THE NEPHEW
Chapter One
April 10, 1932
Cedar Rapids, IA
The first time Rose saw the boy, her heart
leaped into her throat and she let out a startled cry.
The art supplies she'd so carefully selected
for her gallery and which Artie Loman, owner of Loman's Crafts, had neatly
packaged for her, slipped from her grasp and spilled all over the hardwood
floor. Rose groaned and knelt over the mess, picking up pieces of shattered
glass as if in hopes of magically putting them back together.
"Let me help you, Miss Dawson."
Artie, wringing his hands, rushed to his customer's aid.
Rose happened to glance up just in time to
see the youth who'd caused her mishap peering at her through the storefront
window, where he'd been examining a display. He stared at her quizzically for a
moment, aquamarine eyes boring a hole into Rose's.
t can't be, she thought. He's dead.
"Oh my...your hand, it's bleeding,"
Artie fussed, showing her a gash she hadn't felt--until now. She glanced at her
left palm distractedly, then looked up again to where the tall, fair-haired
young man was standing.
Only he wasn't there.
Rose jumped to her feet and, ignoring Artie's
protests, ran from the store, nearly crashing over the display table in the
process, and stumbled into the street without slowing. She looked from side to
side frantically, her eyes taking in every shop on the block. No sign of him.
A horn blared angrily and Rose realized that
she was standing in the middle of a busy street, one hand streaming blood, and
that the proprietor of Loman's Crafts was calling her name. He sounded almost
frightened, poor man.
Rose returned to the store, turning one last
time to the block with all its quaint little mom-and-pop stores and
restaurants. These days, they were all fighting to stay open.
Hard times. Nothing like when she was growing
up. Rose hadn't lived in such opulence since she'd faked her own death and
taken on a new identity at the age of seventeen. She'd spent the last twenty
years trying to forget the horrific events that led up to that drastic
decision.
Except, of course, for Jack.
"Did you see the young man who was
standing here just a few minutes ago?" she asked Artie as he bandaged her
wound with a handkerchief.
"What man?"
"A blond-haired gentleman, about six
feet tall, standing right there, looking in the window..." Rose's eyes
drifted once again to the storefront. It hit her then, how pathetic she must
appear, literally chasing after a strange man at her age. She imagined Artie
would have plenty to gossip about with the wife this evening.