Not even love can keep her from her dream

Bobbie Molloy’s dream to paint in Florence gave her the strength to battle cancer. Now that she’s recovering, and just weeks away from leaving for Italy, she won’t let anything—or anyone—stop her from making that dream come true. Not even Nate Raleigh.

From the moment he rushes in to save what’s left of her studio—after his young nephews had inadvertently trashed it—next-door neighbor Nate has Bobbie intrigued. Everything about him is complex and endearing: two excellent reasons to keep her distance. She can’t risk getting involved when she’s just passing through. Her dream has kept her alive and it has to come first. No matter what the cost.

He’s gorgeous.

Bobbie could have thoughts like this with the comfortable distance of a woman who didn’t really care. Now that much of the mess was cleaned up and she felt calmer, she could observe Nate with detached interest. Tall, lean, hazel eyes with stubby lashes, nice nose, Saturday-morning stubble around a straight mouth that was a little tight. He didn’t smile much. She was willing to bet he had a dynamite smile when he used it.

She wondered what had happened that his nephews were living with him. He seemed to be good with them, although she sensed an undercurrent of antagonism from the older boy.

She could list Nate’s qualities without a stirring of feminine interest because she had a life plan that didn’t involve a husband and children. She was going to Florence, Italy, to study art. It had been a dream since she was sixteen, and the past year had turned it into an obsession. She was in remission, but she didn’t have forever. She had to go now. The need to make art lived inside her, trying to break out, and she had to follow the masters to study and learn. To find the depths of her talent.

Bobbie watched the three walk across the yard to the big yellow house next door, the man and one of the boys hand in hand, the dog lumbering along beside them. She smiled at the sight.

Nice, but not for her.

Dear Reader,

Hello, again! I’m thrilled to be back at Harlequin. Life took me away for some time, but I’m delighted to return with a book to offer you.

My younger sister, Diane, is a cancer survivor. I thought her very heroic in her battle and when I was asked to come up with an idea for a Harlequin Heartwarming book, her struggle came to mind. Combining her experience with my husband, Ron’s, career as an artist was an easy leap. My hero’s work as a CPA comes from my last seven years as a receptionist in an accounting firm.

So, my heroine wants to travel to Florence to learn about the artist inside her, and my hero has custody of his two little nephews and a business and must stay home. What to do?

Love, of course, will find a solution.

Best wishes to you!

Muriel Jensen

Always Florence

Muriel Jensen

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MURIEL JENSEN

Muriel Jensen and her husband, Ron, live in an old foursquare Victorian looking down on the Columbia River in Astoria, Oregon. They share their home with Cheyenne, a neurotic husky mix, a tabby hoard (there are only two, but they seem like more) and Rosie, a stray cat who’s been coming and going for years and still doesn’t trust them. Muriel says she helps keep alive those complicated inner workings of a mind dealing with a troubled past that is the source of all good plotting!

They have three children, eight grandchildren, four great-grandchildren and a collection of the most interesting and generous friends and neighbors. They feel truly blessed!

To Mike and Suzanne, and the staff at WWC Business Solutions, who kept me employed (and fed!) and Jim Defeo and Tony Danton and the staff at the Astoria Coffee House who provided a port in the storm while my leg was broken.

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

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

“WHAT’S SHE DOING?” Sheamus Raleigh, seven years old, hid with his brother behind a balding rhododendron and watched the woman at work in the garage next to theirs on the shared double driveway.

Dylan, ten, was a little mystified by the very large pot at her feet and the big stick she used to stir whatever was inside. He’d wondered about her since she’d moved in last month, but Uncle Nate said she seemed to want to keep to herself. Sometimes she smiled at them if they were getting into their cars at the same time, but she never spoke or waited to see if they wanted to. His uncle said they’d skip her house when they went trick-or-treating next week. That she had a right to be private if she wanted to.

So they didn’t know why she always wore baggy black clothes and a woolly hat. Or why she always worked in the garage with the door open and kept the car in the driveway. There were strange noises when she worked, and she chanted. Whatever she was doing was probably just weird and not bad, but the chance to mess with Sheamus was too good to pass up.

“That’s a cauldron,” Dylan said, in the knowledgeable tone he used to let his little brother know he was still in charge. He didn’t really feel that way anymore. Nothing was the way it used to be. Their parents were gone. Their uncle, who used to be so cool, now made their lives miserable. And worst of all, Dylan didn’t seem to know things anymore. Before the accident, he’d started to feel he was beginning to understand how being with people worked. Then his parents had died, and now his life was like a big black hole. Unless he was working on one of his experiments, or making Sheamus cry.

