The Devil Has Dimples Read Free

I was concerned.
    He motioned to the chair in front of his desk.  I walked
over and sank in the soft burgundy leather.  The room was decorated in deep
forest green with Audubon prints and framed diplomas hanging on the mahogany
paneled walls.  I doubt the walls were impressed, but I was.
    The air smelled clean and faintly of soap and freshly
applied cologne.  Old Spice.  I was sure of it.  It was my yearly Father’s Day
gift to my dad and I loved the smell because it always reminded me of him.
    “Why pink underwear?  It doesn’t seem...um....”  My mind
grappled for the correct word.
    “Manly?”
    I grinned.  He grinned back.
    Oh, my, my, my.  He flashed me dimples to die for.
    “I do my own laundry, and I have quite a few pink things now
that I didn’t have before.  I didn’t expect to be modeling them.  But as you’re
so taken, I might consider pink in the future.”  He held out his hand to me. 
“My name is Grant St. Romain.”
    I took his hand.  It was warm and firm.  Mine was cold,
clammy, and way too big to claim Southern Belle status.  I started to blush
again.  My mind reeled with sensations.  He held it a few seconds longer than
was proper (like I cared at that point!), and when he let go, I felt
unsettled.  As though I was missing something important, essential.  Which was
strange, since I’d just met the man.  Plus, he was a jock.  But still, that
didn’t stop the tingling in my palm where our hands touched, nor the awareness
within me that lingered.
    Burning with embarrassment, I couldn’t utter a sound.
    “Who are you and why are you so determined to speak to me
today?”
    Sitting at his desk, he leaned back.  A man secure in his
mahogany world.  He gazed at me and waited.
    I opened my handbag, withdrew a letter, and handed it to
him.  “I’m Sara McLaughlin, and you mailed me this letter.”
    Surprise lit up his face, then disappointment.  He handed
the letter back to me. It looked as though he were judging me.  “I know what it
says.  I honestly didn’t think you would show up here.”
    I stiffened at that remark.  Jumping up, I shouted at him.  “And
why not?  I get a letter from an attorney that tells me I’m adopted !  A
letter!  You don’t deliver news like that in a letter.  It’s cold.  Cold and
rude.  Impersonal as though I’m, I’m, I’m…”  I couldn’t think of what to say. 
I felt like a nonperson.  Unworthy.  I clamped my jaw shut and sat down
abruptly in the chair, crossing my arms, crossing my legs, crossing my mind.
    He paused for a moment, staring at me intensely.
    “You didn’t know you were adopted?”  He tapped his pen
against the legal pad again.  A deep frown marred his face.
    It confused me.  Why was he frowning?  I didn’t know what to
say.  The truth sounds so stupid, but it was the truth.  I hadn’t a clue.
    “No.”
    He stopped tapping his pen.  “I thought you knew.”
    Stunned, I just sat there.  Just as I had when I received
the letter and its contents that afternoon.  What was I doing here?  I decided
enough was enough.
    I was going home.
    Jumping up, I walked to the door.  As I put my hand on the
knob, I stopped.  I couldn’t help it.  I shut my eyes and placed my forehead on
the doorframe.  Tears rushed up to my eyes before I could stop them.  I was
alone.  Totally forever alone.
    There was no one left alive who loved me, or even cared
about me.
    I felt a firm hand on my shoulder and as I turned around, a
hankie was pressed into my hand and arms went around me.  A stranger’s arms.  I
let loose then, and cried harder.  I turned my back to the attorney.  I didn’t
want anyone to see me cry.
    No one held me when the police came to tell me about my mother
dying in a car accident two months ago or at her funeral.  No one held me at my
father’s funeral seventeen years ago.  No one held me when I received the hateful
news that I was adopted this morning.
    No one has held me for a very