Something About Sophie

Dedication

For Doss, in our 35th year—I still love you more

Acknowledgments

I'd like to thank my agent, Denise Marcil, for always believing in me. I believe there is a special place in writer heaven for an editor like Esi Sogah—for her editorial skills, but mostly for her true love of stories. And my pals—Nora Roberts, Pat Gaffney, Elaine Fox, Mary Blayney, and all the ab-fab ladies I know in Washington Romance Writers—well, it wouldn't be any fun at all without you.

Contents

P.S.

About the author

About the book

Read on

Chapter One

“S
he's coming.” Arthur's cough was moist and raspy. He winced with the pain it caused him. “Soon. She's coming.”

His face was pale and withered. There was a tremor in his hands as he picked at the hospital linens; his eyes watered from both age and emotion, and his lips were chapped. He was, in a word, pitiful.

“Bad idea, my friend.” His guest sat, sure and relaxed, reflecting on the man Arthur once was—tall, blond, golden; handsome and charming; a pillar of the community, loved by all who knew him. But not unlike the mighty and magnificent stone pillars of ancient Greece, time and life took its toll and toppled him, leaving this sad ruined visage of what had been. “You shouldn't have sent those letters. Nothing good will come of it.”

“Still no remorse?” Three words, then he gasped to catch his breath.

“No. I can't be sorry for deciding to protect the lives of many by not speaking for one.”

“Two.”

“Fine. Two. We did what we could for them.”

“Not enough.” His thin, frail body hacked out another cough that racked him head to toe, leaving him exhausted. “Not enough to save our souls.”

“Yours, you mean. Not enough to save
your
soul. Mine's not going anywhere for a while yet and neither are the people you'd be leaving me with to take all the blame—not fair, Arthur. We had a deal.”

“Please.”

“How about we both write long heartfelt letters to her? I'll leave them with my attorney to be delivered after my death. Both of them. How does that sound?”

“She's coming. Monday. She said. Tell her . . . then. Beg . . . forgiveness.”

A large, resigned sigh came from his companion, who stood and walked to the far side of the bed, avoiding the green tubing delivering extra oxygen to Arthur via a nasal cannula and the IV fluids passing through a monitor into a port in his chest. A warm hand came to rest on the paper-thin and deeply bruised skin of his right arm.

“You know, Arthur, I like you. I always have. You're a good man. This business aside, we've worked well together over the years. We were a good team, don't you think? We had a lot in common—the same interests, the same goals. I thought we'd successfully managed to forget about what happened that night.”

“No. I never forgot.”

“Of course not.”

“I still hear it. She screams. She cries. They laugh.”

“I know. I know. What happened was horrifying and . . . vile, but getting involved would have destroyed us, our reputations, our families. Everyone we love would have suffered. We'd have lost everything.”

His upper body vibrated through a nod. “She did . . . lose everything.”

Another sad, fatalistic puff of breath. “Who knew when you announced you'd contracted the big ‘C' you meant conscience?”

“Please.”

“I know this is important to you, Arthur, but—”

“I left it,” he interrupted on an exhalation. “For her.”

“What? You left her what?”

“My life.” His sad, tired eyes met his friend's. He rolled his head back and forth on the flat pillow behind his head. “Not enough.”

“Here, let me help you.” The pillow slipped from under Arthur's head and he watched as hands, slightly younger than his own but still strong with good health, plumped it with vigor. “Hospital pillows . . . cover a thin brick with a pillowcase and who'd know the difference, huh? Okay, let's see if this is more comfortable.” A gentle hand supported his shoulders until he felt cool linen on the back of his neck. The movement triggered another coughing spasm that strained the veins and tendons in his neck, turned his face a queer shade of reddish purple.

“Good God, can't they give you something for that?”

“Makes me sleepy.”

“At this point that might be a blessing.”

Arthur barely shook his head. His voice was raw and weak. “Afraid to sleep.”

“Wha— Oh. You're afraid you won't wake up?”

Instead of nodding, he simply lowered his eyelids to hide his misery and fear.

“Then I'll just assume that the next time we meet you'll thank me for this.”

