Secrets Amoung The Shadows (34 page)

"It was hard," she admitted. "Though the good part was that this finally forced me to leave my father's death behind. I couldn't save him, but I had the chance to save you. I had to take that chance because I love you."

"Are you sure, Leanne? I'm not perfect. I may still have some problems dealing with Edward's death and everything that's happened."

She smiled. "I loved you when I thought you were trying to kill me. Anything else should be a snap."

She caught the faintest hint of a dimple in his right cheek just before his lips captured hers, touching, caressing, asking, giving, igniting fires all over her body.

"Let's go upstairs," she whispered. "We still have a few hours before dawn, and you don't have any reason to leave before morning."

"Do I have a reason to leave in the morning?" he asked, his mouth brushing hers, making it hard to concentrate on his words.

He kissed her again, slowly, tantalizingly. They stood together, and she left him only long enough to turn off the coffee maker. They didn't need the stimulation of caffeine.

THE END

I hope you enjoyed SECRETS AMONG THE SHADOWS. I love hearing from readers! Please visit my website:
http://www.sallyberneathy.com
for contact info.

Following is the beginning of my next book, SECRETS RISING, a romantic suspense.

When Rebecca Patterson's parents die in an automobile crash, she discovers that she was adopted. Devastated by the news, she decides to find her biological parents and hires private investigator, Jake Thornton, to help.

Jake knows from experience that her quest may not end happily. He is not surprised when it becomes obvious her birth parents don't want to be found...but even he doesn't know the dangers to their lives and their hearts they will face when her search causes long-buried secrets to rise again.

Prologue

"The world lost a couple of great people when your parents died." George Flanders and his wife, Dorothy, wearing their best black clothes, smelling faintly of mothballs and funeral flowers, walked out on the porch into the heat of Texas in late May. "But I reckon you know that."

Fighting back the tears that threatened to flow again, Rebecca Patterson gave the elderly couple a smile. "I do know that."

Rebecca closed the door behind them and surveyed her parents' house. It was a mess, paper plates and cups everywhere, the kitchen full of half-eaten food that should be refrigerated. She'd clean it up later. Right now none of it seemed important. Her parents weren't coming back to the house whether it was messy or clean.

She walked over to her father's battered brown recliner. A faint whiff of cherry scented pipe tobacco lingered, and she half expected her father to ease out of the chair, smile and wink, enfold her in a bear hug, tease her about a nonexistent freckle or her naturally blond hair that he jokingly accused his brunette wife of bleaching from the time Rebecca was a baby.

Any minute now her effervescent mother would rush into the room and embrace her, introduce her to the latest guest or guests, ask her to stay for dinner, to spend the night in her old room...if nobody else was using it at the moment.

The three-bedroom, ranch-style home in Plano, a suburb of Dallas, had always been filled with people. Her parents had drawn them like magnets...entertained them, helped them, cared for them.

But the house was empty now. Even that evanescent smell of pipe tobacco had faded.

Since the automobile accident three days ago that had taken the lives of her parents, the house had been filled with friends day and night, even more than when her parents were alive. From her earliest memories, Rebecca had wanted the constant stream of people to stop, had wanted the house to be quiet and her parents to belong only to her.

Now she had half that wish. The house was quiet.

And she'd give everything she had or ever would have to bring back the noise, to have her parents again even if she had to share them with twice as many people.

She walked through the living room, touching the inexpensive, comfortable sofa as she went past it. The family restaurant had always provided a decent income. Rebecca had never wanted for essentials as she grew up, but her parents hadn't believed in luxuries for themselves when others lacked necessities.

She'd have to find something to do with all of it...the furniture, the pots and pans, the mismatched dishes, her mother's favorite red silk blouse...

This was too much, returning from the devastation of the funeral to face cleaning out the house, giving up her childhood home, the last remnants of the parents she'd loved with all her heart.

Her condo would never have the warmth of this place, never really be home. Maybe she ought to consider moving here even though it would mean a long drive down Central Expressway to work every morning.

No, that was her grief speaking. Without her parents, this house was only a house. She couldn't recapture their love by living here. Her condo close to downtown Dallas, her career as Director of Human Resources at the Wingate Hotel, those were the niches she'd carved for herself. She could only go forward, not backward.

She turned down the hallway to the bedrooms, but hesitated at the entrance to her parents' room. Their answering machine rested on a desk in there. She'd been in and out several times the last three days, checking messages, but every trip still felt like an invasion of their privacy.

Numbly she walked over and sat in the desk chair. Instead of listening to more sympathy calls, however, she hit the button to hear the outgoing message, to hear her mother's voice.

"Hi! This is Brenda Patterson. Jerry and I are busy right now, but if you'll leave us a message, we'll get right back to you. I promise!"

The voice that always had a smile in it. Only a voice now, a whisper of the once-vital person. Yet, like the smell of pipe tobacco from her dad's recliner, the voice on the answering machine brought with it a wisp of that person.

Tears obscured her vision so that she had to move the machine closer in order to find the button again.

As she listened to her mother's voice one more time, she noticed a small key where the answering machine had been. It must have been shoved under the machine and forgotten about.

Holding her breath, not sure what she expected to find, she slid the drawer open. It contained two items—a square of folded blue fabric and a letter with "To Brenda and Jerry Patterson" written in faded blue ink as if to match.

Curious, she shook out the fabric. A blouse, small like a child or teenager would wear, but the style more mature. Had her mother, a woman of average height and weight, once been that tiny? Had she worn this blouse? Why had she saved it?

She picked up the envelope, withdrew the single sheet of paper and unfolded it.

Dear Brenda and Jerry, the note read. I'm going to miss both of you more than I can say. I can't begin to tell you how much I appreciate everything you've done for me…

Another grateful recipient of the Pattersons' big hearts. Tears threatened to overflow again. Her parents had been very special people. She'd been lucky to have them no matter how many people she had to share them with.

...everything you've done for me and for my baby, taking in a stranger, giving me a job and a place to live. But most of all, with my whole heart, I thank you for what you're doing for Rebecca.

Rebecca?! Her eyes stopped on her name.

Don't be silly, she chided herself. So the writer of this letter named her baby after her benefactors' child.

It was a perfectly logical explanation, but a chill settled over the room...or, at least, over her. Suddenly she didn't want to continue reading. She had to force her eyes to move on to the next word, the next sentence.

I know you'll give her a good home and loving family, all the things I can't. But please, please remember your promise and never tell her or anyone else about me. If she somehow should find out you're not her natural parents, you must not, under any circumstances, let her try to find me.

The room spun around Rebecca, out of focus, out of control.

Her fingers clutched the paper so tightly, her thumb went white.

The letter couldn't have said what she thought it said. She was confused, in a state of shock over the loss of her parents. She'd misread the note, misconstrued it, misunderstood.

"Hi! This is Brenda Patterson. Jerry and I are busy right now, but if you'll leave a message, we'll get right back to you. I promise!"

The voice of a stranger.

It wouldn't matter whether or not she cleaned out the house and got rid of all the furniture and the dishes and her mother's red silk blouse.

All remnants of the parents who'd raised her had just disappeared. Her identity, her whole life had vanished...stolen by a few words written in faded blue ink on a sheet of paper.