She parked where the driveway forked, the other path leading to a newly constructed building behind the house, not nearly as rustic, but still charming. The house resembled a homesteader's cabin, small and rustic, and currently, it appeared, under renovation. Although the wood structure had been neglected for some time, the splendor of the primitive architecture shone through. Habit, she decided, and a means to keep her mind on something other than her fluttering stomach. He owned real estate-houses, apartment buildings, neighborhood shopping centers.Īs Patricia steered her Mercedes down the graveled drive, she took note of the house and its condition.
Opulent wealth? Good Lord, her father was the most successful man in the county. How fitting, Patricia thought, that Jesse would choose a home located on the dividing line between dusty country living and opulent wealth. It held an address in Hatcher, although the acreage spanned into Arrow Hill.
The old Garrett farm came into view nearly thirty-five minutes later. "I'm ready, too," she said, wondering if she'd ever be ready to face Jesse Hawk again. Light-gray or a pale shade of blue, depending on the child's mood. But it was his eyes, Patricia thought, that were the true gift from his father's mixed-blood heritage. How could she forget Jesse's face when she saw a youthful replica of it every day? Dillon's straight white smile enhanced ethnic cheekbones, a stubborn jaw and sun-burnished skin. "Yep." He stood grinning at her, his damp hair slicked back with gel, his baggy khakis sporting a trendy label. She turned to the sound of her son's voice, her heart leaping to her throat. You were supposed to prove to my disbelieving father that you really loved me. I waited year after lonely year for you to come back. What in God's name was she going to say to him? I was pregnant when you left.
#Mysafe savings in task manager wont end skin#
She touched her skin, remembering how Jesse marveled at what he called its "flawless texture." Would he find flaws now? The skin of a thirty-year-old? Her hair hadn't changed much, she decided, aside from a slightly shorter cut and subtle caramel highlights framing her face. Would Jesse recognize her right away? Or would he look twice to be sure? Her body was still slim, but her hips flared a bit more-a testimony to maturity and motherhood. She had chosen a straight white skirt, a pale-peach blouse and low heels-casual designer wear on a not-so-casual day. She walked to the mirror and lingered over her reflection. Every morning the sun reflected prisms of light across the bed. Antique wood furnishings, accented with winter-white and splashes of royal-blue, complemented the stained-glass windows. Patricia left his room and entered her own, a bedroom that was neither frilly nor bland. If anything, it would give her a chance to check her appearance again, maybe sip a cup of herb tea. Thirty more minutes wouldn't make a difference. Her son appreciated every heartfelt hug as much as every toy he'd ever received. He spoiled the boy, but then Dillon was easy to shower with affection and expensive gifts. Raymond Boyd purchased his grandson a new model every Sunday. "Okay, but we might be at the hobby store by then."Īnother family tradition, Patricia thought. "I'll drop you off, then stop by Grandpa's later." "I'm going to visit an old friend," Patricia told her son. He hadn't made an attempt to contact the woman he'd shunned. He'd bought the old Garrett farm, a piece of property between Arrow Hill and Hatcher. To see your father, she thought nervously. He always makes those spicy Spanish kind." Dillon pushed the covers away. "I have something else to do this morning, but Grandpa will fix your eggs." Omelets, hash browns and fresh-squeezed orange juice. Sunday breakfast was a family tradition in the Boyd household. "Oh, yeah," he said, pulling himself up against the oak headboard. Each carefully constructed model car, battleship and airplane had its place, as did a favored pair of inline skates. The morning sun shimmered through the blinds, illuminating the boy's room with slats of light. She sat on the edge of his bed and brushed her fingers across his forehead, sweeping strands of dark brown hair away from his face. Patricia Boyd loved him, more than life itself.
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