“ I meant to ask about your neighbor, Sylvie. I hear he’s really hot.”

“Who said that, Kay?” Sylvie Shea stopped cold.

“You mean he’s not?”

Sylvie shrugged. “I suppose, if looks are all you care about. He’s a bit of a grouch. Which you’ll discover if I don’t get out there and save his daughter’s cat. He’ll yell at me through an upstairs window and order me to corral my dog.”

“ Joel Mercer has a daughter? Wow, I don’t think the gals at the nail salon know he’s married.

A couple of them are drawing straws over him already.”

Sylvie didn’t mention that she hadn’t seen a wife show up next door. Nor would she admit that Joel Mercer was better to look at than a chocolate fudge sundae. The last thing Sylvie needed was her mother or her sisters to get wind of the fact that she considered her neighbor worthy of a second glance. If Mercer was separated, as she’d begun to suspect, the last thing he needed was to get flattened by the Shea freight train—aka the wedding express.

Dear Reader,

Ideas for stories come to writers in different ways. We don’t have (as some people seem to think) warehouses brimming with plots and characters. Ideas pop into my head at odd times—like when I sleep, or travel, or I’m reading a funky weekly newspaper I found in an airport. I never know if a setting will grab me first or a character will. But I’ve learned to take whatever I get, in whatever form it arrives.

Sylvie Shea and Joel Mercer kicked around in my brain for months. She’s a woman of eclectic talents who once left a small town nestled in the Smoky Mountain foothills and went to the big city, when she imagined fulfilling a lifelong dream. Her hopes dashed, she returns to Briarwood, North Carolina, a changed person.

He’s a city guy who made his mark in his career, failed at marriage, but wants to raise his daughter in the warm, small-community environment he remembers fondly from boyhood summer visits. That place, too, is Briarwood, North Carolina.

I confess that it took me too long to see that Sylvie and Joel were meant to find each other. I always knew, however, that Joel’s six-year-old daughter, Rianne, needed the unconditional love and acceptance of an extended family. A family just like Sylvie’s.

I hope readers reach the same conclusion—that Joel and Sylvie belong together. Sylvie’s sure that after being a bridesmaid thirteen times she’ll never find a love of her own. And Joel, a confident man, a good father, a successful comic strip artist, is equally sure he’s insulated against falling in love. I hope you’ll enjoy discovering that they’re both wrong!

I love to hear from readers. You can drop me a line at P.O. Box 17480-101, Tucson, AZ 85731. Or e-mail me at rdfox@worldnet.att.net.

Roz Denny Fox

The Secret Wedding Dress

Roz Denny Fox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Books by Roz Denny Fox

HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

1036—TOO MANY BROTHERS

HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE

649—MAJOR ATTRACTION

672—CHRISTMAS STAR

686—THE WATER BABY

716—TROUBLE AT LONE SPUR

746—SWEET TIBBY MACK

776—ANYTHING YOU CAN DO…

800—HAVING IT ALL

821—MAD ABOUT THE MAJOR

847—THE LYON LEGACY

“Silver Anniversary”

859—FAMILY FORTUNE

885—WELCOME TO MY FAMILY

902—BABY, BABY

926—MOM’S THE WORD

984—WHO IS EMERALD MONDAY?

999—THE BABY COP

1013—LOST BUT NOT FORGOTTEN

1046—WIDE OPEN SPACES

1069—THE SEVEN YEAR SECRET

1108—SOMEONE TO WATCH OVER ME

1128—THE SECRET DAUGHTER

1148—MARRIED IN HASTE

1184—A COWBOY AT HEART

1220—DADDY’S LITTLE MATCHMAKER

1254—SHE WALKS THE LINE

1220—A MOM FOR MATTHEW

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter One

Through an open window in her sewing room, Sylvie Shea heard car doors slamming, followed by men’s voices and, very briefly, a child’s. Seated on the floor, Sylvie was busy stitching a final row of seed pearls around the hem of an ivory satin wedding dress. The commotion outside, unusual to say the least, enticed her to abandon her project. Her rustic log cabin, nestled into the base of the Great Smoky Mountains, didn’t exactly sit on a highly trafficked street. Not that any street in her sleepy hamlet of Briarwood, North Carolina, could be called highly trafficked, she thought fondly. But because her family reminded her often enough that a woman living alone on the fringe of a forest couldn’t be too careful, she’d better spare a moment to investigate.

Sylvie didn’t expect anyone with a child for a fitting today. Nor was it garbage collection day. Russ Peabody’s grandson sometimes rode with him in the truck.

Checking her watch, Sylvie saw she had at least an hour before Oscar, the Great Pyrenees belonging to Anita Moore, was scheduled to be dropped off for grooming. Her Mutt Mobile, as she’d named her mobile pet-grooming service, was Sylvie’s second job; the first had always been making wedding gowns.

Pushing aside the dress form that held the cream-colored gown, she squeezed her way through eight other forms displaying finished bridesmaids’ dresses for Kay Waller’s wedding.

An eighth headless mannequin had been shoved into a corner. Sylvie automatically straightened the opaque sheet covering it, as she frequently did, making sure the dress remained hidden from prying eyes. Satisfied the cover was firmly in place, she finally reached the oversize picture window she’d had installed in what had once served as Bill and Mary Shea’s sunporch. A year ago she’d converted the porch into a sunny sewing room.

The shouting outside hadn’t abated. Sylvie parted the curtain she’d sewn from mantilla lace. Normally the filmy weave filtered the sun, which gave her enough light to sew, yet wouldn’t fade any of the fine fabrics stored in bolts along a side wall. When she pulled aside the lace curtain, a bright shaft of August sun momentarily blinded her.

Blinking several times, she couldn’t immediately see any reason for the racket. Then, as she pressed her nose flat to the warm glass, Sylvie noticed a large moving van had backed into the lane next door.

Iva Whitaker’s home had been closed up for more than a year. Her overgrown driveway ended at a detached garage set apart from a rambling cedar shake home by a breezeway. Nearly ninety when she passed on, Iva had outlived Sylvie’s grandparents. The Whitakers and the Sheas had always been best friends. Still, the house next door had been vacant for so long, Sylvie had practically forgotten there was a structure beyond her wild-rose-covered fence. At Iva’s death, rumors abounded concerning her will. Who would inherit this house and property? Her land shared a border with Sylvie’s. Iva’s tract included a small lake fed by a stream running through Sylvie’s wooded lot. She often wondered why, when each couple owned five acres, they’d built their homes within spitting distance of each other. Iva, though, had been a dear neighbor. If Sylvie was to have new ones, as the moving truck seemed to indicate, she hoped the same could be said of them.

Straining to see better, she watched a man with straight, honey-blond hair come out and unload a small pet carrier from a dusty white seven-passenger van parked to the right of the moving van. He was in his thirties, of medium height and a wiry build, with slashing eyebrows over a straight nose set in a hawkish face. He wore a pair of gold, wire-rimmed glasses. Good-looking, yes…Sylvie saw him as a sort of corporate version of country singer Keith Urban.

The man brought out several suitcases, slammed the hatch and disappeared behind a thicket of colorful sweet peas. Sylvie was left searching her memory for any details about Iva’s will. If she’d heard anything about relatives, she’d forgotten the specifics.

Still, she might have missed the facts altogether, since Sylvie made a point of avoiding gossip. Gossip seemed to be the occupational pastime of too many people in Briarwood. Five years ago, she’d been the prime topic. Sylvie truly doubted a soul among the town’s three thousand and ninety residents gave any thought at all to the pain caused by rampant rumors. Certainly, everyone in town was well aware that becoming a New York City wedding gown designer had been Sylvie’s lifelong dream. Her best friends and their parents knew she’d imagined prospective brides coveting a Sylvie Shea gown with the same reverence the rich and famous whispered the name of Vera Wang.

So, yes, it’d shocked her that people whispered about her—when, at twenty-one, she’d abruptly left New York and returned home to live in the small house she’d inherited from her father’s parents. They must have seen her distress over all the comments claiming she’d left Briarwood at eighteen with stars in her eyes and magic in her fingers, only to return at twenty-one with teary eyes and a heart in tatters. That was five years ago.

Broken by a man. Or so the gossips speculated—then and now. And rightfully so. Blessedly, the very few who knew the truth about how lying, cheating Desmond Emerson had stolen her dreams—and broken her heart in the process—said nothing. What really happened in New York should remain her humiliating secret. With a year under her belt, she’d almost worked through her crushing disappointment.

Almost.

Recently turned twenty-six, Sylvie was resigned to the fact that she’d never set the NewYork design world on fire. And she’d forged an okay existence here in Briarwood. Word-of-mouth sewing referrals paid the bills. Her pet-grooming service was growing steadily. In her spare time she managed Briarwood’s children’s theater, taught Sunday school and sang in the church choir. She occasionally hosted a gourmet cooking club that included her sisters and some old friends. She shouldn’t complain.

If only certain busybodies would stop commenting that she’d sewn wedding gowns for all her friends at least once, and some twice, life in Briarwood might be enough. Oh, not to mention that she’d made gowns for her two sisters, both younger, while she remained single. It was too widely proclaimed that Sylvie Shea held the record for serving as bridesmaid more than anyone in the county. A total of twelve times to be exact, with unlucky thirteen coming up a week from next Saturday. She sighed, letting the lace curtain drift through her fingers.

The voices from next door had faded. Obviously, the movers and the man belonging to the white van had gone inside Iva’s house.

If Sylvie’s phone didn’t ring soon, or if someone didn’t otherwise clue her in as to what was going on next door, it was a cinch she’d hear all the details tonight at dinner. Today was her sister Dory’s twenty-fourth birthday. The Shea family planned to gather at the home of their parents, as they did for every major life event.

Rob Shea, Sylvie’s dad, a cabinetmaker by trade, also served as Briarwood’s mayor. Her mother, Nan, volunteered—everywhere. Both were fourth-generation residents who had deep roots in the valley and love in their souls for Briarwood. The word no had never existed in the Shea vocabulary; they were considered the go-to family. Sylvie expected that her dad or her brothers-in-law would show up next door, offering to lend the stranger a hand unloading boxes. By morning, Nan and half the other women in town would have trekked to Iva’s porch with casseroles, fresh canned goods, or baked goods piping hot from the oven.

Grinning to herself, Sylvie stowed her curiosity about her new neighbors, and returned to attaching seed pearls to Kay’s dress. She’d barely finished sewing the last one in place when a vehicle crunched the gravel in her lane. The deep woofs that followed announced Oscar’s arrival.

Sylvie was barely five foot two, and the Great Pyrenees weighed a hundred pounds and stood thirty-two inches at his shoulders. All the same, she loved every inch of Anita Moore’s dog.

Taking care to latch the door to her sewing room, as she could well imagine what havoc Oscar might wreak, Sylvie stepped out onto her porch.

