Praise for
DEE HENDERSON
#1 CBA bestselling author

“Henderson has steadily built a name for herself…intriguing…insightful and probing.”

—Publishers Weekly

“The name Dee Henderson is synonymous with authenticity. Her books shine with believable facts and descriptions while her characters think and act like the professionals they are.”

—Romantic Times magazine

“Solid storytelling [and] compelling characters…make Henderson a name to watch. Highly recommended.”

—Library Journal

“Ms. Henderson’s sparkling characters and superb plotting sweeps the reader along to a breathless conclusion.”

—Lori Copeland, bestselling author of A Case of Crooked Letters

The Marriage Wish
Dee Henderson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Thou hast turned for me my mourning into dancing.

—Psalms 30:11

Dear Reader,

Thank you for reading The Marriage Wish. It holds a special place in my heart as my first book published. As a preemie myself, I’ve often thought about what would have happened had I not lived. This story was born while looking through the baby photo albums my mother kept through my long hospital stay.

I would love to hear from you. You can find me online at: www.deehenderson.com, e-mail: dee@deehenderson.com or write me c/o Steeple Hill, 233 Broadway, Ste. 1001, New York, NY 10279.

Sincerely,

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 Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

If Trish sat any closer to Brad, she would be in his lap.

Scott Williams watched his friend keep shifting closer to her husband on the couch and Brad keep trying to squeeze closer to the arm of the couch. Trish was doing it deliberately. Scott’s parents, sitting at the other end of the long couch, had plenty of room, but Brad hadn’t caught on to that fact yet. Scott wanted to laugh. The games newlyweds played.

No, he had to revise that, it wasn’t just the newlyweds. His sister, Heather, was sitting in her husband Frank’s lap, and they had been married ten years now. Heather was pregnant again and refused to sit down to rest so Frank had solved the problem. Heather didn’t seem to mind. She was flirting with her husband, whispering things in his ear when she thought no one was watching. Frank was enjoying it, Scott noted. He suspected they would come up with an excuse not to linger after the party was over.

His birthday party. He was thirty-eight today. Scott looked at the coffee table and was grateful to see there were only two gifts left. He really appreciated his parents’ efforts, and he was enjoying the night with his family and friends, but right at this moment he wished he had spent his birthday alone. He felt lonely, and being here just made the problem worse.

He sat in the winged-back chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him, a bowl of cashews at his elbow and his second diet cola beginning to sweat. His parents had cooked out for dinner, barbecued chicken with roasted potatoes and fresh ears of corn. It had been a fun dinner, it always was when all the family was together, but he hated feeling like a third wheel. It had never bothered him before that everyone but him had someone special, but it was bothering him tonight. For the first time in his life he felt envy and it was a disquieting sensation.

He should be married by now. For years his focus had been on building his career, serving in his church, being a loyal friend, being a much loved uncle to his niece and nephew. He had never thought he needed a wife to make his life complete. He had been wrong.

His gaze settled on Amy a couple steps away, holding his next-to-last gift. When he saw her, his face relaxed into the special smile he reserved just for his niece. She wore the dolphin shirt he had brought back from Florida for her. It was her “most favorite” shirt she had told him when he had arrived that night. Heather said she had trouble getting it off long enough to wash it. Scott grinned. He would buy this little lady the moon if she wanted it. She was four, and he adored her. Amy grinned and climbed into his lap. “Uncle Scott, this feels like a book,” she told him importantly. He took the package and weighed it in his hands. “I think you’re right. Like to help?” He turned the package to let her at the tape. With full concentration, Amy worked at ripping the paper.

“Thank you, Mom.” Margaret had bought him a cookbook, this one on breakfast foods. She knew he loved to cook, had seriously considered becoming a professional chef back in his college days. He didn’t have company for breakfast very often; he promised himself he’d rectify that problem.

“I think you’ll like the muffin recipes,” she said with a smile.

Scott added the book to the small stack of gifts on the floor beside his chair.

“Last one,” Greg, his nephew, told him as he brought over a two-foot-long package. Greg was eight years old, further evidence of how time slipped by without Scott realizing it. Scott could remember the pleasure of holding him as an infant, could remember the way Greg at two and three had always found him at church on Sunday mornings, and Scott would pick him up and carry him and make him feel important.

“Thank you, Greg.”

The gift was from his dad. Scott opened the package as Amy held it steady for him. His eyes lit up when he saw what it was. A new fishing rod. “This is great, Dad.” The perfect gift for a man with a new boat.

Larry smiled. “You’ve about worn out the last one I gave you,” he said. Scott had to agree. But that fishing pole was lucky. He had caught his biggest bass with that rod. Still, this one was a beauty. It would be a pleasure to break it in.

He had spent the morning out on the water doing what he did every year on his birthday, evaluating his past year and laying out his priorities for the coming year. It had been hard to face the truth. He was thirty-eight, alone, and even his mom no longer asked when he was going to get married and have a family. As good as his life had been to date, he had been wrong to assume he wanted to spend it alone. He wanted what his friends and family had. He wanted marriage and kids.

The cake was brought in from the kitchen and the candles lit. Scott looked around the group that gathered around the table, especially the kids, and he grinned and turned his attention to the candles. He paused to make a wish.

Lord, how did I ever think I could go through my entire life single? I’ve enjoyed the freedom and the success in my career, but I never intended it to become a permanent arrangement. There isn’t someone to go home to tonight, and I’m feeling that sadness. I really miss not having a wife and having that close, intimate friendship I see in these couples around me. I want to change that, Lord. I want to get married. I want to have what the others around me have. I don’t want to be alone anymore.

Scott blew out the candles.

It was a cold morning for late August. The darkness was giving way to the dawn, creating an early-morning twilight. Jennifer St. James pushed her hands deeper into the lined pockets of her windbreaker, trying to ward off the chill. The wind coming off the lake was sending shivers up her spine. The peaceful beauty of the deserted beach, however, more than made up for her discomfort. It had been a difficult night.

She walked along the water’s edge, kicking up sand and watching the water smooth it back into place.

“Good morning.”

Her older brother had drilled safety precautions into her for so long that she reacted by instinct, her feet breaking into the start of a sprint to ensure she wasn’t pinned between water and a threat. No sane person was up at this time of morning.

“Easy!” the man walking a few feet over from her exclaimed, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Jennifer let her sprint fade away and came to a stop several feet up the beach, her heart racing. He had said good-morning. That was all. Good-morning. She’d made a fool of herself again. She felt the heat warm her face. Was she cursed to live her entire life starting at every surprise? She had badly overreacted. She rested her hands against her knees, ignoring the hair that blew around her face, trying to still her racing heart. She watched the man warily as he moved toward her. He was a tall man, reminding her somewhat of her brother’s build, probably a basketball player with those long legs and upper-body muscle. As he drew nearer she could see dark brown hair, wavy in a way that made her envious, clear piercing blue eyes and strong features; he was probably in his mid thirties. She had never seen him before, he was the type of man she would have remembered. Not that she came to this stretch of beach very often anymore. Her gut clenched. She hadn’t been back in precisely three years.

“Are you okay?” He had stopped about five feet away.

She nodded. Why did he have to be out taking a walk this morning of all mornings? The beach was supposed to be deserted at this hour. The last thing she wanted was conversation with a stranger. She looked and felt a mess. Normally she could care less what she looked like, but when it led to being embarrassed, she cared. Her jeans were the most ratty in her closet, and the jacket hid what had once been a paint sweatshirt of Jerry’s.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you.” His voice was deep and full of concern.

“I didn’t realize you were there.”

“So I found out.”

She straightened slowly, pushing her hands off her knees and forcing her legs to take her weight again, fighting the weakness and the light-headed sensation that hallmarked the exhaustion and dwindling adrenaline.

“You’re not okay.”

She shied away from the concern in his face, in his voice, instinctively took a step back as he took a step forward. “I had a long night. I’ll be fine.”

She looked down the beach to the distant grove of trees she had arbitrarily been walking toward. Awkwardly, because he was here and her solitude had been broken, Jennifer turned to resume her walk. The weariness was suddenly weighing heavily on her, and her desire to keep walking was fading, but her only choice was to go home, and that was not an option. She shoved her hair back from her face again and twisted the long hair once, in an old habit, to temporarily prevent it from blowing in her eyes.

“Would you mind if I walk with you?”

She was surprised at the question, surprised at the sudden tenseness in his voice, surprised at the rigidness she saw in his stance as if he had momentarily frozen. She couldn’t understand the change. His hands had closed into fists at his sides, but as she watched, they opened and relaxed, almost as if he consciously willed them to do so. He had kept his distance after that one step forward and her one step back. She was not a very good judge of character, but she somehow knew he was not going to be a threat to her. She shrugged. It really didn’t matter. “No.” He fell into step beside her, slowing his pace to match her slow wander.

