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  “Good point.” She turned back to the frames she was assembling.

  “I’m getting hungry. Do you want to go for an early lunch?”

  She looked up at the clock. “At ten-thirty?”

  He followed her gaze. “Is that all it is?”

  She laughed. “We could do coffee and doughnuts.”

  “Oh, good idea. Do you feel like going out, or would you rather I go get something and bring it back here?”

  “As long as I stay on the clock, I’m game to leave.”

  “You’re on.”

  She started to say something, then hesitated. Finally, she met his eyes, then dipped her head behind the visor of her hand. “That was a stupid thing to say.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She looked up again. “You don’t know how grateful I am for this job, Reed. I shouldn’t even joke about being on the clock. I owe you so many hours right now I’ll never make it up to you.”

  He went around the desk and put his hands on her shoulders. “Look at me.”

  She gazed up at him through wavy bangs that had grown too long, framing her face like a cherub’s.

  “Olivia Cline. Let’s get something straight right now, okay?”

  She nodded like a petulant child.

  He made his voice firm. “I am grateful for everything you have done for me. Right now things might be a little stacked in your favor. In a few months, it might be me who needs some extra help…or someone else. For now, would you please just let me be there for you? After the baby comes, when you’re settled in to that whole routine, then you can return the favor.”

  She opened her mouth but he silenced her with an upraised hand.

  “If not to me, then you can pay it forward to someone else.”

  She blew out a breath, as if he’d taken away her rebuttal.

  “My point is,” he said, “I want you to quit feeling guilty or beholden to me or whatever it is that puts that pathetic look in your eyes. Do you hear me?”

  She nodded, her expression solemn.

  “You’re sure?”

  “I hear you,” she said. “Reed…”

  He dropped his hands from her shoulders, letting his fingers trail down her arms, lingering to stroke her dainty wrists. “What?”

  “Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done without you… Not just this past month when I had to be off my feet, but ever since I met you. I’ll never be able to pay you back, but I want—”

  He clicked his tongue in exasperation and pinned her with a stern look. “Were you listening to a word I said?”

  Again, that sheepish smile. “I heard you. Were you listening to a word I said?”

  “I heard you. You’re grateful. And I’m grateful. We’re a pretty grateful pair. So that’s the end of that. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she whispered.

  “Now—” He brushed his hands in a down-to-business gesture. “Did somebody say something about doughnuts?”

  Her laughter was musical.

  Chapter 31

  The roar of the vacuum sweeper was music to Olivia’s ears. She was probably pushing her limits, but while she had the energy, she wanted to get some cleaning done.

  It was so good to be up and off that sofa. Never again would she wish for mandatory bed rest. A month-long nap was not all it was cracked up to be.

  The baby rolled lazily in her womb as she moved the sweeper in long, slow strokes across the carpet. She’d lost whatever momentum she’d had on decorating the house, but it was an improvement just to get it cleaned and straightened after her hiatus on the sofa. She glared at the offending piece of furniture. The minute she had a few extra dollars, that sofa was getting slipcovered.

  She finished the carpets and dusted the living room before starting in on the desk in the dining room. The smooth oak surface was buried in a landslide of junk mail and bills, and dotted with the remains of half a dozen floral arrangements she’d received while she was bedridden—most of them from Reed.

  She emptied the vases and baskets into a large trash bag, culled the urgent-looking envelopes from the junk mail and tossed the remaining heap into the bag as well. She hadn’t felt so energetic in ages. Wanting to take advantage of this burst of energy, she scooped the remaining contents of the desk into the apron of her maternity shirt and dumped everything onto the dining room table for sorting.

  She pulled out a chair and began the slow process of sorting the papers into various stacks—bills in one pile, coupons in another, catalogs and flyers to the trash. As she systematically worked her way through the pile, her eyes fell on a white business envelope.

  She read the return address twice before she remembered what was inside. Mid-America Transplant Services. The thank-you note from one of the transplant recipients of Derek’s organs. It was the only thank-you she’d ever received from the agency. She’d tucked it away in a pile of documents, not wanting to deal with it at the time. Now she thought of the story in the Bible where Jesus had healed ten lepers, but only one of them had come back to say thank you. Again, she wondered about the person who had written the letter.

  She slipped the single page from the envelope and unfolded the paper, letting her eyes roam over the words. Something told her to wait. She didn’t need a reminder of that tragic time right now. She’d been doing so well, and getting agitated wouldn’t be good for the baby’s health.

  But something drew her. She read through the letter, finding more comfort in the words this time than when she’d first received it. She saw more clearly from where she stood now, how God had brought something good out of Derek’s death. The handwriting seemed almost familiar as she read to the end of the letter and wondered again about the person who had written it.

  She looked at the signature. REV. She shook her head, trying to clear a sudden fogginess that had come over her. She knew that signature. Knew it well.

  Her heart began to pound as the haze cleared.

  Reed Elliott Vincent.

  Those were Reed’s initials. The signature belonged to him. She’d seen it a dozen times now, working in his studio as he’d signed order forms and delivery receipts.

