Phoebe Jennings glanced at the envelope on the empty
passenger seat, her gaze lingering on the flowery penmanship
and faded postmark from nearly four decades ago. Its delayed
delivery was explained by a polite, yet formal, note of
apology attached to it by a rubber band.
Only it wasn't her letter. Just her address.
A blaring horn forced her to look up, to focus on the road
and the line of cars that had heeded the green light the
moment it changed. Was she crazy, driving to the other side
of Cedarville to deliver a letter to someone she'd never
met?
Especially when she could have simply given it back to the
post office?
Probably.
Then again, if she didn't deliver it herself, curiosity
would eat at her day and night, making it difficult to
finish the Dolangers' portrait by Friday. Blowing that
deadline was out of the question if she was going to make
next month's rent.
And feed Kayla.
Peeking into the rearview mirror, Phoebe smiled at the child
sleeping in the forward-facing car seat, the side of her
heart-shaped face snuggled against a tiny pillow. Finishing
the painting was the difference between interrupted and
uninterrupted time with Kayla. It was the difference between
restless nights and sleeping peacefully. And it was the
first step in teaching her daughter the satisfaction that
comes from working toward a dream.
Though, in all fairness, job satisfaction probably
didn't fall terribly high on Kayla's list of
priorities. Those spots were reserved for special things
like Cheerios and Elmo.
As it should be.
With her eyes back on the road, Phoebe slowed as she
approached Twilight Drive, the homes getting bigger and more
ostentatious the farther into West Ce-darville she drove.
The view from her window wasn't a surprise; she'd
known what to expect. Yet somehow the wealth that suddenly
surrounded her brought a pang she hadn't expected.
This drive was an unwanted trip down memory lane— one
littered with jagged life lessons, mammoth-size potholes and
an occasional round of second-guessing.
Shaking her head, Phoebe willed herself to focus on the
moment, to leave the past where it belonged. At least
her past, anyway.
Tate Williams's past was another thing entirely.
From the moment she'd pulled the letter from her mailbox
that morning, her thoughts had traveled to the ends of the
earth in pursuit of a story worthy of such an old
correspondence. The lone clue she had to the possible nature
of the letter came from its army post office address, one
that had long since expired. The forty-year-old postmark
suggested it could have been meant for a soldier in Vietnam.
Had Tate Williams been sent a letter from a friend? Had
someone been trying to give him news from home? Or had a
stateside classroom initiated contact with the soldier as
part of a writing assignment?
Phoebe could only guess. And guess she had. Over and over again.
But no more.
Brushing an errant strand of hair from her face, she pulled
to a stop at 14 Starry Night Drive, her stomach churning
ever so slightly. Judging by the time of day— noon—and the
looks of the house, she'd bet good money she would be
greeted by a maid or a cook. Maybe even a butler.
None of whom would be her first choice.
Sure, Mrs. Applewhite's description of Tate Williams
hadn't been terribly flattering, but handing a
decades-old letter to its rightful owner was worth tangling
with a lion, right? Besides, Phoebe knew better than to put
too much stock in her elderly next-door neighbor's
assessment of people.
"Full of himself, that's what Tate Williams was.
Too good for the likes of any of us. Good riddance, I say.
And it will do you well to stay away from him… you mark my
words, Phoebe Jennings."
Looking at the postmark one last time, Phoebe clasped the
envelope and stepped from the car, her neighbor's words
of caution falling away as she opened the back door and
pulled a still-sleeping Kayla into her arms.
"So much for Mommy's exciting adventure, huh?"
Phoebe whispered into her daughter's ear as she cuddled
her against her shoulder and moved toward the front door.
Everything about the outside of the home exuded the
sterility of wealth. Professionally manicured bushes
interspersed with glass-and-copper luminaries lined the
stone walkway. The colorless landscaping served as a perfect
accompaniment to the brick exterior of the home, the only
offset coming from the two-story, white pillared entrance.
What was it about color that made the rich balk? Was it the
rejection of individuality? Or the fear of the unknown?
Probably a little bit of both. Though she'd never
understand how an aversion to change could breed success.
She gently patted Kayla's bottom and took a slow, deep
breath. All morning she'd imagined this moment,
envisioned the excited smile on the face of Tate Williams as
he was reunited with a piece of his past. Now that she was
finally here, she could hardly wait to see how her image
meshed with reality.