“Anita, hi.” Sylvie raised a hand and waved. “You’re still dressed for work. Let me get Oscar out of the Explorer for you.” Anita’s husband had the entire back half of the Ford renovated to accommodate the huge, shaggy white dog.

Bounding down her steps, Sylvie relieved Anita of a heavy-gauge leash, and quickly snapped it on Oscar’s collar. He leaped out, barking joyfully. Just then Sylvie caught a glimpse of a cute blond-haired girl peering out through the sweet peas. Obviously this was the child she’d heard earlier. Sylvie flashed a smile, and the round face with the big blue eyes promptly withdrew.

“I’m sorry for what I’m about to ask, Sylvie. Can you possibly board Oscar? For a week or maybe two?” Anita said. “Not ten minutes ago, Ted got a call that his mom’s in the hospital. He’s on his way home to pack. I was already driving Oscar here for grooming when he called me, or I’d have phoned to ask you first.”

“I’d be delighted, Anita. We’ll get along fine, won’t we, guy?” Sylvie said, bending down to rub Oscar’s floppy ears. “I hope Ted’s mom doesn’t have a serious problem.” Straightening, she tightened her hold on the leash. Oscar had apparently heard noises next door and was ready to investigate.

“Sylvie, you’re a lifesaver. Elsa had what her doctor thinks is a ministroke. Ted says we’ll probably need to locate a nursing home, or at least some type of residential facility. Elsa’s insisted on staying in her own home and she’s always balked when we suggested she move in with us.” Anita heard the bumping going on next door, and paused. “Has someone moved into Iva’s house?”

“In the process of moving. See the van?” Sylvie squinted through the vines twined thickly in their joint fence. “You mean you haven’t heard any scuttlebutt at work?” Anita was the loan manager for Briarwood’s only bank.

“We wouldn’t necessarily hear if there’s no mortgage loan involved. Iva’s great-nephew probably sold the property. I think he’s employed by a newspaper in Atlanta. Iva used to brag on him. She said that, as a boy, he spent summers with her and Harvey. I can’t remember, but I think he may have been Iva’s only living relative.”

“Wouldn’t we have known if he’d listed the property for sale?” Sylvie ducked to see if she could ascertain what was going on next door.

“I suppose it’s conceivable the nephew just retired.”

“Then he’s not the man I saw carrying stuff in from his car. And there’s a little girl. She can’t be more than six or seven.”

“Huh. Iva talked about her nephew whenever he sent her a card or letter. She said he was super busy, and what a shame that was, since he loved to fish with your grandfather during the summers he spent in Briarwood.”

“I wonder how I missed hearing about him. Mom and I alternated grocery-shopping for Iva when she came down with pneumonia. Why do you suppose the jerk never visited her when she was so ill? Frank at the funeral home arranged to have her body shipped to Georgia for burial. In a family plot, he said. He never mentioned any nephew.”

“If you want facts, I guess you’ll have to ask the man who bought the house. Look, Sylvie, I hate to dump Oscar on you and dash, but I told Ted I’d come straight home so I could help pack for our trip to Tennessee.”

“Right. Sorry to hold you up. Go, and tell Ted we’ll say a prayer for his mother.”

“Please do. Say, I realize I only requested that you bathe and brush Oscar. But since you’ll have him longer, can you give him the works? Check for ear mites and trim his nails? Especially his dewclaws. I heard Ted muttering last week that Oscar’s looking like he’s wearing snowshoes again.”

“I’ll be happy to make him all boo-tiful. Yes, I’m talking about you, sweet thang,” Sylvie purred in an exaggerate drawl. She leaned down to kiss the dog’s shiny black nose. In return, she received a doggie kiss from his rough tongue. “Unlike most of the other dogs I deal with, Oscar loves a bath. When you drop him off, Anita, he knows he’ll get to play in my big tub of bubbles.”

“You might want to toss him in soon,” Anita said with a grin. “I’m well aware that you spoil him rotten and let him sleep beside your bed whenever we board him.” She shook her head. “It’s been such a warm summer, he keeps in rolling in my flowerbeds to keep cool. And yesterday he came in smelling faintly of skunk.”

“Ugh. I’ll wash him right away. I need a break from Kay’s gown. She chose crepe-backed satin, and my fingers are objecting to so much hand-sewing.”

Anita paused in the act of climbing into her vehicle. “Darn, we’ll probably miss the wedding. Please tell Kay and David we wish them the best. I’ll have Carline send their gift straight from the store.”

“You bought their gift from Carline’s kitchen shop? So did I. Pottery? On the invitation, Kay said no gifts, since she and David are merging two households. But Carline convinced me Kay really would love new everyday dishes.”

“People going into a second marriage need some things all their own. And no one’s likely to buy them a new bed.” Anita grinned wickedly.

“Marriage seems a drastic way to get new furniture or dishes.”

“There are other benefits, Sylvie.”

Sylvie made a wry face. “My mom and sisters tell me that constantly. I wish they’d stop digging up so many blind dates for me. Two last week.” She rolled her eyes. “The guy on Friday was a few feathers short of a duck.” Removing one hand from Oscar’s leash, she made gagging motions using her index finger.

“I feel for you, Sylvie,” Anita said with mock solemnity. “Your family is a force to be reckoned with.”

“Yeah,” she muttered glumly. “They’ve begun to recycle men I thought I’d gotten rid of. Listen, this subject needs a whole evening and two bottles of wine. You and Ted drive carefully, Anita. Oscar and I will be just fine.”

“Hey, what if you got a couple of Rottweilers? Those blind dates would get the point faster.” Not waiting for response, Anita slid into her car and sped off.

Sylvie gazed down at the big, happy-go-lucky dog. “Maybe I could teach you to go for the jugular,” she said, dragging him into the backyard so she could turn him loose while she prepared his bath. She used a galvanized feed barrel as a tub for bathing large dogs. Sylvie liked warm water, and hurried in to connect the hose to laundry tubs her grandmother had installed on the back porch.

While she went around the house to retrieve soap and brushes from the motor home that served as her Mutt Mobile, she heard Oscar start barking wildly. Rushing back with her supplies, she expected to find that he’d flushed out a squirrel or a rabbit, both of which her frequent boarder considered great sport. So far, the score remained squirrels and rabbits about fifty, Oscar zero. But this time, Sylvie was startled to learn that Oscar had treed a very frightened, very large gold cat. It perched on a limb that hung over Sylvie’s side of the fence.

“Nice kitty.” She dropped her supplies and grabbed Oscar’s collar. He launched himself at the branch, causing the cat to hiss and spit. The dog’s lunge yanked Sylvie right out of her slide sandals and sent her sprawling on her backside.

“Darn you, Oscar.” Scrambling to her hands and knees, this time latching on to the leather collar with both hands, she said, “Leave that cat alone! She has to belong to my new neighbor. This is no way to make a first impression, Oscar.” The words no sooner left Sylvie’s lips than a child started shrieking.

“Daddy, Daddy, I accidentally let Fluffy out of the house, and…help, Daddy, she’s stuck up the tree.”

Sylvie couldn’t see the child nor, apparently, could the kid see that Sylvie was trying to rectify the situation. Excited by the cat, and the strange voice calling from the next yard, Oscar thought this was fantastic fun. So much so, he tore loose from Sylvie’s grasp and bounded against the fence. Hard enough to threaten its stability.

Deciding she needed leverage to pry Oscar away from his quarry, Sylvie ran to the porch for his leash. It was then that she realized she’d left both hoses running. The dog’s bath had begun to overflow, washing gallons of warm water over the tub edge and down the hill. Sylvie took only long enough to wrench off the faucets, as the din by the tree had grown markedly. Frenzied now, the barking dog drowned out the hissing cat and the girl’s strident cries for help.

Sylvie managed to connect the leash to his collar as an upstairs window next door flew open wide. “What’s going on down there?” a masculine voice bellowed.

“A little cat-dog mixup is all,” Sylvie called breathlessly, doing her best to wrest Oscar aside. Since she was facing the sun, the man framed in the window was no more than a shape. Unfortunately, the muddy trail of water from the tub had made its way to where Sylvie dug in her bare heels. She lost purchase on the slick, wet grass and went down again, this time in a wet, muddy heap.

It didn’t help to have the man yell at her in a tone implying she must be the dumbest, most inept person who’d ever had the temerity to occupy a home next to his. “Lady, you shouldn’t own a beast you can’t control. I’m trying to log in moving boxes. I have two movers anxious to finish and get back on the road. Rianne, get in here right now. Fluffy will come down as soon as that woman takes her horse of a dog away from our fence.”

Sylvie longed to blister the stupid man’s ears. She resisted for the sake of the child—until she heard Iva’s back door slam. As a rule she didn’t swear, but she uttered a nice round curse as warm mud squished below her mud-soaked cutoffs. Anger at her neighbor’s insensitivity gave her added strength. Enough to regain her footing and convince Oscar that playtime was over.

She bathed him at once. Fluffy the cat still hadn’t budged from the tree. Sylvie blow-dried Oscar while Fluffy continued to glare at them from the woefully sagging branch.

“Now who’s too stupid to live?” Sylvie shook her fist at the owl-eyed feline. She shoved a squeaky-clean Oscar into the safety of her laundry room. Then she drained the dirty tub and scrubbed as much mud off her legs as she could. Assuming the cat would indeed come down once everyone left the yard, Sylvie went to take a shower.

An hour later, she peeked out her kitchen window and realized Fluffy was still frozen to that branch. “Darn it,” she grumbled, only too aware of the many tales about firemen summoned to rescue stranded cats. And unless she coaxed that cat out of the tree, Oscar could never be allowed to go into her back yard.

The sun had dried most of the wet grass, Sylvie saw after stepping out a side door Oscar wasn’t watching. Standing on her side of the fence, hands on hips, Sylvie studied the cat—and heard soft sniffling coming from the other yard. Concerned, Sylvie shinnied up the tree to its first fork. That placed her high enough to look into her neighbor’s yard. “Hi,” she said to a small girl who sat with both arms wrapped around her knees. “My name is Sylvie. Are you Rianne?”

The girl nodded, her face streaked with tears.

“I’m worried about my cat. Daddy’s real busy, but Fluffy’s only ever lived in a ‘partment. I don’t want to leave her, ‘cause maybe she’ll get lost.”

“Ah.” Sylvie considered the distance from her to the cat. It wasn’t that the span was so great, but the limb seemed pretty frail. “Where was your apartment?”

“Atlanta. I’m six, almost. I loved my school and my teacher. Do you think they’ve got a nice school here?”

“I’m sure of it. I lived in Briarwood all my life, well, except for a few years I went off to work in New York City. There’s a bunch of things that’re way better here.”

The girl stared at Sylvie with huge, watery eyes. “I’ll like it okay. My daddy said it takes time to get used to somewhere new. What happened to your dog? My daddy said that dog’s gonna be trouble.”

