Love's First Bloom (35 page)

It only took her fifteen minutes to get dressed, but a full half hour had passed before she slipped out the back door. By then the darkness was less opaque and she was able to see him standing a few feet away, although it was nearly impossible to distinguish his features or gauge his expression until she was standing directly in front of him. When she saw the tenderness in his gaze, she swallowed hard.

“I hope you have a good reason to come calling at this hour,” she said, a bit more flippantly than she intended.

“I left notes for you, but you never came to your garden to meet me. Did you get them?”

“Yes, I have them, but you must have realized I couldn’t go anywhere. Between nursing Phanaby and taking care of Lily, I haven’t had a moment to spare,” she explained, unwilling to admit she could not leave because of Eldridge Porter.

“Phanaby’s been ill?”

“Nearly all week, but she’s doing much better now. You hadn’t heard?”

His gaze darkened. “No, I’ve been out at the cabin,” he said, looked east toward the river. “I haven’t much time, but I needed to see you before I left. There’s so much I need to say, that you need to hear. From me,” he said, lifting his hand as if to take hers, then letting it drop.

Ruth’s heart swelled with the hope that he might declare his feelings for her and ask her to leave with him. She reached up to touch the small carved heart she was wearing and wondered if she had the courage to tell him her real identity if he did.

“I love you, Ruth, and I think you have feelings for me, too,” he whispered. “If I could, I’d ask you to leave with me this morning and have Capt. Grant marry us before we reached the mouth of the river. But I can’t do that any more than I can ask you to allow me to help you raise Lily.”

She blinked back tears, struggling to understand his reluctance to ask her to marry him. “I love you, too,” she whispered. “Why? Why can’t you ask me? If it’s because of your back and how difficult it is for you to earn—”

“No,” he said firmly. He squared his shoulders and tilted up his chin, looking far more formal in demeanor than she had ever seen him. “In all truth, my back is perfectly fine. I’ve spent the past two years working in small towns and villages along the coast, but I’ve never fallen off a roof or hurt my back in any way,” he began, his voice growing steadier as he spoke. “I returned to New York City several months ago to work with my brother again. We own a newspaper there, the
Galaxy
. My real name is Tripp, not Spencer. And though I’ve always gone by Jake, I use Asher Tripp as my professional name—”

“No. Th-that can’t be true,” she argued, instinctively taking a step back from him as his words sliced through every hope and dream she had ever wrapped around the man standing in front of her.

“I’m afraid it’s true. I came here to investigate you for a story. I know that you’re not Widow Ruth Malloy. You’re Reverend Gersham Livingstone’s daughter, and Lily is not your child. I know it all, Ruth, every last detail of the proof you’ve been hiding, which is likely stored in that wooden chest your father sent to Phanaby Garner several days before you arrived here.”

She dropped the heart she had been holding to let it hang free again and clapped her hand over her mouth, too horrified to scream, let alone speak. She was also far too devastated to cry, but she had the presence of mind to put two more steps of distance between them.

“I’m not proud of who I am or what I’ve done since I’ve met you, but I promise you—”

She held up her hand, saw how badly it was shaking, and used her other hand to steady it and form a shield in front of her. “Just leave. Don’t say another word—just go,” she spat.

She turned her back to him and started walking back to the door with her head held high and her back stiff, more determined with every step she took that she would not shed a tear in front of that … that reporter … that horrible, lying, sneaky excuse for a man!

Not one tear. Not now. Not ever.

“Don’t go. You don’t understand,” he argued, following her. “I’m not going to write an article that will hurt either you or Lily. I’m going to do everything in my power to protect you both.”

Holding onto the door, Ruth turned just enough to glare at him. “Protect us? Just exactly how do you expect to do that in your article when every word that’s been printed in your newspaper or any of the others has done nothing but hurt us with lies and innuendos that are blatantly false and odious to anyone familiar with the truth?”

Breathing hard, she huffed, “By the time your article reaches the pathetic public that worships every word they read in your newspaper as the gospel truth, Lily and I will be gone from here, far enough away that you can’t hurt us anymore. Feel free to print whatever version of the truth that sells the most of your precious newspapers. You will anyway.”

Jake glared back at her. “You actually think that I’d write an article that would subject Lily to the shame of knowing that she was the love child born to a prostitute who was murdered by her own father? She’s your half sister, Ruth. Even if I didn’t give a whit about that child, which I do, I could never do that to you. I love you.”

She dropped her hand from the door and whirled around to face him. “Wh-what did you say?”

“I said exactly what you know is true. My brother’s already confirmed the fact that your father and Rosalie Peale were lovers and had a child together. When she threatened to tell their secret, he killed her, and he was only acquitted because he hid everything he had ever given to her, letters or trinkets or whatever, in that wooden chest and then sent you away with Lily.”

She struggled and struggled to breathe. “You … you’re … despicable. You’re beyond despicable. How could you possibly think that … that disgusting story is true? And even if it was, how can you possibly justify printing it in your newspaper? Rosalie is dead. My father is dead. But Lily and I are still very much alive, and neither one of us deserves—”

“You both deserve much more than I could ever give you, but I won’t break my vow to protect you both because I do love you, Ruth,” he murmured. “Both of you. Please, won’t you try to understand and forgive me for lying to you?”

When he reached out to her, she slapped his hand away. “Your profession of love is just as perverted as your vow. You don’t deserve forgiveness,” she snapped, turned her back, marched inside, and slammed the door in his face when he tried to follow her.

Body trembling, she collapsed against the door. With her fist pressed hard against her lips, she did not utter a cry until she heard him walk away. Deep sobs tortured her body, and she wrapped her hands around her waist. The depth of his betrayal was so overwhelming and the pain so excruciating, she did not know if she could bear it.

