They stopped in the doorway of the kitchen, which had been freshly painted and tiled. A new icebox and washing machine were waiting to be installed, and a long table sat in the middle of the space.

“Sounds like you’ve thought of everything,” she said. “And the house looks like it might be ready for you to move in soon.”

“In a couple of weeks. Still a lot of work to be done, but Winter’s pulled in some favors to get extra workers.”

Hadley’s gaze dropped to the table legs. She leaned forward and looked again, not believing her eyes.

“Talented crew of men,” he continued. “They figured out how to bolt the table to the subfloor before they laid tile. But they’re having the damnedest time figuring out a way to bolt the icebox down. Perhaps the men who did yours can let them know how they managed it?”

“Lowe?”

“Yes?

“I don’t—Why . . . ?” She tried again. “What are you doing?”

He turned to face her and spoke in a soft voice. “I hadn’t worked out all the details yet. I know it’s a hell of a thing to hope you’d forgive me, but it was more that I was confident in your capacity to do so than whether I deserved it. And I know it’s a lot to ask that you’d have to accept not just me, but Stella, too. It’s an enormous request. But I’m not expecting you to waltz in here and play her mother. I’m sticking with Uncle, myself. Keeps things simple.”

“Lowe.” She shook her head several times in disbelief, stuttered a nonsensical response, and then realized she didn’t even know what she thinking, much less saying. Her heart was beating so fast, she feared he might hear it. “I thought you’d given up on us. I thought . . .”

“Like I said, I botched things up spectacularly, and I worried if I showed up on your doorstep with nothing but an apology, you might tell me to go to hell. So I’d planned on getting this all fixed up first, you see. Then I thought I’d try to win you back through sympathy. Pretend to have a crippling disease that gave me six weeks to live, perhaps.” His words were lighthearted, but his voice was rough with restrained emotion. He hesitantly lifted a hand and traced a lock of her hair, a barely-there touch that sent goose bumps over her arms. “And if that didn’t work, I was prepared to disguise myself as someone different. Dye my hair, affect a limp. Maybe introduce myself as someone impressive—a duke, perhaps, or a wealthy heir who hunts wild game in Africa. Sweep you off your feet with my charming conversation and a big, fancy ring, then wait until we were married to reveal my identity and pray you didn’t divorce me.”

She choked out a gravelly laugh. “And if that didn’t work?”

“If you want me on my knees, I’m prepared to grovel. I’ve spent most of my life making mistakes, but if it takes me the rest of it to prove to you that I can be a better man, I’ll gladly die trying.”

He was very close now. So close, she could smell his hair and clothes, and the achingly familiar scent of his skin. She kept her eyes on his shirt collar and tried to keep her heart from racing ahead of her scattered thoughts. “It’s a long drive to the museum from here.”

“Plenty of room in the staff quarters for a full-time driver.”

“I don’t have much luck with staff.”

“That’s where my family name comes in handy.”

A funny sort of euphoria made her legs feel weak. “And I don’t know how Number Four will feel about country living.”

Slowly, he reached for her hand and began removing one of her gloves as he spoke in a low murmur. “This isn’t the country, min kära, but Stella loves cats, so at least he’ll have a partner in crime if he finds himself longing to chase parrots.”

“Lowe,” she said, grasping his fingers to still them.

“Yes, Hadley?”

“I can forgive mistakes. And I don’t care about all the cons and rackets. If you want to tell the president that you’re the Pope, it makes no difference. All I ask is that you refrain from lying to two people.”

“And those people would be . . . ?”

“You and me.”

With a final tug, he removed her glove and enfolded her bare hand in both of his. “Miss Bacall,” he said, kissing her knuckles. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

EPILOGUE

JANUARY 1929, ONE YEAR LATER

HADLEY SQUINTED INTO THE morning sun as she approached the porter loading their luggage onto the waiting train. The Twin Peaks station was bustling with travelers going to and from San Francisco, and she was both ecstatic and nervous to be one of them. She’d dreamed of this trip since she was a small child. Her stomach was a riot of butterflies and she couldn’t stop smiling.

“It’s just that I also noticed two last names, sir,” the porter was saying to the unusually tall man with wheat-blond hair. Hadley stopped behind him, out of sight, and listened for his answer.

“You’re a perceptive fellow,” Lowe told the porter conspiratorially. “Yes, it’s true. We’re bound for an Atlantic-crossing steamer ship, see. And Miss Bacall is a famous newspaper journalist who’s been sent along with me as a traveling companion to write my memoirs. Distant lands, exciting adventures. That sort of thing.”

“Oh,” the porter said, eyes wide. “Well, forgive me for being blunt, sir, but her luggage is tagged with your compartment number. Should I put it in the neighboring compartment with the child and her caretaker—Mrs. Geller?”