Her words were a blow, rendering him speechless for a moment.“You’re helping me conduct an investigation,” he said at last. “I never tried to trick you into it, and I wouldn’t manipulate your emotions to get what I want.”
She lifted her chin. “You’re right, Joe. It’s not the same, and I want to help you. I’m sorry. I’m not irritated at you, really. I’m irritated ... near you.” A sigh swelled and released in her, and he watched the pulse in the hollow of her throat.
For a minute, Joe thought she might share with him what was truly going on behind those stormy blue eyes. She didn’t.
Perhaps curving his hand to the hollow of her waist had made him forget they hadn’t come here together. This wasn’t a date. It was a job. He was here for clues that would lead to a forger. Clues that might shed light on Connor’s demise.
The music ended, and Joe counted himself lucky that this brilliant woman had ended up in his arms, if only for half a dance. “On behalf of the New York Police Department, I appreciate your full cooperation,” he teased.
“You’re welcome, Joe.” That smile again.
He hadn’t realized until now how much he’d missed it.
CHAPTER
7
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1925
Happy birthday, Mother.” Lauren laid a bouquet of gold chrysanthemums on her mother’s marble headstone. The petals rippled in a breeze that skimmed her cheeks. Goldie Westlake would have been sixty years old today.
“My father should be here,” she added.
Elsa shifted beside her, balling her cold hands into fists and pressing them beneath her folded arms. “Maybe he came earlier?”
“If he did, he didn’t bring flowers.” Lauren nodded toward the lonely blooms she’d brought, a splash of sunshine on an otherwise washed-out day. “I suppose I could have mentioned the date when I saw him last night, but I was thinking about forgeries and the Napoleon Society and Joe, who feels like the friend I remember and a man of unplumbed depths all at once.”
“So you said last night. I’ll bet he made a much better dance partner than King Tut’s mummy.” Elsa grinned.
“Anyone would be a better dance partner than King Tut’s mummy.”
“Touché.”
Lauren sent her a small smile. “Anyway, I don’t know why I thought my dad would remember Mother’s birthday now when he rarely did when she was alive. It’s probably better that I don’t see him until I get over what he did last night anyway.”
When Lawrence had passed her off to Mr. Sanderson, it triggered the emotional memory of his abandonment all over again. She thought her father had wanted to spend time with her, and then he gave her up and walked away to do something else.
It had been such a small act, and yet it brought to the surface feelings of rejection long buried.
“The last thing I want to do is argue in front of my mother’s grave.”
Elsa tucked her scarf beneath her chin. “You know, I’ve never actually seen you argue with anyone.”
“Maybe I do my arguing on the inside.” A rueful smile bent Lauren’s lips.
“Well, if we ever do choose sides, sign me up for yours.” Her cousin nudged her with an elbow.
Lauren chuckled. But there shouldn’tbesides. If she had any interest in whatever remnant of relationship she had with Lawrence, she needed to forgive him, as often as she needed to, or succumb to a lifetime of embitterment.
That wasn’t what she wanted. That wasn’t what Mother had wanted for her, either.
“Both of our mothers certainly set an example for resentment against my father,” Lauren murmured, and Elsa agreed. “But eventually, mine confessed the need to forgive him, and that she should have done it long ago, for her own sake as much as for his.”
Before she died, she had told Lauren,“How I wish you knew your father.”Then she’d closed her eyes and whispered, “Redeem this.”She never opened her eyes again.
But one person could only do so much.
Footsteps crunched on the brittle grass, then stopped short. “Lauren?”
