Page 186 of Homeport

“The reports, the documents were stolen out of my home safe. I might not have known, but I wanted something before I left to come here. And I saw they were gone.”

She poured water into a glass, recapped the bottle, then sipped. “I wanted to get your grandmother’s pearls, to bring them here and put them in the safe-deposit box I keep at the local bank. I was going to give them to you before I left.”

“Why?”

“Perhaps because while you were never mine, you were always hers.” She set the glass aside. “I won’t apologize for what I’ve done or the choices I’ve made. I don’t ask you to understand me, any more than I have ever been able to understand you.”

“So, I just live with it?” Miranda demanded, and Elizabeth lifted a brow.

“I have. I will ask you to keep what we’ve spoken of in this room. You are a Jones, and as such have a responsibility to uphold the family name.”

“Oh yes, one hell of a name it is.” But she shook her head. “I know my duties.”

“Yes, I’m sure you do. I have to meet your father.” She picked up her bag. “I will discuss this with him if you like.”

“For what purpose?” Suddenly Miranda was weary, too weary to worry, to wonder, or to care. “Nothing’s really changed at all, has it?”

“No.”

When she was gone, Miranda let out a half-laugh and walked to the window. The storm that had been threatening all day was rolling in on a blistered sky.

“You okay?”

She leaned back as Ryan laid his hands on her shoulder. “How much did you hear?”

“Most of it.”

“Eavesdropping again,” she murmured, “sneaking in on little cat’s paws. I don’t know how to feel.”

“Whatever you feel, it’s right. You’re your own woman, Miranda. You always have been.”

“I guess I have to be.”

“Will you talk to your father about this?”

“What would be the point? He’s never seen me. He’s never heard me. And now I know why.” She closed her eyes, turned her cheek into his hand. “What kind of people are they, Ryan, that I come from? My father, Elizabeth, the woman who gave me to them?”

“I don’t know them.” Gently, he turned her until they were face-to-face. “But I know you.”

“I feel . . .” She drew a long breath, and let it come. “Relieved. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been afraid I was like her, had no real choice about being like her. But I’m not. I’m not.”

Shuddering once, she laid her head on his shoulder. “I don’t ever have to worry about that again.”

“I’m sorry for her,” he murmured. “For closing herself off to you. To love.”

Miranda knew what love was now, the terror and thrill of it. Whatever happened, she was grateful that part of herself had been opened. Even if the lock had been picked by a thief.

“Yes, so am I.” She held on, one last moment, then drew away to stand on her own. “I’m going to go to Cook with Richard’s book.”

“Give me time to get to Florence. I didn’t want to leave today, not when you had all this on your mind. I’ll leave tonight if I can manage it, or first thing in the morning. We’ll cut it back to thirty-six hours. That should do it.”

“I can’t give you more than that. I need this to be over.”

“It will be.”

She smiled, found it easier than she’d imagined. “And no sneaking into bedrooms, no riffling through jewelry boxes or safes.”

“Absolutely not. As soon as I’m finished with the Carters.”

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