When her sobs finally eased into weeping, she sat down on the bottom step, removed the carved heart she was wearing, and shoved it into her pocket. Alone in the dark, she doubted she would ever find the strength to smile or to trust anyone ever again.

Moments later, too weak to cry and too disappointed to pray, she started back up the steps. She was halfway to the second floor when she realized she had no one but herself to depend upon and decided she would have to wake Elias and beg him to go to Forked River today.

By the time she closed the door at the top of the steps, she had also decided to tell them that it was useless to worry about Eldridge Porter, because he was not the only reporter here in Toms River who posed a threat to her and Lily.

Ruth reached their bedroom door and had lifted her hand to knock when she heard Lily whimpering. Anxious not to delay speaking to the Garners, she slipped back into her room, hoping to urge Lily back to sleep again. She found Lily lying in Ruth’s upper bed, but when she picked her up to soothe her and place her back in the lower bed, she grew terrified and all thoughts of Jake quickly disappeared.

Poor Lily was burning up with fever.

Thirty-Seven

Within hours of his arrival in New York City, Jake was tempted to get back on the
Sheller
, sail to Boston with Capt. Grant, and disappear again.

He balled his hands into fists, ready to charge over the desk that separated him from his brother at the
Galaxy
office, if that was what it took to get a clear, forthright answer from him. Instead, he tried giving his brother one last chance to respond honestly before he resorted to physical intimidation.

“No,” Jake repeated. “I haven’t read what the other newspapers reported, Clifford, because I’m only interested in what’s printed in the
Galaxy
.” He pointed to the front page of the paper he had purchased as soon as he debarked the
Sheller
. He hadn’t been able to read more than the first page before he stormed into the office less than five minutes ago, infuriated. “Now, for the last time: This headline and the articles below it. Are they based on provable facts or not?”

Clifford glared back at him. “There’s no need for a show of temper. Of course they are,” he stated. He sorted through the papers stacked on his desk, chose several, and threw them onto Jake’s desk. “If you don’t believe me, sit down and read those. There’s a copy of the actual deathbed confession, which I paid dearly to get and paid even more dearly to guarantee that none of the other newspapers had a copy of it in time for today’s issue; a statement from all of the witnesses who signed it; and notes from my interview with the constable, as well as Reverend Livingstone’s lawyer.”

Clifford paused to clear his throat. “I’m not as irresponsible as you apparently think I am. I know what I’m doing—and I did it every day while you were off nursing your wounded pride for two years before you decided to return and redeem yourself.”

Satisfaction was hardly the word for the feelings that churned in Jake’s gut and colored his opinion of his brother. While his brother continued to glare at him, he stood at his desk and read every single document. By the time he finished, he was able to control the urge to literally strangle his brother, but only barely. “Since it appears that someone else is actually responsible for killing Rosalie Peale, and not Reverend Livingstone, how do you explain what you wrote to me in your last letter—which, as it turns out, I was fully justified to toss into the fire?”

Clifford replied, “At this point? It’s irrelevant.”

Jake’s pulse went straight into a gallop. “Irrelevant? That’s the best you can offer as an excuse for the misinformation you sent to me? What excuse would you like me to give to Ruth Livingstone to explain why I told her that I had proof that her father had killed Rosalie Peale because he had fathered her illegitimate child? Or should I just tell her to forget it because it’s ‘irrelevant’ now that the real killer has confessed?”

Clifford’s eyes glittered. “Then you confronted her. Excellent! Based on these new developments, you’ll need to alter your article, of course, but we’ll still have an exclusive that will have the other newspapers on the defensive. We’ll tease the readers, perhaps with just a few tidbits for a week or so,” he mused, talking more to himself than to Jake. “Then we’ll publish the full article you’ve written, just as we promised.”

“Promised? When?” Jake demanded, fearing the nightmare he was having had somehow just gotten even worse.

Clifford opened the newspaper on his desk and pointed to an announcement placed prominently on the third page. “I had every confidence you’d come through with a good article, but since you were actually able to speak to Ruth Livingstone, the revised article will be better than good. It’ll be great.”

Jake read the announcement, squared his shoulders, and stared at his brother. “You shouldn’t have promised to write the truth about her. Anything and everything about Ruth Livingstone is now ‘irrelevant,’ ” he argued, tossing his brother’s own word back at him again. “Her father has been completely vindicated, once by a jury, and now by the actual killer’s confession.”

“That may be true,” his brother countered, “but the public’s fascination with him is ongoing, perhaps even more so now with that woman’s dramatic confession. I’m going to use that fascination to my advantage. Think about it, Jake. It’s entirely possible that at least some of the information I was able to uncover about Peale was based on fact. If Peale actually had a child, and Ruth Livingstone can offer any kind of proof, perhaps something her father hid in that wooden chest you mentioned—”

“Stop!”

Clifford looked at Jake as if he had grown a second head. “Stop?”

“You’re not going to print anything about any child, if one even exists,” Jake said firmly, determined to keep his vow to protect Lily as well as Ruth. There was so much more he wanted to do for them, if Ruth would only give him another chance.

“You don’t make the decisions about what I decide to print in the
Galaxy
,” his brother argued. “I do, and I’m going to pursue this story and print what I can until the readers tell me they’re not interested anymore. The public has a right to know the truth—”

“The
truth
? The
public
? Listen to yourself. You can’t seriously think the truth is best served by exploiting that woman and opening her life for public scrutiny. She’s as much a victim in this whole sordid affair as Rosalie Peale, and public demand for—”