She remembered thinking the same thing at six. “All right,” she said, pretending indifference, “but I heard her say there’s raisin oatmeal cookies for the boys who clean her pantry shelves. I’ll see who else—” She didn’t have to go on. They rushed past her into the hallway and ran for the kitchen, their shoes clicking loudly on the terra cotta floor. Smiling to herself, Lydia pushed the cot back in place and straightened the pile of blankets at the foot. She looked at her handiwork and then at the other five cots and straightened each one of them in turn. The room the six smallest boys shared was painfully neat and barren, more like a cell than a bedroom. Their few personal possessions were kept in wooden crates at the base of each cot. The walls were whitewashed and showed nothing more interesting than a few cracks in the stucco. The new orphanage could not be built quickly enough to suit Lydia.
She backed out of the room, pulling the door shut, and bumped into Nathan Hunter. “Oh! What are you doing here?”
He noted she seemed more surprised to see him than unhappy. He took it as a good sign. “I came to see you, of course.”
To give her hands something to do, Lydia smoothed the skirt of her soft gray gown. “I don’t know why,” she said with a credible amount of dignity. “It’s been three weeks since the Cliff House. I thought you’d gone back to Australia.”
“Not until Brig and I settle our deal.”
She made to go past him, but Nathan blocked her path. “I have work to do, Mr. Hunter. Father Patrick’s expecting me to help him in the classroom.”
“No, he’s not.” There was something different about her, Nathan thought, though he was hard pressed to identify what it was. Her bearing was much the same—the chin still lifted when she felt threatened—but there was something else in her manner, an aloofness that suggested fear perhaps, or pain. He said nothing for a moment, studying her heart-shaped face. She was wearing her hair differently now, swept back lightly from her temples and coiled loosely at the back of her head. It was a dark, gloriously rich frame for her features and, looking at her, Nathan was struck again by her eyes, how deeply blue they were, how soft and fathomless they could be. “I spoke with Father Patrick when I came in,” he told her. “He suggested I might find you back here and that you would be delighted to take me on a tour.”
“Delighted?”
“His word exactly. I hoped it might be true.” He studied her face, aware that she had marshaled her defenses and was determined to be cool. “Well?”
Lydia avoided Nathan’s light gray predator eyes. “Very well,” she said, making little attempt to be gracious. “I suppose I can show you around. The sooner that’s done, the sooner you can leave.”
Since they were in the wing that housed the bedrooms, Lydia took Nathan from one to another, talking a little about the children and their backgrounds. Her conversation was hardly personal; she had conducted dozens of such tours when she was trying to raise money for the new building. Nathan listened politely and asked questions now and again.
“Didn’t you get any of my messages?” he asked as they entered the chapel. Dust motes filled a row of sunbeams coming through the high, narrowly arched windows. Nathan shut the heavy oaken door behind him and leaned against it.
At the sound of the door closing, Lydia lost her train of thought. She dipped her fingers in the font and genuflected, then took a seat on the last rough-hewn pew. “What messages?” she asked when he sat beside her.
“I sent one every three or four days since I last saw you,” he said. “You never got one? Or the flowers?”
“Nothing.” She looked at him suspiciously. “You really tried to reach me? Sent me flowers?”
The chapel was still and peaceful and their voices were hushed respectfully. Nathan pointed to the golden cross on the altar. “This is not the sort of place where I’m likely to tell a lie.”
She looked away quickly, trying to hide her smile. When she had composed herself she said, “Three weeks was a long time not to hear anything from you. I suppose it was my mother’s doing. She wants to protect me.”
“But she allows you to see Brigham.”
“Yes. I’ve seen him twice since that night. How do you know about it? Does he…does he talk to you about me?”
“No,” Nathan said quickly. “It’s not what you’re thinking. I saw you with him at the theater one evening. Brigham and I rarely talk these days; we’re not even staying in the same hotel any longer. He’s moved to the Commodore.”
“Have you had a falling out?” she asked, folding her hands in her lap. “Brigham doesn’t talk about you, either.”
Nathan placed his hand across both of hers. “What are your feelings for Brig, Lydia?”
She jerked her hands away. “Why would I tell you that? I haven’t shared my feelings with Brigham. I’m certainly not going to share them with you.”
“I suppose that answers my question.” He stretched his legs out into the aisle and leaned back, resting his hands on the bench behind him. “If you had gotten my messages, would you have agreed to see me?”
“I’m seeing you now, aren’t I?” she asked. “Anyway, why do you want to see me? Knowing that you and Brigham are partners, well, it makes me feel as if I’m some bone you’re fighting over. I have no idea why you’ve both singled me out for your attention unless it’s my money. There are hundreds of women in San Francisco, most of them better looking than me and far more interesting.”
“Do you ever tell Brig any of this?”
“Of course. He told me I was imagining it.” Between softly teasing kisses Brig had told her that. “He said he didn’t need my money.” He had said that while his mouth was against her ear and when his tongue had traced the outer shell. “He said I was beautiful.” He had kissed her eyes closed then, touched his lips to her temples, and followed the line of her jaw with his mouth. “And as interesting as a woman ought to be.”
“You believed him?”
“Shouldn’t I?”
“What if I said those things?”
