A bitter laugh stuck in her throat.
She’d pushed away the stepfather who had loved her, spent time with people she didn’t care about, learnt about fashion and flirtation and revenge. And for what? What did she have to show for it—for all her lost youth?
Nothing but the graves of the people who’d loved her, some money she hadn’t earned and a coming baby who had no father. Nothing but an empty bed and no one to hold her on a cold winter’s night.
“I’m sorry, John.” She leaned her forehead against her stepfather’s gravestone, placing a handful of the first daisies of spring on the earth. “I should have come home for Christmas. For every Christmas. Forgive me.”
Hearing a robin’s song from the nearby trees, she felt oddly comforted. She rose to her feet, rubbing her aching back and belly as she straightened.
“I’ll try to come back soon,” she said softly. “To let you both know how we get on.”
And with one last silent prayer over those two quiet graves, she started to walk back home.
Home, she thought, looking up at the Craig estate on the other side of the hill. A funny way to describe this place. The only place she’d ever thought of as home had been her family’s old Massachusetts farmhouse.
At least until recently, when every night she dreamed of a villa on a private island in the Mediterranean that was a million shades of white and blue…
She took a deep breath.
With her eyes wide open, she was left in darkness and shadows. She didn’t know who she was anymore. She didn’t know what to believe in.
She missed her old faith.
She missed him.
Eve felt her baby give a hard kick in response to the emotion racing through her. She felt another pain in her lower back as she wiped her tears fiercely. But obviously Talos hadn’t missed her. If he had, he would have followed her here, promise or no promise. He wouldn’t have stayed away from his wife and unborn child, searching for some stupid proof when their baby was due any day!
Don’t make me do it, Eve. She heard the echo of his anguished voice. Anything but that.
She felt a sharp pain through her womb. With a gasp, she stumbled across the driveway and up the steps to the side door.
“Is that you, Miss Craig?” the housekeeper called from the kitchen.
Miss Craig. As if her marriage had never happened. As if she’d actually followed through on her ridiculous threat to divorce him. Hearing her maiden name still choked her—even though she was the one who’d insisted on it. “I’m fine.”
The plump-cheeked housekeeper came into the foyer with a smile, holding a stack of letters. “I was cleaning out some of your stepfather’s things, as you requested. I almost threw this envelope out with the rubbish but then happened to notice it had your name.”
“Leave it with me,” Eve gasped. Holding the envelope, she sat down on a hard chair in the dining room—afraid if she went for the cushy sofa in the parlor she’d never be able to get up again. Fake labor pains, she tried to tell herself. Braxton-Hicks contractions. But a moment later, as she leaned back into the chair, another pain ripped through her.
She took deep breaths as she’d learned in childbirth class—alone—and tried to control her sudden fear. Every nerve in her body told her that it was time. She was going into labor.
And she didn’t want to do it alone.
In spite of everything, she’d somehow thought he would come back for her.
But why would he? she thought savagely. After everything she’d said? He’d been willing to forgive her cold-hearted betrayal last June, but she’d been unable even to consider the possibility that he’d been telling the truth about her father.
Her father…
Gasping, she looked down at the envelope written in her stepfather’s hand. She ripped it open.
Dear Evie,
I found this letter among your mother’s possessions after she died. I didn’t know whether you should ever see it. Sometimes it’s best not to know the truth. I will let fate decide. Your mother always loved you, and so did I. God bless you.
There was another smaller envelope inside. She sat up straight, ignoring another sharp contraction as she saw her father’s sharp, faded handwriting. It was a love letter, dated the day before her father’s embezzlement had been revealed to the press.
Bonnie,