They walked along the beach in silence, a few feet apart, both with hands tucked in their jackets, the wind blowing their hair. Jennifer’s thoughts drifted back to the night before, and she winced as she remembered, began to mentally draw big Xs through each scene and force herself to deliberately try to discard the memories. It had worked in the past and it would work again. With time. When the memories faded to the point she could discard them. She sighed, haunted. These memories were not going to go away. Not for a very long time. There was a distraction at hand and she chose to ignore her own rule of respecting silence. “What’s your name?” she asked, not looking at him, but knowing he was looking at her. He had been watching her since they started walking and it was a disconcerting sensation. Hers were the first words spoken in several minutes, and the sound of her voice was out of place in the quiet dawn.

“Scott Williams,” he replied. “Yours?”

“Jennifer St. James.”

She realized immediately her mistake. Questions prompted questions. On this particular morning, even a polite social exchange felt like an intrusion. She breathed a silent sigh of relief when he asked that one question and then went silent. She was grateful he was content with his own thoughts, but she wished he would move his gaze away from her.

“I haven’t seen you walking on this beach before. Do you live around here?” he asked eventually.

She shook her head.

“My home is up ahead, off the point,” he told her. Jennifer thought it must be nice to live on the lake, be able to enjoy this beach whenever the notion struck. It was expensive property. They walked in silence again and Jennifer hoped the next thing said was going to be goodbye.

“What happened last night, Jennifer?”

His voice was low and deep, the emotion carefully checked. He had stopped walking and was watching her closely, watching her reaction. “What?” Jennifer honestly didn’t know how to answer the question.

“You’re married. You have a beaut of a black eye. I want to know what happened, so I can decide what I should do,” he elaborated patiently, but tensely. There was nothing idle about his body language or his focus on her.

She didn’t answer him right away. What was she suppose to say? She already felt horrible. The last thing she wanted was someone treading in an area of her life where she herself was not yet able to cope. “They are not related.”

He removed a hand from his jacket pocket and reached out slowly, clearly afraid he would startle her again, to gently touch the swelling that radiated around her right eye and down her cheek, and when he spoke, the emotion was no longer contained. “Jennifer, this is recent.”

His touch burned and made her cringe inside over everything she had lost. “I walked into a door,” she said flatly.

He frowned. His entire face tightened at her nonanswer and her rejection of his question. “Jennifer…”

He wanted to help and it was the last thing she wanted. “I don’t want to talk about it.” Her voice was firm, rigid and laden with warning. Scott wanted to protest. She could see that. All the signs where there. The clenched hand, the set jaw, the eyes that refused to yield the question. But something stopped him, and he pushed his hand back into the pocket of his jacket and nodded abruptly before looking away. Jennifer watched, grateful. He was angry and doing his best not to direct it toward her. She had left an awful dilemma for him, but she couldn’t release him from it. She did look battered. She was bruised, tired, exhausted and jumpy. But for the life of her she simply couldn’t explain the truth. She could barely cope with it herself. She simply couldn’t deal with it this morning.

He started walking again, and she followed him. He deliberately shortened his steps so she would once again be walking across from him. They walked along in silence, and Jennifer could see Scott measuring every step she took, measuring the growing exhaustion, the heaviness of the fatigue that made her veer off center time and time again. She could do little about what he saw. She was exhausted and she knew it and she had no reserves left.

They’d gone more than a mile down the beach and were near a private boathouse and pier when he stopped. “This is my home.” He said the words, and she heard that he hated saying them. He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to leave his questions unanswered. He wanted to help. She read all of those desires as he stood and looked at her. She did her best to look directly back, even if the intensity of his gaze made her want to drop her eyes and look away. “Could I walk with you a while longer? Would you like some company?” he asked, and she could feel the tug to let him do so.

She shook her head. She suddenly realized what a mess she’d created, and the fact that she had no desire to fix it both amused her and made her sad. She smiled, and it was the first genuine smile she had formed in the past seventy-two hours. “No. I’ll be just fine, Scott. Thank you for offering.”

He didn’t want to hear that answer. “You’re sure?”

He was pressing her to change her mind, and her sense of fatigue grew all the greater. She needed to be alone now more than ever. There was no room in her life for company and conversation when there were memories demanding her attention.

Jennifer nodded. “Go on. I’m just going to walk for a while longer,” she assured him.

He reluctantly did as she asked. Jennifer watched as he walked up the path to his back patio. She turned toward the grove of trees and began to walk again, determined to not return home until her body demanded sleep and the memories were banished. A few minutes later she was frowning, angry with the fact she now suddenly missed the company. No, not company, him. She missed him. The sun was barely up, and she was thinking about a stranger. She would never see him again, but he had entered her life briefly on one of the toughest mornings of her life, and she would probably always remember him because of that one fact.

Jennifer racked the balls, flipping them to solid, stripe, solid, the eight ball in the center, and sent the cue ball rolling to the far end of the table. The college kids at the next table to the right were laughing at rather crude jokes, and the group of six guys at the bar were boisterous and drunk. Jennifer ignored them with the ease of practice. The first two tables to her left were empty, but Randy and William were playing at the third, and she occasionally tuned in to their conversation, a rather fascinating discussion of a drug case that had been in the papers the past couple of days. The two cops were serious players, and she often played one or the other during the course of an evening. Tonight she preferred to play alone. She broke the rack of balls with a vicious stroke—short, explosive, centered.

She had killed Thomas Bradford tonight.

The chapter, written an hour ago, sat in her briefcase, scrawled by hand on a tablet of white paper while she sat at the back corner booth, shelling peanuts and nursing a diet cola.

The only thing she had left was her career and she had just hung it out to dry. Ann was going to kill her; her agent would not appreciate having the golden goose killed. Jennifer smiled tightly without it reaching her eyes and drilled the seven ball into the rail to send it the length of the table and into a corner pocket. He was quite dead, her detective, Thomas Bradford, the bullets having hit him in the middle of the back and ripped through his chest. He was now as dead as her parents, as dead as her husband, as dead as her three-month-old daughter. Dead.

Maybe she should sell the house.

She contemplated the idea as she moved around the table, laying out her next shot with the precision of someone who had learned to see the game as an interesting study in geometry.

“Jen, what happened? Who hit you?!” The jacket dropped onto the stool next to her, the detective’s shield flipping visible. Randy and William both looked over at Bob’s words and immediately left their game, heading her way. Jennifer looked up at her friend, annoyed, and then looked back at the cue ball and laid her next shot with finesse, nudging the ten ball into the side pocket without disturbing the eight ball. She wasn’t surprised to see him. It was midnight, and Bob Volishburg got off at eleven-thirty. He knew her car. This place was on his way home. He would come in to talk with the other guys from the force, maybe play her a game and then see that she got safely home. He had a mission in life to see that she always got home safely. Compliments of her brother, Jennifer was sure.

“I walked into a door,” she replied flatly.

The honest answer went over about as well tonight with the three cops as it had done four days earlier with Scott.

“I was wondering if you would come back,” Scott said, stopping a few feet away from her so as not to crowd her space and startle her. His voice was calm and steady while inside his reaction was one of elation. She was back. He had been praying and hoping and working toward this day. She was sitting out on the pier behind his house, dangling her feet over the edge, her hands tucked into the same windbreaker she had worn the last time he had seen her.

He had spent ten days trying to track her down. His conscience had given him no rest. He had finally decided she must have an unlisted phone number. He had tried every St. James in the phone books for the surrounding area. He had ended up calling every battered women’s shelter in the surrounding county—not that they would tell him anything, but he had had to try. He had been ready to consider calling the police and the local hospitals, she continued to weigh so heavily on his mind. Then, three days ago, he had his first bit of what he knew had to be providential luck.

He had been browsing a local bookstore when he had chanced upon her picture. She was a writer. The author of a mystery series about a detective named Thomas Bradford. Scott had held the book in his hand and looked at the picture and been stunned at the change in her from the picture on the back of the paperback to the woman he had met on the beach. The book was the paperback release of a previous hardback so he figured the picture was about four years old. The difference was painful to see. Her face was gaunt now. The light in her eyes was gone. What had happened to her in the past few years? Calling her publisher had managed to get him the name of her agent, but there his luck had run out. Her agent—Ann something or other—had refused to give him any information about Jennifer. All he’d been able to hope for was that she would deliver a message.

Jennifer turned now on the pier, drew her knees up to drape her arms across them and quietly looked up at him as he stood at the top of the steps to the pier. “Hello, Scott. I understand you have been looking for me.” Her voice was dry and her smile slightly amused.

She looked awful. The black eye had faded to an ugly dark bruise that marred her cheek, and the tenseness in her body and in her face reminded him of a rubber band stretched to its limit for a very long time. “I was worried about you,” he said simply.

She nodded and looked down to spin her wedding ring for a moment before looking back up. “Don’t be. I’m fine.”