His brother deserved to cry. He was afraid of everything. And it wasn’t a world for sissies.

“What’s a cauldron?” Sheamus whispered. He put an arm around Arnold, their uncle’s apricot mastiff mix, who went everywhere with them. They weren’t supposed to be in the neighbor’s yard, but Dylan didn’t care about that. His uncle was always mad at him. Well, not mad exactly, but he acted as if he didn’t understand him. And that was dumb. Adults were supposed to understand kids.

Dylan made a big circle with his arms. “One of those pots witches use to make potions and things.”

Sheamus’s blue eyes were huge. “You mean like on the card Stella gave us? With the bugs and bat wings going into the witch’s pot?”

“Yeah. Just like that. Only this lady’s probably got kid parts in there, too.”

Sheamus’s eyes got wider. “What kids?”

“I don’t know. Kids she kidnapped and locked in her house.”

Sheamus stood up, getting panicky. Arnold got up with him. Dylan’s plan was starting to work. He felt a twinge of guilt, but it was easy to get past that. Sheamus had blond hair like their mom and his eyes were the same color hers had been. It was easy to hate him.

He yanked his brother back down again. Arnold stood poised for action. “It’s all right. She won’t want you. Only brave kids go into the pot, because the potions are to make big things happen. Like explosions and lightning. It doesn’t work with fraidy kids.”

Sheamus’s eyes brimmed with tears and his lip quivered. Dylan knew his brother was curious to know what the woman was doing, but too afraid to find out. He pointed to the big bush at the edge of the driveway, very near the garage. “Let’s go get a closer look.”

“No!” Sheamus tried to grab his arm, but Dylan shook him off. He waited until the woman leaned the stirring stick against the pot and turned to get a glass of something red from a shelf behind her. Then he covered the distance in a military crouch.

Unfortunately, at the same moment a big orange cat leaped onto the shelf near the woman’s drink. Uncle Nate said mastiffs were usually lazy, but Arnold was half Labrador retriever, and Labs never missed an opportunity to cause trouble.

Arnold leaped for the cat with an excited bark. The woman fell back against the shelf and screamed. The red drink flew, the cat screeched and the sound of tumbling lumber filled the air as woman and shelf crumpled together. Dylan heard Sheamus run for the house, yelling for their uncle.

He should have run, too, but he was stunned by how much destruction that one leap had caused. Before he could plot his escape, he was hauled to his feet by a hand that wasn’t much bigger than his, but very strong. The hat had come off the woman’s head and the red stuff was running down her face. She had brown eyes that looked mad.

Great. He was probably facing another night without his Game Boy when his uncle heard about this.

* * *

NATE RALEIGH PACKED the dishwasher and thought back to what Saturday mornings used to be like, back in the Portland Pearl District. Actually, he’d slept through them, because Friday nights had been all about dating and the Brody Theater, dinner at the Park Kitchen and friends going back with him to his condo looking over the river.

Saturdays hadn’t begun for him until lunch at the Dovetail Bakery with a client who had some payroll or accounting issue that couldn’t wait until Monday. He’d prided himself on being able to resolve them, or if not, he’d mull over possible solutions with his brother. Ben always had an answer.

God, Nate missed him. And not just as a partner at Raleigh and Raleigh Accounting Services. Mostly he wished his brother was here to tell him how to deal with his boys....

Ben had been two years older than Nate and the kind of kid, and then man, who seemed to know instinctively what to do about everything. Of course, it had been more than instinct. In school, he’d studied all the time and done extra work because he found everything about accounting and finance exciting.

As an adult, his gift in the field had taken their small tax-return business in a strip mall to the fourth floor of an elegant downtown Portland office complex, where they offered a multitude of accounting and estate planning services. They eventually opened an Astoria office on the Columbia River and two more down the coast.

Pain stabbed at Nate. As an anniversary gift, he’d given Ben and Sherrie the charter fishing excursion that had ultimately taken their lives. Guilt, combined with a terrible loneliness and a dark anger he couldn’t shake, were braided into a sort of barbed-wire band around his chest.

He had to fight his way through every day. He usually managed to put the pain and loneliness aside, but the anger was always there. That was the hardest to deal with. He’d been the cheerful Raleigh, the charmer, the one who saw the upside of life.

Now he was mad all the time. He understood the source of his anger, but seemed powerless to overcome it. He was mad at Ben for dying, mad at himself for having given him a gift that placed him in harm’s way and not knowing how to cope with that, and mad at the boys because they reminded him of Ben and him all those years ago.

He was able to live day to day without yelling at everyone, but suppressing the inclination was exhausting. He didn’t know what to do about it, so he just kept going—sad, mad and, much as he hated to admit it, a little lost.

