveway and then turned onto the main road, keeping Grant’s truck in sight. He headed back toward Seaside and into the town, turning down a side street not too far from the church she’d attended that morning. When he pulled into the drive of a small, colonial-style house with dark green shutters, she eased in behind him. Even before she’d set her brake and gathered up her purse, he was opening her door.

“Looks like Bill cleared off the walk pretty well, but take my arm just in case there are any hidden patches of ice,” Grant said as Morgan stepped out.

She did as he asked, and as they made their way toward the front door she turned to him. “Did you say there would be eight people here today?”

“That’s right. Kit, her husband, Bill, and their twin daughters, Nancy and Nicki, who are fifteen. My dad and uncle will be here, too, and us. So it’s a small group.”

“Is that the whole family?”

A shaft of pain darted across his eyes, so fleeting that Morgan wondered if she might have imagined it. “Pretty much,” he replied.

So he had no family of his own, Morgan concluded. She hadn’t noticed a wedding band on his hand, but that didn’t always mean anything. Not all men wore rings. And it didn’t matter, anyway. She had no interest in him in that way. It was clear they led very different lives and had very different philosophies. But many women would find an attractive, eligible man like Grant appealing. So why was he single?

Morgan’s musings were cut short when Grant pressed the bell at the front door and it was opened seconds later by a man with dark hair touched with silver at the temples. It was the same man who had conducted the services that morning at church, she realized in surprise. From the pulpit, he’d struck her as a kind person. Up close, her impression was verified. The fine lines on his face spoke of compassion and caring, and his hazel eyes radiated warmth and welcome.

“Hi, Bill,” Grant greeted him. “This is Morgan Williams. Morgan, my brother-in-law, Bill Adams.”

The man held out his hand. “Welcome, Morgan.”

She returned his handshake. “Thank you. I enjoyed your sermon this morning, Reverend.”

“Just make it Bill. We don’t stand on formalities around here. But I appreciate the kind words. Come in, both of you, before you freeze out there.”

Grant ushered Morgan inside, and a petite, raven-haired woman with lively brown eyes and a warm smile hurried down the hall from the back of the house. “You must be Morgan,” she said, holding out both hands. “I’m Kit. Welcome. I’m glad we persuaded you to join us today. Serenity Point is wonderful, but holidays are meant to be spent with other people.”

Two older gentlemen joined them from the adjacent living room. They both shared Grant’s vivid blue eyes, but there the resemblance faded. One of the men was tall and spare, though not quite as tall as Grant. He had thinning gray hair and a work-worn face with kind eyes. The other man was a couple of inches shorter and a bit heavier, with a thick head of silver hair and ruddy cheeks.

Grant drew Morgan toward them, a hand in the small of her back. “Morgan, this is my father, Andrew, and my uncle, Pete.”

They reached for her hand in turn.

“Welcome,” Grant’s father said.

“Thank you, Mr. Kincaid.”

“Just make it Andrew and Pete,” he told her. “Otherwise, this place will be drowning in Mr. Kincaids. And I’d like to offer my condolences on the loss of your aunt. Jo was a fine lady. We were all real sorry to hear of her passing.”

“Thank you.”

“Where are the twins?” Grant asked.

“Upstairs, trying on their new clothes. Speaking of clothes, let us take your coats.”

Bill reached for Morgan’s coat as she slipped it off her shoulders, while Grant shrugged out of his and handed it to Kit. She reached up to give him a hug, and Morgan couldn’t help overhearing their brief, muted conversation.

“Did you stop in to see Christine?” Kit asked.

“Yes.”

“Did you give her our love?”

“Of course.”

Morgan glanced toward them just in time to see Kit lay her hand on Grant’s shoulder while the brother and sister exchanged a look that Morgan couldn’t even begin to fathom. All she knew was that she felt as if she’d witnessed some very personal exchange. Feeling like an eavesdropper, she turned away and made an innocuous comment to Andrew about the weather.

