The hinges on the screen door screeched when he went inside, opening the hope chest and rummaging through the contents. The antique doubled as a coffee table, filled with extra quilts and afghans Lydia had sewn.
When he pulled a slim yellow box from the bottom, she was stunned.
Out the door he came and tossed it on the swing.
“I would have been a good parent, Chloe. A good husband,” he stated. “Don’t ever tell me I wouldn’t have been, because you have no idea how much I wanted that baby. I wanted you that much, too.”
Then he was gone, headed for the main house.
The bottle of Jose Cuervo in his clenched fist.
Looking down at the box, she realized it was a present. The yellow paper faded and worn thin at the creases and corners, it had been gift-wrapped long ago.
Ten years ago, she realized when she looked at the small square card attached to the matching yellow ribbon.
Caught her breath when she saw his familiar handwriting.
Dear Chloe,
Each for the other. Two against the world.
Love, Jameson
But he’d crossed out the word two. And wrote in just above it . . . three.
As careful as possible given the paper and tape were ten years old, she opened the gift, hoping to salvage the wrap. Slipping it off, she stared down at the box in her hands. Saw the item through a clear plastic window. Brushed away a tear after it dripped onto it.
Lifting the thin lid, she touched the soft fabric with her fingertips. Delicately, with the same reverence she stroked her newborn’s hair minutes after his birth.
Traced the yellow daisies that dotted the white cotton, the blooms so similar to the beloved doily it couldn’t be happenstance.
Raised it to her face and inhaled, ten years of hiding in a hope chest lingering.
An appropriate location for a gift so full of promise. A gift so personal, so perfect, it was clearly chosen by someone who loved her. By someone who loved him.
It was a receiving blanket.
For the baby they never received.
If Jameson hadn’t spent seven years as a SEAL, he’d be in jail right now.
Charged with felony stalking.
But SEALs had a way of hiding in plain sight. Blending in with the wallpaper. Or, in this case, the everyday citizens of Riverhead, New York.
He’d been watching him for a week now. Every day since he found out.
He had a son. A nine-year-old healthy—and by all accounts—happy, son.
A boy who walked to a private school every morning with a group of friends. Played baseball twice a week, soccer once a week, and basketball in his driveway every night after dinner.
He slept in an upstairs bedroom with a window facing the street, in the top bunk of bunk beds with Spiderman sheets. The walls were painted blue and covered in Yankee paraphernalia.
He went to the grocery store with the man he called Dad, and told him knock-knock jokes about oranges while they shopped the produce section. And that man laughed as though Johnny was the most brilliant child ever born.
And he was.
Chloe was right. He was indescribably amazing.
One full week had passed since he followed her here, to the ball field in a park in Riverhead. Today, he sat inside his truck, parked on the street instead of the lot, the view a straight shot to third base.
And Johnny.
Chloe was there, on the outskirts of the aluminum bleachers, looking small and alone. Fucking lonely, too. Nobody approached her or acknowledged her. Including Wyatt. Including Marlene.
Including himself.
He’d not had contact with her in a week, even though he went home to Maine Lane each night, if only to attempt sleep. Instead, with the weather finally cooling, he lay on that daybed on the back porch and stared at the ceiling. Wondered where the fuck he went so wrong in his life.
Why he believed Genevieve.
Why he had not believed in Chloe. In their love.
Why he’d missed the privilege of being this boy’s dad.
No answers came, but each morning finally did, and after his grueling swim, he headed to the hardware store. There had been little movement from the carriage house, but her car was there. If she was watching him, she gave no sign.
She saw him now, though. Stared at him through the windshield of his truck.
Once practice was over, she hung back, watching Johnny leave with Marlene—the wrong mommy—and then she left too. He soon followed.
He’d come to terms with the adoption, only after seeking legal advice.
According to several attorneys, other than dragging the Hennesseys into court, and Johnny along with them, there was nothing he could do. He had been given six months to contest the adoption, as was New York law regarding paternity, and that deadline passed years ago.
He was in SERE school then, nursing a broken heart while learning how to avoid enemy capture, endure captivity, and survive torture. An irony not lost on him as he’d put that last skill to good use this week.
Watching his son—the boy he could never talk to, touch, or teach to hit a curveball—only yards away.
Moving on was impossible. Stalking was second nature.
He’d also come to realize, after wracking his brain on the whys and what-ifs, that Chloe did the only thing she could.
Not necessarily the right thing. But the only thing, given that he had left. And given the sustained pressure Genevieve had applied, willing Chloe her way.
Yeah, he’d spoken with the evilness that was Genevieve Moreau. She came into the hardware store yesterday, asking for a private meeting.
“Say what you have to say, then leave.” He barely lifted his head from the stack of resumes he was reviewing. “My schedule doesn’t accommodate liars.”
Embarrassed, she glanced around the store, noting Cade’s presence. “Privacy would be appreciated.”
“Yeah, well, not having my world turned upside down by your viciousness would’ve been appreciated, but you didn’t consider that a decade ago.”
Her lips pinched, but she nodded. “Fine.”
“Hi, Ms. Moreau,” Cade said pleasantly when she looked his way.
“Hello, Cade. How is your little one?” Because everybody knew everybody in East Hampton.
“Growing like a weed, thank you.”
“Give her my regards.”
“Jesus, cut the shit,” Jameson said, tossing his pen down. “You can’t give a one-year-old regards. Talk, or get out.”
“All right. I apologize.”
“Yeah?” He scoffed. “For what? Taking my son away from me? Taking him away from Chloe? Splitting the two of us up in the process? Or just ruining my life in general?”
She swallowed, taking a step back at his seething reply. “I guess . . . all of it.”
He enjoyed seeing her squirm.
“I understand your anger,” she added. “But I can’t say I would’ve done anything different, so with that top of mind, I ask you to understand my motivation. Which was Chloe’s future.”
“You wanna take credit for that? For her success?” He motioned toward Something Borrowed, across the street and down a few buildings. “I think she succeeded despite you.”
“She’s strong-willed, I’ll give you that. And successful at her chosen profession, though I don’t know how it could possibly pay the bills.”
“Maybe money’s not everything to her. Maybe she’d prefer love and happiness.” Because the woman was sleeping on an old mattress filled with lumps and likely a shit ton of dust mites.