Sylvie smiled at the girl who obviously planned to parrot everything her father said. No telling what she might discover about her new neighbors at this rate.

“Oscar isn’t really my dog,” she explained. “Normally he’s friendly and loveable. I bathe pets and sometimes dogsit, too. Look, honey, why don’t I try to get Fluffy down?”

“I’d like that, thank you,” the child said politely.

Sylvie inched out on the limb. “Is your last name Whitaker?”

“Uh-uh. Mercer. Rianne Mercer. My daddy’s name is Joel, and my mommy’s name is Lynn.”

Creeping out several more inches, Sylvie absorbed those facts. It must mean that Iva’s great nephew had sold his inheritance. She was about to ask, when she heard the limb crack. Her heart jackhammered wildly. The Mercers’ back door flew open and the man with the gruff voice called, “Rianne? Where are you, sweetie? The movers need you to tell us where you want your bed.”

The girl swung around. “Can I come in a minute, Daddy? Fluffy’s still in the tree.”

Sylvie heard dark muttering that mirrored the thoughts running through her head. Then she heard a sound like pebbles striking metal. Rianne’s dad was pouring dry cat food into a bowl—but that only occurred to her when, big as you please, Fluffy leaped down from her perch. She landed safely below on all fours and dashed through her back door. Rianne shouted gleefully and raced after her pet.

Sylvie was glad her ignominious fall into her yard, limb and all, took place after her obnoxious, arrogant neighbor had closed his door. Luckily, her pride was all that suffered injury. Although, she mused, limping toward her cabin, who knew what aches and pains she’d have come morning?

JOEL MERCER had gotten a fair glimpse of his neighbor, wrapped tight around a sagging tree branch. His earlier impression had been of a scrawny dark-haired woman in her mid-to-late twenties, who behaved in a somewhat bizarre fashion. Hell, what was he thinking? She’d acted like a complete fruitcake.

Seeing her on to that branch was his second glimpse, and it did nothing to alter his first opinion. She’d changed clothes to climb trees, apparently. Her hair no longer hung straight to her chin as it had; she’d secured a twist atop her head with what resembled a large metal chip-bag clip. Spiky hair poked out every which way. Joel wondered if she’d been attempting to spy on him. Was that why she’d decided to swing through the trees like Jane of the jungle? God only knew, but Joel had run into of some pretty odd women hanging out in Atlanta’s singles bars. Women he’d labeled predators. In spite of his weekly comic strip, which centered on a couple of zany cartoon girlfriends named Poppy and Rose and described their dating misadventures, Joel usually managed to keep his private life fairly tame. Making his life tamer still had been his one goal in moving to laid-back Briarwood, North Carolina, into the home he’d inherited from his great-aunt. That, and keeping Rianne from seeing her mother’s face splashed all over half the billboards in town because it confused and upset her. Joel didn’t begrudge Lynn her newly acquired high-powered TV anchor job. He did resent that she never made time to spend with their daughter.

“Rianne, let Fluffy eat in peace. I need you to come upstairs and pick the bedroom you’d like. Then we’ll set up your bed.”

The girl skipped up the curving staircase, landing hard on both feet at the top. “I never choosed my room in our ’partment.”

“Choosed isn’t a word, honey. It’s chose. And you should say apartment.”

“Why?” She slipped her hand in Joel’s.

Answering his daughter’s endless whys had been his second-biggest challenge as single dad to a precocious child. The first, he discovered, was figuring out how to safely shuffle Rianne in and out of women’s public restrooms in restaurants, malls and parks. Now, that took charm and ingenuity. He always had to garner the aid of kind, elderly ladies; he’d learned to sense which faces to trust.

“The rules about using the proper words will fall into place when your new first-grade teacher gives you word lists. I’ll help you study them.”

“Daddy, the lady next door said I’ll like school here. She said she’s lived here her whole life, ‘cept for when she lived in New York City.”

“She didn’t live in that house, Rianne. I knew the couple who lived there. Mr. Shea taught me how to fish in the lake I showed you. His wife, Mary, baked the best oatmeal-raisin cookies I’ve ever tasted. I can almost smell them even now. Okay, snooks, this is the yellow room. Across the hall, the other room is painted…violet, I guess. One of its walls is covered in flower wallpaper. We can change the paint color and pick out new paper, if you’d like.”

“I like this room, Daddy. Oh, look, there’s a bench in the window. I can see Oscar playing in the lady’s yard.”

Joel knelt on the bench and gazed down on his neighbor’s backyard. Given the amount of land attached to the Whitaker estate, he wondered why his great-uncle Harvey hadn’t picked a more secluded spot to build. “Considering the size of the neighbor’s dog and the way he scared poor Fluffy, I’d rather you stayed far away from that woman and her pet.”

“Oscar’s not hers. She baby-sits him. She gives doggies baths and sometimes dogs stay with her, like I did at my baby-sitter’s the days when you worked late.”

“Gr…eat!” Joel heaved out the word. “I see a dog run and kennels. Hmm. I wouldn’t have thought that would be a legal business inside the city limits.”

“Why?”

“Just because,” Joel said, eyeing the neighbor’s yard as the movers hauled in Rianne’s bed. He turned from the window with a frown. He’d always sworn he wouldn’t resort to answering his kids’ questions with just because. As a boy he’d had an inquisitive mind. His parents, who fought constantly, never gave straight answers. Their bitterness had led to their eventual breakup and to his estrangement from them. Which was another reason this house and Briarwood held such fond memories for him. Iva and her good friends, Bill and Mary Shea, had nothing but time to lavish on a lonely, neglected boy. Joel’s folks had finally split the year he’d turned fifteen. His dad, a career Army man, went on to a new duty station in Hawaii. He’d remarried ASAP, and his new wife had given birth to a son. Joel’s dad seemed to forget he had an older son from his first marriage. He retired in Hilo, so Joel had never met his stepbrother. And his mom had continued with her job in Atlanta until she, too, met and married a new man. Seventeen by then, Joel elected to stay behind. His high school teachers and counselors secured him an art scholarship, for which he’d always be grateful. As a lonely child, he’d coped with moving from one army base to the next by drawing funny caricatures of the people around him. His drawing ability, combined with observational skills and a dry wit made him a good living from the time he’d hired on to create political cartoons a decade ago, to now. After a few years, the paper had offered him his own, more lucrative, weekly strip, which went into syndication a while ago.

“I’m going to have the movers bring in the posts for your bed, Rianne. How about if, after they go, you help me by handing over the bolts, nuts and wrenches I need? Then I’ll assemble my bed. After I finish that, I’ll fix us something to eat.”

“What?”

“Whatever I find in the first food box I open. Tomorrow, early, we’ll go grocery shopping.”

Putting together beds soon became a chore that was next to impossible to complete. But by then, what to fix for supper was no longer an issue. Within minutes of the moving van’s departure, a steady stream of Briarwood matrons started bringing in so much food Joel was astonished—and wary. Especially after the first talkative stranger, a woman named Millie McDaniel, informed Joel that she owned the only hair salon in town, and he realized that along with casseroles came questions. Briarwood’s self-appointed welcoming committee was determined to find out the intimate details of his life. But ever since his very public divorce from a prominent newschaser, Joel had learned how to smile politely and say nothing personal.

Seconds after he shut the door on a very persistent shopkeeper, Joel noticed his next-door neighbor striding down her lane. Where earlier she’d worn raggedy cutoffs, she now had on a floaty pink sundress. Joel hesitated just inside his door, juggling a layer cake in one hand and a macaroni-and-beef casserole in the other. Because she carried a covered metal pan, he assumed she was about to be his next inquisitor. Joel vacillated between meeting her head-on and pretending not to hear his doorbell.

Instead of escaping, he edged out onto the porch, admiring the change a dress made in her appearance. A full skirt swished appealingly around her slender ankles. On one ankle he identified a circle of gemstones winking in the setting sun. A minute or so passed while he enumerated her other attributes. Then two things dawned on Joel. One, she’d noticed him ogling her. Two, she wasn’t going to his house. A car had pulled into her lane, and a spiffily dressed man emerged from the sleek black Mercedes coupe. He whipped open his passenger door and relieved the woman of her pan of goodies, then waited while she folded her full skirt inside the car. The man watched Joel, too.

Joel had barely darted inside before the driver handed the pan to his passenger and bent to say something that made her glance toward Joel’s open door. He abruptly slammed it shut.

Big deal! So, the country mouse had a boyfriend with a few bucks. It was just as well. Joel hadn’t come to Briarwood in search of dates. One mistake of the kind he’d made in marrying Lynn was all a man needed. Lynn had turned out to have a greater interest in skyrocketing to fame as a foreign correspondent, which had led to this new job as a high-profile TV anchor, than she’d ever had in staying in one place building a home with him.

“That cake is lopsided, Daddy,” Rianne announced as Joel carried the last gift into the big, country-style kitchen. “It sorta looks like the one you made for my last birthday, ’cept that one had my fav’rite chocolate frosting.”

A stab of something like nostalgia had struck Joel as he’d watched the couple drive off in the hot car, but it faded instantly. Bending, he swung his daughter into his arms for a hug. If he hadn’t met and married Lynn Severson, he wouldn’t have Rianne. She was the best thing in his life.

“Can we eat the ’sketti the woman with the bright red hair brought?”

Joel grinned. “Bright red is accurate. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that shade.” As Rianne’s blue eyes widened, Joel laughed and set her down. “If I let you, kid, you’d eat ’sketti every night. And it’s spaghetti. Tell you what. I’ll turn the oven on low and put this in to warm while we finish raising the canopy over your bed. I swear, we’re not moving again until you’re twenty-one. I’m not ever wrestling with that canopy again. I’d sure like to have a talk with the masochist who engineered that.”

“What’s a mas…maso—that word you said, Daddy? What is that?”

Joel nearly swallowed his tongue. “Never mind, honey. It’s not a word you’ll need to know in first grade—if ever,” he muttered, taking the stairs two at a time to the first broad landing.

Chapter Two

Across town at her parents’ home, Sylvie divided the time before dinner between sidestepping the issue of her new neighbor, and avoiding too much chumminess with the man her sister, Dory, had sent to collect her. Where did her family dig up these guys? Chet Bellamy’s company had apparently sold Dory’s insurance agency a new computer system, and he was in town for a week to see that it got up and running. Thank heaven the man had no desire to leave his thriving business in Asheville. And as he’d said he was on the road a lot, Sylvie couldn’t really begrudge him this one evening in the company of her lively family.

Dory and Carline, twenty-five and twenty-four respectively, cornered their older sister in the rambling family kitchen.

Carline, eight and a half months pregnant and always focused on food lately, snitched several slices of cheese from a platter Sylvie was arranging. “I can’t believe you sat and watched brand-new people move into the Whitaker place and don’t have a thing to say about them.”

