Fiona decided to wait to tell Gideon about what she and Iva had found, thinking it would be better to show him the letters in person.

But when he called to invite her to dinner that night, she knew it was a bad sign.

It was the way he did it—the way he called and, in a very business-like manner, invited her to dine with him that evening. It reminded her too much of the scene in When Harry Met Sally… when Harry and Sally meet for an uncomfortable “it was a mistake” dinner after they slept together the first time.

Not a good sign.

At least he hadn’t had his assistant call, Fiona thought morosely.

Her hands felt clammy for the rest of the day whenever she thought about it. When evening came, she took off the scarf she’d taken to wearing as a headband and pinned up her hair on the sides so that it kept her face free and fell down her back. Of course, now she wouldn’t have the benefit of the nervous habit of pushing her bangs out of her face—or hiding behind them if she needed to cloak her expression—but Fiona was too miserable to care.

She knew this was not going to be fun. Her antennae had been singing ever since the morning she’d asked Gideon if he wanted to leave his toothbrush at her house.

Something was wrong.

Terribly wrong.

Navigating her Beetle through Grand Rapids, Fiona smiled a wry one. She finally got comfortable enough with a guy to want to build something permanent out of hot sex, great meals, and wonderful conversations—not to mention a literal skeleton in her closet—and she’d somehow scared him away.

She might have scared him, but she’d scared herself more.

Hell, she might as well be honest with herself—she always was, Fiona thought as she jerked her steering wheel to grab an on-the-street parking place.

She was in love with the most amazing, sensitive, talented man she’d ever met—and he had scheduled a Dear Jane Dinner.

* * *

Gideon had never been more miserable in his life. He’d spent the entire weekend after the evening with Rachel carrying what felt like a mason block in his stomach.

Now, as he sat across the table from Fiona—who looked as disheveled and New Agey and lovely as always—he found himself taking a larger drink of his martini than he should have. It was very dry, with Grey Goose, smooth and clean…but the way he swallowed it—hard, fast, and large—ruined it, and left him with a rasping throat.

He’d have been better off just shooting the vodka, or something just as strong, without the fancy dressing of a martini glass and olive.

Fiona sat across the table from him, watching as tears sprang to his eyes while he battled the urge to cough and choke.

Her hands rested on the table, folded neatly, her fifteen rings (he’d counted them more than once—and the number was always the same) glinting silver and platinum in the low light. She looked at him with large cinnamon eyes, and there was an eerie calmness about her that made him feel even worse.

When the server approached and asked if they were ready to order their dinner, Fiona folded her menu and laid it precisely next to her plate.

“Not yet,” she told the waiter. “We’ll need at least fifteen minutes. Come back then, please.”

Gideon closed his mouth and stared at the menu. After the server walked away, he looked up at Fiona, who was watching him steadily.

“I don’t see any reason to order dinner,” she told him calmly. “But I didn’t want to mention that in front of the waiter. Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”

“Fiona.” He took another drink of his martini—this one went down much better, though his stomach was in square knots. “I hardly know where to begin.”

“Let me help you. It has to do with Rachel, I’m sure. And it has to do with us.” She linked her fingers in front of her and looked at him.

Gideon heaved a deep sigh. He might as well put it all on the table—Fiona was already halfway there. “I found out on Saturday night that Rachel’s pregnant.”

He waited while she digested the words. She blanched, then her expression settled.

Then, most horribly of all, it became bleak.

Cold, dead, empty and bleak.

“I see. Well, that makes it easy for me, then,” she said in a voice so calm his heart stopped.

“What do you mean?”

“I realized after I made that stupid comment the other day about you leaving your toothbrush that I probably scared you off. I know that it scared me; and pretty much as soon as I said the words, I wanted to take them back.

“I was going to tell you I wanted to slow things down…but I guess that would be a moot point, now, wouldn’t it? I have to assume you’re telling me about Rachel’s pregnancy because you’re the father. This just makes things so much easier. For both of us.” She gave him a very bright smile.

Gideon felt like he was standing on the edge of a sand pit, and the sand was falling away under his feet as he stumbled backward.

He delved into her with his gaze, searching her expression to see if he could read anything behind her words. She appeared calm, sincere, and collected. He looked closely into her eyes, and they matched his without guile as she held her smile.

Maybe for a trifle too long.

“We’re too different,” she said. “But it’s been a lot of fun and wonderful hot sex—and a few laughs, too…but, you see, I’ve been feeling a little cramped lately.” She chuckled, the sound clear and unstrained, and Gideon suddenly knew—with a sharp blow to the heart—that she was telling the truth.

That it didn’t matter what he’d planned to say. That his carefully-thought-out decision and position on the future no longer had meaning.

