The camera had captured her elegant bones and wholesome allure. But it had failed to capture her. She didn’t have a freeze-frame sort of face. Or a freeze-frame sort of life. She was beauty in motion, as vibrant as the bright colors she chased. As bold as the emotions it wouldn’t occur to her to hide.
Until that evening at the clinic, Nick figured it was just a matter of time before he and Elizabeth were introduced. The well-bred heiress would offer a gracious hello, while the granddaughter-turned-prosecutor searched for proof that he meant no harm to the grandparents she loved.
He’d pass inspection, and that would be that. From her standpoint, anyway.
Nick had known, even before seeing her, that the protectiveness he felt toward Charles and Clara would extend to their only granddaughter.
It did, but with a twist.
Elizabeth needed his protection, all right. Protection from him.
The attraction he’d felt for her was immediate. And powerful.
But as powerful as the physical desire was, it paled in comparison to a longing that was entirely new. He wanted to be with her. Simply be. For better, for worse. In sickness and in health. Forsaking all others.
Forever.
Nick dealt with his longing in a way that was best for Elizabeth, most protective of her. He kept his distance, avoiding any and all opportunity for the two of them to even meet. And, on a sunny day in early May, Clara told him Elizabeth was engaged.
He ached at the revelation. And, at the same time, he felt relieved. Elizabeth had found the kind of man she should marry.
And now…
Now.
Nick could run all night in the storm. Until his every shattered bone screamed for mercy.
But Nicholas Lawton couldn’t outrun, could never outrun, his feelings for Elizabeth.
They were part of who he was.
The best part.
Five
Gram insisted that her rain-soaked granddaughter change into slumber-party attire before they convened in the kitchen for hot chocolate and a chat.
“I will if you will,” Elizabeth had said.
They’d gone to their separate bedrooms, the one where Clara and Charles had slept for more than sixty years—and where Charles had died in his sleep—and the guest room down the hall that had always been Elizabeth’s.
Her farm clothes were there, the wardrobe from the final teenage summer she’d spent at Sarah’s Orchard. The wardrobe had been baggy even then. She’d liked wearing loose clothing over her plumpish frame.
The plumpness had gone the way of carefree summers. The jeans and T-shirts would be baggier now.
When Gram, in robe and slippers, emerged from her bedroom, Elizabeth, similarly dressed, emerged from hers.
“He wasn’t what I expected,” Elizabeth said as they walked down the stairs.
Gram’s hand slid along the satin-smooth railing Nick had made. “You only dated him for four months before getting engaged.”
“I meant Nick.”
“Oh?”
“Not that my expectations mean very much. Witness Matthew.”
“Matthew’s history.”
“That’s definitive.”
“Well, isn’t he?”
Elizabeth’s mind’s eye viewed again the image she’d glimpsed through his bedroom window. “Yes. He is.”
“Good. Let’s talk about Nick. In what way wasn’t he what you expected?”
“I don’t know. I guess I thought he wouldn’t be so…”
“Handsome?”
“Gram.”
“Gorgeous?”
“Gram.”
“What then?”
“Solemn.” Intense.
“Nick is solemn. He reminds me of Granddad in that way. In many ways, come to think of it.”
Granddad? Solemn? And like Nick in many ways?
Elizabeth might have pursued the inquiry. They’d reached the kitchen, where, on one of the many countertops Granddad knew the Apple Butter Ladies needed and which Nick had built, sat the hatboxes she’d painted twenty-one years ago.
“Granddad’s letters,” she murmured.
“Yes. Please feel free to read them.”
To discover, Elizabeth mused, what true love really is. “I couldn’t.”
“I want you to. In fact, I’m hoping all our children and grandchildren will. They’re a little mushy, I suppose, but there’s nothing too private for you to read.”
“Then I’ll read them, Gram. We all will. If that’s what you want.”
“It’s the reason I brought them down from the attic. I’d like to make copies, a complete set for each of you—and Nick, of course.”
Nick, of course? “That would be wonderful,” Elizabeth said. “We could even have them bound into books.”
“We could?”
“Absolutely.”
Clara touched a glossy box. “That would be nice. There’s a bit of organizing to do. The letters are in chronological order, but I carried some of them with me all the time. I’m not sure I tucked them into their correct bundles when I received word that Charles was on his way home.”
“That sounds easy,” Elizabeth said. So easy she wouldn’t have mentioned it if not for Gram’s frown. “Gram?”
“Would you be willing to put them in order for me?”
“I’d be delighted to. But wouldn’t you like to do that yourself? And read them again while you’re at it?”
“I’m not ready to read them yet. So if you wouldn’t mind…”
“As I said, I’d be delighted. Gram? Is there something else?”
