Mostly, because his dreams last night had taken on a titillating form – the scent of Meghan stuck in his mind, the taste of her remaining on his tongue. Therefore, he’d risen early and set out with only one goal in mind, to work himself to complete exhaustion and sleep his afternoon away.

  The huff of his breath overlaid the squawk of seagulls and noise of passing boats. Slicing through the water, he cut between crafts much larger than his, salt spray in his eyes, sweat dripping from his cheeks. One boatman shouted an obscenity. He ignored it, continuing his even motions until the strain in his frame became too much. He released the oar, allowing the boat to come to a stop.

  Bobbing in place, he swiped his elbow across his brow and spotted an island some one hundred or so yards ahead. Had he travelled that far? He’d do best to rest there before returning, or get caught up in the afternoon boat traffic.

  Making light effort of the distance, he ran the boat onto the shore and hopped out, his toes sinking into the sand. A great blue heron eyed him from a spot six feet away. Strutting forward two paces, he flapped a wing. Atlas waved at it, sending the bird backwards.

  He fell down on the sand, tenting his knees.

  “What do you think of her, grandfather?” he asked aloud. “Your playboy grandson has fallen head over heels for a woman.”

  Wrapping his arms around his legs, he stared outward, yet saw nothing but the image of Meghan in his mind.

  “Asking for her hand will take the entire year you gave me though, so if you could speak to that God of yours …”

  God? No one in his world had time for God. Money, publicity, even backstabbing, but not prayer. Not worship, unless it was the almighty dollar or an image of themselves. Even he was guilty of that.

  It’d taken Meghan to cause him to look inward, past his goals for himself, past the desires of the family, to the man at the core, and he hadn’t much liked what he saw there … a frivolous life wasted on sensual pleasures.

  What he remembered of his grandfather had been a man far different from that, someone dedicated to helping others. One Christmas when he was about six, he remembered his grandfather lining up the staff and passing out hefty Christmas bonuses. He’d even paid the medical debt of the house maid, since her father was ill and unable to provide.

  “You inspire me,” he said to his grandfather’s memory. To become more than what he’d been so far. To love fully with his whole heart and not simply his wallet. To maybe find God amidst the politics and wealth of people lost amongst themselves.

  “Ho there,” a voice called from nearby.

  Focusing his gaze, Atlas spotted a man climbing from a simple rowboat. Khaki shorts displaying pale legs and knobby knees, a gangly man with a thick head of curly, brown hair grasped the bow of the boat and pulled it higher on the bank.

  “Didn’t know anyone else ever came to the island,” he continued. He extended his hand. “Rodger Spunk.”

  Atlas took it, surprised by the strength in Rodger’s grip. His meager height and weight didn’t promise that much.

  “Atlas Bellamy.”

  “Of the famous Bellamys?”

  Atlas nodded.

  “Wait, you’re the one always in the news.”

  He winced, and Rodger inhaled. “Ah, I see that’s a sore spot. Well, if I might …” He waved toward the sand as if even that were owned by them, then plopped down at his side. “I have a confession to make. I didn’t come here by chance.”

  How or why the man chose to visit the island wasn’t of interest, but not willing to be rude, Atlas said nothing.

  “A small voice in my heart said someone would need me today, so I followed its directions.” He paused. “You don’t believe.”

  He stated it so flatly, Atlas was unsure how to respond. Hadn’t he been arguing with himself over this very thing only moments ago?

  “In voices?” Atlas replied. “I hear many in my ear all day long.”

  Rodger made a soft snort, one side of his lips curving upward. “Not human voices, not even spiritual ones, because some of those are false. But one voice greater than the others. I speak of God.”

  Releasing his legs, Atlas stretched them out in front of him, his heels digging into the dirt. “People in my world hear only themselves talking, even if the sound is only an echo.”

  “There’s the thing, your echo reaches God’s ears just the same as the devout man, who goes to church every Sunday and robes himself in his Bible. You have only to turn your eyes upward to realize it.”