  But that couldn’t be right. What did Reed have to do with this? It had to be a coincidence. She turned the letter over seeking some clue that would explain it. She picked up the envelope and examined it. It bore a St. Louis postmark, but that was where the transplant services office was located. The letter writer could have come from anywhere.

  She stared at the initials again. She hadn’t even known Reed at the time of Derek’s death. It had to be a weird coincidence.

  Like a bolt of lightning, a snippet of a conversation she’d had with Reed came back to her. I have to save my eyes for the more tedious work… I had surgery a few weeks ago…

  Her hand flew to her mouth. Surely Reed wasn’t…? “No, God,” she whispered. “Please no. This can’t be right. It can’t be true.” Like pieces of a bizarre puzzle, details started to snap into place.

  And suddenly, the puzzle was complete and she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was true. The letter in her hand had come from Reed Vincent. Looking at it again, in spite of the way the creased page shivered between her trembling fingers, she saw it clearly. Reed’s handwriting had become as familiar to her as her own. Why hadn’t she seen it before, the first time she read the letter?

  But the letter had arrived in the mail weeks ago, before she’d grown to know Reed so well. Before she would have recognized his handwriting or his signature, or the gentle way he phrased his words.

  She read the letter again, and she could hear the words in Reed’s low voice. Could see the compassion on his face as he penned them.

  An alarming new thought struck her. Had he known? Had Reed been deceiving her all this time, playing some kind of cruel trick on her? Making a fool of her?

  Her brain whirled, trying to put the dates in some kind of order that made sense. The postmark was dated May 12. That was almost a month after she’d start
ed working for Reed. Had he known he was writing to her when he penned those words?

  She read them again. Nothing in the language hinted that he had targeted her, but maybe that had been purposeful. Maybe he’d worked hard to disguise his identity. After all, he had mailed it through the agency. But if he knew, why didn’t he just tell her?

  Her thoughts were a tangled mass. She dropped her head to her hands and rubbed her temples.

  What did this all mean? The surgery Reed had referred to was a corneal transplant. That meant—

  An icy finger of alarm traced her spine. Reed had received corneal tissue from Derek. From her husband’s eyes. When she looked at Reed, when she looked into his eyes, it was really Derek’s eyes she was seeing. She shuddered. The rational part of her mind understood that the transplant had only involved a thin membrane of tissue. But her heart—

  Her mind raced. Reed had blue eyes and Derek’s were—had been—hazel, with flecks of green. Not the same eyes at all.

  Still, it was too unnerving, eerie even, to think that Reed looked at her through the same physical window through which her husband had viewed the world.

  How could she ever look into Reed’s eyes again without thinking about the chilling link that connected the two men she loved?

  Chapter 32

  The air conditioner kicked off, leaving the tick tock tick of the big clock filtering through the studio. Reed looked away from his painting long enough to note the time. Strange. It was almost nine o’clock and Olivia hadn’t shown up for work yet.

  Maybe she had a doctor’s appointment, but he didn’t remember her telling him about one. It wasn’t like her to be late.

  He went back to work, basking in the satisfaction of a painting almost finished—one that had turned out particularly well, he thought. With Olivia back to work, he’d finally eased into a good production pace and was doing a better job of keeping up with the demand of the galleries.

  He heard the key in the front door. Good. She was here. He hadn’t realized that he was worried until he felt the muscles in his shoulders and neck relax.

  “Good morning,” he hollered when he heard her footsteps in the kitchen.

  He daubed his brush back into the paint, but glanced up briefly as she came into the studio. “Did you have a doctor’s appointment that I forgot about?”

  Olivia didn’t reply, but came to stand beside his stool at the easel. She held out a white envelope.

  Balancing his paint palette on his forearm, he leaned to look at the letter, but his eyes couldn’t focus on the small print. “What’s this?”

  “You tell me.” She thrust the envelope under his nose.

  The trembling in her voice made him start and really look at her. Her face was ashen, her lips set in a thin line. “Olivia? What’s wrong? What is it?” He balanced the brush on the palette and slid them onto the counter beside the easel.

  He took the envelope from her and adjusted his glasses. He read the return address. An alarm went off somewhere in the back of his mind. He looked at her for permission to open the letter.

  She stood mute, but her chin started to quiver.

  What was going on? He unfolded the page, and brought it close enough to decipher the words. His heartbeat staggered when he recognized his own handwriting. Quickly, he scanned the page.

  It was his letter! The one he’d written to the family of the organ donor--the man who’d donated the corneas for his transplant. He turned to Olivia, pleading with his eyes for explanation.

  “You wrote this.” The words came out on a ragged breath. A statement.

  “H-how did you get this?”

  “Do you really not know?” Anger tinged each clipped syllable.

  “I…” He held out his arms in bewilderment, the letter fluttering in his right hand. “No. I don’t know.”

  “Did you have a cornea transplant in March?” Her words were measured, monotone.

  He nodded slowly. “Yes. But…why do you have my letter? I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t you? You really don’t know, Reed?” Now her tone rose to a wail.