“I don’t know for sure that the baby’s mine,” he managed to say, trying to salvage some ounce of control. “I don’t want to stop seeing you, Fiona—”

“Well, that was obvious since you slid into bed with me the night you found out—the night you must have found out about the baby,” Fiona said with the faintest harsh edge to her voice. “I know it was Friday night, because you were…different after. But…I suppose you didn’t have much choice coming to bed with me, seeing as I was already there.”

The smile on her face had become brittle and Gideon felt that sand rushing away from his feet faster now, and he could almost see the funnel through which it was spiraling down.

“Fiona—”

“Look, Gideon, you’ve said it before—and I do agree. We’re just too different. You live and move in a totally different world than I do. Rachel’s pregnancy is a perfect excuse—a valid reason—for you to take a step back, and I understand that. I truly do.” She reached across the table and patted his hand—like he was back in second grade and had lost his favorite Matchbox car. “You’ll make a wonderful father, Gideon. You really will. I have no doubt of that.”

His heart plummeted, then surged back up. “I don’t even know if the baby’s mine, Fiona,” he repeated, hearing the desperation in his voice. The vodka in his stomach sloshed.

He wasn’t ready to be a father. He wasn’t certain he’d be strong enough to put his weaknesses aside, unlike his father had.

And he wasn’t ready to let Fiona out of his life. Even though she…she was already ready to let him go.

“Gideon.” Her simple word—similar to her response when he’d told her about his mother: quiet, full of feeling without being smothering—made him focus on her sad face. “Remember what I saw in the line on your hand? A wife and a baby.”

With both of hers, she gathered up his left hand, gently turning it so that the palm faced up. Her index finger traced a crease on the side of his pinkie, then carefully swept over his open hand, whispering over his skin and raising every nerve ending in his body.

No. God, no…

He was losing her—he’d lost her, faster than that sand funneling away underfoot.

It was in her face, and in his head. No. No!

Suddenly, he recalled what Iva told him, the message from Salton: You’d have a very difficult decision to make…that it would turn your life around…and she said that, although it would be very painful, you would do the right thing in the end.

It seemed like everyone knew his future but him.

* * *

Fiona rushed out of the restaurant, blinking back what she refused to consider might be tears.

No way. It was allergies that made her eyes sting.

It was for the best. No doubt in her mind.

She’d done the right thing.

Gideon was wishy-washy-ing around about telling her the whole story—but she knew what his palm had said, and she knew what had to be done.

He had to be cut loose so that he could become a father with a little less guilt than he would already have, having had a father of his own who was such a screw-up.

The baby might not be his.

So? she told herself, jamming the key into her car door lock. She knew Gideon. She’d come to learn his soul during their time together.

He was the responsible type—the ultra-vigilant uber-responsible type; the exact opposite of his father—and even if the baby wasn’t his, he would do right by Rachel because it could just as easily have been his.

And because he couldn’t stand to see the child of someone he cared about—perhaps even loved, she thought miserably, cranking up a Katy Perry song on her car stereo about being hot and then cold—grow up in a broken home.

He would fix it as his grandfather had fixed his.

Oh God, oh God…why did she have to fall in love with such a conservative, stick-in-the-mud, responsible, do-the-right-thing guy?

The truth was, she told herself firmly, if he wouldn’t have been looking for a way out of their “relationship,” he would never have brought it up.

Responsibility or no, Rachel’s pregnancy was Gideon’s fast ticket away from her.

* * *

“I’m getting married,” Gideon said.

His grandfather beamed, leaning across the table at the elegant restaurant Grove, and clasped Gideon’s hand firmly.

“Congratulations, son,” he said, tightening his warm grip before his grandson could pull away. “Iva and I have been hoping for such an announcement from you, and we’re thrilled that you’ve finally found the right woman.”

As he settled back in his seat, he readjusted the napkin on his lap and turned a pleased smile onto Iva. “You know what that means, my dear,” he said. “I’ll be able to start my succession plan and half-retire in the next year.”

Gideon frowned. “Succession plan? Retire? You?” He laughed, although he knew it must sound forced, based on the way Iva was watching him.

“Of course, my dear boy. I promised myself—and Iva—that once you settled down and decided to get married, whenever it was, I would start easing up myself and begin to retire.”

His grandfather was so pleased. Gideon didn’t ever think he’d seen him as happy, other than when he’d first introduced him to Iva.

She was still looking at him, her bright blue eyes steady. But there was worry painted in them.

She hadn’t congratulated him.

She hadn’t said a word, in fact.

Gideon felt his middle twist and he took a sip of water laced with lemon.

The ring he’d bought for Rachel weighed down his pocket. Its box bore the gold-stamped logo of one of the finest jewelers in Grand Rapids, and he knew Rachel would be pleased to flaunt it.