  He pointed one finger toward the sky, and Atlas shifted his vision, for a moment, blinded by the sunlight.

  “I have a question,” Atlas said, squinting. His eyes watered, and he dropped his gaze to the ground. “If God hears the echoes, why doesn’t He answer?” He turned his head and met the man’s pale blue gaze.

  On closer inspection, he was younger than Atlas originally thought, perhaps in his mid-thirties, yet in his face sat wisdom. What brought that? God? Prayer?

  Rodger looked toward Atlas’s boat. “You train?” he asked.

  Atlas nodded. “Often, but today was more to relieve a burden.”

  Rodger didn’t comment on that, but jerked his chin toward the oars. “What propels you forward, the boat or your efforts?”

  “Neither one, singularly, but both together,” he replied.

  The man smiled. “So it is with prayer. You cannot ask God for something without Him supplying an answer. So the problem isn’t in the lack of an answer, but in our listening well enough to hear it. When all you can hear is yourself, then it’s time to shut up.”

  There lay his problem then. He’d talked himself into a corner, and now, faced with something he wanted, knew whatever he said was only so much hot air. Meghan wasn’t swayed by talk. She wanted actions … to see him live the truth. But he hadn’t enough time for that. He could walk right for years to measure up and miss the deadline his grandfather had set.

  Then again, what did it matter if he did? It’d be humiliating, but only for a few people. Admittedly, he didn’t like the thought of so much going to such … worthless … causes. Nevertheless, to have Meghan’s favor was greater.

  “The answer you’re seeking will come when it’s time for it,” Rodger said, pushing to his feet. He dusted his palms together and pulled in a great breath.

  “Will I recognize it?” Atlas followed suit, leaning to one side and then the other in preparation for the long trip back.

  Revolving in place, Rodger took two steps toward his boat. He halted, casting a glance over his shoulder. “It’ll be the one unlike the others.” He left then, and Atlas stood in place until he’d disappeared from view.

  He pushed out from shore and aimed toward home. Soon, the familiar pattern returned, overlaid with weariness and a thousand thoughts in his head. He saw or heard little until he’d arrived home, and was a good while stowing equipment. Making his way up the path and into the house, he headed up the stairs, but had hardly made it into his room when the phone rang.

  “Atlas,” he said, his voice in a huff.

  “You sound tired,” his mother replied. “You’ve been exercising?”

  “All morning, and I plan to shower and sleep.”

  Her lack of response whisked through him. She never called simply to be friendly, but always with a purpose. This would be no different.

  “What is it?” he asked, seating himself on the end of the bed. Sand dusted from his toes onto the tile floor.

  “We were hoping to have you to dinner.”

  Dinner? Well, that still gave him time to rest.

  “If you like. I can be there at eight.”

  She remained silent.

  “Is that all?” he asked.

  “No. We’d like you to bring your lady friend.”

  He stilled, dropping the phone to his lap. It was too soon. They wouldn’t understand that, nor could he trust them to behave.

  “I can’t. It’s too soon,” he said returning the phone to his ear.

  “We promise to not mention the will,” she said. “In fact, I’ve told your father, one misstep and he blows everything.”

  Blows everything for them. Forget himself, forget his feelings for Meghan, and how badly he wanted this relationship.

  “I’m sorry. I just can’t. I need time …”

  “That’s just it,” she replied. “I didn’t want to tell you this way, but … your grandfather never had good handwriting.”

  Handwriting? What did his grandfather’s handwriting have to do with dinner and Meghan? Impatient, Atlas stood and paced to the window, leaving a trail of sand in his wake.

  “I fail to see how that matters,” he replied.

  His mother made a short of shallow groan. “It matters,” she said. “Because the year you thought you had? Now, you don’t. Turns out, you only have six weeks.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Atlas froze, his insides gelling, then his anger overtook the moment. “Six … six weeks? Six weeks!” He shouted the phrase the second time. “How in the h …”

  “Language¸” his mother said.