Sylvie slapped her sister’s hand as she polished off the two pieces of cheese she’d taken and reached for more. “Mom asked me to fix this to take out on the porch as an appetizer. If you keep grabbing everything I cut, Carline, the tray will look like a mouse got into it.”

Dory cut a chunk of pepper jack for herself and nibbled on it. “Jane Bateman passed the word at our insurance agency. She’d gone to the post office at noon and saw the moving truck, and knew they turned down Blackberry Road. She figured out they were headed to Iva’s. I left work late, or I’d have gone by there with something from my freezer they can reheat in a microwave. I wonder if the Mercers play bridge,” she said, glancing at her sisters. “Peggy at the post office told Jane that’s their name, Mercer. Peggy said their mail’s being transferred from Atlanta. City people are more likely to play bridge, don’t you think?” she asked hopefully.

Sylvie bumped against the refrigerator as she moved around the counter. The dull ache reminded her of her earlier fall from the tree. “They have at least one child, a little girl. And a cat,” she added in afterthought.

“A girl? Great,” Dory said, suddenly smiling. “How old? Kendra’s age, I hope. They could play together when Kendra stays with you.”

“This child, Rianne’s her name, is probably a year or so older than Kendra. She asked me about the school here. I’d say she’s in first or second grade.” Sylvie looked out and saw her niece and nephew playing on the swing set outside. Kendra was an advanced four, and Roy a sturdy, delightful toddler.

“What did the girl have to say about her parents?” Carline asked, levering herself up on one of the stools that ringed the kitchen counter.

“Nothing much.” Sylvie picked up the platter and prepared to go out to the porch where the men stood talking to her parents, Nan and Rob, as Sylvie’s dad tossed steaks on a built-in barbecue. “She gave their names. You already know her dad’s Joel. I believe she called her mother Lynn. I only saw him briefly, hauling luggage from his vehicle. I never caught sight of the wife.”

“Maybe she stayed behind to tidy up the house they sold in Atlanta.” Carline helped herself to a small cluster of grapes even as Sylvie tried to lift the plate out of her reach.

Stopping at the door, Sylvie turned. “That’s something else the girl mentioned. She said her cat’s only ever lived in an apartment.” Sylvie was again reminded of her tumble from the neighbor’s tree as she nudged open the screen with her hip.

“Gosh,” Carline exclaimed, pausing with a grape raised to her mouth. “Maybe there is no Mrs. Mercer. I mean, if they lived in a city high-rise…”

Sylvie recognized the expression that passed between her sisters. Their dedication in matching her up with some—any—unattached male always shone like a thousand-watt lightbulb. “Stop right there! It’s not too likely that a divorced guy with one kid would buy a home the size of the Whitakers’. Especially not in a backwater like Briarwood. Where’s the future for him?”

Dory pounced immediately. “Who said Mercer’s divorced? Did his daughter say that?”

Sylvie noticed the look again, and rolled her eyes. “Get this straight once and for all, you two. Capital N, capital O in foot-high letters. Whether he’s divorced, widowed, never married or openly gay, you will not shove me in his direction, is that patently clear?”

“Openly gay?” the sisters chorused with laughter that was cut off when Sylvie banged the screen door.

Her neighbor’s name didn’t surface again during the meal, for which Sylvie was thankful. But as she and Chet prepared to leave, Nan Shea set a big plate of chocolate chip cookies on the pan Sylvie had brought a molded Jell-O salad in. “What are the cookies for?” Sylvie turned in surprise.

“Do you mind running them over to your new neighbors? I can’t because tomorrow and the next are my days to volunteer at the library. Chocolate chip cookies are so much better eaten fresh.”

A refusal rose to the tip of Sylvie’s tongue. Knowing her mom, she’d rearrange her entire day to deliver the cookies herself if Sylvie didn’t. Besides, Sylvie recalled Rianne Mercer’s tear-streaked face. If anything would lift a homesick kid’s spirits, it’d be chocolate chip cookies. “Okay, Mom…if Mercer’s still up unpacking boxes when Chet drops me off, I’ll bring the cookies over tonight.”

Dory tried unsuccessfully to pull the plate from Sylvie’s hands as she signaled her mom with an eyebrow. “I’ll take them to Mr. Mercer in the morning, and add something from Grant and me. Mother, I’m sure Sylvie was planning to offer Chet a nightcap, weren’t you, Sylvie?”

“Actually, no,” she shot back, bestowing her most practiced smile on her escort. “I heard Chet tell Daddy he wanted to get an early start tomorrow for his drive back to Asheville. I wouldn’t dream of keeping him up late. Maybe next time he’s in town…” She let the suggestion linger, hoping against hope that she’d also heard Chet say he’d completed his company’s project in Briarwood.

To the man’s credit, he seemed to catch on to the fact that he hadn’t elevated Sylvie’s heart rate.

“Sylvie’s right, Dory,” Chet said quickly. “I intend to be on the road by 6:00 a.m.”

“One drink, you two. How long would that take? Unless…” Dory pouted prettily, her meaning made plenty clear.

Sylvie opened the door and hurried out, but not before murmuring tightly, “Dory, honestly! Give me a break.” Sylvie knew that few could pout like Dory. She had it down to a science. So much so, her husband, Grant, bless his heart, chuckled and playfully clapped a hand over her mouth.

Pausing at the gate, Sylvie thought of something she’d forgotten to mention. “Carline,” she called, “Ted Moore’s mom was taken to the hospital today. He and Anita went to Tennessee. They have no idea how long they’ll be gone. I’m boarding Oscar. Did Anita get hold of you about sending their wedding gift directly to Kay and Dave?”

“She left a garbled message on my store phone. She must’ve been on her cell somewhere in the Smokies. Half the message was cut off. That’s too bad about Mrs. Moore. I hope she recovers.”

“A small stroke, Anita told me.”

Nan Shea stepped off the porch. “No stroke is small when you’re eighty, as Ted’s mother is. If they left suddenly, they probably forgot details like watering the plants or having someone collect the mail. I’ll call around tomorrow and see if anyone’s doing it. If not, I’ll get a volunteer from the community club.”

“Mom, you’re the best,” Sylvie said from the car. “Your organizational ability puts us all to shame. I had Anita standing right in front of me and it never occurred to me to offer that kind of help.”

Rob slid an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “I recall Nan making a similar comment to her mom forty years ago. I’ll tell you girls what your grandmother said, and I hope you remember, because it left an impression me. Lou said that what makes Briarwood so livable has to do with each resident practicing what she called ‘good neighbor policies.’”

Sylvie and her sisters nodded, but Sylvie felt that her dad’s eyes rested the longest on her. As Chet shut her into his coupe, she pondered her reluctance to extend any kind of neighborliness to Joel Mercer. Her father’s admonition left her feeling guilty, and she hated the feeling.

“Do you get bombarded like that all the time?” Chet asked as he backed out of the drive.

Sylvie’s still-guilty gaze flashed to her companion. “Pardon?” Could this man read her mind?

A sheepish expression crept over his face. “Dory simply would not let me wiggle out of coming to dinner tonight. She was even more persistent that I pick you up. I have to admit I expected you to be an ugly duckling.” He flexed his fingers on the wheel. “You’re so…not that…I can’t imagine why she’s selling you so hard. Are you the town’s scarlet woman or something?”

Sylvie’s jaw dropped, then laughter bubbled up. “To my knowledge, that’s not a label anyone’s attached to me. But if I thought it’d discourage my well-meaning family and friends from setting me up with any Tom, Dick or Harry who still happens to be breathing, I’d start the rumor myself. Oh, sorry.” She covered her mouth. “I didn’t mean to imply that you fell into the geriatric singles group. Some have, though.”

“No offense taken. I have a mother and four sisters who can’t abide the notion of anyone walking through life except as a couple. Change that to read a male and female couple. I heard your comment earlier. The one about a man being divorced, widowed or openly gay. I am. Gay, but not openly. My family would never accept that, so it’s easier to sidestep their efforts to hook me up with some nice woman. I sort of wondered if you and I were in a similar boat.”

Sylvie was awfully afraid she probably resembled the large-mouth bass often pulled from Whitaker Lake. “I, ah, no. I’m arrow-straight, really.” She felt her ears burn and studied the pan and the plate of cookies resting unsteadily on her lap.

He winced. “Too bad from my perspective. I fancied I glimpsed a kindred spirit back there at your parents’. Forgive me for speaking out of turn,” he said stiffly. “No disrespect meant, but I sort of hoped maybe we could do a long-distance appearance-of-romance thing. Maybe string my folks and yours along.”

Thinking Chet had gone out on a narrow limb, baring his soul to a virtual stranger, Sylvie relented and gave him something in return. “I was badly hurt by a man in New York, whom I loved and trusted, Chet. My family doesn’t understand why I can’t embrace what they want for me, which is marriage. You and I probably do share a similar angst when we’re placed in our families’ crosshairs.”

Chet swung down her lane. He left his seat to open her door, but didn’t turn off the Mercedes’s engine. Assisting Sylvie out, he brushed a limp kiss over her cheek.

“I wish you the best, Chet. For the record, if you come back to Briarwood, I will serve you that postponed nightcap.”

“It’s a deal. Shall I walk you to your door, or do you plan to deliver those cookies to your nosy neighbor?”

“Nosy?” Sylvie darted a quick glance at Mercer’s well-lit window. Maybe a curtain had dropped, or maybe the window was open and the fabric had been stirred by a breeze. She couldn’t tell.

Chet shrugged. “I know our comings and goings are being observed.”

“I think I’ll hold off delivering my mother’s offering until after I put on sweats and change back into the real me. Have a safe trip to Asheville.” She ran lightly up her drive. Sylvie didn’t know what made her do something so uncharacteristic then, but she turned and blew Chet a kiss. If Joel Mercer was spying, why not give him an eyeful?

She set the cookies on top of her fridge and let Oscar out while she pulled on some comfortable sweats. Not five minutes after she’d tied her sneakers, all hell broke loose in her backyard. Tearing outside with flashlight in hand, she discovered her delinquent houseguest had once again treed Fluffy the cat. As if on cue, the back door across the fence banged open, and out charged a fire-breathing Joel Mercer.

“I understand that beast doesn’t belong to you,” he shouted.

“That’s right.” Sylvie was able, with difficulty, to hook Oscar’s leash to his collar.

“How long will he be your guest? I can’t run out here every few hours to rescue our cat. Out of curiosity, do you have a city license to operate a kennel?”

“Maybe that’s how it works in Atlanta, but for your information this is the country.”

A deep, clearly irritated masculine voice floated out of the darkness. “Who said anything about Atlanta?”

“Your daughter. Is there a reason you’d rather that didn’t get out? Oh, for Pete’s sake, Oscar, you won’t catch that cat, so quit barking.”

The voice in the darkness drawled, “I suppose there’s no noise curfew in Briarwood, either?”

