The Risk of Loving Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Excerpt

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  November

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  December

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  January

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  February

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  March

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  April

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  One Year Later

  Epilogue

  Dear Reader

  Copyright

  When he saw her, something happened…

  It was an uncanny sensation. More than a momentary attraction. What it might become, he didn’t know.

  He spotted her immediately, standing by the Christmas tree. The lights sent sparkles glinting through her hair. When she saw him, her eyes lit up, too, and she smiled almost as if she had been waiting for him.

  Suddenly there seemed to be no one else in the crowded house, no one at the party, just the two of them.

  “Hello, Mark. I’m glad you came,” Coryn greeted him.

  All around, the party sounds swirled while they talked of many things. Yet Mark had the feeling that there was so much more they had to talk about. He felt that they were on the brink of something happening between them. Something serious. Important.

  JANE PEART

  Award-winning and bestselling author Jane Peart grew up in North Carolina and was educated in New England. Jane and her husband now reside in Northern California, which is often a setting for her novels.

  In more than twenty books and her bestselling Orphan Train West series, Jane has brought to readers the timeless themes of family, faith and committed love.

  The Risk of Loving

  Jane Peart

  “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy

  cometh in the morning.”

  —Psalms 30:5

  November

  Chapter One

  On a rain-swept night the weekend before Thanksgiving, holiday travelers thronged San Francisco International Airport.

  In the passenger lounge of Westair’s northbound Flight 84 Mark Emery glanced over the top of his Newsweek as a slender brunette came through the security check enclosure. She wore a belted raincoat and high-heeled boots. Her dark, shoulder-length hair glistened with raindrops. She stood for a minute looking around for an empty seat.

  Mark watched as she made her way across the crowded waiting room. She had a confident, graceful walk. Stepping over assorted baggage cluttering the aisles, she took a seat opposite his. There was something familiar about her but he couldn’t place her. Could he have seen her at some local function he’d covered for the Daily Sentinel? He’d been to dozens of them. Community and political affairs were newsworthy events in the small northern California town of Rockport. Still, he couldn’t recall where or when they might have met. He returned to the article on the Middle East.

  Coryn Dodge stared blankly through the plateglass window out to the landing field. Planes taxied into position, lights glowing on the rain-slick tarmac. Carts piled with luggage swerved and snaked toward yawning cargo bins. Planes took off. Planes going different places carrying people to happy homecomings.

  Coryn knew she should feel happy, too, and be looking forward to spending Thanksgiving with her parents. She felt guilty that she didn’t.

  If her father hadn’t phoned, she might have waited to see if Jason called from Detroit. But there had been something in her father’s voice, an uncharacteristic tension in his tone. When he reminded her she had not been home since last spring, a sliver of guilt had pricked Coryn, and she’d quickly agreed to come for Thanksgiving.

  She’d been lucky to get a reservation at this time of year. There was only one available seat on the flight to San Francisco. In order to make the connecting flight to Rockport she’d had to leave L.A. right away. Before she left for the airport she’d called Jason but only got his message machine. She hated leaving with so many unresolved questions about their relationship. But what relationship? Jason had never made any commitment. They’d never discussed a future together. The enduring love Coryn had always secretly hoped to find was probably a dream. Not a nineties kind of thing.

  Impatient with herself, Coryn dug into her tote bag and pulled out the magazine she’d bought at the airport newsstand. She slipped on her glasses and started flipping through the pages, hoping to find an article to distract her.

  Mark Emery stirred restlessly in the vinyl chair and glanced at his watch. The flight to Rockport took an hour and forty-five minutes. He’d get home around ten. Home. Alone.

  Mark felt the old bitterness twist within, as it always did when he thought about it. It wasn’t fair. But whoever said life was fair?

  He looked around the waiting room at the various groups of happy people bound for family gatherings. Even crowded airports were strangely lonely places. It didn’t really matter where he was. He could spend Thanksgiving in the airport for all he cared.

  At that moment the young woman seated across from him lifted her head from the magazine she was reading. Their gazes met. Even with her glasses on she was amazingly attractive. The lenses magnified the size and color of her intensely blue eyes.

  Their look held for a minute. Coryn wondered where she had seen the man across the aisle before. He was good-looking in a tweedy sort of way. His thick brown hair was salted with some gray at the temples. His features were good, his eyes thoughtful, his expression held both intelligence and humor. His destination must be Rockport. She searched her memory. Could she possibly have met him somewhere when she was home last spring?

  Just then the PA system crackled to life: “Attention, all passengers ticketed for Westair Airlines Flight 84 to Rockport. We are overbooked for this flight. If two passengers will volunteer to give up their seats they will be placed on the next available flight and receive a voucher for a free trip anywhere on our route.”

