Page 55 of A Treasure Worth Seeking

“Aha!” said Lance.

“Melanie called last week to ask me if I thought it was too soon after Ken’s death for her to go to dinner with Mr. Carter. ‘Of course, it won’t really be a date. Just two lonely people having dinner together. And his little boy, who is so precious, will come, too.’ I think that’s an exact quote.”

“She’s a terrific lady. I hope she’s happy,” Lance said seriously.

“I think Mr. Carter, or someone like him, is just what she needs. I’m only thankful that she’s not in San Francisco with her parents.”

“Amen to that.”

Silence stretched between them again. They avoided looking at each other, though their awareness hadn’t diminished at all. In fact they were captivated with each other. Every gesture was noted. Each breath was cataloged. The tiniest inflection of voice was heard. The air was redolent with tension.

He had said he was on his last official duty for the Department of the Treasury. Partially out of curiosity and partially out of a need to break the palpable silence, Erin asked, “Why did you come to see me? Has it something to do with Ken? You said it was official.”

“Yes. I have something for you.” Reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket he stood up. “Why don’t you come over here?” He was walking toward the pastel sofa near the wide picture window. He apparently expected her to follow him.

She would have to stand up and expose herself to his uncanny perception. But refusing to budge would only draw more attention to her, and that was to be avoided. Sucking in her breath to flatten her stomach as much as possible, she stood up on unsteady knees.

With trepidation that at any moment he was going to realize her condition, she crossed to the sofa where he was waiting. Only after she sat down did he take a seat at the opposite end.

“Erin, I’ve had this for several months.” He indicated an ordinary white, letter-sized envelope. “Before Mrs. Lyman sold her house, she sorted through drawers and files. Anything she thought I might use to complete my report, she sent to me in Washington.”

He paused and looked deeply into her brown eyes. “I don’t think she intended to send this. She probably didn’t even know it was in with the other papers and documents. I guess I should have sent it back to her, but I knew you would want to have it, and I think she would want you to.”

Her curiosity knew no bounds. If his intention was to pique her interest, he had succeeded. He handed her the envelope. It was several seconds before her eyes dropped from his and looked down at what she held in her hand.

She lifted the flap and reached inside. Her fingers closed around the edges of a stiff piece of paper. Taking it out she saw that it was a black and white photograph, yellowed with age. Her heart began to pound and there was a roaring in her ears as her throat went dry.

From the clothes that the three people in the picture wore, she could tell that the time period captured was about thirty years ago.

A young woman sat on a stone bench in a surrounding that looked like a city park. Standing shyly next to her knee was a small bo

y, still a toddler. On her lap she held a baby. Round, dark eyes looked out from behind a lacy bonnet on the infant’s head.

The woman stared directly into the camera, but she wasn’t smiling. It was as if she didn’t really see the photographer. Her mind seemed to be far away. Her eyes were sad, but very much like those of the young boy and the baby. Her features were delicate, almost fragile, as though she had a tenuous hold on her life. Her impermanence was evident in the way she held her head, in the way she clutched the baby to her, and the tender hand she rested on the small boy’s shoulder. She seemed to bespeak a certain desperation. Only the softness of her features revealed her resignation to whatever tragedy had beset her.

Tears had long since blinded Erin’s eyes, yet she continued to stare down at the photograph. The minutes ticked by as she assimilated every detail of the picture, trying to pierce the flat surface and see into the third dimension, into the woman’s mind. Lance didn’t interrupt. He didn’t move. He scarcely breathed.

Finally, she looked up at him. God, she was beautiful, he thought. Even though her face was wet with tears, she was the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen. It had taken almost more nerve than he could muster to walk through the door to this office. The last time he had seen her, she was throwing poison darts at him with those dark eyes. A rational man would have retreated from where he wasn’t wanted and left well enough alone.

But not him. Not Lance Barrett. No. He was a glutton for punishment. He had to see her one more time. He had to convince himself that what happened in San Francisco was only a fleeting fancy. Affairs like that were doomed to be short-lived. Too hot not to cool down. Wasn’t that how the song went? He’d see her and then he could banish her ghost forever from his haunted mind.

But he knew it wouldn’t be that way, and it wasn’t. Something had happened to him last February and he hadn’t been the same since. He had fallen in love.

He argued that he was too old to be acting like such a damn fool over a woman. He snapped at his men for the least petty aggravation, venting his short temper on them. One had awakened with a cracked jaw after suggesting that a toss with a winsome wench might improve Lance’s irascibility. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat. His family and friends grew to despise him. But no more than he despised himself.

Erin had once commissioned him to hell. Well, he had been, and he didn’t like it. The only bit of heaven he had glimpsed for the last five months was the sight of her face as he walked through the door of this office.

Dammit! He was worse off now than ever before. He was quaking inside from being this near her, wanting to proclaim his love, yet not daring to.

She smelled delicious. Her complexion glowed from some inner source. Her lips were moist and parted. He could see her dainty pink tongue resting behind the row of perfect white teeth. God, he wanted to feel it against his lips, in his mouth, taste her.

Looking up at him now with those tear-flooded eyes, it took all his control to keep from crushing her against him and never letting go. She was different and yet painfully familiar. She was the woman who had loved him so completely, fit him so uniquely. She was Erin O’Shea. His Erin.

‘But there was something…

“There’s an inscription on the back,” he told her gently.

Turning the picture over, Erin read aloud, “ ‘Ken’s mother, Mary Margaret Conway, and his sister. Died two weeks after picture taken of tuberculosis. Little girl already adopted when we got Ken. God bless them.’ ” It was dated and signed MRL.

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