Page 50

He didn’t answer that. He was looking at her, and she was looking at him, and somehow they’d moved closer without either of them agreeing to it. His eyes went to her mouth and came back up, and she felt it everywhere, that look. She felt it in her fingertips. She could have leaned in. It would have taken nothing. Four inches and a decision, and she wanted to make it so badly that her whole body was arguing to just do it.

His hand came up. It got as far as the side of her face, not quite touching, close enough that she could feel the warmth of it against her cheek.

Then he stopped. The limb frozen in the air.

“Good night, Alli.”

He’d made a decision, and she didn’t argue with him. He was right, after all. This was one road that was closed to both of them.

“Goodnight, Sam,” she said finally, and made herself turn, and got the key card to work on the third try.

She did not look back, because she knew that if she looked back she was going to stop being sensible. She wasn’t going to be that woman that threw herself at a man, even if she was pretty gosh darn sure he wanted it, too.

She shut the door and leaned against it and listened to him stand in the hall for a long moment before his own door opened and closed.

They both had done the right thing.

So why then did it feel so wrong?

Chapter

Fifteen

The funeral home was on a quiet street in an upscale part of Boston. Brick, black shutters, a discreet sign. It was solemnly quiet inside, the uncomfortable kind that made Sam want to be somewhere else.

He wasn’t sure what to expect. This part of Leigh’s life had been hidden away, kept secret from her Winslow Heights friends. For all he knew, hundreds of people would be at the service, all of them extolling her virtues.

There were fewer than twenty people.

That was the first thing he noticed, standing in the doorway in his dark suit with Alli quiet at his shoulder. Leigh had guarded this life so fiercely, had flown across the country twice a year to protect it, and it fit into six short rows with room to spare. A handful of gray heads. A middle-aged couple. A young woman in the front, standing very straight, in a black dress.

She was the niece in the framed photo that they’d found in Leigh’s desk.

And there was a man beside her, silver at the temples, greeting the mourners as they arrived.

Sam’s paused, instantly recognizing the man’s face even if it was thirty years older. The man in the photograph where Leigh was holding the baby.

Of course, in the picture, the man was younger, dark-haired instead of silver, standing at the side of a hospital bed.

“Sam,” Alli said, very softly. “That’s him. From the picture.”

“I know.”

The man took his hand at the door with the automatic warmth of someone who had been shaking hands all morning. “Thank you for coming. Walter Powell. Forgive me, I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Sam Winslow. Leigh worked with my family. For a long time.” He watched the name land and saw it mean nothing to the man beyond the obvious. “This is my colleague, Allison Crenshaw. We’re sorry for your loss.”

“The Winslows.” Walter’s face warmed with something that looked genuine. “She gave that company her whole life. It’s good of you to come all this way. It would have meant a great deal to her.”

Walter turned to the young woman standing next to him.

“Hannah, sweetheart, come say hello. These people came from Illinois.”

Up close, Hannah looked even more like the photo in the frame, except this time she wasn’t happy and smiling. Today, her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, a tissue wadded up discreetly in her hand.

“Thank you for coming,” Hannah said, giving them a brave smile. “Did you know my aunt well?”

“She worked for my father since I was a baby,” Sam said, deciding that it was best to keep it to small talk.