For Your Love by Beverly Jenkins Page A

the defrosters to take care of the iced-­over front and back windshields. Once she could see clearly, she activated the GPS on her phone and let the electronic voice guide her out of the parking lot and onto Highway 183. Heading north, she swallowed her fears. “Dear God,” she said aloud, “Please see me through this day. Amen.” Hoping the small prayer would be answered, she settled in for the drive to Henry Adams.
    An hour later, she pulled up in front of the house and studied it. The big porch looked the same, but the outside had under­gone some renovations. The old shutters were no longer on the upstairs windows, and the roof looked new. She had no way of knowing if the person she sought was still the owner. Common sense said she should’ve called before leaving California and traveling all this way, but after her mother’s letter, her determination to come back to Henry Adams and share the truth had overridden rational thinking.
    The drapes on the front windows moved. Someone inside was checking out the car, so she gathered her nerves, picked up her purse, and walked to the porch. Climbing the steps brought back memories of how many times she’d done this before. Girding herself, she knocked.
    The door opened, and there she stood. Older, of course. The passage of time had turned her hair silver, but the dark eyes were still keen and the bearing just as proud. “Ms. July. I’m—­”
    â€œRita Lynn. I know. We’ve been waiting for you a long time. Come in.”
    Tears filled Rita’s eyes.
    â€œCome on,” Tamar invited softly. “You’re here. Nothing else matters.”
    Inside, Rita wiped at her tears and noted that the home’s interior had undergone some changes as well. It was larger, more airy. The old furniture she remembered had been replaced with modern pieces.
    â€œHave you eaten?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThen join me. We’ll talk while we eat.”
    Rita opened her purse and took out the letter. “I need you to read this first. My mother died two weeks ago. She left it for me.”
    Tamar viewed her curiously, but took it and began to read. Shock claimed her face, and she stared at Rita. “Oh, my lord,” she whispered. “I need to sit down.” She sat on the sofa and resumed reading.
    When she looked up at Rita again, Tamar’s voice shook with rage. “Ida told you he was dead?”
    Too overcome to speak, Rita nodded.
    â€œThat bitch! She brought him to me like he was something she’d found in a sewer. Her only words were ‘Here’s your grandson.’ And she drove off. All these years I thought . . .”
    â€œI’d abandoned him, or didn’t care?”
    â€œBoth.”
    â€œNo,” Rita assured her softly. “They told me he’d died a few hours after birth.”
    â€œMy god,” Tamar whispered.
    â€œIs my son still here? I don’t even know his name.” That lack pierced her heart.
    â€œYes, he’s here. In fact, he’s the mayor. Name’s Trenton. We named him for my father. Mal’s still here, too.”
    â€œMs. July, I am so sorry.” Rita broke down.
    Tears rolled unchecked down Tamar’s cheeks as she stood and gathered her close. ”You’ve nothing to apologize for, Rita Lynn. Nothing.”
    And for the next few moments the two women connected to Trent since birth cried out the pain and loss caused by a terrible lie kept secret for forty-­five years.
    â€œLet’s call Mal,” Tamar said softly.
    Over at the Power Plant, Trent stuck his head in Bernadine’s office door. As always, she’d beaten him in to work and was seated at her desk drinking coffee. “Morning, Bernadine.”
    She looked up. “Good morning.”
    â€œCame to grab some coffee.”
    â€œHelp yourself.”
    He never bothered making coffee in his own office because hers was always available. As he