“I’m afraid they may not photocopy very well. The paper was thin to begin with, and he wrote on both sides.”
“That won’t be a problem.”
“It won’t?”
“Nope. You’d be amazed at the smudged, machine-washed, written-on-both-sides bits of paper I’ve been able to present to juries in all their legible glory, thanks to the magic of computers. That’s what we should do, Gram. Scan the letters directly into your computer. We can tinker with contrast, resolution and so on at the scanning stage, and make additional improvements once we’ve scanned them in.”
“I’m glad you’re saying ‘we.’ When it comes to computers, my forte is e-mail.”
“You’re still frowning. What’s wrong?”
“I was thinking it’s been a while since I e-mailed Winifred.”
“Like before meeting Matthew last weekend?” Elizabeth guessed.
“A while before that,” Gram admitted.
“You were busy planning the reception for us at the Orchard Inn. It was a wonderful party, Gram, my unfortunate choice of fiancé notwithstanding. If you’d liked Matthew, you would’ve e-mailed Winifred right away. But you didn’t like him, and not wanting to worry her, you held off. And, of course, you were concerned about my feelings, too. The good news is you have a doozy of an e-mail to send now. With my permission.”
“I won’t get too carried away.”
“The truth is the truth, Gram. There are men who’d never lie to their fiancées, or spend clandestine afternoons with other women. Men like Granddad,” Elizabeth said. And Nick? “Then there are the Matthew Blaines of the world. He wasn’t in love with me. You were able to see it, even though I couldn’t.”
“I saw something else, Elizabeth. You weren’t in love with Matthew, either.”
“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.” Elizabeth smiled. “It would make me feel better—if it was true.”
“It’s true, darling girl. Mark my—Nick,” she predicted as the phone began to ring.
“Nick? Why?”
“He’ll want to make sure there’s nothing we need.” Clara lifted the receiver. “We’re fine! Hello? Well, yes, as a matter of fact, she is here.” Your mother, she mouthed. “Safe and sound, thank goodness, and having dodged an unfortunate matrimonial bullet. No, Abby, she’s not going to marry him.”
Clara winked at her granddaughter. Abigail MacKenzie-Winslow didn’t like being called Abby. Her mother knew it, and reserved it for times such as these, when sternness was required.
“The engagement ring Matthew found in his foyer was a major clue. He’s bewildered? I’d suggest he put on his thinking cap. He’s a smart fellow. He ought to be able to figure this out.” Clara was silent for a moment. “She’s resting. I’ll have her call you tomorrow. She won’t be changing her mind. And, as her mother, you shouldn’t want her to.” Another silence. “I don’t know when she’ll be returning to San Francisco. I’m hoping she’ll stay here for a while. She’d be a tremendous help with a project I’m working on. Give my best to Thomas, will you?”
Clara replaced the receiver and smiled at her granddaughter.
“Thank you, Gram.”
“That’s not the end of it,” Clara said. “We both know your mother better than that.”
“She really wanted this marriage.”
“Too bad! If Matthew’s last name wasn’t Blaine, and she wasn’t in a tizzy about how her society friends are going to react, her focus would be where it belongs—on you. Despite that, she is concerned about you.”
“I know.”
“How a daughter of mine could be such a snob, I’ll never know.” Gram paused. Sighed. “That’s not entirely accurate. The truth is, she comes by it honestly.”
“She does? From where? Dad’s not a snob. And she certainly didn’t get it from you or Granddad.”
“That’s the problem. I’m afraid she did. Who knew snobbery could be carried in the genes? Old money isn’t even supposed to be snobbish. Your father being a case in point. But, as I know well, it’s the exception that proves the rule. One of San Francisco’s oldest and wealthiest families—mine—is such an exception.”
“Your family, Gram?”
“The San Francisco Carltons. Even when I was a girl, the Carlton fortune was generations old. But talk about snobs. My mother especially.”
“Your mother?”
“My father was almost as pretentious. He was a Bronxville Smith. But we lived in San Francisco, not New York, and she was the Carlton of the two.”
“So…you’re a Carlton.”
“I was a Carlton. Granddad knew, and his parents. To everyone else, I was simply Clara Anne Smith, who couldn’t wait to become Clara Anne MacKenzie. It wasn’t a secret as much as an irrelevance.”
“Mom doesn’t know.”
“And never needs to. Like your relationship with Matthew, my pedigree is ancient history.”
“But how did you and Granddad meet? I always thought he’d never left Sarah’s Orchard before he went to war—and that the two of you met and fell in love before that.”
“We met here, in September 1941. I’d just celebrated my sixteenth birthday and in two months he’d turned eighteen.”
“And a month after that,” Elizabeth said, “Pearl Harbor was attacked.”