“Next you’ll demand I run up a red flag whenever I let Oscar into my yard. He has a perfect right to run around and bark if he wants. He’s contained by my fence, after all.” She could sound put-upon, too.

Her new neighbor might have bought into her self-righteous indignation had Oscar, the big lummox, not torn from her grasp, and in one plunge flattened a six-foot section of their joint wood fence. A fence that already sagged. For some time, Sylvie had meant to have her brother-in-law, the building contractor, check the posts. Since Oscar’s leash remained wrapped around her wrist, Sylvie found herself once again sprawled on her face in the dirt. It was a very unflattering pose. She was sorry she’d gone out of her way to make a point.

Probably her worst humiliation came when she saw the cat leap from the tree into the dubious protection of her owner’s arms.

Sylvie hadn’t untangled herself from the leash enough to rise. In a blur, a shadowy man suddenly loomed over her.

“Are you hurt?”

“My vanity,” she mumbled. Sylvie couldn’t get a hand under her, because Oscar lunged so hard at his leash. Brushing hair out of her eyes, she saw, among other things, that the dog had switched allegiances and was licking the face of her nemesis.

“Sit,” Joel roared, and Oscar sat with a surprised little yelp. Then he dropped to his belly and his coal-dark eyes blinked adoringly up from a muff of white fur.

“How did you manage that?” Sylvie asked as gentle hands assisted her to her feet. “He’s the only dog I groom and board who ignores my commands. But really, in spite of it all, Oscar’s a loveable oaf.”

“He obviously knows you think so.” Joel recovered the flashlight that still shone across the fallen fence and thrust it into Sylvie’s hand. “I can’t see well enough to shore this up tonight. Can you corral Oscar in the house until daylight?”

“Uh, sure.” She played the light over her broken fence. “It needed new posts. My fault. I’ll pay,” she said, and was surprised when her neighbor said they’d share the cost.

TOWARD THE END of the week, around 11:00 a.m., Sylvie pinned the bodice of her best friend’s wedding gown. The lace curtains were half-open, and Oscar was safely outside in her yard with its newly repaired fence. Kay Waller, who was there for a fitting, began to fret about her approaching marriage. “Sylvie, I’ve never been this nervous about anything. Do you think it’s wrong to marry David so soon after my ex-husband had the gall to walk his pregnant girlfriend down the same church aisle?”

“Mmfff.” Sylvie had a mouth full of pins.

“I simply can’t believe Reverend Paul agreed to perform their service when he already had my wedding date on his calendar. It’s a slap in the face. I suggested postponing our service a month, but Dave says I’m being silly.”

Sylvie carefully removed the pins and stuck each one in the wrist pincushion she wore. “Hold still, Kay.”

“You’re not being any help. What’s a best friend for?”

“Honestly! Why are you worrying over what people will say? Is that what’s caused you to lose so much weight? This dress is inches too big around the middle and I only put in the last stitch yesterday.”

“I do care how people talk about me. I don’t have your nerves of steel when it comes to pretending I don’t hear their whispers.”

Sylvie’s fingers stilled on a new dart she’d pinched in the satin fabric. “Me?”

Kay nodded, her focus shifting to the draped dress form in the corner. She stabbed a finger at it, and the diamond ring circling her third finger glinted in a ray of sunlight. “Don’t pretend I’m the only bride who’s begged you to let her wear that special gown you keep under wraps. You and I have been best friends since the cradle, Sylvie. And if it fits you, I’m sure it’ll fit me. Please, Sylvie. If word traveled about town that I got to wear a bona fide Sylvie Shea design—and not any design, but the dress—my wedding would be the end-of-summer highlight. Not a footnote to the way I’ve been upstaged by Eddy and his…floozy.”

Sylvie sank back on her heels. She felt both palms go damp. “There are no more Sylvie Shea gowns, you know that, Kay. My ad clearly states that a prospective client must bring me a pattern of her choice. I’ll sew any gown a bride wants. Friend or not, you accepted my terms, Kay. Your dress is gorgeous, and it’s so you.”

The other woman admired the two-carat solitaire on her slender finger. “It’s the mystery surrounding the dress. There’s not a woman in the valley—well, an engaged woman—who isn’t dying to be the bride who’ll wear your secret gown. Me, most of all.”

Sylvie scrambled to stand, but was startled all the same by what Kay had said. “The only mystery to me is why people would covet a dress they’ve never seen. That’s just silly, Kay. How often have you heard me preach about bridal gowns needing to fit a bride’s unique personality?”

“Yeah, but it’s not silly. Anyone who knows you is positive that dress has gotta be spectacular. Your sisters say you’re always working on it, and we’ve all seen your previous designs. Mandi Watson claims you’re keeping this one for your own wedding. Is that true, Sylvie?”

“Right!” Sylvie shook her head. “So when am I supposed to have time to work on anything for me, let alone find that mythical husband? If and when I ever get married, I’ll probably end up with a dress off the rack. Don’t you know it’s the plumber’s wife who has a clogged sink, and the shoemaker’s kids who go barefoot?”

Sylvie impulsively gave her friend a hug. “Your wedding will be featured in our weekly society page, Kay. You’ll be the most beautiful bride of this season. Who else will have eight bridesmaids, two candle-lighters and three flower girls? And your patterns came from France. Each one is an original. I’ve sewn all fourteen dresses with my own bleeding fingers over the past three months. I guarantee the guests will weep, you’ll be such a vision,” Sylvie said, laying it on a little thick. But she did have plenty of history with Kay, the drama queen. “If you’d relax, you and Dave will have lots of wonderful memories. People will say Eddy who? if that jerk’s name ever surfaces.”

Kay compared her soft fingers with Sylvie’s callused fingertips, and had the grace to blush. “I’d have given you more notice, but David wanted that day. And you could’ve cut the dress count by one,” she pouted, “If you’d let me buy the dress.”

“I guarantee this gown suits you best,” Sylvie said. “Come on, I have something to show you.” Walking away, she looked quickly at the covered dress form in the corner. The unfinished gown beneath the sheet represented all that was left of her hopes and dreams, she thought, opening a cabinet and lifting out an old notebook. “Recognize this? It’s the notebook I kept in high school home-ec.” Her eyes misty, Sylvie flipped several pages, then handed the book to Kay. “This was your dream gown in tenth grade. See how closely it resembles this one? I knew your marriage to Eddy Hobart was doomed from the minute his whiny mother insisted you wear the dress she’d worn at her own wedding.”

Kay snickered. “It was ghastly. And so is Flo Hobart.”

Sylvie shut the book and returned it to the drawer. “Zero taste. Hold out your arms. I’m going to unbutton you. We need to get you out of this without losing my marker pins—and without sticking you.”

They had the gown off, and on a padded hanger, when through the side window came the sound of furious barking.

“Oscar, Anita Moore’s Great Pyrenees,” Sylvie said nonchalantly. “I’m boarding him until Anita and Ted get back from Tennessee. Can you let yourself out, Kay? That’s Oscar’s ‘I treed a cat’ bark. I have to rescue my new neighbor’s cat…again. Sounds like this time she’s gone up my big dogwood.”

Kay stayed with Sylvie. “I meant to ask about your neighbor, Syl. I hear he’s a real hottie.”

“Who said that?” Sylvie stopped abruptly.

“You mean he’s not?”

She shrugged. “I suppose, if looks is all you’re interested in. He’s a bit of a grouch. Which you’ll hear if I don’t get out there and save his daughter’s cat. He’ll throw open an upstairs window and order me to corral my damned dog. And after Dory and Carline’s husbands repaired our adjoining fence, too. For free,” she added.

“Mercer has a daughter?” Kay ignored everything else. “Wow, I don’t think the gals at the salon know he’s married. A couple of them are drawing straws over him already.” Kay worked at Nail It!, the local beauty parlor.

Sylvie didn’t mention that she had yet to see a wife show up next door. Nor would she admit that Joel Mercer was better to look at than a chocolate fudge sundae. All Sylvie needed was for her mother or sisters to get wind of the fact that she considered her neighbor worthy of a second glance. Say Mercer was separated, as Sylvie had begun to suspect—the poor guy didn’t deserve to find himself hustled into being her blind date before he could guard against being flattened by the Shea freight train.

Leaving Kay standing at the side gate, Sylvie raced into her yard. Sure enough, Oscar ran crazily around the tree, in which the long-haired cat huddled. “Oscar, stop. Bad dog.”

Aware he was in trouble, the dog put down his head until his ears dragged the ground, and slunk toward Sylvie’s back porch.

It took some coaxing, which she was getting proficient at, but she soon cradled the purring cat in her arms. As she’d predicted, the upper half of Mercer’s body was leaning out his upper window. Darn, Sylvie couldn’t see him as well as she’d like because she’d left the glasses she used for distance in her purse today. But even fuzzy, the man had a glorious physique. Not too skinny, yet not too muscle-bound.

“Hey,” he called. “Rianne’s on her way down. I’ve gotta say, for the record, a big reason I moved here is so she and her cat could quit being cooped up inside an apartment.”

Sylvie nodded, pretty sure that would be a major factor for anyone moving from the city to the country.

“By the way, Rianne’s supposed to thank you for the cookies you brought over the other night. They were a big hit. With me, too,” he added.

Kay, who’d followed Sylvie into the side yard, hissed very near her friend’s ear, “You took him cookies?”

Sylvie whirled. “I did, but—no, I didn’t. Mom sent them home with me to drop off. Remember, I told you about Dory setting me up with that computer guy at our family barbecue? It was that night.”

“Yeah? How did your date work out? According to Dory, Chet’s cool, and he has his own business. I understand he drives a top-of-the-line Mercedes.”

“He also lives in Asheville.” Sylvie specifically didn’t add that, from an unmarried woman’s point of view, Chet had another major drawback, like being gay.

Joel Mercer’s daughter exploded out their back door. The girl had clearly dressed herself today, as Sylvie noticed she often did. Sylvie was all in favor of comfort, but she felt colors ought to match. Today Rianne had on red shorts teamed with a pink-and-green knit top. Her shirt was stretched out of shape and had probably been in the wash with something black that had left behind a series of gray blobs.

“I’m sorry Fluffy keeps getting out, Sylvie. Oh, and Daddy said I should ask if I can call you by your first name or not.”

Sylvie said yes, after which Rianne launched into a rehearsed-sounding thank-you for the cookies. Obviously ordered by her dad.

“I’ll tell my mom you like her chocolate chip recipe. Rianne, this is my very dear friend, Kay Waller. She’s getting married soon, so probably the next time you see her she’ll have a new last name. Ramsey. She’ll be Kay Ramsey.”

The girl seemed shy all of a sudden.

“Rianne starts school in September, Kay. I told her she’ll really like Briarwood Elementary.”

“You will,” Kay agreed. “Are you in second grade? If so, my cousin may be your teacher.”