Nate added soap to the dishwasher, let the door close with a slam, and set the dial. “Suck it up, buttercup,” he told himself.

Saturday nights, he recalled, continuing to torture himself, had pretty much been the same as Fridays, but Sundays had been about football at Fernhill Park, then pizza and beer at Mississippi Pizza.

Now, Stella Bristol prepared most of their meals. She was Hunter Bristol’s mother. Hunter had helped run the Astoria office of Raleigh and Raleigh with Ben before Nate had given Ben and Sherrie the charter boat trip to celebrate their thirteenth wedding anniversary. They’d met aboard a similar boat fifteen years previously. Nate had volunteered to stay with the boys so that his brother and sister-in-law could enjoy a romantic dinner and watch the sunrise as they’d done the night they met.

Instead, a sudden squall and the captain’s belated decision to return to port had resulted in the loss of the boat and everyone aboard. One of the witnesses to the sinking had said that Ben dived under the boat over and over, presumably in search of Sherrie, and finally just didn’t come up again.

Nate stayed with the boys in their home and took his brother’s place in the Astoria office. And the life he’d known was gone forever.

That was all right. He knew his nephews had lost far more than he had, but the life he’d led had not prepared him for the life he’d inherited.

The accident happened to coincide with Stella’s recovery from hip replacement surgery, and a desire to find useful work. She had no nanny experience, but she’d kept house and raised children. Nate figured that qualified her.

He just wished he felt more comfortable in his position as stand-in father. He’d gotten along so well with the boys when he’d simply been their uncle. Now that he had to make rules, they didn’t like him. Stella reminded him over and over that parenthood wasn’t a popularity contest, but he could see grief in their young eyes and hated the knowledge that he seemed to exaggerate it rather than relieve it. He strove to keep the anger he struggled with himself out of his voice and his touch, but in the end the boys had their own anger issues to deal with.

He awoke every morning determined to do better that day. Usually, he was shot down by 10:00 a.m. Either he got in the way of one of Dylan’s MythBusters-wannabe experiments that was eventually going to kill them all, or Sheamus burst into tears because Nate sent him back upstairs to get his jacket before letting him out to play. Sheamus was convinced there was a monster in his bedroom closet.

They’d at least reached a temporary solution for the monster issue by putting Sheamus’s jacket in the downstairs closet.

Nate picked up toy cars and trucks off the living room floor and was about to put them in a big wooden box next to the fireplace when he heard Sheamus’s shrill shout: “Uncle Na-a-ate!”

It had taken Nate a month in his role as guardian to realize that the boys’ bloodcurdling shouts didn’t necessarily mean death or dismemberment. They might just want a banana or a pudding pop. So he dropped the toy vehicles carefully into the box and was heading for the kitchen when the door burst open and Sheamus appeared. His blond hair stood up in spikes. His blue eyes were filled with terror.

He pointed a grimy finger in the direction of the backyard. “The witch’s got them!” he said breathlessly, his bony chest heaving under his Seattle Mariners sweatshirt. To add emphasis, he grabbed Nate’s arm and pulled him toward the door. “Hurry!”

“What witch?” Nate drew Sheamus back to him, then got down on one knee. “And got who?”

“The witch next door! Dylan and Arnold! She’s not just a lady, she’s a witch! And she’s stirring a pot with bat wings and spiders and feet from little kids!”

Nate felt a familiar exasperation at his younger nephew’s never-ending terrors. A four-letter word sprang to his lips, but his one success since moving in with the boys was that he’d cleaned up his language.

He caught the weeping seven-year-old by the hand, slapped the back door open and headed across the yard, ready to put an end to this latest fear.

“See!” Sheamus pointed to the little tableau near their neighbor’s garage. The woman, who never spoke to anyone, had Dylan by the arm and was leaning over him, her expression angry.

Nate stopped Sheamus at the edge of their property, dropped his hand and told him not to move, then covered the distance to Dylan and their neighbor in three long strides. He circled the woman’s wrist with his thumb and forefinger, pulled her hand from Dylan and moved the boy behind him.

“Is there a problem?” He tried to sound reasonable, but Dylan looked worried and Nate’s protective instincts flared.

The woman looked up at him in surprise and opened her mouth to speak. No sound came out for a moment, giving him time to study her. She’d been an enigma for the four weeks she’d been here.

She was usually dressed in a baggy black sweatshirt over skinny black pants, and he hadn’t realized until now how slight she was, how pale. It was the first time he’d seen her without a hat pulled down to her eyebrows. Her hair was very short, very dark and all tight little curls. Something red and sticky covered her face, but the overall impression she made was one of fragility.