When they moved into the living room, Grant excused himself so he could change into more casual clothing. And as Morgan’s gaze followed his retreating form, lingering on his broad shoulders, she couldn’t help wondering: who was Christine?

“Okay, Bill, I think we’re ready.”

As Kit reached for her husband’s hand, the other seven people around the table followed her example. Morgan found her hand taken on one side by Andrew, whose fingers were lean and sinewy, and on the other side by Grant, whose grip was firm, yet gentle—a combination she found very appealing.

Bill bowed his head. “Lord, we thank You for the gifts of family, friendship and food we enjoy this Christmas Day. We appreciate the many blessings You give us today, and every day. As we reflect on Your humble birth and Your great example of selfless love, let us come to know and live Your message every day of our lives so that others may see, and believe. We ask You to bless all those who are alone and lonely on this day, and to let them feel Your presence in a special way. And finally, we ask You to bless those who can’t be with us today in body, but who are always in our hearts. Amen.”

Grant released her hand, and Morgan found herself missing the comfort of his warm clasp. Which was odd, considering she’d just met the man. But she didn’t have time to dwell on her disconcerting reaction, because the conversation was boisterous and non-stop throughout the meal, filled with laughter and good-natured teasing. The bubbly twins, who had inherited their mother’s raven hair and bright, animated eyes, added to the liveliness, and Morgan found herself relaxing. She even forgot about work—until her pager began to vibrate.

She reached for it and gave the message a discreet look, noting that it was from Clark. One of her clients had come up with some brilliant idea for a new ad campaign, which in his opinion couldn’t wait until tomorrow. He expected Morgan to return his call today.

Placing her napkin on the table, she rose. “I’m sorry, will you excuse me for a moment? I need to return a page.”

The table fell silent, and Kit looked at her in alarm. “Is there an emergency?”

“Only in the eyes of my client.”

“You mean someone wants you to return a business call today?” Kit asked in shock.

Morgan glanced around the table. Everyone looked dumbfounded—except Grant, who didn’t appear at all surprised, just disapproving. Morgan felt a flush creep across her cheeks. These sorts of interruptions, day or night, holiday or weekend, were so much a part of her life that she took them for granted. But it was clear that this family considered it appalling that anyone would bother her on Christmas Day.

“Yes,” she replied to Kit. “It’s pretty much expected in the ad business that you’ll be available twenty-four-seven. I’m sorry to disrupt the meal. Please go ahead. I’ll be right back.”

In fact, by the time Morgan dealt with her demanding client and returned to the table, almost everyone had finished eating. As she slid into her place, Kit rose.

“I put your plate in the oven, Morgan. Let me get it for you,” she said.

Cold food was another thing Morgan had gotten used to over the years. Her meals were always being interrupted. “You didn’t have to do that,” she apologized. “And I don’t want to hold things up. It looks like you’re about ready for dessert.”

As Kit disappeared through the door into the kitchen, Bill spoke. “It’s Christmas. We have no other plans for the day, so you’re not keeping us from anything. And we need to let our food settle a bit, anyway.”

Although Morgan was touched by the graciousness of her hosts, she made short work of her remaining food when Kit placed the plate in front of her. Then they moved on to the cheesecake, which was every bit as good as Grant has promised. After the last bite, Morgan leaned back, her face content as she sipped her coffee.

“Wasn’t this better than tuna and cold soup?”

At Grant’s quiet question, Morgan turned to find him watching her, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Her own lips curved up in response. “Eminently.”

“How about some music?” Kit said from across the table.

“Will you play, Uncle Grant?” Nancy asked.

“I’m a bit out of practice.”

“You always say that,” Nicki scoffed. “Besides, it won’t feel like Christmas unless you play.”

“In that case, how can I refuse?”

They all moved into the living room, and Morgan watched, intrigued, as Grant slid onto the bench of an upright piano and ran his fingers over the keys. For some reasons, she wouldn’t have expected him to be musical. But as the family gathered around and he began to play the familiar holiday carols, she discovered that he was, in fact, quite talented. Morgan hung back, feeling a bit like an intruder in this family scene, but Kit drew her forward.