Fine compared with what? Her black eye was now an ugly bruise, and she looked as brittle as toffee. She had been exhausted the last time he’d seen her, and the past ten days hadn’t made much of an improvement. She looked well past worn out. He walked down and sat on the steps to the pier, close, but not so close as to crowd her. The last thing he wanted to do was give her reason to move. “Been taking another walk?”

“Sort of,” she replied. She smiled, and it was a real smile. “I haven’t gotten very far.”

“Which message finally reached you?” he asked, interlacing his fingers and watching her.

“My agent called. Relayed your message. Really, Scott, ‘Come stay with me’ does raise a few eyebrows among my friends.”

She was embarrassed now; he could see the blush. He knew that his message might cause her some embarrassment with her agent, but it was what needed to be said. He was serious. His home had plenty of guest rooms. He would prefer she accept a place with his sister and her husband, but he would make whatever arrangements she considered reasonable. The idea of someone, her husband, hitting her had haunted him. “I wanted to make sure you knew you had a safe place to stay.”

She sighed and dropped her hand to rub it along a wooden beam of the pier. “Scott, I walked into a door.”

“So you said,” he agreed evenly, very aware of the fact she was not looking at him again. She did it when she didn’t want him to see the truth in her eyes.

She looked up. She didn’t even look offended that he didn’t believe her. She did look like she was in pain. She ran her hand through her hair. “Monday night before we met,” she said abruptly, “the third anniversary of my husband’s death. I got myself royally drunk. Finally went to bed about 3:00 a.m. When I woke up I headed for the bathroom. I was in a bit of a hurry. I ran right into the edge of the bedroom door.” She didn’t spare herself when it came to telling the story.

She was a widow. A chunk of his gut tightened. “Jen, I’m sorry. You’re way too young to be widow.” He put together what she had said, what he had seen, and he winced. “You must have had an awful night.”

She grimaced. “That’s one way to describe it.” The memories of that night came rushing back, and she felt the tension radiate up through her shoulders and neck. She wanted so badly to forget that night. She had thought drinking would help her forget, but it hadn’t. If anything, it had simply given her one more memory to regret.

She picked up a small twig the wind had blown down onto the pier and twirled it between her fingers. “How did you find out I was a writer?” she asked, changing the subject.

“I found Dead Before Dawn at the local bookstore.”

“Honey, it’s a perfect title. It’s short. To the point. An attention grabber.”

“Jerry, there isn’t a single murder in the whole book.”

“Then let’s add one. It’s a great title. Great titles are hard to come by.”

The memories haunted her. Jennifer tossed the twig she held into the water and watched the waves push it around. Scott’s answer surprised her. The paperback was out already? She had lost track of the publishing schedule. “Jerry liked the title,” she told Scott.

Scott wasn’t sure how to interpret Jennifer’s expression, there was distance there and memories of the past. Did she not like to talk about her work? Jerry—was that her husband’s name? “It was a very good book,” he told her, trying to feel out what she would consider comfortable to talk about.

He thought she was a very good writer. He had bought Dead Before Dawn and read it in one evening, not finishing until well after midnight. He had searched bookstores during the past two days until he found all eight of her books. They were now piled on his nightstand in the order she had written them. He was almost done with the first book in her series, the book that introduced Thomas Bradford. Her series was great. The closest comparison he could draw was to Robert Parker’s Spenser novels, and he loved those books.

“I’m glad you liked it.” She shivered slightly as the breeze picked up.

“Would you like to join me for breakfast?” The question came out before he realized it was going to be asked. He instantly regretted it. Had he learned nothing about her so far? Give her an opportunity to leave and she was going to take it. She had accomplished what she had come here to do—acknowledge his message and set him straight as to what had actually happened. How many times in the past ten days had he told himself he would be careful not to make her shy away from him again?

He felt an enormous sense of relief when he saw her smile. “That depends. Are you a good cook?”

He laughed. “You’ll have to decide that for yourself. I like to think I am.”

She moved to stand up, and he offered her a hand, feeling delighted when she accepted the offer. Her hand was small and the fingers callused, and she would have a hard time tipping a scale past a hundred pounds. He lifted her easily to her feet. The top of her head came to just above his shoulder, a comfortable height for him, and her long auburn hair was clipped back this morning by a carved gold barrette. Up close, her brown eyes were captivating. He forced himself to release her hand and step away once she was on her feet. He wanted to reach out and touch her cheek, say he was glad to see her bruise beginning to heal. Instead, he shoved his hands into his pockets and gently smiled as he waited for her to precede him.

The back patio door was unlocked, and they entered into a large kitchen, adjacent to a formal dining room. The coffee was brewed, the aroma rich and strong. Scott placed his jacket and hers across one of the six kitchen chairs and held out a chair for her at the glass-topped table.

His kitchen was spotless, a matter of honor with him. He found that cooking relaxed him, so he spent a lot of time here unwinding after a day of work. “Do you have any preferences for what you would like?” he asked, mentally reviewing the contents of the refrigerator. He had been planning homemade muffins, peaches and cereal for his own breakfast this morning, but that was pretty routine. He wanted this breakfast to be special. Maybe eggs Benedict, or fresh blueberry waffles, he could even do a batch of breakfast crepes with fresh strawberries.

“Since breakfast is normally coffee and maybe toast or a bagel, I think I’ll let you decide,” she replied.

He turned from the open refrigerator to look at her, knowing immediately that what breakfast normally was, was skipped. The last thing this lady needed to be doing was skipping meals. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, you should at least try to have something like muffins and fruit,” he told her firmly. “How about an omelet?” he offered. He did a great omelet.

“Sure.” She spotted the bookcase he had in the kitchen for his cookbooks and got up to study them. “These are all yours?” she asked, surprised.

“Yes.” He started pulling items from the refrigerator. Ham. Tomatoes. Green peppers. Cheese.

He watched as she randomly selected one of the cookbooks from the bookcase and opened it. “Why are the page corners turned down?” she asked.

“A favorite recipe,” he replied. As the eggs cooked and he chopped the ham and tomatoes and green peppers, he reviewed the dishes he liked to cook, pointing out different cookbooks and which recipes were uniquely good in each one. It was a comfortable conversation. He liked to talk about his hobby, and she was more than casually interested. It was a comfortable conversation that continued as they ate. They split a western omelet between them and a half dozen warm, homemade blueberry muffins. It was not until they finished breakfast that the conversation turned back to personal subjects.

“How did Jerry die?” Scott asked quietly as he sat watching her drink her second cup of coffee. He didn’t want to ask, but he needed to know.

She looked out the large window and out over the lake. “He’d gone to the gym to play racquetball with my brother when he collapsed. He died of a massive heart attack.”

How old would he have been? Thirty? Thirty-five? “It was unexpected,” Scott said, stating the obvious.

“Very.”

He looked at the wedding ring she wore. He had noticed it ten days ago, a small heart of diamonds, and it looked like it belonged. “Was there any warning? High blood pressure? A history in his family?”

She shook her head. “No. He had passed a complete physical not more than six months before.”

“I’m sorry, Jennifer.” It was such an inadequate response. Her life had been torn apart, and all he could convey was words. She would have felt the loss like a knife cutting into her, especially if they had been a close couple. “You loved him a great deal.” Scott made the observation, more to himself than her, but she answered him, anyway.

“I still do,” she replied calmly.

He heard her answer and was envious that love could be so enduring. Not many couples had that kind of closeness. No wonder the anniversary of his death had been so painful for her.

She set down her cup of coffee and changed the subject abruptly. “I’ve decided to end the series of books.”

Scott didn’t know what to think, both of the abrupt change of subject and the statement she had just made. She couldn’t be serious. She had been writing the series for almost ten years. She wanted to end it? “Thomas Bradford is going to get killed?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not the same without Jerry.”

“You wrote the books with your husband?”

She nodded.

Scott didn’t say anything for some time. It wasn’t wise to make such dramatic life changes when you were grieving. But the books had to be a continual reminder to her of what she had lost. “You’ve been writing the series for years. Are you sure, Jennifer?” he finally asked.

“I’m sure. I’ve known for months it’s something I needed to do.”

“What are you going to do once the series is finished?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

He frowned, not liking one possibility that had come to mind. “You are still going to write, aren’t you?”

“It is the only profession I know.”

He leaned back in his chair, thinking, studying her. He had never known a writer before, and it was hard to make any sort of intelligent judgment about the decision she had to make. The sadness he saw in her expression made him frown. She needed some help. She needed to recover. She needed someone to ensure she ate. He forced himself not to follow that line of thinking any further.

“Do you know when you start how the book is going to end?” He had always wondered that. He assumed that knowing in advance would be helpful as far as clues and situations were concerned, but on the other hand, knowing the ending would make writing the book less interesting. Like seeing a movie for the second time.

