Her Sister's Secret (Mills & Boon Vintage Superromance) by Linda Style
Authors: Linda Style
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oblivious to Whitney’s presence.
“Wait a minute, young lady.” Johnny held her back.
“Where d’you think you’re going with that?”
The child’s eyes widened as she pointed a chubby finger to an open shelf above the cookbooks. “Grammy’s vases are up there now.”
“Ah, right you are. Well, you just relax for a minute, young lady, and I’ll hand you one. Then we’ll put some water in the vase and you can arrange your flowers.” He grinned affectionately at his granddaughter.
The child responded with a nod, blond curls bouncing. Her bluer than blue eyes widened when she noticed Whitney standing next to Gretta.
“SaraJane, honey, this is Miss Sheffield.” Gretta crouched to the child’s level and gently brushed dried leaves and dirt from the knees of her denim coveralls.
Oh, Lord, the little girl looked so much like Morgan, Whitney’s breath caught. Her pain got all mixed up with an indescribable elation, and her heart literally seemed to swell in her chest. She blinked back the tears that came to her eyes.
“I’d like you to call me Whitney, SaraJane.” Her voice was a mere whisper.
The child stared up at Whitney curiously, her cheeks rosy from the brisk morning air.
“I got some flowers.” She pointed toward the table where she’d dumped the bouquet, but kept her gaze on Whitney.
“And they’re very beautiful.” Whitney bent low to talk to her. She was so tiny, or maybe she just seemed that way to Whitney. She’d never been around children much, except when Morgan was a baby, and a slight panic took hold of her.
Whitney had been ten when Morgan was born, and for the next seven years, she’d protected Morgan from her mother’s alcoholic tirades and abusive behavior—being more of a mother to Morgan than Kathryn Sheffield ever was. But that was thirteen years ago, and she hadn’t a clue what to do now.
“I’m sure your grandmother appreciates your help, too,” Whitney finally said.
SaraJane frowned thoughtfully and pressed her Kewpie-doll lips together. “What’s pre-she-ates?”
Oh, God, she was precious. So very precious. Whitney looked to Gretta.
“It means Grammy’s happy you helped,” Gretta said, coming to Whitney’s rescue.
Johnny reached for a vase, and after checking its size against the bouquet SaraJane had picked, he set it on the small table next to the flowers. “There you go, angel. You arrange them and I’ll fill it with water when you’re done.”
SaraJane quickly unzipped her pink corduroy jacket, shrugged it off and dashed to the alcove, where she hung the coat on a low hook. “Wanna help?” She looked up at Whitney before latching onto Whitney’s fingers with her tiny hand, urging her forward.
“You can do the big ones ’cause you’re big, and I’ll do the little ones, ’cause I’m little,” SaraJane said, her cheeks dimpling as she directed Whitney to the table.
SaraJane was an angel. An absolute angel.
Breakfast with the Blaelows was bearable because SaraJane sat on a booster seat beside Whitney and chattered through the whole meal. When everyone was finished, Whitney gave the departing couple her perfunctory regrets.
The Blaelows related their travel plans, saying after breakfast they were off to Disneyland, at which point SaraJane piped up with, “Poppy’s taking me there, too.” She poked a finger into her mouth and giggled.
For a child who’d been through a couple of years of uncertainty, she seemed completely unscathed, Whitney observed, watching SaraJane’s eyes round with excitement. No doubt it was Gretta and Johnny’s love and stability that had helped her through it.
“After Christmas,” SaraJane finished as she wriggled down from her chair. She skipped into the sitting room and picked up a stuffed bear from the floor. Clutching it to her chest, she plopped into a child-size rocking chair. Then she held the bear at arm’s length. “Pooh is going too,” she said matter-of-factly, before she brought it to her
“Wait a minute, young lady.” Johnny held her back.
“Where d’you think you’re going with that?”
The child’s eyes widened as she pointed a chubby finger to an open shelf above the cookbooks. “Grammy’s vases are up there now.”
“Ah, right you are. Well, you just relax for a minute, young lady, and I’ll hand you one. Then we’ll put some water in the vase and you can arrange your flowers.” He grinned affectionately at his granddaughter.
The child responded with a nod, blond curls bouncing. Her bluer than blue eyes widened when she noticed Whitney standing next to Gretta.
“SaraJane, honey, this is Miss Sheffield.” Gretta crouched to the child’s level and gently brushed dried leaves and dirt from the knees of her denim coveralls.
Oh, Lord, the little girl looked so much like Morgan, Whitney’s breath caught. Her pain got all mixed up with an indescribable elation, and her heart literally seemed to swell in her chest. She blinked back the tears that came to her eyes.
“I’d like you to call me Whitney, SaraJane.” Her voice was a mere whisper.
The child stared up at Whitney curiously, her cheeks rosy from the brisk morning air.
“I got some flowers.” She pointed toward the table where she’d dumped the bouquet, but kept her gaze on Whitney.
“And they’re very beautiful.” Whitney bent low to talk to her. She was so tiny, or maybe she just seemed that way to Whitney. She’d never been around children much, except when Morgan was a baby, and a slight panic took hold of her.
Whitney had been ten when Morgan was born, and for the next seven years, she’d protected Morgan from her mother’s alcoholic tirades and abusive behavior—being more of a mother to Morgan than Kathryn Sheffield ever was. But that was thirteen years ago, and she hadn’t a clue what to do now.
“I’m sure your grandmother appreciates your help, too,” Whitney finally said.
SaraJane frowned thoughtfully and pressed her Kewpie-doll lips together. “What’s pre-she-ates?”
Oh, God, she was precious. So very precious. Whitney looked to Gretta.
“It means Grammy’s happy you helped,” Gretta said, coming to Whitney’s rescue.
Johnny reached for a vase, and after checking its size against the bouquet SaraJane had picked, he set it on the small table next to the flowers. “There you go, angel. You arrange them and I’ll fill it with water when you’re done.”
SaraJane quickly unzipped her pink corduroy jacket, shrugged it off and dashed to the alcove, where she hung the coat on a low hook. “Wanna help?” She looked up at Whitney before latching onto Whitney’s fingers with her tiny hand, urging her forward.
“You can do the big ones ’cause you’re big, and I’ll do the little ones, ’cause I’m little,” SaraJane said, her cheeks dimpling as she directed Whitney to the table.
SaraJane was an angel. An absolute angel.
Breakfast with the Blaelows was bearable because SaraJane sat on a booster seat beside Whitney and chattered through the whole meal. When everyone was finished, Whitney gave the departing couple her perfunctory regrets.
The Blaelows related their travel plans, saying after breakfast they were off to Disneyland, at which point SaraJane piped up with, “Poppy’s taking me there, too.” She poked a finger into her mouth and giggled.
For a child who’d been through a couple of years of uncertainty, she seemed completely unscathed, Whitney observed, watching SaraJane’s eyes round with excitement. No doubt it was Gretta and Johnny’s love and stability that had helped her through it.
“After Christmas,” SaraJane finished as she wriggled down from her chair. She skipped into the sitting room and picked up a stuffed bear from the floor. Clutching it to her chest, she plopped into a child-size rocking chair. Then she held the bear at arm’s length. “Pooh is going too,” she said matter-of-factly, before she brought it to her
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