He was going to bring it to her after dinner tonight. Perhaps he should have invited her to join them at Grove, but somehow he knew it would be best to talk with Grandfather—and Iva of course—first.

The ring itself had been easy to select: a single, square-cut ice-white diamond set in platinum, two carats of colorless brilliance that would look lovely on any woman’s hand—but most especially with Rachel’s perfectly manicured, white-tipped fingernails.

The pit of his stomach felt deep and heavy as he’d fingered through the diamonds spread out on a purple velvet cloth earlier today.

How different his choice would be if he were selecting a ring for Fiona. She’d want something as unique as she was; something colorful like bold sapphires, or maybe a dark yellow diamond set in warm or rose gold, instead of colorless ice—

And how foolish of him to allow that thought to enter his mind.

The fact was—the cold fact he had to keep reminding himself— Fiona had seized the opportunity to rush him out of her life the moment he gave her a reason. He’d hardly had the words out; he hadn’t even been able to tell her what he was thinking, what he thought was the best option…

Obviously, her insecurities and inability to commit to anything had won out in the end—and, Gideon mused, it was just as well.

Whatever he did, he was in for the long haul.

Fiona didn’t have it in her to tackle anything for the long haul, and she’d made that clear.

A wife like Rachel Backley—an executive, a powerhouse of a businesswoman and stunning to boot—would serve him and his grandfather’s practice much better than an impetuous, airy-fairy palm-reader would. Chances were, Fiona would get bored with her antiques shop anyway and move onto greener pastures within months.

With a start, Gideon realized that both Iva and his grandfather were looking at him expectantly from across the table.

Kindness, perhaps even pity, glinted in her eyes as Iva spoke. “You don’t seem very happy about it, Gideon. Is it too soon for you? Are you rushing into this?”

“No. Rachel and I have been together for over three years, so I wouldn’t consider it rushing into anything.” Gideon said the words with a deep-seated calm that he absolutely did not feel.

Inside, his stomach roiled and his head hurt.

Gideon Senior stared at him, setting down his drink without looking. It would have ended up in his lap if Iva hadn’t snatched it up from a free-fall.

“What the hell are you talking about?” bellowed the older man, sitting up abruptly as the diners at the next table turned to look at them. “Gideon?”

“Calm down, dear.” Iva had already begun to soothe the troubled waters. “Can’t you see Gideon is in shock?”

“In shock? Of course he’s in shock, Iva—for God’s sake, he’s marrying the wrong woman. He’s going to make the same mistake I made—three times!” The elder Nath made no effort to keep his voice or opinions circumspect and more people were looking.

“Gideon, I’m sure that you knew your grandfather and I were expecting you’d be announcing your engagement to Fiona—not Rachel. And although it’s none of our business” —these last words were accompanied by a black glare at her companion— “if you’d like to talk a little about what happened, we’d listen.” Her round cheeks seemed deflated, and a paler pink than usual, and the glint usually smiling in her eyes had disappeared.

It was definitely pity and concern that he saw there in Iva’s expression—neither of which he felt like responding to.

“It wasn’t going to work out with Fiona,” he told them simply, having rehearsed this speech previously. “We both realized it before it was too late, thank goodness. We’re just not from the same worlds. Rachel’s more my type, and I just decided it was time to stop messing around with a bit of eye candy. My life’s more serious than Fiona’s. She just doesn’t get it.”

As he spoke those last words, he didn’t need to see the frozen expression on Iva’s face to realize how arrogant they sounded.

The taste of something bitter filled his mouth and he looked down and away from the disappointed expression on her face.

“It’s very sudden, Gideon. Just last Friday, I was at the shop with Fiona and you’d—er—been there the night before. And now suddenly you’re announcing your engagement to Rachel. Is there something else going on here?” Iva pressed gently.

He might as well tell them. It was going to be obvious soon enough. “Rachel’s pregnant. I told her we would get married.”

Grandfather opened his mouth to speak, but a warning look from Iva magically silenced him. He closed his mouth, but his cheeks became mottled as he fought to control his reaction.

“The baby is yours?” Iva asked.

“Yes. I’m doing a DNA test to be certain—I’m not completely oblivious to feminine wiles—but I’ve no reason to believe otherwise.” He glanced at Iva. “It was my decision to get married, and she agreed.”

Gideon drew in a deep breath and spewed it out slowly, then continued. “She gave me the whole argument that it was better for the child, if the parents weren’t in love, not to get married. And that she was more than financially capable of raising the baby on her own with a nanny. She said I could be as involved with the child as I wanted to, but that there was no reason for us to get married. I told her that was ridiculous, and I wasn’t about to let my child grow up without a father.”

The unspoken words “like I did” hung silently in the air.

“It’s the right thing to do,” Gideon Senior said, nodding sagely. The color in his face had returned to normal. “Your responsibility is your responsibility and you’re right to own up to it, Gideon. I’m proud of you, son.”