Jennifer couldn’t stop the memory from returning—

“Jerry, you can’t kill the gardener. He’s the man who stole the will to protect Nicole’s inheritance. Kill the gardener and the will disappears forever.” Jennifer didn’t like the twist Jerry had added to the well constructed story. They had spent two months hammering out the details of a tight story plot and Jerry was changing the game plan a hundred pages into the book. They were out in the backyard, Jerry reclining in his hammock watching the 49ers and Rams game on his portable TV, Jennifer having come outside to find him. She dropped into the lawn chair beside him, retrieving the two pillows on the ground to use as a headrest. She was distracted momentarily as she realized she had missed the start of the game.

“Who said the gardener was dead?” Jerry asked, handing her a diet soda from the cooler beside him.

“Thanks,” Jennifer said, accepting the cold drink. She flipped open the dog-eared manuscript. “Page ninety-six, and I quote, ‘The bullet entered the man’s chest and did not exit. He fell forward into the cold waters of the lake without anyone seeing his departure from among the living.’” She dropped the script on his chest. “That sounds like dead to me.”

The 49ers threw a deep pass which was caught inside the twenty. The discussion paused while they both watched the replay.

“Did I ever say the man in the boat was the gardener?”

Jennifer thought about it carefully. “No. The killer assumed the man in the boat was the gardener.”

Jerry grinned. “Exactly.”

“Okay Jerry, what are you planning?”

“I don’t know,” he replied seriously.

Jennifer tossed one of the pillows at him. “Why do you always insist on adding wrinkles to our nicely planned books?” she demanded, amused.

Jerry smiled. “I have to keep you guessing somehow, don’t I?”

Scott watched as Jennifer struggled to come back from somewhere in the past and answer the question he had asked. It was not the first time he had seen memories cross her eyes, and he wondered what memory had just made her smile. “Every book we wrote had at least one major change in the plot by the time we finished writing the story. We would construct an outline for the book, then take turns writing chapters. Invariably Jerry would create a few extra twists in the story.”

Jennifer rested her hands loosely around the coffee mug and was amazed at how easy it was to talk to Scott about the past. Normally sharing about her life with Jerry brought back the pain, but not today. They were memories of good times, and she had thought they were gone forever.

She had been so embarrassed by her panicked flight, her reluctance to explain exactly how she had gotten the black eye. It had taken over a week to put the incident into the back of her mind, get past the embarrassment, and thankfully accept the fact she would never have to see Scott Williams again. The next morning her agent had called. Jennifer had wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Her one consolation had been the mistaken belief that Scott would have at least let the incident go. It had taken her forty-eight hours to work up the nerve to come back to this beach. She was glad now she had. Glad that now he knew the truth.

“You know what I do for a living, what about you, Scott?”

“I’m CEO of an electronics firm called Johnson Electronics.”

“Really?” She had expected him to be high up in some corporate setting, but she had not expected this answer. “How long have you been CEO?”

“Three years. They’ve been good years for the industry, so I haven’t had to weather my first downturn in the business. How well we do then will determine how good I am at this job.”

Interesting answer. A man who considered his performance under adversity to be the true measure of this worth. “You’ve been at Johnson Electronics a long time?” He was young to be a CEO.

“Eighteen years. I started out as a draftsman during my junior college days. I worked as an electrical engineer, got an MBA and moved into management.”

Jennifer asked him about every facet of the business she could think of—products, competitors, partners, financial numbers. She found the picture he presented of his company fascinating. He shared the smallest details, and she found his grasp of the business remarkable. It was obvious he loved his job. They talked for another thirty minutes before Jennifer rose to her feet and said it was time for her to be leaving.

“Jennifer, I’ve got tickets for the musical Chess next Saturday night. It’s an old play, kind of dated, but it’s a benefit performance and will be well attended. Would you like to join me?”

His offer caught her by surprise. She had to think about it for a few moments. She had not been on a date since Jerry died. She’d had no desire to. “Thank you, Scott, I would like that,” she finally replied. She was lonely. She knew it. And he was good no-pressure company. A night out would be a welcome diversion.

“The play starts at eight-thirty. I’ll pick you up at seven and we can have dinner first?”

She smiled and wondered how far he would extend the invitation if she let him. Dinner before and coffee afterward? “Sure, we can do dinner first,” she agreed.

He grinned and she liked the grin. “Good. I want an address and a phone number.”

She laughed. “I like my privacy, hence the unlisted phone number.” She wrote down the information on a piece of paper he pulled from a notepad beside the phone.

As he walked with her across the back patio and down to the beach, she slipped on her jacket and freed her long hair from the collar. “Thank you for breakfast, Scott.”

“It was my pleasure, Jennifer. I’ll pick you up at seven o’clock Saturday.”

Chapter Two

She was late. Jennifer rushed up the front walk of her home, fumbling with her keys. Scott was going to arrive in less than an hour. Her detour to Rachel and Peter’s to drop off a book had been a mistake. Her brother had wanted to debate the wisdom of her ending the Thomas Bradford mystery series and she hadn’t been able to invent an adequate excuse to leave. She knew better than to mention Scott and a date. She would never have gotten out of there. Peter took the responsibility of being her older brother very seriously.

Jennifer pushed open the front door to be met with the fragrant smell of roses. The bouquet sitting in the center of her dining room table had arrived Wednesday. Three dozen red, white and peach roses. The card had simply said “Looking forward to Saturday—Scott.” Jennifer had started crying. She couldn’t help it. It had been a long time since anyone had sent her roses.

“Jerry, I got a special delivery today.” Jennifer was curled up beside her husband on the couch, using his shoulder as a pillow. The credits of the late, late movie were beginning to roll by.

“You did?” Jerry asked, feigning surprise. His finger gently traced the curve of her jaw.

She smiled. “I think it was a bribe.”

“What was it?”

“Two dozen red roses.”

“It was a bribe,” Jerry agreed. “You know how much red roses cost these days?” he asked, amused.

She giggled.

“So what do you suppose this mystery person wants?”

Jerry leaned down to kiss her. “That’s hard to say,” he said softly. “I suppose you had better ask him.”

Jennifer turned on the couch to face him. “So what do you think my husband would like in return for two dozen red roses?”

The memory stopped Jennifer in the doorway. She sighed. These memories were going to drive her crazy.

She dressed with care. She had shopped for a new outfit. Those in her closet held too many memories. She had found a light green, long-sleeved dress. It looked expensive, moved with grace, and it helped her badly shaking self-esteem. She had bought a purse and new shoes to go with the dress. The gold necklace and earrings she wore had been a gift from Jerry.

She was ready before Scott arrived. To keep from pacing back and forth Jennifer went into her office, picked up the black three-ring binder on her desk and the red pen beside it. She turned on the stereo, already tuned to a favorite jazz station. Finding the page marked with a paper clip, she picked up the work where she’d left off, soon forgetting the time.

The doorbell rang. Quickly slipping the paper clip onto the top of the page she was on, she set the book back on the desk and went to answer the door.

He stood there, looking at the profusion of flowers growing around her porch, elegantly dressed in black slacks and an ivory dress shirt, contained, comfortable. A pleased smile lit his face as he turned and saw her. “Hello, Jennifer.”

She smiled back. “Hello, Scott.” She stepped back to let him enter her home. “Thank you for the flowers.” She motioned to the arrangement, already nervous.

“You’re welcome,” Scott replied easily. “Did you have a good week?”

“Quiet,” she replied. “Let me get my purse and jacket and I’ll be ready to go.”

She entered the living room, and he followed her. It was a simple room. A fireplace, couch, coffee table, easy chair, two end tables, display shelves. A prominent bookshelf held all the Thomas Bradford first editions.

The pictures caught Scott’s attention. There were several on the fireplace mantel, one on the end table. Her wedding picture. Jerry. Scott looked at the picture for several moments. His competition. He was surprised at the feeling, but it could not be ignored. He was competing with Jennifer’s memories of Jerry. Jennifer looked different in the pictures. She looked young. She looked happy. The past few years had taken a great toll.

“I’m ready,” she said quietly.

He turned to find she had joined him again. He smiled. “Then let’s go.”

Scott held her jacket for her to slip on. “You look beautiful tonight,” he said softly. The soft green dress had caught his attention the moment she’d opened the door, and he’d been watching it flair around her, wondering at the elegance she presented and how many more surprises she had in store for him. She was beautiful. Her face had healed, and while she still looked thin, there was color in her face and life in her eyes tonight.

She flushed. “Thank you.”

He gently slipped her long hair free from the collar of the jacket.

After she locked the front door, Jennifer walked beside Scott to his car, an expensive sports car. He held the passenger door, and Jennifer slipped inside. Her car was comfortable and dependable. This car was pure luxury.

“How does Italian sound?” Scott asked, looking over at her inquiringly.

“I love it,” Jennifer replied.

Scott nodded as he started the car. “I know a great place.”

Jennifer began to relax. Scott drove well, and she found it was a relief to be able to sit back and let someone else manage the traffic. They shared a comfortable silence, rather than the strained one she had feared.

“I’ve been looking forward to this evening all week,” Scott said, breaking the silence.