“I’m gonna be in first grade,” Rianne supplied. “Daddy has to go there next week and take them records from my kindergarten.”

“I suppose you’ve already done your school shopping,” Kay said politely.

Rianne shook her head. “Daddy’s been too busy unpacking boxes and working.”

“Working?” Kay had no compunction about probing.

“Yep. He used to have his office in his bedroom. Now he has a bedroom where he sleeps, and he’s got an office upstairs, too.”

Sylvie wanted to ask what her neighbor did at his home-based job, and she could tell it hovered on the tip of Kay’s tongue to ask, as well. They were interrupted, however, by the arrival of the rural mail carrier. Because Homer saw the women over Sylvie’s side gate, he honked and beckoned her over.

“Bye, Rianne. I’ll see you later.” Sylvie noted that the girl’s dad had long since withdrawn from the upper-floor window.

Kay lowered her gaze from the spot where Joel had been, and checked her watch. “I didn’t realize it was so late. I’m meeting David at the church for our last couples class in fifteen minutes. Do you want to fit my gown again tomorrow? If you do, I’ll have to rearrange some client appointments.”

“I don’t see any need. If you lose weight between now and Saturday, it won’t be enough to change the drape of the material. Tell David I said to take you out for a steak and lobster lunch after class. Fatten you up some.”

Homer, the arthritic mailman, had climbed out of his mail truck by the time the friends parted with a laugh and a hug.

“I have some mail for the new owner of the Whitaker place, Sylvie. Plus a package. Certified, so he’s gotta sign for it,” the old man said, eyeing the overgrown driveway. “Do you have any idee if he’s home?”

“Yes. Kay and I spoke to his daughter. Mercer came to an upstairs window a few minutes ago. Would you like me to deliver the package for you, Homer? It appears you’re not too spry today.”

“That would be right kind, Sylvie-girl. My old bones tell me the less walking and climbing I do today, the better. Just have the Mercer fellow put his John Hancock on the line with the big black X. When you come back, I have a box for you, too. Peggy said it’s the lace you’ve been waiting for.”

“Fantastic. I’ll find it in the truck when I get back.”

Sylvie didn’t intend to spy on her neighbor, but the return address printed in bold lettering on a fat manila envelope was that of a major Atlanta newspaper. She assumed it was a few recent editions of the paper; he must want to keep up with news from home.

She dashed up Mercer’s porch steps and rang his doorbell. Listening to the fading sound of the bell, she whistled a tuneless melody, swaying from side to side as she waited for Rianne or Joel to answer.

He took his sweet time, but eventually Joel Mercer did yank open the door. His hair stood askew as if he’d been running both hands through it. Sylvie again admired small, gold-rimmed glasses that left his slate-blue eyes looking slightly myopic.

“I brought your mail.” She’d also picked up a thistle in one bare foot, Sylvie discovered, idly brushing one foot over the other. “I see you’re still taking a newspaper from your home-town. Seems silly that they’d require you to sign for it. I’ll bet if you’d ask our librarian, she’d probably subscribe to this paper, if she doesn’t already. It’d save you the cost of shipping. Freda Poulson likes having news from other cities. There’s no one more interested in world events.” Sylvie grinned engagingly and extended the bundle.

Joel grabbed the stack out of her hands and gave her a fierce scowl. “What are you doing snooping through my private mail? Tampering with someone’s mail is against federal law.”

The form that was supposed to be signed by Mercer floated to the boards at their feet.

Her smile turned to a frown, too. “Our mailman has rheumatoid arthritis. I couldn’t care less who sends you stuff. I volunteered to run this up to you to save wear and tear on poor Homer’s joints.”

“If he can’t do the job he should retire.” Joel moved to shut his door.

“Wait!” Sylvie neatly blocked his move. “This needs your autograph.” Bending to scoop it up, she and Joel struck heads. Sylvie rubbed her forehead, allowing him to come up with the signature card.

“Do you have a pen?” he asked curtly.

Dazed by their collision, Sylvie stared at him blankly.

“Never mind. This mail system is so haphazard I’ll just make other arrangements,” he muttered after digging through all his pockets and finally coming up with a pen. A moment later he shoved the signed card back into Sylvie’s hands.

Joel slammed his front door almost before Sylvie had negotiated a step back. “You have a nice day, too, buddy,” she snarled, stomping down his steps and out into his thistle-littered lane. She landed on the thorn buried in her foot and ended up yelping and limping to where Homer waited patiently.

“Got it? Thanks, Sylvie. What’s Iva’s great-nephew like now that he’s grown up? I remember him as a quiet tyke over the four or five summers he spent with Iva and Harvey. Quiet but eager to please. Seems a long time ago.”

“Are you saying Joel Mercer is related to Iva? Are you sure he’s not some city dude who bought the place from her nephew?”

“Nope. That’s him all right. I hear he’s got a daughter about the age he was when he first used to visit the Whitakers. Mercy, how time flies. Say, don’t forget your lace,” Homer called as Sylvie turned to give the Whitaker house a longer evaluation.

She lugged the heavy carton of laces she’d ordered from New York into her house, mulling over the latest tidbit Homer had added to the little she knew about her neighbor. Darned little. The man had acted downright surly about her touching his mail. What was the big issue? Did Joel Mercer have something to hide?

JOEL STOOD IN HIS ENTRY and ripped open the envelope of tear sheets consisting of his last two months’ worth of cartoon strips. Enclosed was a big fat check that would have to last him until his accountant decided if he could retire on his investments or if he needed to seek another job. Lester Egan, his former boss, had attached a scribbled note asking Joel not to be hasty in his decision to quit the strip he’d started right after Lynn had divorced him. At the time, no one, least of all Joel, had dreamed that his satirical exaggeration using the backdrop of upscale Atlanta singles, would garner so much interest. Or that it would result in syndication and a whole bunch of new readers. Neither had Joel supposed his ex would return to anchor Atlanta’s nightly news.

But Joel didn’t see how he could continue drawing comic scenes about city singles from Briarwood. To do what he did on a daily basis necessitated haunting popular nightspots, where the upwardly mobile twentysomethings hung out after work and on weekends. Anyway, he’d about run out of situations for Poppy and Rose, his cartoon characters. Material of that type didn’t fall out of North Carolina dogwood trees.

Speaking of falling from trees—his dingbat neighbor had a penchant for crazy stunts. Tree-climbing at her age…Joel watched her retreat, barefoot, down his lane. Each time he saw her she looked different. Today she wore her dark hair in two fat pigtails tied with ribbons that matched her shorts. He couldn’t fault the shorts. They showed off her legs to good advantage. She did have nice legs. Maybe her best feature. Outside of that, nothing was remarkable except for her eyes. A warm hazel that reflected every nuance of her mood.

Leaning into the etched oval window in the center of his front door to watch her progress, Joel was sharply reminded of how lethal even a casual meeting with Sylvie Shea could be. He had a lump forming in the center of his forehead. And no idea how Sylvie made a living, other than to barge through life at warp speed. Oh, and pet-sit with humongous, ill-mannered dogs.

She did seem to have an active social life, he mused. There’d been the guy in the Mercedes. Yesterday, two muscle-bound dudes, both on very friendly terms with her, appeared like magic to rebuild her fence. One or both had hugged and maybe kissed her before taking off. And today, a girlfriend had shown up to visit for an hour or so.

He watched Sylvie dig a package out of the mail truck and then scamper out of sight. Joel continued to stare out the window. His fertile imagination began fashioning caricatures of Sylvie Shea as a subject in his comic strip. A country cousin of Poppy or Rose. It started him thinking there might be a whole other side to the singles experience in Briarwood, North Carolina, than he’d believed. Having tired of political cartoons, he’d tripped over the idea of the singles strip after his divorce. After he’d been dumped into the singles scene himself.

Truthfully, after a number of years spent skulking around Atlanta’s hot spots, studying unsuspecting females on the prowl for husbands, he’d learned how to observe without attracting attention.

And now, the longer Joel considered the idea, the more he thought his neighbor’s varied taste in male friends, combined with her zany capers, might just offer the perfect new opportunity for him to continue the strip.

Chapter Three

Sylvie dropped her stack of junk mail and bills on a sideboard that stood in her entry. She hunted down a pair of non-sewing scissors then with care cut open the box of imported lace. One roll of fine hand-stitched lace came from a specialty shop in Holland. The lace had been on back order for six months, and it was every bit as beautiful as she’d pictured. Every other piece in her order was nicer than anything she could purchase through online outlets, too. But the Dutch lace exceeded her expectations. Of course, it’d cost an arm and a leg. Eyeing it critically, Sylvie deemed it worth every penny.

As she pinched the lace edging into tiny pleats, her eyes kept straying to the covered antique dress form in the corner. Until Kay had referred to the dress as an object of envy, Sylvie had no idea the last gown from her private collection was of interest to anyone but her.

Human nature to speculate about something kept hidden, she supposed. She hadn’t lied to Kay. The cover protected an unfinished project Sylvie rarely had the time or heart to work on—despite what Kay had heard to the contrary. The gown had been her intended wedding dress. She couldn’t bear to part with it. But neither was there any likelihood of her ever wearing it. Moving it out of her client area seemed the best course of action.

This dress form was the first she’d owned. Fashioned of brass and North Carolina hardwood, it weighed a ton. Sylvie’s two dear grandmothers had run across it during one of their many antiquing forages into the Smoky Mountains.

As Sylvie wrestled the awkward thing into her bedroom, where the lighting was definitely poorer than in her sewing room, she fondly recalled the two women who’d nurtured her early dreams of becoming a wedding gown designer. Losing both of those dear souls had left holes in her heart. Yet she was thankful neither of her staunchest advocates were alive to see her slink home in defeat. Although, she mused, puffing as she dragged the form into a corner opposite her bed, many in the family said Mary Shea had possessed a sixth sense. And that might be why she’d willed Sylvie this land and cabin, when the logical recipient should have been Sylvie’s dad.

Straightening, she dusted her hands. The form fit nicely below a shelf displaying old hat boxes. Those too had been Gram’s. The grouping beckoned temptingly. Maybe it was an omen nudging her to—finally—assemble the lacy sleeves. After all, the arrival of the Dutch lace, coupled with the fact that autumn was coming and not as many weddings would be scheduled, meant there’d be time to do it.

Her bedside phone rang as Sylvie contemplated her workload. “Sylvie Seamstress, “ she said cheerily into the receiver.

“It’s Carline,” came a muted response.