Iva didn’t speak. She took a sip of her Riesling and looked at him, then at Gideon Senior, and then back again, pointedly remaining silent.

“I’ll be bringing Rachel to the Children of Grand Rapids Fundraiser at Meijer Gardens in a couple of weeks. You’ll have a chance to meet her again then.”

“Are you going to tell your father?” his grandfather asked.

Gideon set his water glass down, but kept his fingers wrapped around it. “Yes. I’m planning to visit him on Monday.”

* * *

The last time he’d visited his father was last June, for his birthday and Father’s Day (conveniently within the same week), but Gideon refused to feel guilty about that fact.

He signed in and was approved to enter the prison, and then strode down the long, white, empty halls.

In the last two weeks, his life had flipped from one of laughter, freedom, and pure happiness to one of duty and seriousness. He had enough to feel guilty about. Not visiting his father more than a couple times a year wasn’t going on the damned list too.

Gideon took his seat at the table spliced by a wall made of clear Plexiglas. He watched as Gid, as his father preferred to be called, preceded a guard and sat down on the other side of the wall. Both men picked up the heavy black telephone receivers that would allow them to speak to each other.

“Long time no see.”

Gideon swallowed a sharp retort. “Hello Gid.” He’d long since stopped thinking of him as Dad, or even Father.

“To what do I owe this honor?”

“Thought I’d let you know that I’m getting married.” Gideon focused on keeping his fingers from tapping nervously on the counter in front of him.

“Well, that’s nice of you.” His words sounded sincere, and when Gideon looked up, what he saw in his father’s face matched the tone of his words. “I’m glad you’ve found someone.”

“Thank you.”

Silence yawned.

“You gonna tell me about her? Is she that redhead Dad was talking to me about? He really likes her.”

Gideon snapped his eyes up again, shocked. His grandfather had visited Gid and told him about Fiona?

“No…no, it’s not her. She was too…uh…flighty. Not serious enough. We didn’t have a lot in common. I’m going to marry a woman more like me—down to earth, professional, focused, aggressive. She’s the principle of a very hot marketing company that just won the Hottest Midwest Company of the Year from Fortune. It’s a very prestigious award, and there are a lot of press opportunities and—and other benefits related to it,” he added lamely.

“Sounds a lot like you…and your grandfather. But tell me about this redhead who’s not serious enough for you. Dad made it sound like you two were destined for the altar.”

Gideon suppressed annoyance about his grandfather’s big mouth.

He didn’t want to talk about Fiona.

He wanted to forget about her.

Yet…the conversations he had with his father—meaningful ones, anyway—were so few and far between that he felt compelled to continue.

Perhaps it was a desire for Gid to understand how he’d molded his son’s life because of his lack of responsibility—how, because of his unrealistic pipe dreams and desire to live only for the moment, he had been not only a terrible father, but had created a son who was compelled to be so completely opposite of him.

“She’s fun and beautiful and very carefree. I enjoyed being with her, but in the end we decided that we didn’t have enough in common to be together. Our relationship was too distracting, and she just wasn’t serious enough for the long haul.

“Fiona just didn’t have enough focus in her life…enough goals.” He glanced at his father, who was still very handsome even with graying hair and deep wrinkles around the eyes and mouth.

Gid frowned and looked down. “I know you think I’m the biggest prick that ever tried to be a father—and you’re somewhat justified in thinking so—but you’re still my son, and I still have an interest in your life.

“I’m 58 years old and’ll be in here for another ten years—and then maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll get out on parole. I’m here because I allowed myself to get too caught up in instant gratification, short-term pleasure, and my own addictive weaknesses. I know it, and I’m paying for it. But I don’t want to see you do the same thing.”

Gideon gaped at his father. “That’s absurd! I never live for the instant pleasure—I plan and work and focus, I have goals, and I’m damned if I’ll ever get caught up in fanciful dreams in order to be a fashionable starving artist like you. I’m nothing like you.”

“That’s my point, Gideon. You’re so sure you’re going to end up like me that you’re swinging so damned hard in the opposite direction—and so your life’s nothing but structure and work and duty. Just like your grandfather’s. I was just as determined as you are to be the exact opposite of my father that I did the same thing.”

Gid’s voice was earnest and he leaned toward the glass, his deep-set eyes serious. “Gideon, I only talk to you once every month or two months…and only see you a couple times a year—but I can see that you need balance in your life. You need a little fun and a little free spirit and a little creativity. A little art. Maybe a lot of art,” he said with a short laugh.

“Letting that in—the creative side of yourself—isn’t going to end you up in prison like me. Not letting yourself loosen up will turn you into my father—or at least the way he was before Iva.

“Do you want to spend sixty years of your life like that before you realize you made a mistake?”