Chapter Fifteen

Isolde's POV

"Grandma!"

I crossed the lawn so fast my shoe came off. The older of the two men stepped in front of me with a smooth, practiced smile, and I would have gone straight through him if a hand had not closed around my elbow from behind.

"Isolde." Dacre's voice, low. "Breathe."

I had not heard his car. He must have come right behind us, and now he stood at my shoulder in his dark coat with Marcus Hale a pace behind him, a leather briefcase in one hand and an expression of tired disgust on his face. Dacre did not look at me. He looked at the two men on the footpath.

"Good evening," he said.

The smiling man stopped smiling.

"Mr. Knight. We were not aware..."

"I am sure you were not." Dacre held out a hand. "I would like to see the document."

"It is a private matter between the property holder and the occupant."

"Then it will be no trouble to show me."

For a second I thought the man would refuse. Then he made the mistake of looking at Marcus, who gazed back at him with the pleasant, dead eyes of a man who billed by the minute. He handed over the envelope.

Dacre passed it to Marcus without opening it. Marcus slid out a single sheet and read it standing up, his lips moving slightly, like a man tasting wine.

"Notice of foreclosure," he said at last. "Under the Harlan Savings Bank, signed by a Mr. Garrick Thorne on behalf of the lender." He turned the page over. "Dated today. Delivered by hand. No prior default notice, no grace period." He looked up. "Which is interesting, because the law requires ninety days."

"We are merely the couriers," the other man said.

"Then you may courier a message back." Marcus folded the paper. "Mr. Thorne will be hearing from our counsel by nine tomorrow morning. If he has altered a single date on this form, he will be hearing from the licensing board by noon."

The men left in the black sedan. Neither said another word.

I ran up the porch steps. Grandma was still holding the broom. Her glasses had slipped to the tip of her nose and her whole body shook, but her chin was up.

"They came to my door," she said. "They wanted me to sign something. I told them I would sign it when the Lord came down and asked me himself."

"Grandma." I put my arms around her. She smelled like tomato leaves and soap. "I'm so sorry."

"What are you sorry for? You did not send them."

"I did. In a way." My voice cracked. "It's about the baby. It's Saffron's mother."

"I know." She set the broom against the wall and patted my back. "I figured as much, child. A woman who raises a boy like that does not stop at the front door."

"You knew?"

"I have lived seventy four years. I know the kind."

Dacre had come up the steps behind us. He stood a respectful distance away, hat in his hand, and when Grandma noticed him, she straightened.

"Mr. Knight. You came."

"Mrs. Laurent. I apologize for the disturbance."

"It is not your fault." She looked at Marcus. "Is this man with you? Does he want tea?"

"He does not," Marcus said. "But I would not turn it down."

Despite everything I laughed, one short, helpless laugh, and Grandma looked relieved.

We sat in the kitchen with the cracked table and the plate of cold biscuits, and Marcus spread documents out on the cloth while he explained that the loan was still in Grandma's name and that the bank's own records showed payments made on time for eleven years. The foreclosure was a bluff. A cruel one, but a bluff. It would be taken apart in a week.

"A week," Grandma said. "And in the meantime?"

"In the meantime," Dacre said, "I will buy the loan."

Nobody spoke.

"I beg your pardon?" Grandma said.

"The Harlan Savings Bank holds your mortgage. I will purchase it from them this evening, and the house will belong to you outright. No payments. No conditions."

"No." Grandma set her cup down with a clink. "Absolutely not."

"Mrs. Laurent..."

"I do not take charity. I did not take it from the church when Isolde's parents died and I will not take it from a boy with a very nice coat." She folded her hands. "What is the amount?"

Marcus looked at his notes. "The outstanding balance is forty one thousand."

"Then I will pay it."

"Grandma, you cannot..."

"I will pay it, child, in installments. Over however many years God gives me." She lifted her chin at Dacre. "And I will not owe you a thing. I will cook for you. Every Sunday, for as long as I live. That is the interest."

Dacre looked at her for a long moment. Something moved behind his eyes, and I think, for the first time since I had known him, he was lost for words.

"Sundays," he said at last.

"Seven o'clock. Do not be late."

"I will not."

"And bring that scar to dinner without the long sleeves. It is rude to hide from the people who feed you."

Marcus coughed into his fist. I could not look at anyone.

It was nearly ten when Pell drove me back to the apartment. Dacre rode in the front seat for once, silent, staring out at the dark. Two security men in black followed in a second car. He had arranged them without asking, and I was too tired to argue.

At my door, he stopped.

"I will wait here."

"You don't have to."

"I know."

I turned the key. The apartment was dark. I reached for the switch, and as the light came on I knew something was wrong before I knew what. The air was different. The way a room feels when someone has been in it.

Nothing was broken. The couch was in place. The kitchen counter was clean. But when I walked into the bedroom the bedside table was bare, and my stomach dropped through the floor.

The silver frame was gone.

The little ultrasound picture, the gray and black blur with the tiny curve in the middle, the one my grandmother bought from a market stall pretending it was nothing, was gone.

In its place sat a single sheet of cream colored paper, folded once. I picked it up with fingers that did not feel like mine. The handwriting was elegant, sloped, and unmistakable. I had seen it on place cards at every Cole family dinner for five years.

Cole blood belongs with Cole.

Behind me, from the doorway, Dacre said my name. I could not answer. I could not turn around. I stood in the dark with the note in my hand and one thought repeating over and over like a drum.

She was in my home. She was in my room. She touched my baby.