Page 68 of Homeport

“I—” The back of her throat burned. “Thank you.”

“It hardly changes the situation, however. The publicity must be downplayed. Through circumstances, you’re at the center of the storm, so to speak. Your mother and I believe it would be best if you took an extended leave.”

The tears that had swum into her eyes dried up. “I’ve already discussed that with her. And I’ve told her I won’t hide from this. I’ve done nothing.”

“What you’ve done or haven’t done isn’t the issue. Until both of these matters are resolved, your presence at the Institute is detrimental.”

He brushed off the knees of his slacks, then stood. “Starting today, you’re to take a month personal leave. If necessary, you may go in, clear up any pending business, but it would be best if you do that from here, within the next forty-eight hours.”

“You might as well paint a G for guilty on my forehead.”

“You’re overreacting, as usual.”

“And you’re walking away, as usual. Well, I know where I stand. Alone.” Though it was humiliating, she tried one last time. “Once, just once, couldn’t you take my side?”

“This isn’t a matter of sides, Miranda. And it’s not a personal attack. This is what’s best for everyone involved, and for both the Institute and Standjo.”

“It hurts me.”

He cleared his throat, and avoided her eyes. “I’m sure once you have time to think it through, you’ll agree this is the most logical course to take. I’ll be at the Regency until tomorrow if you need to reach me.”

“I’ve never been able to reach you,” she said quietly. “I’ll get your coat.”

Because he felt some regret, he followed her into the foyer. “You should take this time, do a little traveling. Get some sun. Perhaps your, ah, young man would join you.”

“My what?” She took his coat out of the closet, then glanced up the stairs. And began to laugh. “Oh sure.” She had to wipe at her eyes, even as she recognized the jittery onset of hysteria. “I bet old Rodney would just love to go traveling with me.”

She waved her father out of the house, then sat on the bottom step and laughed like a loon—until she started to weep.

thirteen

Aman who had three sisters knew all about women’s tears. There were the slow, rather lovely ones that could slide down a female cheek like small, liquid diamonds and reduce a man to begging. There were hot, angry ones that spurted out of a woman’s eyes like clear fire and induced a wise man to run for cover.

And there were those that were hidden so deep in the heart that when they broke loose and stormed free they were a deluge of pain beyond any man’s comfort.

So he let her be, let her curl into herself on the bottom step while those heart-born tears raged. He knew that the hurt that spawned such a flood closed her off. All he could do was give her privacy, and wait.

When those harsh, ripping sobs quieted, he walked down the hall, opened the closet, and pushed through until he found a jacket. “Here.” He held it out to her. “Let’s get some air.”

She stared at him out of swollen and confused eyes. She’d simply forgotten he was there. “What?”

“Let’s get some air,” he repeated, and because she was still largely helpless, he pulled her to her feet. He slid the jacket over her arms, turned her, and efficiently fastened the buttons.

“I’d prefer to be alone.” She tried for coolness, but her throat was still raw, and she fell far short.

“You’ve been alone long enough.” He grabbed his own jacket, shrugged it on, then pulled her out the front door.

The air was bracing, the sun strong enough to sting her sore eyes. Humiliation was beginning to seep through. Tears were useless enough, she thought, but at least when they were private no one saw your control fail.

“This is a great spot,” he said conversationally. He kept her hand in his even when her fingers flexed for release. “Privacy, a kick-ass view, the smell of the sea just outside the door. Grounds could use some work.”

The Joneses, he concluded, didn’t spend enough time outside. Across the tumbling lawn there were a pair of grand old trees that begged to have a hammock stretched between them. He doubted Miranda had ever explored the miracles of a hammock in the shade on a summer afternoon.

There were shrubs, ragged from winter, that he imagined bloomed beautifully—and without any care—in the spring. There were bare patches in the lawn, crying out to be reseeded and fed.

But the fact that there was grass, shrubs, old trees, and an impressive windbreak of pines on the north side indicated that someone had cared enough once to plant—or at least to hire a staff to plant.

He might have been an urbanite through and through, but he appreciated rural atmosphere.

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