"Here we go, Kayla," she whispered. Spying a small
white button to the left of the door, Phoebe pressed it and
waited. The melodic sound of a bell wafted through the
closed panel in a clear summons. With no response.
She'd considered the possibility someone else would
answer, even planned how she'd go about hanging on to
the letter until she could meet the addressee face-to-face.
But no answer at all? Her mind hadn't even begun to
figure that one out.
Fortunately, it didn't matter. Because as she was
mentally reviewing the contents of her glove compartment in
the hopes of finding paper and a pen, the door opened.
"Yes?"
Phoebe looked up, all thoughts of pen, paper and mail
delivery gone as her gaze fell on the man in the doorway.
The tall, blond, brown-eyed man who sent a charge through
her body the likes of which she'd never felt before. She
tried to remember why she was there, to force words—coherent
or otherwise—through her gaping mouth, but she could focus
on nothing other than the gorgeous man standing in front of
her, casually dressed in khaki slacks and a white,
button-down shirt open at the neck.
"Can I help you?"
His voice was kind as his gaze slid across the baby and then
slowly down Phoebe's body, making her wish she'd
done more than pull her long hair into a ponytail and swipe
some gloss across her lips. He seemed to hesitate slightly
on her attire, his right eyebrow inching upward as he zeroed
in on her paint-spattered shirt.
In an instant his demeanor changed, his expression switching
from curious to deer-in-the-headlights. "Look, I
don't need any work done. I just had the interior
painted about six months ago and—"
She felt her eyebrow cock upward as a string of biting
comebacks zipped through her mind. But she resisted.
Ignorance was ignorance, as her grandmother used to say. It
knew no boundaries—monetary or otherwise. And if two years
of loving someone hadn't been enough to correct
misperceptions, a two-minute conversation between strangers
didn't have a prayer. And besides, Kayla didn't need
to be woken to clipped words and icy stares.
"I'm not here to paint your walls. I'm here to
deliver this—" she raised the envelope, her voice void
of its normal happy lilt "—to Tate Williams. Is he
home?"
The man's mouth widened in a slight smile as he leaned
against the door frame, the noon sun picking out flecks of
amber amid the soft brown of his eyes. "Maybe."
Any lingering doubt that wealth and infuriation went hand in
hand was virtually gone. As was her window of opportunity,
judging by the way Kayla's body stiffened against
Phoebe's shoulder.
She quickly glanced down at her watch. "I hate to be
rude, but I only have a little time. The day job calls and—"
"Looks to me like the day job is sleeping." He
smiled at the baby and tiny creases formed beside his eyes.
She stared at him, her hand reaching to pat Kayla's
back. "She's not a job. She's my
daughter. There's a big differ—"
He pushed himself off the door frame and rested his arms
across his muscular chest, the fabric of his shirt pulling
taut in the process. Phoebe swallowed and looked away.
Granted, it had been a while since she'd been with a
man, but the desire to feel those arms around her body was
nothing short of shocking. Ludicrous, really. Men like Tate
Williams weren't interested in women like her. She knew
that. Had lived through the painful proof firsthand.
But still. He was gorgeous….
"Look, is Tate Williams available to speak to me or
should I just come back later?"
"Who's asking?"
Kayla's head popped up and looked around, her tiny hand
pinching Phoebe's chin as her gaze came to rest on Mr.
Infuriating. He winked at her.
Phoebe gulped. "I am."
His eyes remained on the baby even as his words were
directed at her. "I realize you're asking,
I'm standing right here. What I'm trying to find out
is your name. You do have one of those, right?"
She felt her cheeks warm, her palms moisten. Served her
right for thinking like a lust-struck teenager. "Oh.
Sorry. I'm Phoebe. Phoebe Jennings." She moved the
letter to her left hand and stuck out her right. "Could
I—"
"And?" He pointed at Kayla.
"And what?" This man was seriously driving her
loony. So much for trying to do a good deed.
"Who's this little beauty?"
She looked down at her daughter, the tension in her body
easing momentarily. "I'm sorry. This is Kayla.
Anyway, could I speak with Mr. Williams now, please?"
"Absolutely."
The man didn't budge. He simply continued to stand
there, alternating between making faces at the baby and
grinning at Phoebe. Was this the way he treated everyone?
"Am I missing something?" she asked through clenched
teeth.
