He didn’t remember moving, but suddenly he was beside his bike, hunched over, waiting for his heart rate to return to something close to normal. Nausea rose inside of him. He shook like a frightened, dripping dog.

When the kids started to turn, to come back and check on him, he waved them off. After he pointed to his bike, they nodded and waved, then continued their ride. They would assume he had a flat or something mechanical had gone wrong. With luck, they would never guess the truth.

As much as he wanted to compete, as strong and powerful as the drive was within him, he couldn’t do it. That part of him, the pieces that made him whole, were shattered beyond repair. None of the trophies sitting in boxes mattered. There wasn’t enough money in the world to make this right. He was a loser and a coward, and the hell of it was, he didn’t know how to make any of it better.

SATURDAY AFTERNOON, CHARITY walked the short distance between the hotel and Marsha’s house. Despite the weeks she’d been in town, she’d never been to her boss’s house before. Not that she was visiting as Marsha’s employee. Instead, Charity was going to see her grandmother for the first time in her life.

Grandmother. The word felt strange. She couldn’t seem to grasp the whole meaning of what she’d been told. For the past couple of days she’d alternated between happiness and confusion. She’d wanted to be a part of a family for so long, she couldn’t believe it had finally happened.

She was also wrestling with anger, mostly at her mother. Maybe Sandra hadn’t wanted anything to do with Marsha, but she’d had no right to keep Charity from that relationship. Especially after her death. Why hadn’t she told her own daughter that she had other family? Sandra had known how much Charity had wanted to belong somewhere. Yet she hadn’t bothered to leave a note, or even a hint.

As Charity approached the house, she did her best to push away the annoyance she felt. She didn’t want to start her afternoon with Marsha in a bad mood.

She turned the corner and saw the white house Marsha had described. It was two stories, in a craftsman style typical of the area, probably built in the 1920s. There were elements that were similar to the house Charity had fallen in love with. The house Josh wanted to sell her at a discount. Something else she’d yet to come to terms with, she thought humorously. Who could have known her life would go from fairly boring to wildly confusing in a matter of a few days?

She walked up the three steps to the wide porch and knocked. Marsha opened the door almost immediately.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” the older woman said. “Come in.”

Charity stepped into a bright, open living room. Something about the combination of colors, furniture placement and windows made her want to sink into one of the overstuffed seats and never leave.

“Thanks for having me,” she said, feeling a tiny bit awkward.

Marsha had replaced her usual well-tailored suits with jeans and a long-sleeved blouse. Her white hair was more casual, soft waves rather than a bun. She linked arms with Charity.

“Instead of dancing around the topic, I thought we’d face it head-on,” she said, leading the way to the stairs. “Let’s go look at Sandra’s room. I’m hoping you can get a sense of what her life was like before you were born.”

“I’d like that,” Charity told her.

They climbed the wide staircase and turned left at the landing.

“The last door on the right,” Marsha said, releasing Charity. “Nothing has been changed, I’m afraid. Despite my best intentions, I turned my daughter’s room into a shrine. I’m sure any number of psychologists would have plenty to say about that.”

Her tone was easy, but Charity saw the flash of pain in her eyes.

Not knowing what to say, she walked toward the open door. When she reached it, she turned and looked at the bedroom that had belonged to her mother.

The whole room had been done in shades of lavender, her mother’s favorite color. A full-sized bed was covered in a purple and lavender quilt. Built-in bookcases flanked the bed. The shelves were crowded with books, knick-knacks and pictures. There were posters on the wall. A very young Michael Jackson and a group Charity wouldn’t have known except for the word “Blondie” in script at the bottom.

She stepped inside the bedroom and walked to the desk. School books were still stacked. A half-written essay on Julius Caesar was next to them. A gold flower necklace on a thin chain lay carelessly across the paper.

She moved to the shelves and studied the pictures. Sandra was in nearly all of them. Her mother with her friends, at a school dance. The familiar smile made her chest ache, but other than that, she felt no connection with the room or the former occupant.

“All she took were some clothes and money,” Marsha said from the doorway. “Nothing else. There wasn’t a note. She never said goodbye.”

“I’m sorry,” Charity said, not sure how to ease Marsha’s pain. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think her constant moving on was about you. She loved new places. We’d settle somewhere for a few months and then she’d start talking about the next place and the next. Where we were going was always more exciting than where we were.”

Charity looked around at the room. The pretty curtains, the small collection of worn stuffed animals shoved carelessly in a corner. Something like this was exactly what she’d dreamed about when she’d been younger. A place to call her own. Nothing fancy—just a regular kind of home. Yet her mother had walked away from it and had never looked back.

“I wish she’d told me about you,” she said.

“Me, too.” Marsha’s eyes were sad again. “I wish I’d been more understanding of who she was. She desperately wanted to go away to college, but I always said she had to stay here. I was such a fool. Controlling and unyielding. I had to be right. In the end, being right cost me my only child. If I’d—”

“No,” Charity said, cutting her off. “She would have left anyway. It’s what she wanted. I don’t think there’s anything you could have done to change her.”

“You can’t be sure about that.”

“Yes, I can,” Charity said, trying not to sound bitter. “I knew her.”

“Perhaps,” Marsha said. “I still have that album for you. It’s downstairs.”

Charity nodded and followed her back to the living room. Together they looked through pictures of Sandra. There were laughing photos of a toddler, then more familiar poses and smiles as she got older.

Marsha gazed lovingly at each photo. She told stories about when they were taken and what happened next. Charity shifted uncomfortably on the sofa.

“Is this why you hired me?” she asked abruptly. “Because I’m your granddaughter?”