Jennifer looked over at him, and a chuckle escaped. “The week was that bad?”

Scott gave a slight smile. “I’ve had better,” he admitted.

He reached down and turned on the radio, his eyes not leaving the road. Jazz. Jennifer grinned. Okay, at least they had music in common. He clicked the volume down low. She studied him as he drove and wondered what had made his week so rough. She would have to ask him later. She liked a great deal the fact he was not threatened by the silence between them. She wasn’t one to chatter, and silence gave one time to think.

They arrived at the restaurant he had chosen, and the parking lot was crowded. Jennifer had heard of the place, but had never been here before. Scott found a place to park and clicked off the ignition. “Stay put,” he told her with a smile. Jennifer took a deep breath as Scott came around the car to open the door for her. She forced herself to smile. It was not Scott’s fault that her stomach was beginning to turn in knots again. This was a date, a real, honest to goodness, date. She had conveniently forgotten that fact. Scott offered her his hand to help her from the car, clicked a button on his key ring and all the car doors locked. He offered her his arm. Somewhat embarrassed, Jennifer accepted. He was picking up her nervousness and his smile was kind.

“Relax,” he said gently.

“Sorry, Scott. I hate first dates,” she admitted, then wished she hadn’t.

They were almost across the parking lot. He squeezed her hand. “I know what you mean. Trouble is, you can’t have a second one without it.” As they reached the door, Scott’s arm moved down to around her waist and Jennifer found the touch both disconcerting and comforting. He kept it there as they were escorted by a smiling maître d’ to the table Scott had reserved. The restaurant was elegant, the tables spaced for privacy, the lights slightly subdued. Scott helped her slip off the jacket, held her chair for her. He took a seat across from her. Jennifer forced herself to meet his eyes. She knew she was flushed, her face felt hot. All he did was offer a soft reassuring smile. He handed her a menu. “The veal here is very good. As is the quail.”

Jennifer nodded and gratefully dropped her eyes to the cloth-covered book that was the menu. She opened it. No prices.

“Jerry, there are no prices in this menu.” Jennifer nearly giggled. “Do you suppose everything is free?”

Jerry just smiled and motioned the waiter over. “Could we have two coffees please?” He didn’t need one. Jennifer did.

His wife had had too much champagne.

He wasn’t annoyed. Far from it. She had been petrified of attending the party their publisher had hosted for several writers introducing new books for the Christmas season. She had gone despite the fear and done a magnificent job. When they left the party shortly after eleven, it was with the knowledge that several nationwide bookstore chains would be prominently displaying their seventh book. Their agent, Ann, had sent a bottle of champagne to their hotel room with her congratulations. Jennifer had drunk three glasses. Jerry, who knew Jennifer had been too nervous before the party to eat, had wisely escorted her to the hotel restaurant. She needed to unwind.

“Jerry, let’s not do that again, okay?”

“You did a great job, honey.”

“I have a headache.”

“Too much champagne.”

“Too many people,” Jennifer replied. “Did you see the lady with the diamond necklace, the one with six strands?”

“Lisa Monet. Her last four books have been on the bestseller list,” Jerry replied calmly.

“She was beautiful.”

“She couldn’t hold a candle to you.”

Jennifer smiled. Her husband meant it. “Thanks.”

“Sure, beautiful. Want to go dancing after we eat?”

“Could we? It’s awful late.”

“This from a lady who thinks three in the morning is a perfect time of day?” Jerry kidded gently.

“Only if Thomas decided he wanted to keep talking.”

Jerry smiled.

The coffee arrived.

“Jen, have you decided, or would you like some more time?” With a start, Jennifer realized Scott was addressing her.

“The veal, please,” she replied, trying to cover the lapse of concentration.

He signaled the waiter, gave their order, having chosen veal for himself. “What were you thinking about?” he asked.

Jennifer blushed. “Jerry and I were at a restaurant much like this in New York a few years ago. I had forgotten that memory.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” Scott replied gently. “What took you to New York?”

“Our seventh book came out about Christmastime. The publishers held a party for all the authors with new books coming out. A way to generate some publicity.”

“I seem to remember reading that that book was very popular.”

Jennifer nodded. “It sold well.” That’s why we decided we could start thinking about starting a family. She couldn’t prevent the look of pain that fleetingly crossed her face.

The salads arrived before Scott could question that look.

They ate in comfortable silence.

“Tell me a little about your family, Jennifer. Do they live around here?”

Jennifer set down her crystal water glass. “My parents died a few years ago in a car crash. I have one brother, older than me. Peter is married, has three children. Alexander is nine, Tom is eleven, and Tiffany is twelve.”

“You and Jerry never had children?” It was the wrong question to ask; Scott knew it as soon as he asked the question, but it was too late to take back the words.

“Jerry, can we get a Jenny Lynn crib?”

Her husband’s arms around her waist gave her a gentle hug. “Sure. Next month as a seven month present?”

“You’ll have the baby room painted by then?”

Jerry smiled. “Right down to the teddy bears around the door,” he assured her.

Jennifer gave her husband a hug. “Wonderful. I’ve been thinking about names some more. What do you think about Colleen for a girl?”

“Colleen St. James. I like it. Have a middle name yet?”

“Not yet.”

The raw pain Jennifer felt at the memory tore at her heart. Jerry had not lived long enough to see his daughter born. “No,” she finally whispered. “No, we never had children.”

Scott could see the pain in her eyes. “Jen, I’m sorry. I didn’t think…”

She shook her head and forced a smile. “It’s okay. I’m not normally so touchy. What about you? Is your family in the area?”

“My parents live in Burmingham, about forty minutes away. I have one younger sister, Heather. She’s married and has two children, is expecting her third.”

They talked about family for a while, Jennifer laughing at the stories he told of his and Heather’s childhood.

“Would you like some coffee?”

“Please,” Jennifer agreed.

“How is the book coming?”

“Not too bad. I’ve actually been working on it for some time. Another week of writing will finish the first draft.”

“You are still planning to end the series?”

“Yes. It’s best. The books are not the same without Jerry.”

Scott looked at his watch and reluctantly said it was time to leave for the theater. Jennifer would have been content to stay and talk for the evening, miss the play.

Scott escorted her from the restaurant, across the parking lot. When he held the car door for her, she was expecting it. “Thank you,” she murmured softly, slipping inside.

They were quiet during the few-minutes’ ride to the theater. “Have you ever been here, Jennifer?”

She shook her head.

“The theater has seats that circle the entire stage. The stage is an octagon, different parts of which can be raised and lowered during the play. An orchestra will provide the music.”

Jennifer smiled. “I’m going to love this, Scott.”

Scott held the door for her. They stepped into a massive lobby. Scott, a hand at the small of Jennifer’s back, led her into the crowd, angling them to the left. An usher accepted the tickets from Scott, handing back the seat assignment portion along with two programs. “You are in the fourth row in the blue section.”

“Thank you.”

The seats fanned out from the stage. Jennifer did not see what markers Scott was using until she realized the floor lights along each section were different colors. They were elegant theater seats of royal blue crushed velvet. Scott helped her slip off her jacket and laid it across the back of her chair. The program Jennifer opened was ten full pages of information about the play, the actors, the director, costumes and scenery.

The lights dimmed and the music swelled.

It was a fast-moving play. She hadn’t realized it was based on political intrigue.

The intermission, an hour into the play, caught Jennifer by surprise. Scott had been enjoying the play, but he had also been enjoying watching Jennifer, leaning forward in her seat, being totally captivated by the presentation. “Like it so far?”

She leaned back in her seat with a big smile. “Oh, yes.” She gave a soft laugh. “I’m exhausted. Too much intrigue.”

He chuckled. “You must get tense writing your books.”

“After writing a description of a crime scene, it may take me several hours to unwind.”

“Jerry, this was a wonderful idea.”

The hotel had a gorgeous indoor pool, softly lit and surrounded by tropical plants. They were the only guests taking advantage of it. The warm water was easing knots in her back that Jennifer had been afraid would be there permanently. Jerry gently moved his hand up to rub the back of Jennifer’s neck where tense muscles were causing her a splitting headache. “I wish you would start taking more breaks, Jennifer. Get up and walk around the house if nothing else. These twelve-hour marathons of yours are deadly.”

“Hmm.” She leaned forward to give him better access to her shoulders.

“How did you manage to get us reservations on less than an hour’s notice?”

“I made reservations three weeks ago.”

Jennifer opened one eye. “You did?”

He smiled. “I’m not the one who forgets our anniversary.”

She groaned. “Guilty. I will make up for the meat loaf dinner. I just got tied up with the story.”

Jerry smiled. “Don’t worry about it. I like your meat loaf.” He gently kissed her. His arms folded across her waist, supporting her.

“We’re almost done with this book,” Jennifer said drowsily.

“Another week,” Jerry agreed. He gently rubbed his hand across her midriff. “How’s our baby coming?”