“We may not be the Metropolitan Opera chorus, but what we lack in ability we make up for in enthusiasm,” she said with a laugh.

As Grant played one carol after another, Morgan found herself staring at his hands. His fingers were strong and capable, lean and long, as they moved with confidence over the ivory keys. He had wonderful hands, she realized. And all at once she found herself wondering what it would be like to be touched by them.

Trying to force her mind in a more appropriate direction, Morgan turned away from Grant and looked over the family gathered at the piano—only to be transported back to another time, another piano, another family raising sometimes off-key voices in song. Her throat constricted with emotion, and her voice faltered on the words of a familiar carol as her eyes grew misty. When Grant sent her a questioning look, her cheeks warmed and she pointed to her pager, then quickly slipped away on the pretense of returning another call.

Once in the hall, she drew a few long, deep breaths. For some reason, this day had been an emotional roller coaster, from her conversation with her sisters this morning, to her unexpected tears in church, to her wandering thoughts when she’d tried to work earlier at the cottage. The memories had been relentlessly lapping at her consciousness, much as the surf lapped against the shore at Aunt Jo’s cottage. Happy memories, for the most part, but memories of days long past. Most of the time she kept them deep in her heart. But today, they had risen to the surface, throwing her off balance.

By the time Morgan returned to the living room, she had her emotions back under control. Most of the group seemed to accept her excuse for stepping away, but something in Grant’s expression told her that she hadn’t fooled him. His eyes were probing, questioning, curious, as if he was trying to reconcile her emotional reaction just now with the image she presented to the world of a savvy, businesslike, sophisticated career woman.

Morgan looked away before his searching gaze went too deep, before he delved right to her soul and found out things about her that even she didn’t know. Things she didn’t want to know. And suddenly she felt an overpowering need to escape. There was something about Grant Kincaid that threatened her peace of mind. As soon as she could, she thanked her hosts and said her goodbyes, explaining that after her long drive yesterday, she was ready to call it a night.

Grant insisted on walking her to her car, and short of being rude, she couldn’t refuse. He took her arm as they stepped into the frigid air, and their breath formed frosty clouds in the clear, dark sky as they made their way in silence down the driveway. She fitted her key in the car lock, then turned to him, grateful for the dim light that made it hard to read expressions. “Thank you again, Grant. I had a wonderful time.”

“It was our pleasure. Are we still on for Monday?”

“Yes. How about eight?”

“That’s fine. I’ll see you then. Drive safe.”

After she slipped into her car, he shut the door behind her, watching as she backed out of the driveway. When she reached the corner, she glanced in her rearview mirror and was surprised to find Grant still standing there, his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, staring after her.

As Morgan retraced the route to the cottage, she found herself reliving her unexpected holiday dinner and thinking about Grant. She pictured his strong, competent fingers on the piano keys. Recalled the feeling of security that had swept over her when he’d taken her hand in his for the blessing. Remembered the way his smile had warmed his eyes and lit up his face.

And wondered yet again: who was Christine?

Chapter Four

“Anybody home?” Grant called as he opened the door of the house he’d grown up in, the house his father and uncle now shared.

“We’re in the kitchen, son,” his father responded, his voice muffled.

Grant made his way down the hall and found his father and uncle wolfing down what looked like remnants from yesterday’s Christmas dinner.

“Pull up a chair,” Uncle Pete invited. “There’s plenty. Kit made us take all this home. Said she had way too much left over. We didn’t argue a whole lot.”

After draping his sheepskin-lined jacket over the back of a chair and retrieving a plate from the cabinet, Grant joined the older men at the sturdy oak table.

“On your way to see Christine?” his father asked.

“Mm-hmm.”

“I admire your commitment, son. But I worry about you,” he said, his face troubled. “It’s been two-and-a-half years, and you almost never miss a day. You’re going to wear yourself out.”

