A Town Called Valentine(25)

He nodded. “Among other things. Obviously, the will has long since been settled, but she left something for you.” He reached inside his breast pocket, withdrew a long envelope, and handed it to her. “Have a good day, Miss Strong.”

“Wait!” she said, before he could do more than begin to turn away from her.

He paused, eyebrow arched. He was so impeccably groomed, she wondered distractedly if he had those perfect eyebrows plucked.

“Why wasn’t I given this before?”

“I was under orders not to have it sent to you until you came to Valentine Valley to deal with this building.”

“And what if I never did?” she demanded with exasperation. “What if my mother sold it before she died?”

“I had other directions to follow.” He grinned. “But that didn’t happen, did it? And you still would have received the letter on your thirty-fifth birthday. Your grandmother said she was giving her daughter a chance to tell you herself.”

Emily felt a chill sweep over her. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “I wasn’t given all the details. Your grandmother was a private woman, even toward her own daughter.”

She couldn’t think straight, her mind was tumbling. But practicality intervened at last. “But—do I owe you something for your services?”

“No, it was all taken care of. Enjoy your day.” Then he glanced past her again and winced. “Or at least try to get out of here occasionally. Spring can be beautiful around here—as long as you don’t mind the mud.”

“Mud?” she said blankly.

“On the trails up in the mountains. At least I can still use my snowmobile farther up.” He smiled at her, then nodded toward the envelope. “Hope that’s good news.”

When he was gone, she stared at the envelope, tracing the faded lettering of her name. The handwriting was firm and bold, and she wished she’d thought to ask Mr. Carpenter if it was her grandmother’s. She had a faint memory of a warm kitchen smelling of pine from the nearby Christmas tree, and rolling out cookie dough with her grandmother. She was surprised to feel a sting of tears, and knew it wasn’t truly for the grandmother she couldn’t remember but because the homey memory made her long for a simple life. She’d chased that memory and longing through her life, first with her distracted mom, then in her marriage, but she’d never made it work.

With a sigh, she sat down on the only unbroken chair in the restaurant and opened the envelope. There was a single sheet of paper dated the year of Grandma Riley’s death, and it was addressed to her.

My dear Emily,

You’re a sweet little girl as I write this, knowing nothing about your history here in Valentine Valley. But I’m worried that your ma’s eagerness to forget the past will blind her to how lies hurt. She kept things from you—and from me—that were easier for her to forget. She was always free-spirited, and doing things without thinking. It usually didn’t hurt her. But she left town so fast after her high-school graduation, then married barely four months later to a man she just met. When she came home with you, I confronted her and she finally admitted the truth—Jacob Strong wasn’t your father.



With a gasp, Emily reread the last sentence over again. Her grandmother was saying her entire childhood was a fabrication.

She’d never questioned her mother’s impulsive decision to marry her father after knowing him so briefly. Since Delilah consulted the stars for so many things, it was hard to find more . . . grounded reasons for what she used to do. Half the time, Emily thought Delilah had picked her dad for his last name since she always said she liked how “Delilah Strong” sounded. Emily’s memories of him were of a warm, patient man who loved her and put up with her mother’s flitting in and out of their day with resignation mingled with affection.

But . . . he wasn’t her biological father.





Chapter Six



Emily felt as if she’d reached the crest of a roller coaster, her stomach heaving as she wished desperately to stop time. But that couldn’t happen, and all her thoughts tumbled about in her head while she sat motionless in the disaster of her kitchen.

Another piece of her past was unraveling all because of her mother’s screwups. Did Delilah even love Jacob Strong, or had he been a convenient husband? That had been her worst fear growing up, that her mother hadn’t truly loved her dead father. Stumbling to her feet, Emily leaned heavily against a dull counter and stared around the kitchen wide-eyed. This had still been a general store in the early eighties, and her mother had worked here part-time. Teen pregnancies had still been somewhat of a scandal to most people. Had Delilah stood in this very spot, wondering what she’d do with her life, feeling unable to confide the truth in her own mother until forced? It made Emily wonder what kind of relationship they truly had. Delilah’s desperation must have forced her to flee Valentine Valley—leaving her family, and whoever Emily’s father might have been. Perhaps he hadn’t even known. Or perhaps her mom hadn’t known his identity. The way she’d gone through men, never being without one long, spoke a lot about her behavior.