  “Know what? What is going on?” His mind reeled. How had Olivia gotten hold of that letter? And why was she so upset? What did any of this have to do with her?

  She snatched the letter from his hands. It ripped and he was left holding a corner of the paper. “This is Derek!” With the letter crumpled in her fist, she jabbed at the air, her voice rising out of control. “Do you really not get it, Reed? This was my husband! He was killed March 14. When was your surgery?”

  He heard a sharp intake of breath mingled with a low moan. It took him a few seconds to realize the sound had come from his own throat. “What do you mean? Olivia, what are you talking about?” But even while his questions still hung in the air, everything she’d said crystallized and he knew the awful truth: Derek Cline was the donor whose corneas he had received. Olivia was the “family” to whom he’d written that letter. Never in his most absurd dreams could he have conjured up this scenario!

  Yet, it all came together now in one terrible moment of clarity. Derek had been killed in that explosion out at Parker & Associates. Olivia had told him that, and he vaguely remembered hearing about the accident when it happened. But he’d never really followed the story because only a few days after it happened, he’d been called in for the transplant surgery. He’d never imagined the two events could be connected. Never had any reason to.

  Olivia backed away from him and slumped onto the wide steps that led up to the kitchen. She dropped her head to her hands, weeping without making a sound.

  Numb, he went to her. Dropped down beside her, put an arm around her shoulders.

  But she shrugged him off, as though his touch were repulsive to her.

  He slid from the steps to his knees, knelt in front of her, trying to get her to look at him. “Olivia. Listen to me… I didn’t know. I had no idea.”

  She remained head down, hands covering her face.

  He laid a hand on her shoulder, trying to comfort. But she flinched as though he’d struck her.

  He swallowed his pain and spoke softly. “Did you think I knew? That I deceived you? Olivia, I didn’t know. I swear to you. I had no idea. But…even if it’s true, this…doesn’t change anything. I love you, Olivia.” His breathing came hard, his heart hammering in his chest. He hadn’t meant to confess his love today. Certainly not under these circumstances.

  She wrapped her arms around herself and rocked back and forth on the steps as if she were in physical agony.

  He scooted on his knees closer to her and wrapped her in his embrace, whispered into her hair. “I love you, Liv. Nothing will ever change that.”

  “No, Reed. No.” She wagged her head against him, but seemed powerless to fight him anymore. “It’s wrong,” she said. “I should have known. It…it was too soon. I…I barely know you, Reed. This just proves it.”

  “Proves what? What are you talking about?”

  She jerked her head up and stared into his eyes. Then, as though his gaze had scalded her, she looked away.

  He understood then, with sickening clarity, why this seemed so impossible to her. When she looked into his eyes, she saw Derek Cline staring back at her—the man with whom she’d shared her life, her love. The man who had fathered the child she was carrying. When she looked at him—at Reed Vincent—how could she help but see anything except a man who had everything—his sight, his livelihood, his very life—because of her husband’s death?

  Now he understood. And he knew it was too great a price. He could not ask that of her. He let his arms drop, knowing what he had to do. He straightened, then struggled to his feet.

  She peered up at him now, huddled and small on the steps.

  “I’m sorry, Olivia. I’m so sorry.”

  She only shook her head.

  “Olivia, I—“ He stopped short. They were both in shock. This wasn’t something that could be resolved in five minutes with a few sincere apologies. But he co
uldn’t leave things hanging—not this way.

  “I meant what I said, Olivia.”

  She stared at him, cheeks flushed, eyes wild. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “Yes. I do.” He nodded violently, as if his physical effort could prove his words. “You—”

  “Look at me, Reed!” She pushed up from the steps with her elbows, lumbering to stand in front of him. “Look at me! I’m pregnant with another man’s child. He’s only been dead seven months. What kind of woman falls in love when her husband—?” She cut off her sentence, her voice cracking. “This is all my fault. It…I never should have let it happen. Any of it…”

  “It wasn’t anybody’s fault, Olivia. Things just happened. We didn’t know! There’s no fault in all this. Can’t you see that?” He cupped her face in the palm of his hand. “You know, Liv, love isn’t supposed to be such a struggle.”

  The panic came back to her eyes. “I have to go.”

  “I’ll take you home. You’re in no frame of mind to drive.”

  “No.” She brushed him off, went to the worktable and started gathering her things. “I’m sorry. I…I just have to get out of here.”

  He watched her go, wondering if he’d ever see her again. And knowing that she might be better off if he didn’t.

  Chapter 33

  Reed put down the phone and raked a hand through his hair. He’d been trying to reach Olivia since noon. It was after five o’clock now and still she didn’t answer. Was she ignoring his calls or had something happened to her? Maybe she’d never made it home. The thought sent a tremor of terror down his spine.

  He should have insisted on taking her home. She’d been terribly upset when she left his house this morning. But he’d wanted to give her some space. She’d discovered some heavy truths to come to terms with. He was still reeling himself. But he was worried. Although she seemed to be doing well with her pregnancy since the doctor had released her from bed rest, maybe something had gone wrong. Maybe the shock had triggered labor and she was in trouble.