This was the first time he’d been close enough to look into her eyes. They were wide and brown, with a whole range of emotions he no longer felt qualified to analyze. He’d once prided himself on a respectable knowledge of women, but he hadn’t spent much time with any since he’d moved in with the boys. And he was angry about everything, anyway. As he recalled, women preferred good-natured men.

He did think he saw fear in her velvety gaze, and realizing he still held her wrist in a firm grip, he let it drop. Whatever had happened, he’d be willing to bet his season tickets to the Timbers that it was Dylan’s fault. He handed her a tissue from the wad he’d started keeping in his pocket. “I’m sorry,” he said. “What’s the problem here?”

* * *

BOBBIE MOLLOY ACCEPTED the tissue with a grudging “thank you” and a scolding glance at the dark-haired boy. “It’s not a problem, exactly.” As she wiped her face, her fingertips brushed the fine hair on her head. She looked around for her hat and found it on the ground, covered in grass and raspberry-hibiscus tea. She tossed it at a small table—the only thing nearby that hadn’t been overturned.

“Your son was spying on me,” she explained, “and your pony destroyed several days’ work and tried to kill my cat.” She indicated the collapsed shelf behind her, most of the tools and supplies it had held now floating in her pot of paper pulp. Monet, her orange tabby, looked down on them from the top of the oil tank against the wall, tail swishing. Below him, the giant dog with its black muzzle and wide mouth, black tongue lolling, studied the cat.

Bobbie looked over the destruction. Stress was her enemy, so she drew several steadying breaths. To be fair, the man Sandy had told her was new to the neighborhood—almost as new as her—appeared to be as frustrated as she felt.

And he was looking at her hair. It had grown back to at least cover her scalp in a cap of tight curls, and her eyebrows were back. She looked better than she had a couple months ago, but the glossy, shoulder-length hair in her art school graduation photo was a thing of the past. Worse, she knew her face showed the wear and tear of chemotherapy and radiation.

She hated that she cared. Cancer survival, and life in general, were all about what you had inside, not what adorned you outside. But she’d never get over her love of clothes and makeup and all things girlie. Though she was an artist and wore grubbies when she worked, she loved to dress up. In the past, that had earned her admiring looks, but these days it was easy for others to see what she was dealing with. Most men took an unconscious step back. Cancer was scary stuff. No one wanted to be near it if they could help it.

This man, though, stood his ground. It was entirely possible he hadn’t figured it out yet. Sandy had told her she had a handsome, single neighbor and Bobbie had told her she didn’t want to hear anymore. Sandy had tried to add interesting details but Bobbie had refused to listen. He called the dog to him, told him “sit!” and patted his head.

“I’m sorry. Arnie is very big and can’t help making a mess. But he wouldn’t hurt a flea.” Her neighbor turned slightly to catch the arm of the boy he’d placed protectively behind him and pulled him forward. “This is Dylan. He’s fascinated by everything. I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm.” He gave the boy a firm look. “But it isn’t polite to spy on people. Please apologize.”

Dylan folded his arms. “She was chanting while she was stirring,” he said. “People who aren’t witches don’t usually do that, do they?”

Chanting. Bobbie had to think about that a minute. Then she realized what he must have heard, and had to laugh. “Okay, I don’t have a great voice. But I was singing to ABBA.”

“Who?”

“ABBA,” the man repeated for her. “Remember when Stella made us watch Mamma Mia for her birthday? The movie about the wedding in Greece and all the singing?” When the boy winced and nodded, he explained, “That was music by a group called ABBA. They’re from Sweden.”

“Weird name.”

“Yeah. There are four members and I think it’s their first initials. About the apology...”

Dylan complied. “I’m sorry.” Then he added to Bobbie, as though it was important, “I’m not his son. I’m his nephew.”

“Oh.” She’d been watching them come and go for the past month and assumed they were father and sons. She hadn’t noticed a woman, except for the older housekeeper. “I just assumed...”

The man extended his hand. “I’m Nate Raleigh,” he said.

“Bobbie Molloy,” she replied.

Seeing the handshake, the younger boy apparently felt it was safe to come closer. He hid behind his uncle’s arm and pointed to the garage. “What’s in there?”

“This is Sheamus,” Nate said. “I’m sure he wants to apologize, too.”

She smiled at the boy and made a conscious effort to be understanding. “Hi, Sheamus. That’s my studio. I’m an artist.”

“You paint pictures?” Dylan asked.

“Sometimes. Other times I use clay and sculpt things. Right now I’m making paper.” She pointed ruefully at the mess behind her. “I’d show you, but I think I’m going to have to start over.”

