Hawthorne by Sarah Ballance Page B

attorney? Franklin something?"
    Noah nodded . "Randy Franklin. He was found dead in his office sometime between your grandmother's passing and the scheduled reading of the will. Needless to say, the will remains unread in light of the missing documents. They suspect it was his heart, and no one has made any noise about foul play. Nor does anyone know what happened to the papers."
    "And the contents ?"
    He sighed . "Well, after you… left—" Noah stopped, his eyes downcast, but not before she read the dark edge of his sorrow. Swallowing, he continued. "There were no other heirs. Supposedly she granted the estate to me."
    Emma's jaw slackened . The idea of the hallowed plantation leaving the coffers of generations of well-heeled Hawthorne upper crust to be relegated to the caretaker's son was almost funny. Not because she thought any less of Noah, but because there'd been no secret her grandmother had. Margaret believed the servants had their place, and it did not include crossing the archaic lines of class to socialize with the wellborn, let alone to be gifted the deed to the property.
    Or so Emma thought.
    "She was a different woman after your accident." Noah spoke in a low tone, as if he could read the insult playing through her mind. "I wouldn't call her friendly, but there was some respect there. She came up with excuse after excuse for me to be in the house — silly stuff, like rearranging cabinets. I think it was because she missed you, and maybe… maybe she felt a little closer to you when I was around."
    The longing in his eyes transcended the years that kept them apart. Under the renewed intensity of a lover's gaze, she once again felt the seduction of being seventeen under a gaping moon, the light bathing the moment in perfection. Noah had coaxed his calloused fingers through her hair, holding her face tenderly as he pressed kisses to her swollen lips. Hidden in the gardens in the shelter of a gazebo, he'd captured her young heart — owned it — and made himself a part of her. For as long as she could remember, Noah Garrett had been just that.
    Hers.
    But what had come between them couldn’t be undone. Maybe if she could figure out how to let him go, she could move on.
    Maybe then he would.
    Emma cleared her throat . "Have you seen her?" She didn't have to say who. The way her voice broke on her provided all of the explanation he'd ever need.
    His finger came to an abrupt stop, abandoning its trek across the wet glass . He hesitated. "No. Not since that night."
    That night . The night of her accident. The night everything changed. But a dive off a roof would do that to a person. She shuddered, remembering the incredulous moment of free fall followed by the agonizing pain of hitting the shingles, the skin sloughing away with every impact.
    She left in an ambulance without any desire to come back . Not after what she'd seen that night.
    Then she remembered the figure she'd seen on the apex of the house at her arrival. "Were you up there? Today, I mean. I saw someone."
    She didn't have to tell him where . The widow's walk — a prominent feature on the ubiquitous Hawthorne Manor skyline — had been one of their favorite spots. As kids, they'd dared one another to cross the rails, sometimes leaning over them, others climbing across to sit atop the roof of the two story mansion. She'd culled bravery from the sheer force of the adrenaline required to stare down a forty-foot drop — albeit an interrupted one, thanks to the maze of rooflines — without backing away.
    Noah had never been af raid. At least not until the night everything changed.
    "No —"
    The door echoed with a sharp rapping , interrupting him. "Misteh Garrett? Sorry to interrupt you in there."
    She glanced over from her spot at the table to see a weathered old man with a voice borne from years of tobacco use. The old guy didn't so much as glance in Emma's direction. Instead, he spoke through the screen, addressing Noah, his voice heavy with the