Free To Mend a Dream by Tamera Alexander

is here now.”
    â€œBut you kept a home in Boston too.” Fragile hope lit her eyes. “And I know your former partners would welcome you back.”
    He looked at her, then slowly shook his head.
    â€œI leave in two days, Aidan. And I won’t be back for a month. Perhaps even longer.”
    He was fairly certain he heard an ultimatum, or at least a threat. What bothered him most about that was how un bothered he was by it. “I understand. So we’ll spend as much time together as my schedule allows before you leave.”
    Her jaw went rigid, and she turned to go. He debated whether to say anything further, then decided it was best to get it out now rather than for her to try and lay the blame with Miss Anderson for having revealed a confidence.
    â€œPriscilla.”
    She looked back.
    â€œDraperies and rugs are one thing. But not a stick of furniture leaves this house without my approval. Is that clear?”
    Her blue eyes went cold. “Perfectly,” she whispered, then left the room and wordlessly ascended the stairs.
    Feeling wearier than he had in ages, Aidan crossed the foyer and found Miss Anderson straightening the room, of all things. Taking books off the shelves and lining them up again, then smoothing her hand over the surface of the wood, presumably checking for dust. Although she seemed particularly intent on her job.
    â€œI do have a housekeeper, Miss Anderson.”
    The woman jumped nearly a foot into the air.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he offered, the look on her face so comical it tempted him to grin. “I didn’t mean to startle you. But . . . it seems I keep succeeding.”
    â€œYes.” Hand on her chest, she laughed. “You do.”
    Her breathlessness told him he’d truly given her a fright. And as much as part of him wished he could ask her to stay and sit with him in this room and converse, or to walk outside with him to the old cabin, he knew better.
    He gestured. “Miss Sinclair has gone upstairs for a while. So it might be best if you—”
    â€œI was planning on leaving a little early today anyway, Mr. Bedford.”
    She quickly gathered her things and had opened the front door when the question he’d fought to sequester finally won out.
    â€œMiss Anderson . . .”
    She looked back.
    â€œYou’ve worked here for several weeks, and I just realized—I don’t even know your first name.”
    She smiled, and he was certain the sunlight framing her from behind dimmed by a degree.
    â€œSavannah,” she said softly, then closed the door as she left.
    Several minutes passed before Aidan realized he was still standing at the front window, long after she’d turned the corner and disappeared from sight.
    Later that night, unable to sleep and feeling a pressure building inside him, Aidan rose and went outside to the second-story porch to get some air. He filled his lungs with the tantalizing scent of fresh pine, the summer sweetness of honeysuckle, and . . . the stench of skunk.
    He smiled, figuring that pretty well represented his life right now. And life in general. Some good along with the bad. But the bad surely made one more grateful for the good. And likewise, the bad surely had a way of ruining what was more pleasant.
    He looked up into the star-studded night, heaven’s canopy stretching forever all around him, covering him, making him feel both infinitesimally small and yet not without purpose. Because he was here among it all. And surely the One who had gone to such fantastic lengths to create this world wouldn’t have plopped mankind down in the midst of it only to leave him to flounder without meaning, without guidance.
    No, he’d been long convinced that the Creator had a master plan. Regardless of him not quite knowing what it was at certain times. Like at the present moment.
    Aidan walked to the porch railing and looked out into the darkness, wondering about the man who’d