“I have to go, Dad. She’d do the same for me.”

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t go. Maybe just not every day.”

Because it doesn’t seem to make any difference.

The words were unspoken, but they hung in the air. His family had long ago accepted that Christine would probably never recover from the head injury that had sent her into a deep coma. Yet according to the doctors, there was brain activity. So she was still there, trapped in a broken body. Grant couldn’t abandon her, even though only a tiny glimmer of hope remained in his own heart. But even if that last glimmer was finally extinguished, he still had an obligation to her. And he would see it through…for as long as she needed him.

Grant reached for a slice of prime rib and answered the way he always did. “I’ll see, Dad. For now, this is what I need to do.”

Pete looked at Andrew, then changed the subject. “That was one fine meal yesterday. And the leftovers aren’t bad, either.”

“I’m glad you convinced Jo’s niece to join us, Grant.” Andrew picked up Pete’s cue. “Didn’t sound like she had much of a meal planned. And nobody should be alone on Christmas.”

“To be honest, she turned me down at first. So I called Kit, and her powers of persuasion did the trick.”

Pete chuckled. “Your sister could charm a moose out of his antlers.”

Grant grinned. “I agree.”

“I hope Morgan had a good time,” Andrew said. “Seems like that job of hers doesn’t give her a minute of peace.”

“I expect it’s the kind of life she wants,” Grant said with a shrug.

“Can’t imagine why. Seems like too much stress to me. She is one high-strung young woman.”

“She’s a looker, though,” Uncle Pete added.

“She is that,” Andrew agreed. “But I feel sorry for her, living on the edge like that. Can’t even enjoy a holiday without interruption.”

“Don’t waste your sympathy, Dad. She chose that life, so it must suit her. Just like it did Mom. In fact, she reminds me a lot of Mom.”

Andrew tilted his head, his expression quizzical. “Is that right? She seems real different to me.”

“How do you figure that?” Grant helped himself to some potatoes. “She’s ambitious, driven, puts her career first…it’s Mom all over again.”

“I don’t think so. There’s more to Morgan Williams than that. I picked up a sort of…restlessness…like she’s still searching for her path. Your mother was single-minded once she made up her mind to go for the gold. I don’t get the same vibes from Morgan.”

“Then you must be on the wrong wavelength,” Grant said, giving him a wry look. “What do you think, Uncle Pete?”

“Like I said, she’s a looker.”

“You have a one-track mind, you know that?” Grant told him with a grin.

“Well, it’s true.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t. But we weren’t discussing her appearance.”

“You can discuss anything you like. But when the good Lord sends a pretty woman my way, I intend to enjoy it instead of trying to psychoanalyze her.”

“How did you stay a bachelor all these years?” Grant asked, shaking his head.

“I like my independence. But I don’t mind lookin’.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“That’s a fact,” Pete agreed good-naturedly.

As his father and uncle began debating the merits of cherry versus maple for an upcoming project, Grant finished his lunch. Then he rose and snagged his coat off the back of his chair. “I’ve got to run. See you both tomorrow.”

“Take care, son.”

The two older men watched Grant leave, then turned their attention to the leftover cheesecake. As Andrew cut them each a generous wedge, Uncle Pete spoke.

“I worry about that boy.”

“So do I.”

“Livin’ the way he does isn’t healthy. He spends all his time at the shop or running back and forth to Brunswick to see Christine. He’s got to be lonely.”

“He has us. And Kit’s family.”

Uncle Pete brushed that aside. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I know,” Andrew said with a sigh. “But he loved Christine, Pete. He still does. And he won’t go on with his life as long as he feels she needs him.”

“Sometimes it sure is hard to figure why the good Lord gave him such a cross to bear,” Uncle Pete declared, shaking his head.

“I don’t expect we’ll ever find the answer to that one.”

“No, I don’t suppose we will. But it sure does seem a waste. He’s a fine man with a fine heart. He should be going home to a wife and a family every day, not spending time in that depressing extended-care facility.”

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