Sheamus looked confused. “You’re supposed to buy paper in the store.”

He had a pinched little face and the most beautiful light blue eyes. His brother was darker featured, like his uncle. And there was nothing pinched about him. He gave an impression of energy and attitude.

She gestured to the boys to follow her to the pot, where she pulled out pieces of shelving that had fallen into her soaking pulp. They dripped with the mucky grayish mixture, and she put them aside on newspaper she’d spread earlier to protect the garage floor.

She took the old oar she used for stirring and swept it through the contents. “This is paper pulp, and I stir it and sort of beat it with this to break it down. It’s made of linter and...” She saw that she was losing them and backed up. “It’s stuff we get from a cotton plant, and when I mix it with water and do a few things to it, it makes beautiful paper. That’s how they used to make it in the old days. When it’s ready, I dry it on a rack.” She moved over to show them a sheet that was already drying. Fortunately, the flying debris had missed it and the precious, specially made frame it was drying on.

“But this isn’t the old days,” Dylan said. “Why do you do it this way?”

“Because I have a commission,” she replied, her spirits buoyed a little as she talked about it. “I make this special paper and paint a saying on it, then put it in a frame.”

Sheamus looked up at his uncle. “What’s a commission?”

“When somebody hires an artist to make a special picture, that’s called a commission. And when the work is done, the artist is paid.”

Dylan asked, “Artists don’t always get paid?”

“Sometimes artists make things they think people will like and put them in a gallery—that’s a place where they sell artwork. The artist only gets paid if somebody buys it. And then he or she shares the money with the gallery.”

“Who hired you?” Dylan asked Bobbie.

“A law office in Astoria. A friend of mine from college works there. She showed them something I made for her birthday, and they hired me to do four pieces for their conference room.”

Dylan looked around at the mess. “So, you won’t get paid until this is finished?”

“Right.” She appreciated the distress on his face and felt herself begin to relax a little. “But I know this was an accident. I have one big piece in the house that’s already dry, and I’ve got one piece drying here that seems okay. I’ll do the calligraphy on those while I’m getting more pulp ready. It’ll work out all right.”

“Calligraphy?”

“It’s like painting words, only you do it with a pen with special tips instead of a brush.”

“Well, we’re going to help you clean this up.” Nate pushed up the sleeves of his plain gray sweatshirt. “Come on, guys.” He pointed the dog to a spot on the lawn. “Stay, Arnold.” He turned to Bobbie, all business. “Where’s your garbage can?”

“You don’t have to clean up. I...”

He wasn’t listening. He went to the side of the garage, then peered inside and saw the can at the back. He stepped carefully over the rubble and carried the can out to the grass. “You separate what has to go from what can be fixed. We can replace that shelving for you.”

She got down on her knees and began to sort through the broken earthenware pots and saucers, the rusty tools, the old army blankets she used for her paper press. “Thanks, but I can put up new shelves. Most artists worth the name are carpenters, too. Otherwise we spend a fortune on stretchers and frames.”

“But you didn’t break it, so you shouldn’t have to fix it. And Dylan’s pretty good.”

As his uncle began tossing into the can the things she put aside, Dylan looked surprised, then pleased by the compliment. But his pleasure showed for only a moment. He bent over the broken shelf. “We have boards left from a bookshelf we made for Uncle Nate’s room.” He turned to him. “Can we use those?”

“Go ahead,” Nate said. He looked Dylan in the eye. “Nothing fancy, okay? No power tools. Those boards should be just the right size, but measure them against the old one. If anything needs cutting, call me.”

Dylan picked up two pieces of a broken shelf and headed off to the basement entrance at the side of their house.

Bobbie wondered if trusting the boy to do as he was told might be a stretch after what she’d experienced, but she was sure his uncle knew the risk. He watched Dylan head off, mild concern pleating the spot between his eyebrows.

“You can go with him,” she suggested as she dropped a rag into the can. “Sheamus and I can take care of this.”

Nate shook his head. “No. Dylan would hate that. I put the power saw away after he cut my workbench in two on his last unapproved project, so he’ll be okay.” He turned his attention to Sheamus and nudged him with his elbow. “I’m not finding any kid feet, are you?”

Bobbie reached for the broom and turned, certain she’d misheard them. “What? Kid feet?”

Sheamus looked into the pot of now brown, mucky pulp, then smiled up at her. “Dylan told me you were a witch and that you were making a... I forgot the word. It’s the stuff that a witch has in her big pot and it makes explosions and lightning and loud noises.”

“A potion?” Bobbie guessed.

“Yeah. And he said you put bats and bugs and parts of little kids in it.”