“She likes ice cream and chocolate and hates meat loaf,” Jennifer replied. “And she hates getting up in the morning.”

Jerry chuckled. “Nausea still bad?”

“No.” Jennifer gently kissed the side of his neck. “It’s hard to believe she’s six months old,” she said with a sigh.

Jerry stole a kiss. “A perfect six months.”

“Scott, excuse me. I’ll be right back,” Jennifer said, her face pale, hands suddenly trembling. She got quickly to her feet. “The ladies’ room is along the way we came in?”

Scott’s hand steadied her. “Yes.” He had seen the emotions rapidly crossing her face. Whatever memory he’d triggered had been a powerful one. He watched as she hurried toward the door.

The ladies’ room was actually three rooms, a lounge with beautiful couches and antiques, a powder room and rest rooms. The rooms were crowded with guests. Jennifer moved directly to the lavatory and wet a paper towel. She avoided looking at herself in the mirror, she knew how pale she must look. She returned to the lounge and found a place to sit down.

The racing thoughts didn’t settle. She finally forced herself to take a deep breath and get to her feet. She didn’t know how long the intermission was, but it was probably no more than fifteen minutes. She had no idea what she was going to say to Scott.

He was standing across the hall from the ladies’ room, waiting for her.

He moved to her side when he saw her.

“Sorry about that,” Jennifer said quietly, apologetically.

He studied her face for a moment.

“I brought you a drink. It looks like you could use it,” he said finally, handing her one of the glasses he carried.

It looked like liquor. “Scott, I don’t drink. Except under extreme duress,” she qualified, remembering the anniversary of her husband’s death.

“Neither do I, actually. It’s iced tea.”

She blushed with embarrassment.

“Quit that, Jen. If you hadn’t asked, I would have been upset.”

Jennifer tilted her head to look at him. He was serious. She was never going to get used to this man. “Thank you.”

She took a long drink of the iced tea.

“Are you okay?”

He wanted an honest answer. Jennifer didn’t know what to tell him. She looked down at the wedding ring she wore. “I remembered forgetting our wedding anniversary the last year Jerry was alive.” She forced back the tears, but her eyes were still shining with the moisture. “There are some memories that still wrench my heart, Scott. It’s not fair to you. I’m sorry.”

Scott slid his hand gently under her hair around the nape of her neck. His blue eyes held her brown ones. “It’s okay, Jen,” he said softly. “He was your husband. You don’t have to forget him in order to go on with your life.”

His hand slid down to grasp hers. “Finish your drink. Intermission is almost over.”

Jennifer finished the iced tea. Scott took her glass and returned it to one of the waiters mingling through the crowd. He led them back to their seats.

The lights dimmed.

Scott reached over to calmly catch Jennifer’s hand, hold it firmly. She squeezed his hand in reply, not looking over at him.

The final act was very moving. Jennifer was crying before the curtain dropped. Scott slipped her a handkerchief. Jennifer squeezed his hand in thanks.

“That was very good, Scott,” Jennifer said when the play ended, drying her eyes. “Sad, but good.”

“I’m glad you liked it.” He intertwined their fingers. “Want to get a nightcap? Some coffee?”

“My place? I really need a couple of aspirins,” she admitted.

“Sure.” Scott picked up her jacket and their two programs.

“Scott, I thought that was you!” His hand stiffened. Jennifer looked up in surprise to see Scott looking back into the crowd.

“Hello, Mrs. Richards,” he said politely as a lady in her late fifties stopped at the end of the row of seats, effectively blocking their exit.

“Wasn’t it just a divine play? My Susan does such a great job. She has such a natural talent for the part, don’t you think?”

Jennifer choked, remembering that Susan Richards had been one of the actresses. She’d played a waitress Jennifer recalled. A very attractive waitress. Scott squeezed Jennifer’s hand in response. “Yes, Netta, Susan is becoming a very good actress,” he agreed, easing them forward.

“We are having an informal party to celebrate her success. Please do say you will come.”

Jennifer saw a beautiful lady in her early twenties wearing a white dress step up beside the older lady. “Mother, that is not necessary.” She offered an apologetic smile. “Hi, Scott.”

“Susan.” He smiled. “Good job, as always. Congratulations on getting the lead for Towers.”

She smiled. “Thanks. Jim told you?”

Scott nodded. “Excuse us, ladies, but we need to be going. Jennifer is not feeling well tonight.” Before Jennifer realized what was happening, Scott had maneuvered them out into the lobby.

“Susan looks like a nice young woman.”

“She is. She’s engaged to one of my hardware designers, or will be once Jim gets the nerve to face Netta.”

Jennifer had no trouble putting together the full picture. “Oh.”

Scott smiled. “Exactly.” He playfully squeezed her hand. “You’re pretty good at this.”

“Lots of practice,” Jennifer replied, amused.

“Scott.” It was a male voice calling his name this time.

Scott glanced around. “Jen, can you manage a few more minutes? I would like you to meet someone,” he asked, looking at her carefully.

“I’ll be fine,” she insisted.

Scott, his arm around her waist, took them forward to meet the couple. An older gentleman in his late sixties, holding hands with the lady at his side.

“Scott, thanks for the tickets. We enjoyed the show.”

Scott smiled broadly, shaking hands with the gentleman. “My pleasure, Andrew.” Scott leaned forward to kiss the cheek of the lady. “You look stunning, Maggie.”

She blushed. “Thank you, Scott.”

“Andrew, Maggie, I would like you to meet Jennifer St. James.” Scott’s hand around her waist felt very reassuring. Jennifer smiled at the couple as they all said hello. “Andrew in my executive vice president, Jennifer. He knows the business better than I do.”

The older man smiled. “Don’t believe everything he says, Jennifer. One of these days I may have to retire just to show him I’m not indispensable.”

“The day you do, I may resign,” Scott answered with a laugh. “Maggie, how’s your granddaughter? Still wrapping grandfather, here, around her little finger?”

The lady beamed. “In a big way.” She smiled at Jennifer. “Andrew spent the weekend putting up a swing set. My granddaughter is only six months old, but Andrew wanted us to be prepared. In case we ever have to baby-sit,” Maggie said, looking over with amusement at her husband.

He just grinned. “Scott, would you please tell Maggie you can never be too prepared?”

Scott, his attention caught by an emotion that had flickered across Jennifer’s face, feeling her sudden tension, had to force himself back to the conversation. He offered a soft smile to Maggie. “Maggie, I think he’s determined to always be prepared. You’ll have to humor him I’m afraid.”

Lord, what’s causing Jennifer this pain? I wanted her to have a relaxing night. I don’t know what’s wrong. Scott prayed the words silently as he shifted his arm to support more of Jennifer’s weight. “I hate to say hi and run, but we need to be going,” he said to his friends. “Maggie, it was a pleasure. Andrew.” Jennifer softly echoed his goodbyes.

They walked together to the car. Scott looked at her closed expression, could see the tension in her and knew she needed some space. He gave it to her. He turned on the radio, found a station still playing soft jazz. “Are you going to be okay?”

Jennifer finally nodded.

“I’ll have you home soon,” Scott promised.

It was a thirty-minute drive. When they reached her home, Scott came around to open the passenger door and escort her up the walk. She unlocked the front door, then hesitated. “I need some coffee. Would you like to stay and join me?”

Scott knew she must want this evening to simply end. But she was trying to make amends. He silently nodded. Jennifer gestured him toward the living room. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

She was gone almost ten minutes. Scott didn’t crowd her. He walked around the living room. There was a Bible on the end table. Jennifer’s name was inscribed on the leather cover. He frowned briefly. What had Jennifer said? He had asked her over dinner where she attended church. “My husband was a very religious man. I haven’t been to church much since he died.”

Her home suggested that Christianity had not been just one-sided, at least not at some time in the past. There were Bible verses cross-stitched on the throw pillows, two of the pictures had verses of scripture stenciled in. Who knew where she stood now? Other than the clear fact that she was hurting, he did not have much to go on.

It bothered him to realize she had walked away from the one person who could help her heal. God. She had to have felt anger and shock when her husband died, the agony of why it had been allowed to happen would have naturally cut pretty deep. But after three years, there should not still be this distance from God. Was she simply stuck and didn’t know how to return? He was going to have to find a way to fix this.

She came back in, carrying their coffee.

Scott accepted the cup she offered him with a quiet thanks. He watched her warily. He had never seen this expression before, the quiet intensity that said she had made a decision.

“I think you chose the wrong time to get to know me, Scott.” She took a seat across from him when he sat down on the couch.

He tensed. He suspected this was heading somewhere he did not like. “Because of the memories?”

“Because I don’t want to get involved,” she replied. “Not now.”

He sighed. “Jennifer, you’re going to go through this, no matter how long you wait. The first time you venture out, the same set of circumstances is going to occur.”

“The memories are too raw, Scott. I can’t handle half a dozen flashbacks every day to a time when life was perfect. I’ll shatter.”

