Free Chloe by Lyn Cote Page A

caressing it. Then he settled back and took another bite of his roll. “Also, I’ve written to my parents all about you and I’ve noted their address inside the back cover of the bank book. I hope you will write to them. They’ll help you if you need anything.”
    Chloe digested this sobering thought. Surely Theran’s parents couldn’t be anything like her own. As if reading her mind, Theran went on, “They aren’t anything like your parents. I think you’ll like them.”
    “I’m sure I will,” Chloe replied obediently, ignoring the skip in her pulse.
    “Before I leave on Monday, I’ll show you the bank.”
    “Don’t talk about Monday,” she whispered, suddenly losing her appetite.
    “We’re not going to worry about this . . . war. I’m going to come home fine and we’ll have the rest of our lives together.” He kissed her lips, sugary-sticky from the sweet roll. This made her laugh and she wiped away a tear with the back of her hand.
    “And you’ll have Kitty nearby and Minnie in town. This city has parks, museums, theaters, wonderful stores—” He chucked her chin. “—and I don’t want you moping around.”
    “I thought I might volunteer to do some war work.” Chloe took a sip of hot, creamy coffee. “I read about it in the paper.”
    “That’s my wife. You’ll do fine. I remember how strange it was when I came from Buffalo. But soon you’ll love it here.”
    Chloe felt her spirits lift. “I know I will.”
Because Daddy will never find me here.
    Theran rewarded her with a smile. “No man could ask for a sweeter, prettier wife than you, Chloe.”
    She looked down at the black bank book. She’d only thought of escaping her parents. But even though Theran would be heading off to Europe and the war, he had thought of how to provide for her. She leaned her forehead against his. “You’re a good husband, Theran. I love you.”
    He took the cup and half-eaten roll from her hands and pushed her back against her white feather pillow. “You love me, huh? Show me.”
    On Sunday morning, for the second time in two days, Quentin Kimball brushed past Maisie, the McCaslin housekeeper, and charged into the sunlit sage-green and honey-oak McCaslin dining room. Looking at him, Roarke knew this scene would live in his memory forever—the morning sunshine blazing through the diaphanous white sheers and glinting on the sterling silver coffee urn on the oak sideboard. The smell of bacon, coffee, and melted butter. Maisie’s black face peering through the half-open kitchen door.
    Kimball glared around and then stopped short, squaring off across the table from Roarke. “So you got home, McCaslin. Where’s my little gal?” Kimball looked upward at the ceiling. “Chloe!” he roared. “Chloe, sugar, it’s your daddy!”
    Roarke watched the red-faced man and caught himself just in time to prevent a smile. Roarke had lost Chloe, but he still retained the pleasure of telling Kimball the truth.
    “Good morning, Mr. Kimball,” Roarke’s mother said as politely as if the man usually dropped in unannounced for breakfast. “Would you like us to set a place for you?” All three would be leaving for church after they’d finished their coffee.
    “I don’t want breakfast, woman! I want to see my daughter here with a McCaslin weddin’ band on her finger. Or I’m going to know the reason why.”
    Swallowing hot coffee, Roarke looked into the man’s blotchy face, its nose reddened by too much booze. “Chloe’s in New York with her husband, Theran Black,” Roarke said, “so I don’t know why you’d expect her to be here, wearing
my
wedding band. I was best man at their wedding.” Even as he said it, each word pounded a nail in his own coffin. Chloe couldn’t have run away without his help. He was paying for that now and he feared the ache that weighed on him wouldn’t go away any time soon.
    He watched Kimball gabble for a few moments before becoming coherent once more. “My
daughter
left my