Bobbie was aghast. She hadn’t spent that much time with children, except for the few she’d met when she had her treatments, and they were, sadly, very adult. She was startled by what went on in the minds of little boys.

“I promise I’m not a witch,” she told Sheamus seriously. “That was probably pretty scary for you to think that.”

He shrugged a small shoulder. “Dylan said you wouldn’t take me, because only brave kids would work.”

She saw his uncle straighten up from the trash can and frown. “You ran to get help when you thought your brother was in trouble,” he said, patting the little boy’s head. “That was brave. Come on and help me clean off this table. Grab that brush and dustpan.” He pointed to the ancient set propped in a corner that had been in the garage when she moved in.

After salvaging what she could, Bobbie went inside and put half the brownies she’d made that morning into a freezer bag, and took it out to Nate and Sheamus. They were placing the lid on the trash can. The garage floor was remarkably clean. Nate carried the can back to where he’d found it.

“What do you want to do with the ruined pulp?” he asked, peering into the pot. All kinds of dust, shavings and debris were now mixed in its murky contents.

“I’ve got an old plastic bucket with a lid.” She pointed to a shelf above the oil tank. Nate reached up to bring it down. “If you can pour it into that and put the lid on, I’ll keep it for later. It might still be useful for something.”

Sheamus helped him replace the lid, then he put it in a corner, out of the way.

“Thank you for cleaning up,” she said, handing Sheamus the bag.

The boy looked thrilled. “Brownies!” Arnold sniffed interestedly.

Nate dusted his hands on his jeans and thanked her. “Brownies are something all of us agree on. But I’m not sure you should be giving gifts to the kids who caused the damage.”

He’s gorgeous, she thought with the comfortable distance of a woman who didn’t really care. Now that much of the mess was cleaned up and she felt calmer, she could observe him with detached interest. Tall, lean, hazel eyes with stubby lashes, nice nose, Saturday morning stubble around a straight mouth that was a little tight. He didn’t smile much. She was willing to bet he had a dynamite smile when he used it.

She wondered what had happened that his nephews were living with him. He seemed to be good with them, though she sensed an undercurrent of antagonism with the older boy.

She could list Nate Raleigh’s qualities without a stirring of feminine interest because she had a life plan that didn’t involve a husband and children. She was going to Florence, Italy, to study art. It had been a dream since she was sixteen, and the last year had made it an obsession. She was in remission, but she didn’t have forever. Follicular non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma was less aggressive than the B-cell form, but it was a lifelong disease. She had to go now. The need to make art lived inside her like the creature in Alien, and was always trying to break out. She had to go to the birthplace of classical European art. She wanted to study and learn, to find the depths of her talent.

She offered her hand again. “I’m happy to share. It was nice to meet all of you.”

“Again, we apologize for destroying your work.” He shook her hand. “We’ll bring the shelves over soon. Is there anything else we can do before we go?”

“No, I’m good.”

“I’m glad you didn’t have kid feet in there,” Sheamus said.

She pinched his chin. “Me, too. They would have looked awful sticking out of my paper.”

Sheamus laughed infectiously.

Bobbie watched them walk across the yard to the big yellow Craftsman-style house next door, the man and the boy hand in hand, the dog lumbering along beside them. She smiled at the sight.

Nice, but not for her.

CHAPTER TWO

NATE LOOKED THROUGH the rack of Halloween costumes, spotted the bright red and blue, and triumphantly pulled out Spider-Man. They’d been to four stores, found Dylan’s Iron Man right away, but had been searching all afternoon for Sheamus’s choice. Everyone was now tired and grumpy.

Certain this find would change the mood, Nate was surprised when he held up the costume and turned around, only to discover Sheamus close to tears—again. Nate drew a breath for patience.

“I thought you wanted to be Spider-Man.”

“I want the one with the muscles.” Nate looked to Dylan for help. Dylan, holding the bag with his own costume in a death grip, reached up to a shelf of masks for a skull with a rubber snake crawling out of the mouth. “Would you lend me a hand here, please? What is Sheamus talking about?”

Dylan rolled his eyes, clearly disdainful of his uncle’s ignorance. “Some of the superhero costumes have built-in muscles. They’re more expensive.”

“Built-in muscles,” Nate repeated under his breath. What he needed was built-in patience and endurance.

A smiling older clerk gave him a sympathetic look. “Musclemen are over there.” She pointed to a long rack across the floor. A half dozen parents and children were rummaging through it.

Sheamus ran in that direction. Dylan shook his head. “He’s not going to be able to reach it. Then he’ll start crying again.”

“Why don’t you go help him,” Nate suggested, nerves frayed after the grueling afternoon, “instead of making fun of him?”