  He swallowed, moderating his tone. “How do you misinterpret a year out of six weeks?”

  She heaved a breath. “Well, the year to divide the money is accurate, but there was a hidden clause attached which gives a date you must be married by and, figuring it up, it’s six weeks from now. I mean … really it was logical. He figured at your age ….”

  Atlas groaned. “It won’t work. She won’t accept.”

  “She has to accept, and we thought if you both came for dinner, then maybe we could make a positive impression.”

  “Do you know what this is like?” he asked.

  His mother hushed.

  “Do you? To have something as fragile as marriage dangled over your head. This isn’t a game, and I’m inclined to let the money go. It’s all about pride. Isn’t it? Our pride. We don’t want to look bad in the press.”

  “Sweetheart …”

  He inhaled. “I’m tired, mother. I’ll call her, but you just may be asking too much. She isn’t like the others. She’s better than them. She’s better than me, and frankly, someone I really don’t deserve.”

  He hung up without waiting for her remark and made his way to the shower. Standing beneath the steamy spray, his thoughts returned to Rodger’s words, and he beat a fist against the wall. If God could always hear him, then let him listen in now.

  A sob tearing from his throat, he collapsed into the bottom of the shower.

  One hand on the door knob, Meghan took in Atlas’ appearance, something about it niggling at her. Not his clothing. He was impeccably dressed, black slacks, a white button up, his hair perfectly brushed. He was more casual than she’d seen him last night, which could be it. But then again—

  “Would you like to come in?” she asked. “I need a few minutes.”

  Inviting him into her apartment seemed like a big step, especially since his house was so much grander. But she refused to be embarrassed by the comparison. For him to accept her, he’d have to start somewhere.

  She reversed, and he crossed in front of her, the scent of his cologne filling the small foyer. Hands poised at his sides, he brought his gaze to hers, and the depth of it struck her.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, softly.

  He smiled, but it seemed weak, the lines on his forehead thicker than usual.

  “Tired, is all. I worked out longer than usual, with plans to turn in early … but family calls.” He brought one hand to his waist. “I appreciate you doing this.”

  She laid her hand on his arm. “No problem. I understand how parents are.”

  “Just the same, it’s a lot to ask.”

  Tired. She rolled the word over in her head. Was that really all there was to it? Or was there some other mental weight? He shouldered a lot – his name, his fortune, his reputation. Though he seemed determined to shed himself of the last one, it still existed, and she saw it on him sometimes, a need to not be Atlas Bellamy.

  “I’ll only be a moment,” she remarked. Taking leave of him, she wandered down the hall to finish dressing, returning ten minutes later. He stood with his back to her, his gaze out the window. At her light cough, he revolved.

  “I’m ready.”

  He nodded and escorted her out to his car. Encased in the leather seats, the flash of early city lights bright in her pupils, she didn’t speak. Some minutes later, Atlas turned left into a wide paved drive, pausing at an electronic wrought-iron gate, and her attention shifted to the surroundings.

  Thick tropical plantings all but hid the entrance from view, various palm trees and bushes with multicolored foliage screening the drive. Through the gate, it cleared some, but still the gardening was magnificent, and the house at the end of a more modern appearance than Atlas’s. Sleek, with lots of glass and steel, a concrete pool wrapped around the entrance then shot straight through the center.

  She waited for Atlas to open her door and emerged, hooking her hand through his arm. He laid his own atop hers.

  “My apologies in advance,” he said.

  She glanced at him, her curiosity peaked.

  The door was answered by an elegant woman whose understated dress belied her famous name. Mrs. Bellamy was thin, willowy almost, wearing a simple olive green dress. She raised an arm and the bell-like sleeves fluttered in the air.

  “You must be Dr. Moralez,” she said, offering her hand.

  There was only one ring on it, a very small one. Somehow in Meghan’s mind, it should be far larger, given their wealth.

  Meghan gave a short curtsey. “Mrs. Bellamy.”