Arthur's stomach heaved in urgent awareness, his eyes bursting open in panic to glimpse a second pillow descending toward his face. He raised his arms to block it but he was too slow; grasped and clawed at it but he was too weak. He tried to shout out and coughed the remains of his breath away with no means of sucking in more—the prongs in his nose gouging and tangled. Great strength arrived from nowhere as his body's instinct to survive took over, twisting his body, thrashing his legs in a desperate attempt to break free. His muscles began to sting like fire, little popping noises exploded inside his head and soon all that was left was the muffled voice of a long-ago confidant.

“I'm sorry, Arthur. I really am. But you haven't given me any other choice. You know that. I have too much to lose. You understand, don't you? Nothing's changed for me. I can't let anyone destroy everything I've work for. Not her. Not even you, Arthur. Shhh. Don't worry. No one will know. I'll take care of the girl when she gets here. I'll keep the secret.” The pressure on his upper body and face increased drastically. “Let it go, my friend. Just let go. . . .”

Chapter Two

S
ophie Shepard hated hospitals. The smells, the colors, the chairs, the peculiar silence under the noise. The only things she disliked more were funeral homes.

And here she was, walking softly to keep her flip-flops from flapping on the too-shiny floors and echoing down the eerily empty off-white halls of yet another unfamiliar hospital in another unfamiliar town—searching for yet another mother.

She cringed. Okay, so that wasn't funny. She knew exactly who and where her mother was. What she wasn't sure about was why she'd let some stranger talk her into driving eight hours to discuss a birth mother she'd never been too interested in, in the first place.

Was her general lack of interest in this woman abnormal? She couldn't possibly be the only adopted person so happy and satisfied with the life she got that she thought of it as a gift from a woman who, for whatever reason, hadn't been able to raise her herself? Life was complicated. For everyone. She read once that there were people who studied such things and describe the human condition as a never-ending tragedy—because life was short and always ended in death. But frankly, whether her life was an accident, a burden, or part of another woman's tragic existence, she was glad to simply exist.

Very Pollyanna of her, she supposed, but she did agree that life was short and she worked hard at not complicating it with things she couldn't change.

“Hi. I'm looking for an Arthur Cubeck?” The helpful smile on the nurse's face drooped a bit and she pushed her chair away from the counter, glancing at the three other caretakers nearby, then swiveled to look over her shoulder uncertainly.

Sophie's gaze followed to a man in a white lab coat standing on the other side of the nurse's station. His attention gravitated in reluctant stages from the laptop in front of him, straight into her eyes; lingered a long second, and then he looked back to quickly save his data, close up the small computer, and head around the corner toward her.

She released her breath in a gust and frowned at the clammy print of her hand on the counter.

He was not a particularly handsome man. Tall, fit, trimmed dark hair, clean shaven—nose, mouth, arms, and legs. Truly ordinary. Until he came around the corner and bore holes through her with his eyes in a most extraordinary way. She couldn't even tell what color they were yet, only that they were the most intense she'd ever come in contact with. Direct, observant, something that was hard to put her finger on, and very appealing.

“It's Koo,” he said without preamble. “Arthur Koo-beck.”

“Oh.” They were green. Plain old green eyes, same as hers, but bursting with fire and life. She split the air between them with her hand. “I'm Sophie Shepard.”

“Drew McCarren.” His hand was warm and strong and covered hers completely. Plus, it wasn't one of those light, limp-wristed encounters men tended to bestow on the weaker sex. His handshake was as bold and honest as his eyes. “You're not a relative of Arthur's.”

“No.” She laughed. “Otherwise I'd know how to pronounce his name, wouldn't I?”

His lips bowed and he gave a nod; humor registered in his features. She was—just briefly—dazzled.

“He wrote to me,” she said abruptly. “A couple of times. He wanted to talk, to tell me something. He asked me to come. I wasn't going to.” She heard herself gushing but couldn't stop—she was too busy quelling an urge to lay her soul out on the counter, exposed and vulnerable, for him to see. How weird was that? “I didn't know who he was, obviously, and I wasn't at all interested in what he wanted to talk about, so I wrote back and told him I couldn't make it.” She faltered under his scrutiny and glanced down. He wasn't judging, merely listening; but knowing that
he knew
the man was elderly and ill, and she'd refused him, felt awkward. “When he wrote and told me he was sick and he needed to get something about me off his chest, well, he made it sound important, so as soon as school was out I decided to drive down.”

“You're in school?”