“Because he’s such a baby!”

Nate directed him toward Sheamus, who was already being pushed aside by older kids. “You find things hard sometimes, and he’s a lot younger than you are. You should try giving him a hand rather than telling him the neighbor is a witch who collects body parts of little kids.”

“Who’d believe that, anyway?”

“He’s seven, Dylan. And he’s scared.”

“So? Isn’t everybody scared?”

The profound question stopped Nate in his tracks, but the frantic shoving going on at the rack precluded a discussion. And Dylan had already wandered away, looking as though he regretted that admission.

Nate spotted all the red-and-blue costumes hung together, and reached for a small one at the same moment that a beautiful, pregnant young woman did. Prepared to fight her for it no matter how bad it made him look, he was relieved when she grasped another size instead. He yanked the small outfit off the rack and got down on one knee to hold it up against Sheamus. Stitched to create the appearance of muscles across the torso and along the arms, the costume brought a smile to the boy’s face. Sheamus wrapped his arms around Nate’s neck. “Thanks, Uncle Nate! We got it!”

“Great. Now we have to get candy for the trick-or-treaters.”

“How can we give out candy?” Dylan asked. “Aren’t we going to be at the Monster Bash?”

“Stella’s going to stay until we get back,” he said.

Nate cringed inwardly at the thought of the event. The city-sponsored Halloween celebration held in a Parks and Recreation building was intended to keep children safe while letting them enjoy a ghoulish experience. He heard it was an ordeal for parents, who often commiserated with each other about having to go.

There was a brief discussion over the merits of mini chocolate bars, small boxes of licorice and sour candy. Nate bought several bags of each.

“Can we get something to drink?” Dylan asked at the checkout. “I’m thirsty.”

“Sure.” Nate pictured a tall gin and tonic, but led the boys to the Starbucks on the other side of the store. “We shoulda brought the brownies with us,” Sheamus said on the drive home. “They would taste good with this.”

Nate found the boy’s reflection in the rearview mirror. Sheamus drew on the straw of his smoothie so hard that his thin cheeks sucked in. “We can have them for dessert tonight. Stella left us mac and cheese for dinner.”

Dylan grumbled. “She’s a really good cook, but I like the mac and cheese in the box better.” Then he asked seriously and without warning, “Do you think Bobbie had cancer?”

His older nephew’s out-of-the-blue observations never failed to surprise Nate. Mostly because they were usually on target.

“Her hair looks like a man’s. And she looks kind of like she has a bad cold. You know what I mean?”

Nate knew exactly what Dylan meant. Their neighbor had beautiful eyes, but they were a little soupy, as though she wasn’t quite well. And he, too, had wondered about her hair.

“Yes, I do. But we shouldn’t mention it unless she does.”

“She’s kind of skinny,” Sheamus contributed. “But I like her. We should have her over for dinner sometime. When Stella makes that Mexican stuff with the chicken and the corn chips.”

“Mexican chicken casserole.” Nate nodded. “I like that, too. But Bobbie has a lot of work to do. Especially after what happened today.” He let that hang in the air a moment for guilt effect. It was probably bad parenting, but he was just an ignorant bachelor pressed into service.

“She could come on game night,” Dylan suggested. Nate studied the boy, wondering why his nephew suddenly seemed keen on the woman. Could it have been the brownies? “When Hunter comes over to watch our big TV.”

Hunter had lost his own accounting business when his office manager embezzled from him, then disappeared. Hunter had liquidated all his assets to pay creditors and his employees, then moved into the Grand Apartments with a few pieces of furniture he’d saved, and an old television he’d bought at Goodwill. He loved coming over to watch big games and play-offs on Nate’s plasma TV.

“We’ll see how it goes.” Their neighbor had kindly given them brownies, but he couldn’t imagine she’d want any more to do with them.

“I don’t think she has a husband.” That was from Sheamus, who thought Nate needed a wife. Nate had explained over and over that he had more than he could handle with the two of them and the business, but the boys’ mother had been a wonderful, warm, funny woman, and Sheamus was trying hard to put those qualities back into his life. He didn’t realize that not all women were like Sherrie.

“I didn’t see a ring.” That was from Dylan, who enjoyed stirring things up.

“She could have a boyfriend.” Nate paused to sip at his coffee and thought longingly of that gin and tonic. “There’s no way of knowing that.”

“If she isn’t married to him,” Dylan said, “it doesn’t matter. She’s still available.”

“That’s a big word.”

“I’m a smart kid.”

“I don’t know. A smart kid would stop annoying me by trying to get me married off.”

Dylan met his eyes in the mirror, smiled grudgingly and the subject was dropped.