Scott winced at the image. “Was it perfect, Jen?” he asked carefully.

“For a time, yes, it was,” she whispered.

“Do you want me to leave, Jen? Say goodbye for good?”

She leaned her head back and looked over at him. “I want the past back,” she replied. She gave a half smile. “I sound like a spoiled child, wanting what I can’t have.” She sighed. “Scott, I don’t think I can even be a good friend right now. I don’t have the energy or the nerve to take a risk again.”

“Jen, I can’t take away the pain you are going through. But I can give you all the time you need, time without any strings attached.”

“I get nasty when I’m hurting,” Jennifer warned softly.

“I’ll survive,” he said firmly. “Just don’t hide Jennifer. I can’t deal with something I don’t know is there.”

You don’t know about Colleen. You don’t know how she died.

She looked at his eyes. He wasn’t ready to handle that level of her grief. Not yet. “Okay, Scott.”

“Good.”

Jennifer kicked off her shoes so she could tuck her feet beneath her.

“Would you like to try a simple dinner out this next week?”

She shook her head.

Scott looked disappointed. Before he could comment, Jennifer nodded toward her office. “I’ve got to get the first draft finished, or I’m going to lose my nerve to finish the series.”

He grimaced. “Work. I have used that excuse more times than I care to admit myself. What about the week after?”

“Any night but Monday,” Jennifer replied, giving him cart blanche to set her schedule. Monday nights her brother and his two boys came over to watch the football game.

“How about Thursday?”

“Sounds fine,” Jennifer agreed.

Scott nodded. “Thursday it is.” He couldn’t prevent the yawn. It had nothing to do with the company, it had simply been a very long, heavy week.

“Like a refill?” Jennifer asked, gesturing to his coffee cup.

“Please,” Scott replied.

Jennifer filled his cup then sat back down. “What other authors do you like to read?” she asked, then grinned. “Besides me?”

He laughed. They passed a pleasant hour, talking about books, authors they liked, then about movies they had seen. Jennifer happened to glance at her watch. “Scott, it’s twelve forty-five.”

He nodded. “You are right. I had better get going.” He got to his feet. He smiled. “I enjoyed tonight.”

“So did I,” she admitted.

She turned on the porch light and watched him start his car. He lifted a hand. She waved back, then quietly closed the door.

“You look tired. Late night?”

Scott’s sister, Heather, grinned as she asked the question, leaning over the back of the pew to get his attention. Busy cramming for the youth group lesson he had to give in twenty minutes, Scott just grinned and said, “Yes. Now go away, Twiggy. And don’t tell Mom.” The nickname she had picked up in high school had stuck. Scott ensured it got kept alive. She liked to protest, but he knew she would be hurt if he dropped his pet name for her. She had a green thumb and now owned a greenhouse, making her name even more fitting.

She squeezed his shoulders. “I knew it. Is she pretty?”

Scott stuck his finger on the text he was going to use and leaned his head back to smile at his sister. “She’s beautiful,” he replied gravely. He hadn’t told her much when he had reneged on his offer to take her to see the play so he could take Jennifer instead, and her curiosity had to be killing her. Scott loved it. His grin told her he was holding out deliberately.

She swatted his shoulder. “Come on. Spill the beans. Or I will tell Mom you were on a date last night.”

“I took Jennifer out to dinner, we went to the play, and then we sat and talked over coffee at her place. I didn’t get home till 1:30 a.m. I had a nice time, and yes, I’ll probably see her again. Sufficient?”

She grinned. “Not hardly. But you can tell me the rest over lunch. Frank’s taking the kids roller skating. You’re buying.”

“It’s your turn to buy,” he protested.

“Then we’ll go to Fred’s,” she replied, knowing how he hated the boring food served there.

Scott sighed. “If you’re going to twist my arm like that, I’ll buy. Why do I love you so much, anyway?”

“Because I’ve got two kids you adore so you have to be nice to me,” she replied with a grin. “I’ll find you after church. I’m on piano today.”

“Break a finger.”

She smiled, tugged his hair, and left him to finish preparing his lesson.

Chapter Three

The doorbell rang just as Jennifer finished turning the caramel popcorn out onto the wax paper. Setting down the wooden spoon, she went to answer the door.

“Hi, Tom.” She held open the door for her nephew.

“Hi, Jen,” he replied with a big grin. “Dad bought out almost the entire store.” He was carrying a full grocery sack.

Jennifer smiled. “He hasn’t changed.” She could see the cookies and the bag of chips. “Take them straight to the living room, Tom. On the coffee table.”

“Okay.”

Peter was coming up the walk, carrying Alexander. Jennifer held the door for him. “Thanks.” He stepped inside, carrying his sleeping son. “He fell asleep as soon as we got into the car,” Peter said softly.

Jennifer nodded toward her bedroom. “Go ahead and put him down.”

Her brother nodded and disappeared down the hall.

The roses. Jennifer hurried after Peter. She had moved the roses Scott had sent into her bedroom. Peter would ask too many questions if he saw them.

Peter didn’t bother to turn on the bedroom light, and by chance, the door to the bathroom was open, partially hiding the flowers on the dresser. Jennifer helped slip off Alexander’s tennis shoes. Peter pulled a light blanket over him.

“Okay.” Peter nodded to the door. “I think he’ll be fine.”

They left the bedroom. Peter didn’t notice the flowers.

“Aunt Jen, what channel is the game on?”

“Seventeen.” Jennifer smiled at Tom’s worried expression. “We’re still early, Tom. It’s on after this show,” she reassured him. “I’ve got caramel popcorn made if you would like to help bring it out from the kitchen,” she offered.

Tom was on his feet in an instant. “Sure.”

Peter pulled out glasses, filled them with ice as Jennifer and Tom put the finishing touches on a huge bowl of caramel popcorn. Peter reached around them to sample the warm, slightly sticky caramel mixture. “Good job, Jen.”

She grinned. “Thanks.”

“Sticky, though.”

Jennifer tossed him two clean towels from the bottom drawer by the stove. “For the living room.”

He nodded and wisely got one of them damp. He added them both to the tray he was putting together. “Anything else we need?”

Jennifer added two large spoons to the tray. “That should be it.”

As was tradition, Peter and Jennifer sat on the floor, using the couch as a backrest. Tom stretched out in front of the fireplace.

“Did Rachel and Tiffany go for their night out?”

Peter nodded. “They left about six-thirty.” He opened the box of cookies and offered Jennifer one. She accepted. “They were going to get ice cream, Tiffany finally decided she wanted one of those two-scoop sundaes, then they were going to the show.”

“Tom, how was your day?”

Her nephew had pulled out the sports page of the newspaper and was reading intently. “It was good,” Tom replied absentmindedly.

Jennifer looked over at Peter and shared a smile. Tom was a reader. A very intense, careful reader. There was always one in the family. Jennifer had lightened up over the years, but she could also be like Tom, totally absorbed in something.

“Tom.” Peter finally got his attention. “It’s not polite to ignore your hostess.”

“Sorry, Aunt Jen,” he apologized.

“Look on page 26, there is an article about the state soccer finals,” she said, apologizing as well for interrupting him.

“Really?” Tom turned the next few pages. “Thanks.”

The show credits rolled by. Peter reached for the remote and adjusted the sound. Jennifer settled back, propped her knees against the coffee table, a cold glass of diet cola cradled in her hands, got comfortable. It was going to be a great game.

“Nice socks, Jen.”

Jennifer admired the bright rainbow of colors on her feet. “I bought them for myself last Tuesday.” Right after I bought a very expensive dress to wear to a play you still don’t know I went to see.

The sports page landed back in the basket with the rest of the paper. “There’s Grant,” Tom said, excited.

They were playing in San Diego and it was a nice night there, low seventies, no wind. Perfect game conditions.

It was a disappointing first quarter. The announcers explained away the repeated pass run, pass punt as the teams were feeling each other out. That was one way to describe it. Jennifer could think of a few others. If a receiver broke free and clear, the quarterback got sacked. If it was a good pass, the receiver dropped it. Punt returns consistently got stopped within five yards. The snacks started to disappear, but there was little excitement among the threesome watching the game.

Tom disappeared into the kitchen at the end of the quarter in search of some ice cream.

“Like a refill?” Peter gestured to the empty glass she was holding.

Jennifer handed it to him. “Thanks. Let’s hope the second quarter is not quite so dead.”

Peter smiled. “What is it they say about expectations? Low ones are the only kind that don’t lead to disappointment?” He handed back her refilled soda.

“Very true,” Jennifer admitted. Her right hand slid up the back of her neck and massaged the tight muscles, lessening the pain building inside her head.

“Here, Jennifer, give me back the glass and turn around.” Peter had seen the gesture.

Jennifer handed him the glass and turned toward the fire. Peter gently massaged her shoulders. “You’ve been working too hard again.”

