She shook her head. “No, I’m just going with the flow.”
She truly didn’t know their destination. She only knew that she’d recognize it when she saw it. Ryan didn’t question her. He simply leaned against the seat and sipped his coffee.
At one point, when they slowed to a crawl in the heavy traffic, he passed her his cup of coffee, climbed over the front seat and settled into the passenger’s side.
They came down Massachusetts Ave., driving deeper into the heart of Washington. “Where are we?” Ryan asked, leaning forward to look for street signs.
“I have no idea, but wherever it is, it’s beginning to feel right.” She pointed to a sign.
Dupont Circle.
The lush greenery and people crowding the sidewalks and benches told her they’d reached the park. They started around the circle with the rest of the traffic when she caught a sign for P Street out of the corner of her eye.
Without thinking, she snapped on her signal and turned onto the street. Spying a parking slot, she whipped the car into the empty spot. From the level of activity on the street, she was certain parking spots were a fairly rare occurrence. She realized just how rare when the driver of the SUV double-parked in front of them laid hard on the horn.
Ignoring the driver, Tess turned off the engine and they exited the car. She studied the historic buildings lining both sides of the street. Nothing struck a chord. None of it looked familiar.
She kept walking, paying attention to the relentless little itch at the back of her neck that told her to stay with it. To keep looking. Then, suddenly, it appeared. An elegant brownstone tucked neatly in between two other less impressive ones. A flood of emotions ripped through Tess and she stopped dead.
She sensed Ryan moving closer and she put her hand out, asking him to give her a minute. Instinctively he seemed to know what she wanted, because he didn’t speak. He waited, giving her the space she needed to reach for the memories on her own.
She walked up to the cast-iron gate surrounding the postage-stamp yard and wrapped her fingers around the sun-warmed metal. Her gaze rolled over the reddish stone steps leading to the double oak front door.
The main floor of the building had floor-to-ceiling windows, each with window boxes sporting red-and-white geraniums. Affixed to the right of the front door were the polished brass numbers:
Tess’s pulse kicked up a beat, and her fingers tightened around the metal spikes of the gate. “I know this place.”
“Let it come,” Ryan said softly. He shifted and the warmth of his big frame pressed in on her, lending his support and encouragement. She leaned into the gate, straining to capture the memory that danced in the background. She closed her eyes and let the images come.
Light. Laughter. A child’s giggle.
Glass library doors opened to a large room with hardwood floors covered with elegant rugs in bright, rich colors. Huge couches and tapestry chairs with carved wooden backs and arms clustered around an oversize brick fireplace. A welcoming fire burned behind the gate.
Tess got the sensation of cold pressing in on the windows glowing with the warmth from inside. It was winter.
She allowed her gaze to shift, to take in the entire room.
The main focus of the room was a grand piano. Rich mahogany wood polished to a high gloss. Someone was playing the piano, the notes crisp and sweet.
Tess pressed her body against the gate, trying to see more, and as she strained to see, she heard again the giggle of a young child. She blinked and the images wavered. Frightened of everything shutting down again, she tightened her grip on the gate.
The images sharpened and she saw a child, a young girl with white-blond hair, run into the room. She was about seven or eight, dressed in a flannel nightgown and a battered rag doll clutched close to her chest. The sight of the doll sent a shock through Tess. She fought to breathe.
“Emmie,” she whispered, the words catching and rasping in her throat. “My doll, Emmie.”
Ryan’s hands lightly touched her shoulders, and her breathing calmed. The little girl ran across the room, her bare feet slapping softly on the hardwood floor, and suddenly Tess could feel the cool wood of the floor beneath the soles of her feet.
A bolt of surprise ripped through her. She
She reached the piano, her small childlike fingers reaching up to touch the smooth surface of the ivory keys. And then, as quickly as the mist had appeared, it parted and she could see the man at the piano. He had deep brown eyes and a broad, strikingly handsome face. He continued to play, his large hands moving effortlessly over the keys.
He turned his head and his mouth stretched into a welcoming, loving smile. “Hello, Pumpkin.” The voice was soft, melodious and so familiar to her ears that she felt tears prick the corners of her eyes.
“Daddy.” She basked in the warmth of the man’s smile, and her fingertips ached from their grip on the gate. She sagged, and a headache of monumental proportions stabbed the top of her head.
Ryan caught her and pulled her against him, wrapping her in his strong arms. “Easy, Tess. Slow, deep breaths.”
Tess fought the overwhelming urge to slip away, to succumb to the strange heaviness that pulled at her. But instead, she straightened up and turned to face Ryan. He steadied her, his eyes searching her with a thousand unanswered questions.
“I saw him. I saw my real father,” she said.
“Your real father?”
“Flynn lied. He’s not my father.” She fought a wave of dizziness. “Flynn’s my stepfather.” She laid her forehead against Ryan’s chest, and her arms slipped up to encircle his neck. An unbelievable sense of peace and contentment washed over her. “Do you have any idea how good that feels? How comforting it is to know that someone truly loves you?”
Ryan grinned and brushed away a strand of hair that had caught against the corner of her mouth. His touch was gentle. Loving. Familiar. “What do you remember about him?”
“He loved to play the piano. He was a wonderful musician.” She smiled slightly as the faint strains of music whispered again in her ear. “He could have been a concert pianist if he’d wanted. But he loved politics more.” She stared at Ryan with a sense of awe. “My name is Tess Ross and my father was a United States senator. He used to say, ‘the words of the U.S. Constitution are just as perfect sounding as the notes of Mozart, Pumpkin.’ H-he called me Pumpkin because I was born on Halloween.”
“Pumpkin.” Ryan held her close, his words whispering in her ear. “I like it.”
Tess swallowed, a terrible sadness welling up inside her, making it difficult to speak. Ryan’s arms tightened, cradling her and letting her know that it was okay to feel the emotions flooding her body. She wept, her tears soaking his shoulder.
Finally she lifted her head. “He died when I was twelve. A helicopter crash. He was traveling to-” She closed her eyes, digging down deep for the answer, and it came. “New York. A quick campaign trip in the fall right before my birthday. Momma stayed home with me because I couldn’t miss school.”
She turned to look back at the brownstone. “I lived here, right here in this house. With my mother and father. And my doll, Emmie.”
“Here now, what do you two think you’re doing over there?” a voice interrupted.
Tess turned to see a short, stocky man rounding the far corner of the brownstone. His chubby face held an expression of firm disapproval. He carried a gardening rake in one hand.
As he drew closer, he squinted and then stopped short. A wide smile of welcome stretched his tiny mouth. “Ms. Ross! I didn’t recognize you.” He hurried over to unlatch the gate, throwing it open. “Why didn’t you call? I would have sent a car to the airport for you.”
“Do I know you?” Tess asked.
Startled, the man’s eyes widened and his bowlike mouth fell open. Without knowing why, Tess had the feeling