Marsha smiled at her. “While I did want the chance to get to know you, I have devoted most of my life to this town. I wouldn’t have risked the future of so many just to have you around. When we hired the recruiter to fill your job, I gave her your name. I said I’d heard good things about you, but that was all. She wouldn’t have put you on the slate if you hadn’t been an excellent candidate.”

That made Charity feel better. “Will people be upset when they find out? Won’t they think you tricked the city council into hiring me?”

“You’ve been in meetings. You know how stubborn everyone can be. Do you really think I could have convinced them to hire an unqualified candidate?”

“No,” she admitted. “They would rebel.”

“Exactly.” Marsha touched her arm. “You’re very good at what you do. You’re honest, caring and you have a fresh perspective. You have the experience necessary and the energy to get the job done. You’re the one we wanted. I would have hired you even if you hadn’t been my granddaughter. I hope you believe me.” She hesitated. “I know that coming to meet you directly would have been more straightforward, but I was terrified. I thought by bringing you here, we could get to know each other.”

Charity nodded. “It’s okay. I understand why you’d be cautious. I want to get to know you. I want us to be family.”

“We already are,” Marsha told her. She smiled again, but the sadness had returned to her eyes. “You’re probably still trying to figure this all out. Do you want to pick this up another time?”

“If you don’t mind,” Charity said, grateful Marsha understood. “It’s a lot to take in.”

“We have time,” Marsha told her, rising. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Charity stood and started for the door. When she reached it, she turned and hugged Marsha. The older woman hugged her back. The brief embrace made her feel both better and worse. The nagging sense of having lost nearly twenty-eight years tugged at her.

As she stepped out into the afternoon, she wondered what she could have done to make the outcome different, but knew there was no answer. She’d been a kid, dependent on what her mother told her. Even if she’d wanted to go looking for family, she hadn’t known Sandra’s real last name. After her mother’s death, she’d gone through her things and hadn’t found even a hint about her life before Charity had been born.

If only, she thought sadly. But there was no way to change the past. There was only the future and what she chose to do with her life.

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHARITY RETURNED TO the hotel and climbed the stairs toward her room. She wrestled with dozens of emotions, most of which she couldn’t identify. Without thinking, she stopped in front of Josh’s door and knocked.

It was a Saturday afternoon, she reminded herself. He wasn’t likely to be there. But seconds later he opened the door, looking as gorgeous as ever in a T-shirt and jeans. He needed a haircut, she thought, taking in the slightly shaggy hair. And a shave. She had to admit the scruff looked good on him.

“Hey,” he said, motioning for her to come in. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing bad. I went to see Marsha.”

He shut the door behind her, then took her hand and led her toward the sofa. But when they got there, she couldn’t sit. She felt restless and uneasy.

“Why?” she asked, facing Josh. “She was my mother. I know she cared about me. She knew I wanted to be part of a family. She knew that mattered to me more than anything. But she didn’t tell me, not even when she was dying. Not even after she was dead. That’s all it would have taken. A little note with a name and an address. But she didn’t bother.”

Charity couldn’t reconcile the information. “So where does that leave me? Was she just incredibly selfish or am I fooling myself, thinking she gave a damn about me?”

He reached for her.

She shook her head. “No. Don’t. I need to say this.”

He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. “Then I’ll stand here and listen.”

She drew in a breath. “When I was a junior in high school, we moved again. I told her this was the last time. That I wanted to graduate from a school I’d attended for at least a year. I made her promise.” She struggled against the memory but it was everywhere, surrounding her with how things had been.

“Did she keep it?”

“No. She left and I stayed. I had a job and the rent on our mobile home was cheap. She sent money every now and then. I got by and I graduated with my class. I had friends. I was able to send out college applications and know I would still be at the same address when they sent the answers. But she wasn’t.”

Charity felt the burn of tears and willed them away. She didn’t cry. Giving in accomplished nothing.

“She didn’t come to my graduation. It was too far and she didn’t have the money. I told myself I was fine, but I wasn’t. I wanted someone there, someone to see me take this momentous step. She didn’t bother and she didn’t tell me there was someone who would care, who would take the time to be with me. She kept that from me, and there’s no good reason. How am I supposed to tell her how pissed I am? She’s dead.”

He reached for her again and this time she went into his arms. He might not have the answers, but he was warm and strong and for a few minutes she could pretend that everything was going to be all right.

He stroked her hair, then ran his hand down her back. She rested her head on his shoulder and breathed in the scent of him.

“My mom left, too,” he said. “I was ten.”

Charity remembered Marsha telling her the story. She pulled back enough to look into his eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be whining.”

“You’re not whining.” He cupped her face in his hands. “I’m saying I understand what it’s like to be abandoned by the person who’s supposed to love you best in the world. By the time I was old enough to go look for her, it was too late. She’d died. I was angry. Beyond angry. I wanted her punished. I wanted her to pay, but mostly I wanted her to tell me why. Why did other moms give up everything for their children and she couldn’t even stay? Was it me? Or was it her?”

She saw the pain in his eyes. The questions that would never be answered.

“Eventually you make peace with it,” he told her. “You make peace and you move on.”

Maybe, she thought. But there was a scar from the wound and sometimes that scar ached.

She raised herself on tiptoe and pressed her mouth to his. Her kiss was gentle, sharing. He responded in kind. She closed her eyes and lost herself in the heat that flooded her body. There was something to be said for a dependable chemical reaction.

His hands dropped to her waist, then her hips. He urged her closer and she went willingly, her body nestling against his. She parted her lips and he deepened the kiss. She met him willingly, enjoying the stroking of his tongue against hers, giving herself over to the blood rushing through her body.