Let It Be Me, Becky Wade [beautiful books to read .TXT] 📗

dining table and ripped it open. The box contained a huge assortment of products. Paper. Pencils. Erasers. Pens. A T-square, ruler, triangle. A card sat on top. He read it and grinned. “The doctor you don’t have a crush on sent this to me.”

“What?” she exclaimed.

He passed her the card.

This is my way of supporting your graphic novel. Reserve a copy for me when it’s published.

—Sebastian Grant

“You’re working on a graphic novel?”

“Yeah.”

“Since when?”

He shrugged. “A few weeks.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Another shrug.

“That’s wonderful, Dylan! Seb . . . Sebastian knows?”

“Uh-huh. I told him when we were looking at the artwork one of his patients did.” Starstruck, he examined each item. “Wig!”

“Wig?”

“So cool my wig flew off,” he explained.

He hadn’t shown this much joy over anything in a long time. The sight of it caused a lump to form in her throat. “I have his number. You’ll have to call him and thank him.”

“I already have his number. He gave it to me.”

“When you were looking at artwork together, I presume?”

“Yeah. I’ll call him.”

Sebastian had sent a teenage boy he hardly knew a wonderfully thoughtful gift.

After Dylan had taken his treasure into his cave, Leah texted Sebastian.

Thank you for the art supplies you sent to Dylan. In case his teenager-speak makes it impossible to interpret his gratitude, I want you to know that the gift meant a lot to him.

Sebastian’s reply arrived forty-five minutes later.

I’m glad.

She’d been hoping for something that invited further conversation and waited for him to send a follow-up text. But he didn’t. Just I’m glad—a cordial, to-the-point conversation-ender—and nothing more.

A week later Leah finally hit upon a plan of action pertaining to Jonathan Brookside and Gridwork Communications Corporation that might enable her to access the Brooksides’ address.

Problematically, she did not possess the disposition of a double agent. The idea of placing a deceptive phone call made her feel the way she’d felt when she’d developed hives after a bee sting at the age of ten. Itchy and anxious.

She tapped Gridwork’s number into her phone. Hesitated.

Restless, she paced to the windows of her classroom. Her final class of the day had concluded thirty minutes prior. Outside, a smattering of kids still dotted the campus, hurrying through the drizzle toward cars, talking with friends beneath overhangs. Inside, quiet reigned, thanks to her classroom’s closed door.

She caught herself scratching her forearm and ceased the motion. You don’t actually have hives, Leah.

She wanted more details about Jonathan and Trina and Sophie.

Her choices were simple: Make this phone call. Or wait and see if she could unearth any other sources of information. Or give up her quest for answers.

She hit the button to connect the call.

“Gridwork Communications Corporation,” a male voice answered.

“Hello, I was hoping to reach Jonathan Brookside’s personal assistant.” Surely, someone with the title of Founder would have an assistant.

“One moment, please.”

Classical music came on the line. Leah rubbed her thumb against the windowsill. She’d been forwarded, which indicated that Jonathan Brookside was still affiliated with Gridwork and did have an assistant. Had the receptionist offered to connect her to Jonathan directly, she’d been prepared to hang up. She couldn’t allow her first communication with her biological father to come in the form of a deceptive phone call.

“Meredith Tibbs,” a woman said. She sounded both grandmotherly and efficient, like a retirement-age Mary Poppins.

“Hello! I’m hoping you can help me.”

“I’ll certainly try.”

“I’m a friend of Trina’s. We volunteered together years ago.”

“Ah! At Hands of Grace?”

“Yes. We hadn’t seen each other in a log time, but I ran into her the other day, and she was so kind and encouraging. I sent her a note afterward but it was returned to sender. I don’t think she lives at the address I have for her anymore.”

“What address do you have?”

“11482 Riverchase Road.”

“My, that is an old one. Very old.”

“Time flies!”

“It really does. Do you have a pen and paper handy?”

“I do.” Leah rushed to her desk, her heart whacking against her ribs as she jotted down a current address for Jonathan and Trina Brookside.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Sebastian leaned against the side of the main house at Sugar Maple Farm and talked with Natasha and Genevieve’s dad while dusk fell over Misty River.

A year ago Genevieve had moved into the guest house here at the farm and fallen in love with her landlord, Sam Turner. Since then, she’d invited Sebastian to several social events here. Genevieve loved people, loved talking with people, and loved hosting people, especially now that she had access to a great setting (Sugar Maple Farm) and a boyfriend who could do all the cooking (Sam).

On this last Saturday in September, the heat had topped out in the eighties, then slipped into the seventies. To take advantage of the weather, Genevieve had convinced Sam to move his dining room table and chairs outside to the grassy area on the side of the house. She’d sunk tall wooden stakes into the earth, then draped string lights back and forth from the house to the stakes, so that the lights formed a canopy over the table.

Genevieve had told Sebastian they were having a “small group” over for dinner tonight. He knew her well enough to know that “small group” could mean thirty. Because of that, he’d thought it possible that Leah might attend. He’d gotten his hopes up. Showered and shaved, chosen his clothes carefully, spent time on his hair.

Which was stupid. Embarrassing.

He found out after he’d arrived that tonight’s “small group” meant twelve. He’d shown up early along with Genevieve’s parents, Sam’s dad and stepmom, Natasha and her husband, Wyatt. Ben, Eli, and Penelope would be here soon.

Sebastian kept wondering why he was feeling let down. Then remembering . . . it was because Leah wasn’t coming.

Almost three weeks had passsed since he’d given her and Dylan a tour of the hospital.

His life and hers overlapped too little. So little, it was making him crazy. Weeks would go by without his seeing her. Then, when he was finally near her again, he experienced