  “Please, come in.”

  The ceiling of the entrance stretched three stories to a skylight, framing early evening stars. Out before her, a passageway led to a large living room done in a very simple, almost homey style. Again, not what she expected.

  “This is my husband, Evander.” Mrs. Bellamy waved to a man standing perfect posed in the center of the room.

  He demanded respect, but not so much in his manner, as in the look on his face. Here was exactly what people thought of the Bellamys – someone used to the power and privilege, who knew how to wield it.

  Atlas favored his father and his mother, more him than her. The instant he locked eyes with his dad, the air charged. What caused that? Father-son relations? The whole Bellamy thing?

  “Sweetheart, this is Dr. Moralez.” Mrs. Bellamy waved her direction.

  He smiled and stepped forward. “Doctor, we’re happy to have you.”

  Meghan offered an encouraging smile. “I’m happy to have been invited, though it was last minute.”

  Her statement was received with the briefest of nods. Probably, she shouldn’t have said that, but Atlas mood continued to worry her.

  “You’re right, so our gratitude is even greater that you took the time,” his mother said. She turned to her son then, and he leaned over and pecked her cheek.

  Raising one hand to his face, she patted it gently. “You do look tired. We won’t keep you late.”

  The affection she had for him was obvious, though measured by the presence of his father across the room.

  Motioned toward a doorway ahead on the right, Meghan walked at Atlas’s side into a fully prepared dining area. Large dishes of food sat even placed down the center of a glass table, a white porcelain vase of purple orchids curving overhead.

  Atlas tugged out a chair, and she took a seat. He then sat at her side.

  His mother tilted her head, a knowing look forming in her eyes. Perhaps not where he usually sat? So he wasn’t above going against them.

  “I hope you like roast chicken,” Mrs. Bellamy said, her facial features evening. “I confess I didn’t cook any of this. Cooking isn’t my best thing, though I’m not beyond trying my hand at dessert.”

  “I’m sure it’s delicious,” Meghan replied.

  Mrs. Bellamy picked up a bowl and proceeded to pass it to her husband, first.

  Protocol. He must be preferred ahead of her? Was that required or out of habit?

  Atlas’s father took hold of the dish, but the bowl in both hands, shifted it her direction. “Our guest should fill her plate first,” he said.

  She accepted, dipping from the dish without taking it from him, and he then dipped for himself. The procedure continued in this manner until all the plates were full, then his dad picked up his fork.

  But a bite held suspended on the tines, Atlas spoke. “We should pray.”

  Both Mr. and Mrs. Bellamy acted like they’d never given prayer a thought. The fact that Atlas did surprised Meghan some, but then, already in her short time with his parents, she’d learned he was unlike them in many ways. More tenderhearted. She’d never thought she’d say that about him, but where his father was stiff, Atlas seemed relaxed, almost casual

  “Perhaps Meghan would like to say it,” Atlas said.

  He met her eyes. Handing her the reins, that’s what he was doing. She accepted them, bowing her head. “Father God, thank You for this fine meal, and for the company with whom we partake it. Amen.”

  Mrs. Bellamy gave a weak smile and took a bite.

  “So, Doctor, you’re a dermatologist?” Mr. Bellamy asked.

  Meghan nodded.

  “What made you pick that profession?”

  She chewed her food slowly, giving the question time to sit in the atmosphere. “I’m afraid the answer isn’t concrete,” she replied, at last. “I sort of ended up there and found I liked it … and was good at it.”

  Mr. Bellamy wiped his lips with a cloth napkin then draped it carefully in his lap. “I admire your perseverance … all the schooling and training you went through.”

  A compliment, of sorts. She accepted it with a smile. “It was a lot of work.”

  “Your mother … how is she?”

  Mention of her mother set Meghan’s mind spinning. They would know about her aunt’s charity benefit. Atlas was, after all, sent there. But why bring that up now?

  “She’s doing well. Thanks for asking, and my aunt appreciates your support.”