“I teach. Kindergarten.”

He gave a quick nod and took a quiet breath. “Well, Sophie Shepard, I'm sorry to say it but Arthur Cubeck passed away Saturday.”

“Oh.” Her disappointment was a surprise. But the tears that pressed and stung the backs of her eyes were a shock. She looked away, muttering, “I'm sorry.”

After a moment, he asked, “Are you all right?”

She nodded, then shook her head. “I could have been here sooner. Friday, Thursday even, but I stopped over in Washington, D.C., to sightsee. I'm sorry I missed him.”

She was sincerely sorry, and let down that he'd taken his story about her with him. So, she was human; she could admit it. The old man's desperation had stirred her curiosity; her curiosity had aroused vague emotions from her childhood. A childhood during which she had, from time to time, wondered why:
Why didn't she want me? Why'd she give me away?
A childhood, too, filled with the kind of love and happiness that can soothe and heal a wounded psyche until all that remained of the question was a faded blemish, like a tiny scar from chicken pox.

But still, she was human.

When the doctor simply stayed with her, saying nothing, she looked up. Kindness and empathy. That something in his eyes that was hard to put her finger on? It was understanding and compassion, and it was as deeply ingrained in the character of this man as his DNA.

“Are— Were you his doctor?” He confirmed it. “Would you know if he, Mr. Cubeck, happened to leave me a letter or a note maybe? You know, to ease his mind?”

He looked doubtful but glanced over his shoulder at the nurse, who'd been quietly keeping abreast of the conversation. She shrugged.

“We'll look into it. Will you be around awhile?”

“It's a long drive home. I thought I'd stay over tonight and head back in the morning. Will that be long enough?” she asked the nurse, assuming that
looking into it
would be more in her job description than his. “Or I could leave my address and you could mail anything that might show up?”

“Sure.” He pulled two business cards from his shirt pocket, handing her one with the blank side up, then reached for the pen in his lab-coat pocket. “You can put your information on that card, and here's another to take. Call me in the morning, or if you have any other questions.”

She nodded, finishing up her cell number, and swapped cards with him. “Thank you, Dr. McCarren.”

“You're welcome, Sophie Shepard.” He smiled, but it was more like a reassuring pat on the back. Huh. Not even a quick, short flirt. Bummer. He turned to the laptop he'd set on the counter and opened it up.

No longer in the warmth of his gaze, she felt an air-conditioned draft blow cold on her face from a vent in the ceiling. Even reason returned, when she started to walk away.

An attraction? To a doctor? Who, no doubt, spent most of his time in a
hospital
—more than four hundred miles from home! She glanced at his card: Internal Medicine. And directly under that: Hematology/Oncology. Great. She burped a single breathy laugh and thought about banging her head on a wall. A
cancer
doctor? Hers was the most remarkable talent for being attracted to impossible men.

“Ms. Shepard.” She turned back to him—way too eager. “Do you have a place to stay yet?” She shook her head, swallowing, trying to dislodge her tongue from the roof of her mouth. “Halleron House is a nice B&B. Turn left out of the hospital lot. It's about seven blocks straight down Poplar, two blocks passed the church. Tell Jesse I sent you. I get compensated for everyone I send her.”

“Thanks. I will.”

C
learfield, Virginia, is one of those picturesque little towns that are featured on the lids of chocolate boxes and Christmas cards—not too unlike Marion, Ohio, where she was from; a tad smaller perhaps. Located in the western Piedmont area of the state, it was tucked away in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The closest major point of interest was less than an hour northeast, the large college town of Charlottesville. The University of Virginia was founded by Thomas Jefferson; but more importantly, it's the home of the Virginia Cavaliers—more fondly known as the Wahoos according to the boastful billboards down scenic U.S. 29 South. It also features a large renowned medical center and a law school ranked tenth in the nation according to her dad, who, twenty-five years earlier, graduated from UVA with a degree in psychology. He stayed on two more years to get another degree in sociology, to marry her mom, and to receive the best gift a daddy could ever dream of. Her. Sophia Amelia Shepard.

And
that
was her favorite bedtime story, even now.

