“Was he a patient?” Zack asked.
Oh, God.
She and Ben had agreed never to lie to Zack. He knew Ben wasn‟t his biological father. Liz‟s parents had cut off all
emotional and financial support when she told them she was pregnant and wanted to keep her child. Ben had married her while
they were both still in med school and adopted Zack a few months later. She would not impinge on her grieving son‟s bond
with his dead father because of a chance encounter on the street with a virtual stranger.
If this was a chance encounter. Her heart raced as if she‟d injected epinephrine. What if Morgan had sought Zack out?
She drew a deep breath. She was overreacting. Morgan never even knew of Zack‟s existence.
“It was a long time ago,” she answered vaguely. “What did he say to you?”
Zack slouched in his seat, staring out the window at the dark pines bordering the road. “Nothing.”
“He must have said something,” she persisted.
“He asked where we lived.”
“Did you tell him?”
“Mom.” A staccato burst of impatience.
She waited.
Zack scowled. “No, I didn‟t, okay? Christ, I‟m not a baby.”
He was, though. He was her baby boy, no matter how tall he grew or what kind of language, dress, or attitude he affected.
“I just wanted to be sure he didn‟t say anything to . . . to upset you,” Liz said carefully.
“Well, he didn‟t.” Zack shot her a quick, penetrating glance from beneath his fringe of black hair. “What‟s some guy you
used to know doing here anyway?”
“I have no idea,” Liz said coolly. “Maybe he‟s on vacation.”
The other possibilities tightened her throat.
Zack slumped, staring out the window. “Yeah, because everybody wants to come to freakin‟ Maine.”
She drove past the clinic and turned into their driveway, marked by an aggressively new lamp post and a clump of orange
daylilies. The house was a renovated Victorian cottage with traditional New England charm and new, double-paned windows,
dumped on the market when the previous owners tired of the Maine winters or the second mortgage. No sea views, but the
property was convenient to Liz‟s work, and Emily could walk to school.
Liz pulled into the garage with relief. “We‟re home,” she announced.
Safe.
As if there had been no interruption to their lives or their morning and everything could return to normal.
She turned to her children with a smile, determined to restore the security they had lost along with their father. “Who wants
pancakes?”
Emily bounced. “I do.”
Zack‟s face closed. “No, thanks.”
“Don‟t you want lunch? Breakfast?”
“I‟m not hungry.”
She watched her son shuffle to the house, his head ducked between his shoulders, and her heart sank.
Everything back to normal.
Morgan stood with his back to the wall of Antonia‟s Ristorante, as aloof from the action around him as the cat drowsing in
the restaurant window. Eating, chattering humans, all ages, both sexes, every size, filled the vinyl booths. Spires of pink,
white, and purple flowers decorated the tables. Sunlight streamed through the red awning outside, suffusing the air with a rosy
glow. The sound of laughter and conversation mingled with the aromas of red sauce and freshly baked bread. Noise, smells,
and colors blurred together in his head, almost drowning out the persistent song of the sea and the lingering pulse of sexual
arousal quickened by the woman in the car.
Her eyes were wide, deep brown, with shadows swaying in their depths. For a moment, falling into those eyes, he had
wanted to breathe her, bite her, fuck her. Memory stirred, elusive as the night or the scent of bruised grass as she cried and
clawed and came under him, again and again .
“I know you . ”