  An uncomfortable silence spread throughout the waiting room. People stirred in their seats. The low murmur of voices followed. Still, no one got up and moved to the ticket counter. Most of the assembled passengers were on their way home from college or business trips, eagerly awaiting the flight home to be with family and friends. Nobody wanted to give up their seat.

  Coryn was aware of the uneasy pall that fell on the holiday mood in the room after the announcement. A few hours’ difference in her arrival time would not matter that much, she reflected. Her parents had a social engagement anyway and would be gone all evening. Why not give up her seat on this flight and take the next one?

  Mark folded his Newsweek, stuffed it into the pocket of his duffel bag, got up and ambled over to the ticket counter. He was certainly in no hurry to get home. Without Ginny the weekend loomed dismal. He’d given Mrs. Aguilar, the housekeeper, the holiday weekend off. Why not give up his seat?

  At the ticket counter, Mark was rewarded with a big smile of relief from the harried-looking agent behind the desk. He waited while his ticket was rewritten and his travel voucher made out. Mark became aware of movement beside him. He turned. The young woman who’d been sitting near him now stood beside him.

  “I guess we’re the altruistic ones in
the bunch. Or maybe just the only ones with no holiday plans.” Immediately he realized the remark he had meant jokingly did not amuse her.

  She inclined her head slightly, forced a smile. He was grateful for the ticket agent’s interruption, “Here you are, Mr. Emery, and many thanks.”

  Mark pocketed his ticket and voucher. As he walked back to his seat, he heard the agent say, “Good evening, Miss Dodge.”

  Dodge? That was the name of the Rockport man rumored to be challenging the incumbent for an assembly seat in the next election. Neil Dodge, a successful contractor and civic leader. Was that his wife? No, too young. Besides, the agent had called her Miss Dodge. Maybe she wasn’t related to Neil Dodge at all. Still, he may have seen her before at some fund-raising event or other.

  He felt a little sheepish for the remark he had made to her. He was not good at small talk or socializing. Out of practice. Even among his colleagues at the newspaper he had a reputation for being a loner. A curmudgeon? Shari had been the one who was outgoing, friendly, vivacious. Everyone loved Shari. She made friends easily. Since she was gone, everything had changed.

  Flight 84 was called and passengers gathered up packages, bundles, belongings and trooped Out through the gate to board the plane. Mark watched them go, grimly wishing he hadn’t been so impulsive. The next flight north wasn’t due for at least two hours. He looked around uneasily. Suddenly, the waiting room, filled with people and voices a few minutes before, was quiet and empty. Except for two. Himself and Miss Dodge. He glanced over at her, seated on the opposite side of the room, apparently preoccupied with her own thoughts.

  Mark stood up. He’d read his magazine cover to cover. He thought he’d better get something else to read until the next flight north arrived. He strolled out to the corridor, passed people worriedly studying posted arrival and departure bulletins. Weather seemed to be affecting all eastbound flights originating in San Francisco, as well as those due. A long list of “delayed” or “canceled” notices followed destination names and numbered flights. It might be a long night.

  Mark checked out the newsstand but nothing appealed to him so he strolled the labyrinthine halls of the airport, leisurely browsing the gift-shop windows. Something for Ginny for Christmas? No. Too early. Anyway, he wasn’t sure what she’d like this year.

  At the entrance of one of the airport restaurants, Mark stopped to examine the menu on the door. Knowing the best he could expect on the flight was a soft drink and small bag of peanuts, he decided he might as well eat. There was a line, made up, he guessed, of stranded passengers. He took a place at the end of it. Overheard snatches of conversations relayed the usual horror stories of delayed plans and canceled flights. He listened with sympathetic amusement. A few minutes later someone stepped in behind him. When he turned his head, he saw it was her, his fellow passenger from Flight 84.

  Remembering her lack of response to his first attempt at conversation, he hesitated. Yet, he couldn’t ignore her. He nodded and said, “Hi.”

  This time she smiled-an astonishingly lovely smile. “When in doubt, eat, right?”

  He grinned. “Well, I’ve taken the flight to Rockport before and I can guarantee you that we won’t get fed on the plane. And who knows how long we’ll be delayed here. Might as well take advantage of being in San Francisco.”

  “At least they’ll probably have sourdough French bread.”

  The line moved slowly ahead of them. A hostess escorted people to the few vacated tables. Obviously other passengers were using their waiting time by lingering over dinner and coffee.

  “I’m Mark Emery. I’m a reporter on the Rockport Times.”

  “I’m Coryn Dodge. I’ve seen your byline. My mother sends me the hometown paper.”

  “You live in San Francisco?”

  “In L.A. At least, I work in L.A.”

  “Are you on your way home?”

  “Yes, I’m spending Thanksgiving with my parents.”

  They were now at the head of the line. The hostess threaded her way through the tables, approaching them. “Table for two?” she asked, and not waiting to be corrected, “This way, please.”

  Mark glanced at Coryn and back at the hostess. “Well, we’re not—together.”