Halleron House was exactly where the doctor said it would be—a large white Victorian house with a square turret and rose-colored trim. The flower beds, showing every sign of having a bumper crop this year, were tidy and neat; the grass in the yard meticulously manicured inside a black wrought-iron fence. Lacy green ferns hung from the eaves of the front porch—the two fan-backed wicker chairs and the swing with pretty rose cushions were painted white. It was chocolate-box-top perfect.

“Ms. Halleron?”

“Call me, Jesse. You must be Sophie Shepard.” She was a tall, medium built, going-gray-haired lady with soft, welcoming pale blue eyes and a bright toothy grin. She wore jeans, a gray plaid oxford shirt—and looked as neat and well groomed as her house. “Drew McCarren called and told me a pretty little redhead might be coming. Come in. Come in.”

The entry featured a freestanding staircase with white risers, wooden steps, and a balustrade with thick heavy newels; polished rosewood wainscoting ran down the hallways on either side. Draped in a slightly worn runner rug of ruby, navy, and beige, and set off by big hydrangea blooms in a vase on an ornate table nearby, Sophie felt as if she'd stepped back into the early nineteenth century.

“Welcome to Clearfield. Just set your bag down there. I'll give you the ten-cent tour before I take you up to your room. Where are you from?”

“Marion, Ohio.”

“Well, that's a ways. I'm sorry you came all this way to meet Arthur and missed him—such a sweet man. Dining room. The kitchen is through that door or you can come straight back through this hall. His funeral is the day after tomorrow. Apparently, they have to wait for a couple cousins from Florida to get here and his son, Hollis, who was here last week for a few days but then missed Arthur's passing—he needs to make special arrangements with his work, I hear. He lives in Texas now with his family and owns several fast-food franchises.” She frowned. “I can't recall which ones just now, but I guess he does fairly well with them. Arthur was always bragging about him. I call this the parlor.” She waved a hand at a cozy room with a homey mix of traditional and antique furniture. “And my office is through there. Down this hall is a TV family room that you're welcome to use if you don't mind tripping over my son. His room is back there as well. There's a small library upstairs with a TV in it, too.” She took a breath. “Drew mentioned that you're a schoolteacher?”

“Kindergarten.” She wasn't sure what it was about the word exactly, but she found that simply identifying herself as a kindergarten teacher always seemed to automatically distinguish her as being a stalwart sort of person—patient, strong, steadfast, and brave. Chirpy, playful, and giggly, too, unfortunately—but then, she didn't believe any singular word was perfectly perfect, so to speak.

She rushed to pick up her suitcase before Jesse could. The woman's smile came easy and warm before she started up the stairs.

“That must be a satisfying job. All those eager young minds, soaking everything up like sponges. That's quite a responsibility, being a young person's first experience with school.”

“I love it. I learn a lot from them, too.”

“I bet you do.” She topped the stairs and turned back to Sophie. “Did you know Arthur was a minister?” She shook her head; her suitcase was too heavy to be conversing between huffs and puffs. “Not my minister. He was a Unitarian. An interesting religion, from what I've read about it. It's not a very imaginative faith, but then you have many big thinkers and writers who believe in it. Like Longfellow, Thoreau, Whitman, if I'm remembering right. And Dickens, Louisa May Alcott, Sylvia Plath . . . a tragic example, but you also have Alexander Graham Bell and Charles Darwin, too, so there must be something to it. And Arthur would have been a shining example for any religion he chose. A wonderful man. You could always count on him, for anything. Poor man—his wife and teenage daughter were killed in a car accident years ago. Hollis was ten or eleven and Julie was eight, I think. Arthur raised them all alone. Never remarried. He lost Julie a few years back—more than any one man should have to tolerate, yet he was always the first to show up and
really
help in times of trouble. He wasn't simply a lot of lip service, if you know what I mean. You're my only guest at the moment, so you can choose your room. One overlooks the front, the other the back; otherwise they're much the same. Both have their own bath.”

Sophie peeked at each room—one yellow, one blue, both large, lovely, and comfortable looking. “Front, please. I like yellow.”

“I do, too. It's cheery.”

She stood smiling in the doorway as Sophie looked around. She had a soft spot for chatty people who took over that first gawky get-to-know-you dialogue, who take all the effort out of meeting someone new and put you at ease. She also loved a good gossip, as long as they weren't discussing her.

“Jesse, your home is beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she said proudly. “It's a work in progress. I bought it fourteen years ago and I've been fixing this and that ever since.”