“Hmm.” The massage felt great. Peter still needed a little practice before he would be as good as Jerry had been, but he wasn’t bad at all. “I completed twenty more pages today,” Jennifer said, dropping her head forward so Peter could work on her neck.

“You are still planning to end the series?”

“Yes.”

“When was the last time you saw your doctor, Jennifer? These headaches are getting more and more frequent.”

“Last month. He said to quit crying so much,” Jennifer replied, muffled.

Peter’s hand worked along the vertebrae in her neck. “Still having bad nights?” he asked, concerned.

Jennifer nodded. “Not as frequently, but yes, I’m still having bad nights,” she admitted. She gingerly rolled her head. “That’s much better, Peter. Thanks.”

“Sure.”

“Aunt Jen, do you have any of those chocolate sprinkles left?”

“Try over the sink, Tom.” She looked over at her brother. “How in the world can he eat all that stuff and never get sick?”

“I want to know how he can eat all the stuff and not gain weight,” Peter replied. “He’s a bottomless pit.”

“I’m a what?” Tom had returned.

“A bottomless pit.”

Tom grinned. “I’m a growing boy, Dad.”

Peter gave him a playful swat. “You won’t always have that hollow leg.”

A sleepy boy appeared in the doorway. Jennifer saw him first. “Hi, Alexander. Come on in.”

“Hi, Aunt Jenny. I fell asleep.”

“Come sit beside me,” Jennifer offered, hiding a grin. Alexander was so adorable when he was sleepy.

“Hi, champ.” Peter gave him a hug, lifted his son over to sit between himself and Jennifer. She gently combed his hair with her fingers.

Alexander looked over the food with interest, starting to wake up. “What have I missed?”

“Nothing,” Tom replied, somewhat disgusted with the performance of his favorite team.

Jennifer offered Alexander a cookie.

“Nice socks, Aunt Jen,” Alexander said gravely.

“Thank you, Alex,” Jennifer replied with a smile. His own socks were blue with lots of little brown footballs. It was tradition between the two of them to give each other socks for Christmas; Alex was almost as opposed to shoes as Jennifer.

The second quarter of the game started. The home team actually put together a decent drive before fumbling on the twenty yard line. The phone rang.

“I’ll get it,” Peter said, motioning his sister to stay put. “It’s probably Rachel. She said she would call when they got home.” He got to his feet to get the phone in the kitchen.

He was gone only a few minutes. He came back to lean against the doorjamb. “Jennifer, it’s for you. He said his name was Scott?”

Jennifer’s eyes closed briefly. “I’ll take it in the bedroom,” Jennifer replied, knowing that statement only dug her a deeper hole, but needing the privacy. She was going to get grilled as soon as she got off the phone. She shifted Alexander so she could get her legs clear of the coffee table. She passed her brother, choosing not to meet his eyes.

In the bedroom she turned on the lamp on the end table. Took a deep breath. Pulling together her nerve, she picked up the phone. “Hi, Scott.”

“I’m sorry, Jennifer. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Jennifer cut him off. “My brother, Peter, and his boys are over. We’re just watching the Monday-night football game.”

“Who’s winning?” She could tell he was relieved.

“The San Diego Chargers. The 49ers can’t execute even a simple screen pass tonight. It’s awful.”

Scott chuckled. “I didn’t know you were a football fan.”

“Monday-night football is something of a tradition at my place,” Jennifer explained.

“I just wanted to call and say hi. I’m just leaving work.”

“Problems?”

“Just a lot of paperwork to catch up on,” Scott replied. “How’s the book coming?”

Jennifer pulled her feet up on the bed to get comfortable. “Good. I wrote twenty pages today.”

“You sound tired.”

Jennifer smiled. Perceptive man. “I am.” She propped the second pillow behind her back.

Scott, at his desk fifteen miles away, quietly tapped his pen against the pad of paper in front of him. He had been doodling her name along the edge of the pad of paper, then finally decided to call her. He swiveled his chair around to look out over the surrounding countryside. The city lights were hazy tonight.

“I’ve got a favor to ask,” he said, having finally made up his mind how to handle the dilemma he found himself in. Having canceled out on taking Twiggy to see the play in order to take Jennifer, he was now on the hook to his sister.

“Name it, Scott.”

“My sister, Heather, wants to meet you. Would you be game after dinner next week to stopping by her place for coffee?”

Jennifer’s memory for certain things was very good. Scott’s comment that Heather was pregnant was still clear in her mind. Could she handle meeting her? Jennifer simply did not know. But to say no would force her to talk about some things she simply was not ready to talk about. She forced a lightness in her voice that she was far from feeling. “That would be fine, Scott.”

“We won’t stay long.” Her hesitancy had not escaped him. “Thanks, Jennifer.” He glanced at his watch, realizing he’d keep her on the phone almost twenty minutes. “I had better let you get back to the game.”

“Thanks for calling.”

He smiled. “I’ll talk to you later, Jennifer. Good night.”

“Good night.” Jennifer set down the phone quietly. It was several minutes more before she got the nerve to venture back to the living room.

Alexander had moved down to stretch out beside his brother.

“The 49ers scored just before the half ended. They are ahead seven to three,” Tom informed her, his gaze never leaving the display of stats being shown during the halftime break.

Jennifer smiled. “Great. Let’s hope they walk all over the Chargers in the second half.” She took her seat again on the floor beside Peter. Peter handed her back her drink.

“Who is he?” Peter asked quietly.

Jennifer knew there was no way to duck the questions. Frankly, it was nice to know Peter was still there to run interference. Even if it was not needed in this case. “A friend. We went out to dinner and a play last Saturday night.”

“Who is he?”

“His name is Scott Williams. He runs an electronics company.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“On the beach when I was taking a walk.” In for a penny, in for a pound. “He fixed me breakfast last time.” It was clear she had thrown him a hard curveball. Jennifer reached over to put her hand on his arm. “Relax, Peter. You would like him. He’s active in his church, single. He’s a nice man. He’s read all the Thomas Bradford books now. We’re friends.”

“You like him a lot?”

Jennifer nodded, surprised with how true the answer was. “Very much.”

“Does he know about Jerry and Colleen?”

Jennifer looked away. “He knows about Jerry,” she replied.

Peter’s hand touched her arm. He offered an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry I’m prying, Jennifer.”

“That’s okay. I’ve been kind of ducking telling you about him.”

“I notice,” Peter replied dryly. “That’s why you couldn’t stay for dinner Saturday?”

She nodded.

Peter gestured toward the other room. “Did he ask you out again?”

Jennifer chuckled. “We already have a date arranged, brother, dear, that was a hi-how-are-you call.”

“It takes half an hour to say hi? You who can’t stand talking on the phone?”

Jennifer thumped him with a pillow pulled off the couch. “Yes. Now lay off,” she ordered with a grin.

“I can’t wait to tell Rachel.”

Jennifer groaned. “Don’t you dare elaborate, Peter. She already suspects something.”

“Have you told Beth yet?”

“Are you kidding? She’d be buying a maid of honor dress within the hour.”

“Face it, Jennifer. You’re surrounded by serious matchmakers.”

“Just don’t you join their numbers,” Jennifer warned.

Peter laughed. “When do I get to meet him?”

“Never,” Jennifer muttered beneath her breath.

“What?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. The second half of the game began, buying her a reprieve. The 49ers finally won the game but it took them until the final few seconds, a field goal giving them a two-point lead.

Alexander was asleep again. Even Tom was nodding off. The caramel popcorn was three-quarters gone, Jennifer and Peter having both begun to work seriously on it during the fourth quarter of the game. Peter got slowly to his feet as the commentators gave the game wrap-up. Jennifer began packing up the remains of the chips and dip and the snack crackers. If they left it with her she would eat it. While her doctor would definitely like her to gain ten pounds, she didn’t think this was what he had in mind. Tom held the sack for her. “Thanks, Tom.”

“Alex, it’s time to go home, son.” Peter gently woke the boy. Alex reluctantly got to his feet. “Who won?”

“The 49ers,” Peter replied. Alex could not keep his eyes open. Peter picked him up. “I’ll be back in a minute, Jennifer. Let me get this one settled in the car.”

Jennifer nodded. “Tom, can you reach the porch light for your father?”

The glasses back on the tray, it took only a couple minutes to put the room back in order. Jennifer carried the tray into the kitchen.

“Thanks for having us, Jennifer.”

She smiled at her brother. “Same time next week?”

He smiled. “Deal. I’ll get Tom to help me make some homemade ice cream.”

Jennifer groaned. “I am so full that doesn’t even sound good.”

Peter looked at the bowl of caramel popcorn. “We did a pretty good job on that,” he agreed. He smiled. “Let me know when you hear from Scott again.”

She pushed him toward the door. “Go home, Peter.”

The phone rang as she was getting ready for bed.

“What’s this I hear about you having a date?”

Jennifer sat down on the bed. “And hello to you too, Rachel.”

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