  The hostess’s arched eyebrows lifted, her forehead puckered. Pursing her lips, she looked around the restaurant with an annoyed expression. “Well…it might be a long wait…” Turning back to them, she asked, “Would you mind sharing a table?”

  Mark looked at Coryn, “Would you?”

  With only the slightest hesitation, she answered, “No, not at all.”

  Her problem solved, the hostess smiled. “Good. Please come this way.” She moved swiftly over to a corner table a busboy had just cleared.

  They sat down and a waiter handed them menus and went away. For a few minutes they studied the selections.

  “See anything you like?” Mark asked.

  “I’m not really all that hungry. I just thought it would take up some time…Oh, a Cobb salad, I guess.”

  “I think I’ll try the scallops.” Mark said. The waiter came back and Mark ordered for them both. “Coffee first?” he asked Coryn. When she nodded, the waiter poured them each a cup then left again.

  As she sipped her coffee, Coryn took a good look at the man across the table. He had an intelligent, pleasant expression and might have been downright handsome had it not been that his nose was the slightest bit crooked. However, instead of detracting from his looks, Coryn thought the slight flaw lent a certain ruggedness to his features that she found quite attractive. Suddenly she realized that he was also regarding her thoughtfully. All at once, she felt a little self-conscious. Here they were, two complete strangers, now what?

  Mark did not want to force conversation. Yet it seemed worse not to say anything. Besides, he felt obligated. He had been the one to suggest they share a table. He could always employ his reportorial skills. His comfort zone. He cleared his throat.

  “Do you like L.A.?”

  “Like it?” Her eyes widened as if she was caught off guard by the question. “Actually, I hadn’t intended to stay there. The summer after I graduated I went to visit a girlfriend, someone I knew from college. It just sort of happened…I got a job and…”

  What had really happened was she had met Jason Kramer. They had met at a party, a housewarming for one of Sheila’s friends who had just moved into a new condo in Santa Monica. Someone introduced them. One thing had led to another. It was as simple as that. And as complicated.

  “What do you do in L.A.?” Mark continued, feeling he was on safe ground. He was curious. She had a certain style, a class-act look.

  “I work for a public relations firm.”

  “That sounds interesting.”

  “Interesting?” She paused as if not quite knowing how to answer him. “That’s what I thought, at first. At least my job isn’t. We’re assigned to certain accounts. What it actually amounts to is a clipping ser vice.”

  “I gather you’re not planning to make a career of it?”

  “Hardly.”

  “What would you rather be doing?”

  She looked at him steadily for a full minute as if she didn’t quite understand the question.

  “I meant,” he explained, “if you aren’t that sold on your job, there must be some other interest you’d like to pursue. Unless something else is keeping you in L.A.?”

  To her relief the waiter reappeared with their order. She had no intention of telling him what kept her in L.A. Or that she might be on the brink of making a change. In her job and her life-style. But you don’t pour out your heart to a perfect stranger. At least, she’d never been the type to do so. Besides, she wasn’t sure just what she was going to do about anything.

  After the waiter left, she asked Mark, “What about you? Were you always interested in newspaper work?”

  “Yes. I worked on the school paper in high school, worked as a stringer and in the summer at a local paper. In college, I took a double
major in journalism and economics. When I graduated, I got the first job I interviewed for, and that was that. For a year.” He smiled. “Ironically, one of the good or bad aspects of being a newspaperman is the urge to move on to another town, a bigger paper.”

  “How did you happen to come to Rockport?” Coryn found herself curious to know. There was a certain sophistication about Mark that hardly seemed small-town. “The Times isn’t exactly a metropolitan newspaper.”

  “Rockport seemed a good place to bring up children.”

  “You have children?” Coryn felt surprised. It had not occurred to her that Mark Emery was married or a father.

  “A little girl. Ginny. Six.”

  “Does your wife like Rockport?”

  His expression changed. He took a sip of coffee. “My wife’s dead.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I-”

  “Don’t apologize. You couldn’t have known. It was three years ago. A skiing accident.” He paused. “Being a single parent, you have to weigh everything. The job itself isn’t the priority. Where it’s located is sometimes more important. Now I consider things I might not otherwise, take fewer risks.”

  Coryn could think of nothing to say to that. Marriage, children, death, all things she had not experienced. She picked up her fork and began to eat.

  In a few minutes, Mark commented thoughtfully, “Strange, isn’t it? You moved from the north coast to L.A. and I moved from southern California to Rockport.”

  “The heart has its reasons, as someone said.”

  Her remark begged exploring. His reporter’s instinct prompted, but this time Mark decided against acting upon it. There was a remoteness about her that discouraged intimacy. He studied the young woman sitting opposite him. She had slipped the raincoat off her shoulders and underneath she wore a royal blue cowl-necked sweater that deepened the color of her eyes. Her dark hair waved softly back from ears where small gold hoops swung.