“Carline, what’s wrong? Are you ill? Is it the baby?” Sylvie sank onto the crocheted bedspread, also an heirloom handed down in the Shea family. Carline’s husband, Jeff, was twelve years older than his wife. Their baby, a boy, was probably Jeff’s last chance to produce a Manchester heir, as doctors said his sperm count was low. They’d had a difficult time conceiving. The only other Manchester male, Jeff’s twin, had died at sixteen in a parasailing accident. A tragic loss for any family, but especially for parents who needed their sons to take over the business—Manchester Sawmills. Not that they wouldn’t have let any of their five daughters assume the helm; however, none of the girls or their spouses were so inclined. Feeling obligated, at twenty-two, Jeff had stepped into the role. The task had proved monumental and time-consuming, which resulted in zero opportunity to consider dating or marriage—until he walked into Carline’s brand-new kitchen shop two years ago to buy a coffee grinder for his sister and fell instantly in love.

Sylvie always sighed over love stories that seemed to fall into place with such ease. Especially since she had a habit of falling for Mr. Wrong. Die-hard bachelors—guys who broke out in a rash at the word marriage. And that was even before Des had betrayed her.

Shoving aside those rambling thoughts, Sylvie gripped the phone nervously and strained to hear her sister’s soft whisper.

“I’m fine. The baby’s fine, Syl. I’m calling about Buddy Deaver.”

“Who? Bucky Beaver?”

“Not Beaver. Deaver! And don’t shout. He and his mother are in the next room picking out a gift for Kay. His real name is Jarvis. Jarvis the fourth, and they call him Buddy. He was in Dory’s class, and went to university in Raleigh-Durham. An accounting major. Now he’s a financial advisor or stock broker in Raleigh or something like that.”

“Carline, this is all very interesting, but why do I need to know this?”

“Because I just suggested he escort you to Kay’s wedding. His dad has a business associate flying into Asheville that day, so Mr. and Mrs. Deaver aren’t going to make Kay and David’s wedding. Which means Buddy has to go alone. He said he’d skip it altogether except that he hasn’t seen his classmates in years.”

“Carline, I can’t conjure up a mental picture of this guy. But I’m Kay’s maid of honor. That means I’m responsible for seeing that everything to do with the ceremony runs smoothly. What are you thinking?”

“That you’re going stag to the reception and the dinner dance at the Elks club. Can you really think of anything more embarrassing?”

“Yes, being saddled with a financial guru named Buddy.”

“Sylvie, why must you always be so sarcastic? I told him you’d probably have to take the flower girls or candle-lighters’ dresses to the church. Mrs. Deaver said Buddy can drive his dad’s Coupe DeVille. There’ll be room.”

“My Mutt Mobile has more. I’ve already scheduled time tomorrow afternoon to wash it and vacuum it out.”

“Sylveeee!” Carline wailed, still in hushed undertones. “You can’t humiliate me like this. Mrs. Deaver was thrilled to think Buddy won’t have to stay home. She buys a lot from my shop. I can’t go out there and say you won’t go with her son.”

“Make up an excuse. Say I have a prior date you didn’t know about.”

“Lie? Sylvie, what would Mother say? Or Reverend Paul?”

“Lord, deliver me from you and Mom when you invoke the name of our pastor. All right, Carline. I’ll do this one favor. Don’t commit me ever again or I swear I won’t bail you out. Tell Buddy I’ll take the dresses to the church early. That way he can drive his own car, whatever it is. I’m not going one mile if he shows up in his dad’s Caddy.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you. You’ll have fun, I promise.”

Sylvie was saved saying she sincerely doubted it by her sister’s banging down her phone. After hanging up, Sylvie went straight to the bookcase in the living room and pulled out the yearbook published in Dory’s senior year. Sure enough, there he was, voted the school’s best citizen and voted by his class as most scholastic. She groaned as she saw his perky bow tie and the absence of even a tiny smile.

She shut the book and slid it back in the shelf. One could hope that working in the city had polished him up a bit. She really wished she hadn’t suddenly remembered her father calling the fourth Jarvis Deaver a stuffed shirt. Oh well, it was only one night out of her life. She’d gotten through all the other blind dates scrounged up by her well-meaning family and friends by keeping that thought uppermost in mind.

Having stored the lace from her recent delivery, Sylvie had just finished checking the packing slip against the invoice when Oscar went berserk. Maybe this time he’d flushed a rabbit or a squirrel. Or else…the Mercer’s cat was out again.

Sylvie knew that was the case the minute she stepped onto her back porch and heard Rianne Mercer calling for Fluffy. The girl’s dad thundered from an upper window, “Rianne, what’s the racket now? Tell me you didn’t let Fluffy out!”

“It was ’nother accident, Daddy. Fluffy’s on Sylvie’s fence and I can’t get her.”

“All right. Give me a minute and I’ll be down to help.”

Sylvie was sure she heard his irritated sigh. Did that man do nothing downstairs? For crying out loud, did he live in that one room—a bedroom, if Sylvie recalled the layout of the Whitaker house. But then, Rianne had mentioned he worked at home and that he now had a bedroom and a separate office, instead of the two combined. Probably the sunnier corner room had become his office.

She wondered again what kind of career he had. Something to do with computers? Of course, her father had always worked at home, his cabinet shop was attached to the house. Until she’d gotten too involved with extracurricular activities at school, Sylvie had virtually been his shadow. She still loved the smell of fresh-cut wood and wood shavings. As well, she loved the way her father made gorgeous furniture from raw lumber and a pattern. Her love of crafting and designing clothing had probably come from spending hours in that woodworking shop.

She suspected that Rianne Mercer had no idea yet what a lucky girl she was to have her daddy working at home.

“Hi,” Sylvie called over the fence to the child who was still trying to coax her cat down. “I’ll put Oscar inside and come back and help you with Fluffy. Or maybe she’ll jump down on her own like she did the last time.”

“Okay, but Daddy’s coming to help me, too.”

“You can run in and tell him, so it doesn’t interrupt his work.” The girl glanced toward the house. “Yeah, that’d be good.”

Sylvie dragged Oscar away from the fence, up her back steps and into the laundry room, where she checked to be sure he had food and fresh water. She dashed back outside and stood on tiptoes to grab the cat as Joel burst out of his house.

He met Sylvie at the gate to take the fat animal out of her arms. “I gave Rianne strict instructions to not let Fluffy out. I bought some litter and put her litter box in our laundry room.”

“Yeah, but Daddy, it’s so pretty in the yard. Fluffy likes to play dolls with me. I thought she’d stay there. I didn’t see Oscar. I s’posed his owner took him home.”

“There’s a hopeful thought,” Joel said. “It seems you and I are doomed to meet over the back fence to deal with our wayward pets, Ms. Shea.”

“Having a pet next door is new for me. Iva didn’t have any animals when I moved here, so my occasional boarders weren’t an issue. After she passed on, I got used to the house being vacant. Uh—Homer, our mailman, said you’re Iva’s great-nephew.”

“I am.” He petted the cat, which snuggled happily in his arms.

“You’re nothing like her, if you don’t mind my saying. I was sure her relatives must’ve sold the land.”

“I considered it. Her death took me by surprise. I had developers contacting me—and they all expressed interest in the land fronting the lake. At the time, my tax man said I’d be better off sitting on the property, that it would only increase in value.” Joel raised one shoulder. “I didn’t need the extra tax burden that selling would’ve added. One year ran into two, and two into three. Then…” He broke off speaking suddenly, and said, “It seemed like a good idea to move here.”

Sylvie had seen the way his eyes shifted toward Rianne. She wondered if his abrupt departure from his rambling explanation had to do with his divorce. She assumed that was the case. Of course, she could be completely wrong. Maybe the Mercers had an open marriage. One of these days, his wife might show up.

“Well, I’m wasting time I ought to be using more productively,” he said.

Sylvie airily waved a hand. “Yes, Rianne mentioned you work at home. Home-based jobs are certainly becoming more popular.”

“They are. I feel fortunate that the arrangement works for me. Rianne, remember I said don’t chatter and make a pest of yourself with Ms. Shea.”

“Oh, she’s not at all,” Sylvie inserted quickly. “I don’t mind a bit. I work at home, too, so I’m well aware of how people assume you have all the time in the world.”

“You work at home? Oh, the kennels, you mean?”

“Actually,” Sylvie explained, “I’m a seamstress. I board animals now and then. The kennels were my grandfather’s. I assume you knew he was the only vet in town. After he retired, he bred and sold Red Bone hounds.”

“Are you referring to Mr. Shea?”

“My grandfather, yes. Bill Shea.”

“He didn’t have dogs when I used to stay with Iva, which was shortly after my great-uncle Harvey died. I know he loved to fish. I came here four or five different summers and he always took me fishing. So, he was a veterinarian who later raised hounds? I probably should’ve known.”

“It’s odd to think you fished with Gramps, and yet I don’t remember you.”

“Nor I you.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-three going on a hundred,” Joel said, smiling.

“Ah, that makes me seven years younger. Depending on which years you stayed with Iva, I may not have spent much time here. My folks owned a beach house, and mom took us girls there most summers.”

“So, are you studying to be a vet? Following in Bill’s footsteps?”

“Not hardly. I operate a part-time mobile grooming service. Briarwood is a community where residents commute to the city for their jobs, or else they’re retired. Both groups benefit by having someone—moi—groom pets in their homes. Because the kennels are out back, I occasional board someone’s pet.” She didn’t mention that Oscar stayed in the house.

“So it’s just my luck you’re keeping a moose at the same time I move Rianne’s poor defenseless kitty in next door.”

Sylvie was intrigued by his uncharacteristic grin, which brought deep creases to his cheeks and fine laugh lines around his eyes. Or maybe it wasn’t that uncharacteristic. She hardly knew the man.

Mercer seemed struck, uncomfortably so, by the fact that he’d stepped out of his tough-guy shell. Sobering, he said a quick goodbye and headed for his house.

“Hey, wait. I have to make spritz cookies for our Sunday school this week. If Rianne’s at loose ends, maybe she’d like to come here and help.”

“Daddy, can I? Please. Please?”

Joel turned slowly back, frowning.

“Sorry,” Sylvie mumbled. “I shouldn’t have asked in front of her. Uh, maybe your dad needs your help unpacking,” Sylvie said in a rush. “If so, the offer remains open. I’ll be making cookies another time.”

“No. It’ll be fine.” Joel’s grudging capitulation sounded anything but fine. “Just don’t be talking Ms. Shea’s ear off. And she has my permission to send you home if you ask why, why, why three or more times in a row.”

Rianne ducked her head. “’Kay, Daddy. I’ll try and remember.”

Sylvie laughed spontaneously. “I have a niece and nephew whose every other word is who, what, why, where or how. Rianne’s very polite. I think we’ll get on famously. Oh, and do call me Sylvie.”

Joel rocked forward and back on his heels and narrowed his eyes, as if her request was an imposition.

What was the man’s problem? One minute he seemed a nice, decent guy. The next, a grouch. Sylvie’s concentration on the father was broken by a question from the daughter.

“I don’t know what those cookies are, the ones you said you were making. Actually, I’ve never helped make cookies. Is it all right if I don’t know how?”