"Just the part about actually handing over the
envelope." He reached out, his palm upward.
"It's a good thing you're a painter instead of a
mailman because you wouldn't keep your job long."
The meaning of his words finally registered.
"You're Tate Williams?"
He nodded, his mischievous smile lighting his face.
"But you can't be." Phoebe looked down at the
envelope in her hand. "You're too young. Way too
young."
"Excuse me?"
She knew she sounded like an idiot, but she didn't care.
She'd done the math. Even if Tate Williams had been a
young child when the letter was mailed, he'd have to be
in his midforties by now. The man standing in front of her
was thirty-three at best.
Phoebe stammered for an explanation that sounded
semi-intelligent even to her own ears. "This letter was
postmarked nearly forty years ago. There's no way—"
she motioned toward him "—this could be for you."
"Let me see that."
He stepped outside and reached for her hand, his grip gentle
yet strong. She shivered as his breath grazed her cheek,
sending her thoughts racing, only to be pulled back to the
present by a grunt.
"Oh. I see now. It's for Tate Williams, all right.
Just not this Tate Williams." He released her
and returned to the doorway, his playful nature all but
gone. "The Tate Williams you're looking for
doesn't live here. I'm sorry."
"But—but you do know him, right?"
The man gripped the edge of the door as if to close it.
"Yeah, I know him."
She looked down at the envelope, the stories she'd
attributed to the misplaced letter rushing her thoughts once
again. "Do you know how I could find this other Tate
Williams? Or better yet, could you help me get this to him?"
A cloud passed over the man's face and his words became
more clipped. "No. I can't."
Can't or won't? She suspected there was
quite a difference.
She tried another approach. "I feel sort of obligated to
make sure he gets it. It could be important."
The man's eyes narrowed as he looked at her. "If it
hasn't been missed in nearly forty years, I doubt
it's important."
"But still—"
"Look, Mrs. Jen—"
"Miss. Miss Jennings. I mean, Phoebe."
His expression softened briefly, his words still short and
clipped. "Okay. Phoebe. Why do you care so much? And
how, may I ask, did you end up with the letter in the first
place?"
Normally, she would have resented the questions from a man
so unwilling to answer hers. But if it helped get the
information she wanted…
"I live here—" she reached across
Kayla's back and pointed to the label that had been
placed alongside the original address "—and so it showed
up in my mailbox."
"You live at 2565 Quinton Lane?"
She nodded, shifting Kayla from one arm to the other. "I
moved in about six months ago. No sign of any previous
owners until this morning." She raised the envelope into
the air and blew at a strand of hair that had escaped her
scrunchie. "I asked my neighbor, Mrs. Applewhite, about
it and—oooh wait. That's why! I only asked
about the name. I didn't show her the envelope
because she hates to be interrupted when she's on her
porch kn—"
"Knitting. She hates to be interrupted when
she's knitting. Unless, of course, you're willing to
engage in idle gossip. Right?"
Phoebe felt her mouth spread into a surprised smile.
"How did you know?"
He ran his hand over his hair, tousling it as he did so.
"Trust me, I learned the hard way. But I am
surprised to hear old lady Applewhite is still alive."
"Of course she's still alive. She's active and
she's healthy and…" Phoebe met Tate's gaze and
held it for a beat. "Anyway, as I was trying to say, I
asked Mrs. Applewhite about the name on the envelope and she
told me about you."
He crossed his arms against his chest. "I'll bet she
did. And let me guess what she said. I turned my back on the
neighborhood, right?"
Phoebe couldn't help but notice the way the man's
chin jutted ever so slightly as he waited for her response,
his stance bordering on rigid. It wasn't in her nature
to intentionally hurt someone's feelings, but neither
was lying.
"Something like that. But I'm not here to judge you
or—" she motioned toward the two-story foyer visible
through the open doorway "—or your lifestyle. I'm
just here to deliver a letter that this other Tate Williams
should have received a long time ago."
Silence fell for a moment as Phoebe shifted uncomfortably on
the stone walkway and gently wrestled the letter from
Kayla's pudgy little hands. It was obvious she
wasn't getting anywhere with young Tate.
"Look, I'll just try a search online or something.
See if I can find the right man." She turned toward her
car, then stopped. "I'm sorry I wasted your time,
Mr. Williams."
"It's Tate. He goes by Bart."
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