Formula: Father. Jolie Kramer
been a shame about Darcy’s father. His gambling had done so much to hurt her. And Darcy’s mother had worked two jobs to keep them afloat. Poor child. Such a hard beginning. But look what she’d accomplished! What was that old saying about the sharpest swords being forged in the hottest fire? In Megan’s experience, it was true. Darcy had become a formidable woman.
Now, wouldn’t it be lovely if Mitch and Darcy…
Perhaps that was too much to hope for. Life rarely made sense, especially when it came to matters of the heart. But it would be quite something.
Enough daydreaming. Her work wasn’t going to finish itself.
MITCH CLIMBED the steps to the second floor of his town house, but instead of going into his bedroom, he detoured into the guest room. It had been ages since he’d been in there, although the maid who came every two weeks kept it spotless.
He wasn’t sure what he was looking for until he opened the closet. Until he saw the boxes that hadn’t been opened since he’d moved from his family home.
He got the biggest box down and put it on the bed. It wasn’t taped shut. On top of the pile of mementos was his old high school sweatshirt, which meant that he had the right box. Below that were trophies. Mostly for science projects and junior achievers, but also for track and field meets, where he’d been a distance runner. He piled the awards on top of the sweatshirt.
There it was. His high school yearbook. He lifted the heavy book, but he didn’t open it. Not yet. Instead, he left it on the bed as he repacked the box, then took the book with him and went to his bedroom.
He stared at the yearbook, green with his high school emblem embossed on the cover, while he took off his coat and tie. Once more, he lifted the book and headed downstairs.
It felt as if every step opened a new door in his memory. The smell of the hallways by the chemistry labs. The smooth, cool surface of the staircase handrail. Mr. Johnson’s awful toupee.
By the time he reached the first floor, he was awash in the past, swimming through an ocean of moments that had made up his life.
Above everything, coloring everything, was Darcy.
He poured himself a glass of Merlot, then went to the living room and settled in his favorite leather club chair. But still, he didn’t open the book. He sipped his wine, ran his hand over the binding, closed his eyes. She had always been there. At the time, he’d believed that would never change, no matter what. She was his reason.
His reason to study so hard. His reason to join the glee club. His reason to wake up in the morning. And his reason to dream.
And then she was gone. No goodbye. No warning. Just gone.
He opened the yearbook, but he didn’t try to find her picture. It wasn’t in there. She’d left two months before graduation. One Friday she’d been in the library, sitting across from him as they studied for a French test, then she disappeared.
He could still remember every detail of that Sunday afternoon. Mrs. Taylor opening the door, looking unkempt and uncomfortable. Not letting him inside.
When he asked if Darcy was ready for study group, she’d grown so red in the face that he got scared. And then when she told him that Darcy had gone to New York to be a model, he’d thought she was lying.
But she hadn’t lied. Darcy had flown to New York, and for the next sixteen years, he’d watched as she’d become internationally famous on runways and magazines around the world. He’d watched her on television in commercial after commercial. He’d seen her wedding pictures.
What he’d realized that Sunday was that he hadn’t known Darcy at all. She’d never mentioned wanting to be a model, not even once. He’d asked himself a million times if she’d given any hint, but it was clear his teenage self-obsession had been so encompassing that if she had, he’d missed it.
He turned to the middle of the yearbook, to an old snapshot pressed between the pages. It had started to fade, but he could still make out the colors of her dress.
That stupid yellow dress. She’d worn it to the science fair, and when they’d won first prize for their project, she’d been so excited she’d hugged him fiercely. His hand had moved to hold her, but the yellow dress had an open back. Tiny straps held it up. His hand had touched her bare skin, and his whole world had changed.
The feel of her had made him dizzy. In that one instant, she was more to him than she’d ever been—infinitely more. Her breasts pressed against his shirt, taking her from friend to obsession in ten seconds. He got unaccountably brave and moved his hand down her back, to the curve of her buttocks, and when he was inches away, she’d flown out of his embrace as abruptly as she’d flown in, and he was left with a little biology lesson of his own.
He’d dashed behind the table to hide his embarrassment, although he was absolutely convinced that the whole school, including Darcy, had seen his predicament.
His gaze went to the picture, and he studied the girl who had changed his world. Even then it was easy to see what she would become. Taller than everyone in the class, slender as a reed even as she started to blossom. Her hair, cropped short and slightly disheveled, worked perfectly as a frame for a face that would captivate millions. Those eyes. So famous now. But back then, those eyes had been filled with mischief. With curiosity and excitement. He’d anchored the most important friendship of his life by seeing acceptance in those eyes.
The thought made him wince. He should be ashamed of himself, putting Darcy’s friendship above Angela’s. It wasn’t true, anyway. His sentiment had gotten the best of him because Darcy had come back. That was all.
He should consider himself lucky. He’d had a great friend in Darcy, and after she’d left, he’d eventually found Angela. Kind and sweet, she’d been his from the moment they met. She was an education major, and he was in his second year of residency. Angela with her soft laugh and flaming red hair. Who would have guessed he’d have so little time with her?
And who would have guessed he’d continue to feel guilty about her, even after all this time. That, too, was part of Darcy’s legacy. Because, although he’d have died before admitting it to anyone, he knew that he’d never really loved Angela. Not when they were dating. Not when they were married. Not when she’d gotten pregnant. Not even when she was on her deathbed.
Angela had never been first in his heart. Darcy was already there.
THE PHONE CALL had come early in the morning. A request, the woman said, from Dr. Maitland to come in for some blood tests and to fill out paperwork.
But as she sat on the paper sheet that covered the middle of the examination table, Darcy wondered if she’d jumped to conclusions about what it meant.
Had he decided to take her as a patient? Or was this a pretext to see her, only to refer her to another doctor?
She’d lost her ability to read him. Of course she had, what did she expect? They’d been so young, and their combined life experience wouldn’t have filled a chapter in a memoir. The cold truth was that they’d never had more than a friendship, and that had ended the day she got on the plane for New York. It was only her need for roots that had brought her back. Not her need for Mitchell Maitland—except for his expertise.
Last night she’d been restless, and it was more from her thoughts about Mitchell than the noises in the hotel. She’d waffled so much about having him as her doctor, she’d ended up falling asleep from sheer exhaustion.
But before that final lights-out, she’d at least been able to see that her emotional upheaval hadn’t been about Mitchell per se, but about what he represented. With him, life had been innocent and enchanting, and the world had held nothing but promise. That’s why she wanted her child to be born here. And why she’d gone to Mitch. If he helped her have this baby, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Maitlands would keep an eye on the child. Just as they’d kept an eye on her when she’d had so much trouble at home.
The question that kept