Sylvie gazed down into the girl’s anxious blue eyes. “Never? Maybe your mom calls these sugar cookies. They’re made from dough you refrigerate and squeeze out in different shapes from a cookie gun.”

Rianne continued shaking her head. “I don’t think my mama makes cookies at all. She only talks on TV.”

Sylvie felt herself nodding. “Oh, uh, then you’re in for a treat, honey. I already have the dough made. You get to help with the good part, squishing it through the press and painting the shapes with edible paints after they come out of the oven and set for a while.”

The girl’s dragging steps sped up and she gave a few little skips. “What’s edible paint?”

“Just what it sounds like. Paint you can eat.” Sylvie smiled over Rianne Mercer’s obvious skepticism. “They didn’t have such a thing when I learned to make cookies. My sister owns a kitchen shop in town. She first tried these paints last Christmas. Our Christmas plates did look fabulous.”

“Daddy said the woman who used to live in your house made the yummiest oatmeal raisin cookies.”

“Really? That would be my Grandmother Shea. Hers were tasty. I have her recipe. If we have time, how would you like to mix up a batch to bake and take home to surprise your dad?”

“Yes, please.” Rianne beamed.

“I’m fairly sure I have all the ingredients we need. Oh—” She paused. “Unless you and your dad have too many desserts on hand as it is.” At Rianne’s vigorous shake of the head, Sylvie led the way into her kitchen. “First we have to wash our hands,” she announced.

“Why did all those ladies who don’t know us bring us food, Sylvie?”

“It’s called being neighborly,” Sylvie said, sharing a towel. “People wanted to welcome you to town.”

“Oh. Daddy thinks they just wanted to find out all about us.”

“That, too.” Sylvie laughed. “It’s the drawback of living in a small town, kiddo. Everyone wants to know everyone else’s business.”

“Why?”

“That’s a very good question.” She got out the bowl of chilled dough and put the first batch into the press. Talk fell off as she showed the little girl how to push the plunger to create a slow, steady flow. As the dough softened, Rianne grew more adept, and her confidence soared.

“Are you sure you aren’t teasing me about never making cookies before?”

“Nope. Daddy doesn’t like to cook. And Mrs. Honeycutt, who watched me after kindergarten, has something wrong with her blood so she can’t eat sweet stuff.”

“Diabetes?”

“Yes. You’re smart, Sylvie. You don’t even know Mrs. Honeycutt.”

“You’re pretty smart yourself. I’ll bet you’ll be taking on some of the cooking soon.” Sylvie was tempted to ask how long it’d been since the girl’s father had assumed meal preparations in the Mercer household, but she didn’t want Joel to accuse her of trying to pump information out of a kid.

The afternoon slipped by in a flurry of activity and laughter. Sylvie discovered the adorable little girl could converse intelligently at a level far above her age. And unlike the adults in Sylvie’s life, Rianne didn’t once question why Sylvie was still single. Why she’d never found some nice man to marry.

They’d painted all the designs on the sugar cookies and were sampling the ones that were broken as they waited for the last pan of oatmeal cookies to come out of the oven. Sylvie’s phone rang. She checked the readout. “Hmm. It says unavailable. Probably somebody wanting to sell me something I don’t need.”

“Daddy doesn’t answer those kinds of calls, either.”

The caller didn’t give up even after clicking into her answering machine. “Yeah?” she said to Rianne. “When you work at home, you learn that other people figure you aren’t really working. Even friends and people who should know how busy you are take advantage.”

Rianne wiped her hands on her shorts. “Yep. Daddy says if it’s ‘portant, the person wouldn’t have any reason to hide his name.”

Sylvie pulled on her oven mitt and bent to take the last cookie sheet out of the hot oven. Well, here, finally was an opinion she and Joel Mercer saw eye to eye on.

She had one row of cookies left to remove. In the back room, Oscar started barking furiously. The outburst was followed by someone banging loudly on her side door. “Can you ask whoever’s there to wait a minute? Don’t open the door, because I have no idea who it would be.”

“It’s my daddy!” Rianne announced.

“Oh, in that case, unlock the door and let him in.”

He roared in like a whirlwind. “I was afraid something was wrong over here. Why the hell didn’t you answer your phone?”

Sylvie calmly set the last cookie on the cooling rack before she turned to face him. “Was that you who just tried to call? It said unavailable, and Rianne told me you don’t answer those calls, either. Is there a problem?”

Color streamed into his cheeks. “I…ah, Rianne’s been over here for three hours. I thought I should see how you were doing.”

“Good.” Sylvie dumped the hot pan in the sink.

“Daddy, we had fun! Come see the cookies I squished out and painted all by myself.” Grasping her dad’s hand, she dragged him to the center island. He didn’t make it all the way; instead, his piercing gaze stalled on the latest batch of cookies.

“Are those by chance oatmeal raisin?” He leaned down to peer at them more closely and sniffed the steam rising from the hot cookies.

His daughter flashed Sylvie an unhappy glance. “He spoiled my surprise.”

“In that case, what can we do but give him a sample right now? Who better to tell us if these are as good as the ones he remembers?” Sylvie took a plate from the cupboard and piled it with cookies from the still-warm batch. Then she took three glasses, which she filled to the brim with milk. She motioned her guests to sit on the stools grouped at one end of her counter.

Joel bit into the first cookie gingerly, as if it might bite back. The grin that spread over his face spoke louder than any words of praise.

Sylvie nudged Rianne. “There’s your answer. Your surprise is a big success. You and I should probably eat only one apiece. Especially since we shared the sugar cookies we broke.”

“These are fantastic! I can’t tell you how many times I’d buy some bakery cookies and remembered these. Nothing I’ve tasted has ever lived up to them. Still, I wondered if I’d blown them out of proportion.” He grinned at Sylvie and then at Rianne. “I ask you, snooks, have you ever tasted anything quite this fantastic?”

Rianne nodded. “The chocolate chip ones Sylvie said her mother made. They’re my very favorite, and I’ve never had any that tasted better.”

Joel’s face fell, but Sylvie burst out laughing. “There you have it. That’s what I love most about kids. They’re so honest.”

“Meaning adults aren’t?”

Sylvie lifted her glass of milk and touched the rim of his. “More power to you, Mr. Mercer, if in your thirty-some years of dealing with people, you still believe they are.”

Considering that he twisted truths to make them humorous for his comic strip, Joel said nothing, but stole a second cookie.

“Ah, I see I made my point.” Still, she was thankful when her phone rang again. Anyway, Rianne rushed to show her dad the edible paints and explain to him, as Sylvie had to her, that they were made out of vegetable dyes.

Sylvie, who tended to see her life as an open book, answered the phone on the second ring, knowing her sister Dory was the one calling.

“I hear voices,” Dory said almost at once. “I won’t interrupt, since you’re with clients. Phone me back as soon as you’re free.”

“I’m free now, Dory. I’m in the kitchen with my neighbors. We’re drinking milk and trying out Grandma Shea’s oatmeal-raisin cookies. I haven’t made that recipe in years, have you?” The phone crackled with static but was otherwise silent.

“Dory? Did you put me on hold?”

“You’re serving milk and cookies in the middle of a work day?”

“I’m taking a break. Rianne Mercer has been over here helping me make the Sunday school snack.”

“You’re feeding Mercer’s daughter, right? The kid from next door? For a minute there, I thought you meant you were entertaining Mr. Sexy himself.”

Warning bells sounded in Sylvie’s head, but she couldn’t resist inquiring, “That description came from where, Dory?”

“From everybody who saw him in town this morning. Plus, I ran into Kay Waller at lunch. She agreed. Apparently she got a look at him while she was at your house for a fitting. She said you told her the guy has a wife. Hmm, funny, other people say Mercer only ever mentions his daughter. Kay and I think you should ask him outright about his marital status. If he’s divorced, it gives you the perfect opening to invite him to Kay’s wedding this Saturday.”

“Why would I do that, Dory? He doesn’t even know Dave or Kay.”

“For one thing, it shows your intent to stake your claim. For another, you wouldn’t be the only unattached female at the wedding dance. Kay and I feel—”

“What? I can’t believe you two—”

“We’re thinking of you, Sylvie. You need a life.”

“Dory, I have a life. And I’ll thank you to butt out of it.” She’d spoken so sharply, Sylvie felt Joel Mercer’s eyes boring into her back. Hunching her shoulders, she tried to step around the corner into the hall for some privacy. It was harder to ignore the tic of irritation that began to hammer insistently behind her eyes. “Look, Dory, I know you guys are sincere. But I guess you haven’t talked with Carline since yesterday. I already have a date for the wedding.”

“No kidding? You sly dog. Who?”

“Uh, Buddy Deaver.” Sylvie almost dropped the phone because Dory screamed in her ear.

“Tell me this is a joke! I know his family has money and all, but Sylvie, he’s a loser with a capital L.”

The tic turned into a dull pounding at the base of Sylvie’s skull.

“No one in the world is as boring as Buddy,” her sister wailed. “Not only that, he’s two full years younger than me, which makes him three years younger than you. People will think you’re desperate, Syl.”

“Carline said he graduated in your class.”

“He did. He’s a nerd who got bumped up two grades.”

Sylvie’s heart dived to her toes, but she wasn’t about to give ground to her sister, especially after Dory had been the one to foist Chet off on her. “Look on the bright side, Dory. It’s become the thing to date younger men.” She ended the call before her sister could do more than sputter. Turning as she started to hang up the phone, Sylvie walked squarely into Joel Mercer. She felt a wave of heat emanating from his body and blindly aimed the receiver at the hook on the wall phone, but missed twice.

Eyeing her curiously, Joel plucked the receiver from her limp grip and dropped it into place. “That was my sister,” she offered lamely.

“I gathered. Is everything all right?”

“Fine. Everything’s fine.” Sylvie shivered, stepped back and rubbed her bare upper arms.

“Okay, then. It’s getting late, so Rianne and I will be on our way after she thanks you. We should hurry—she has to go to the bathroom.” He grinned crookedly. “I’m embarrassed to admit I already polished off every cookie on the plate.”

Releasing a hand she’d clamped around her arm for stability, Sylvie waved down the hall. “Don’t make her walk all the way home for that. Rianne, honey, I have two bathrooms. The main one is down the hall, second door on your left. The other’s between the two rooms on your right. That’s for my guest bedrooms. And…uh…my sewing room.”

“No need to trouble you.” Joel might as well have saved his breath. His daughter sailed past him, headed down the hall at a dead run.

“Poor kid,” Sylvie murmured. “She had a glass of water earlier, and that huge glass of milk with the cookies. I should’ve pointed out the location of the bathrooms earlier.”

“She’s not shy. She could’ve asked.”

“At that age, ask a near stranger? Get outta here! Girls her age would burst rather than do that.”

The look crossing Joel’s face was one of pure horror. “Why are girls so difficult?” he muttered.

“You think she’s difficult at…what—six, seven? Wait until she reaches the dreaded teens.”

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