Page 66 of Homeport

It was surprising enough to see Ryan at the open front door. But it was a shock to the heart to see her father standing on the doorstep.

“Father.” She cleared the sleep out of her voice and tried again. “Hello. I didn’t know you were coming to Maine.”

“Just got in.” He was a tall man, trim, browned by the sun. His hair was full and thick and shiny as polished steel. It matched his trim beard and moustache and suited his narrow face.

His eyes—the same deep blue as his daughter’s—peered out of the lenses of wire-rim glasses and studied Ryan.

“I see you have company. I hope I’m not intruding.”

Sizing up the situation quickly, Ryan offered a hand. “Dr. Jones, what a pleasure. Rodney J. Pettebone. I’m an associate of your daughter’s—and a friend, I hope. Just in from London,” he continued, stepping back and drawing Charles neatly inside. He glanced toward the stairs where Miranda continued to stand, staring at him as if he’d grown two heads.

“Miranda’s been kind enough to give me a bit of her time while I’m here. Miranda dear.” He held out a hand and a ridiculously adoring smile.

She wasn’t sure which baffled her more, the puppy dog smile or the upper-crust British accent that was rolling off his tongue as if he’d been born a royal.

“Pettebone?” Charles frowned as Miranda stood stiff and still as one of her bronzes. “Roger’s boy.”

“No, he’s my uncle.”

“Uncle? I didn’t realize Roger had siblings.”

“Half brother, Clarence. My father. Can I take your coat, Dr. Jones?”

“Yes, thank you. Miranda, I was just at the Institute. I was told you weren’t feeling well today.”

“I was— A headache. Nothing . . .”

“We’ve been caught, darling.” Ryan moved up the stairs to take her hand, squeezing it hard enough to rub bone. “I’m sure your father will understand.”

“No,” Miranda said, definitely, “he won’t.”

“It’s completely my fault, Dr. Jones. I only have a few days in the country.” He accented this by kissing Miranda’s fingers lovingly. “I’m afraid I persuaded your daughter to take the day off. She’s helping me with my research on Flemish art of the seventeenth century. I’d be nowhere without her.”

“I see.” Obvious disapproval flickered in Charles’s eyes. “I’m afraid—”

“I was about to make some tea.” Miranda interrupted neatly. She needed a moment to realign her thoughts. “If you’ll excuse us, Father. Why don’t you wait in the parlor? It won’t take long. Rodney, you’ll give me a hand, won’t you?”

“Love to.” He beamed a smile when she returned the vise squeeze on his hand.

“Have you lost your mind?” she hissed as she slammed through the kitchen door. “Rodney J. Pettebone? Who the hell is that?”

“At the moment, I am. I’m not here, remember?” He pinched her chin.

“You gave my father the impression we were playing hooky, for God’s sake.” She grabbed the kettle from the stove and took it to the sink. “Not only that, but that we were spending the day playing patty-cake.”

“Patty-cake.” He just couldn’t resist it, and wrapped his arms around her back to hug. He didn’t even mind the elbow in the ribs. “You’re so cute, Miranda.”

“I am not cute, and I am not happy with this ridiculous lie.”

“Well, I suppose I could have told him I’m the one who stole the bronze. Then we could explain to him how it’s a forgery and the Institute is now hip-deep in insurance fraud. Somehow I think the fact that you’re playing patty-cake with some British twit is more palatable.”

Teeth clenched, she warmed the teapot. “Why a British twit, for God’s sake?”

“Just came to me. I thought he might be your type.” He smiled engagingly when she sent a withering look over her shoulder. “The point is, Miranda, your father’s here, he’s been to the Institute, he obviously wants some answers. You have to figure out just which answers to give him.”

“You don’t think I know that? Do I look stupid?”

“Not at all, but I’d say you’re an inherently honest person. Lying takes skill. What you have to do here is give him everything you knew up until the point where I joined you in bed this morning.”

---