Nate pulled into their driveway, congratulating himself on a day that had turned out better than it had begun. He’d made peace with their neighbor, found the right costume for Sheamus and had a conversation with the boys that hadn’t ended in tears or with Dylan stomping away.

And they had brownies. All in all, a successful afternoon.

* * *

BOBBIE DUNKED AN English Breakfast tea bag into the hot water in her favorite pink mug and picked up her ringing phone. The caller ID read Molloy, D. J. She prepared herself to lie through her teeth.

“Hi, Dad!” she said cheerfully, carrying her tea to the kitchen table and sitting down. Monet leaped onto the table and rubbed against her face. He smelled of fabric softener. He’d been sleeping on top of the dryer again. She pulled him onto her lap. “How are you doing? How’s the arthritis?”

“Under control.” His voice was deep and gentle. It had soothed many a patient in his long career as a general practitioner. He was retired now, and Bobbie’s health had become his focus. “I’m taking my glucosamine chondroitin and getting my exercise. How are you? Still thinking the move to Astoria was a good idea?”

When she’d left Los Angeles to come here, she’d had a hard time convincing him she’d be fine on her own. He’d watched over her treatment, moved in with her to manage her recovery, and hovered over her with suggestions about diet and exercise until she knew she had to get away. Not just for herself, but for the single women in Whittier, California, who were interested in him but had taken a backseat to his daughter’s illness and recovery. Bobbie wanted him to reconnect with his own life so that she could go to Florence with a clear conscience.

The commission from Sandy Evans’s office had come at the perfect moment. Bobbie could have completed it in Whittier, but the lease was up on her apartment and she didn’t want to sign another one, or move in with her father. When she’d explained her predicament to Sandy, her friend had offered her the monthly rental of this tiny two-bedroom in Astoria that she’d inherited from her aunt. The selling point had been the two-car garage that Bobbie used as a studio for messy papermaking.

“I love it here,” she said. That was true. The hilly old neighborhoods with their turn-of-the-twentieth-century homes were wonderful for walking, collecting leaves and flower petals, and enjoying beautiful vistas. Even in tightly built areas there was the occasional empty lot where she could see the broad Columbia River and the Washington hills on the other side. “I walk all the time and the air smells of wood smoke and pine.”

“Mmm. That sounds heavenly.”

Encouraged by his approval, she went on, stroking the cat as she talked. “Sometimes, on the river walk, which is this wonderful paved strip that runs a couple of miles right along the water, you get a whiff of fish and diesel because of the fishing boats, but I’ve come to love that, too. It’s a very lively, working waterfront.”

“Are you getting acquainted with anyone? You’re not just spending all your time working in your studio and walking alone, are you?”

“I am meeting people,” she fibbed. “Of course, I have to spend a lot of time on the commission, but Sandy has introduced me to her friends.” Bobbie hesitated a moment. That was a big lie. Sandy was a single mother with two little girls and a full-time job. She was always working for one worthy project or another, and barely had time to go to the bathroom, much less party with friends. But Bobbie’s father must have lost the lie-detector skills he’d had when she was in high school, so she forged on. “And just today, I met my neighbors. Well, I’ve seen them come and go, but there hasn’t really been time to talk until this morning, when Nate and the boys came over.”

“And his wife?”

“Nate’s a single dad. Well, an uncle, actually, and I’m not sure what happened, but his two nephews live with him.”

“Really.”

She heard it in her dad’s voice. Speculation on the possibilities.

“I’m not getting married, Dad,” she stated quickly, firmly. “I explained it all to you. A couple of times, as I recall. I’m going to Florence in January.”

“Did I say anything?” He sounded innocent and a little injured.

“You didn’t have to. I can read it in your voice.”

“Hmm. New skills acquired through chemotherapy, no doubt. Because in the past, you’ve always heard my voice, but I’ve never noticed that you listened to it.”

“Ha, ha. Very cute. I’ll be thirty in February. It’s time I did what I was born to do.”

“We’re born to love and be loved,” he said gently.

She agreed. “We are, but I love Michelangelo, Tintoretto, Monet, Renoir, Giacometti.... And when I see their work, it’s as though they love me back.”

She heard her dad draw a breath, and knew he wanted to take issue with that, but he changed the subject instead.

“I’m coming to see you,” he announced abruptly.

Oh, God, no. It had been hard enough to pull away from him once—for him and for her. It would be awful to have to do it again.

“I thought you were going to come and visit when I get to Florence.” Her voice sounded high and a little strained. At least that way she’d have made it to Italy.

“Well, I want to visit you there, too. But I thought we should spend Thanksgiving together. I know it’d be too hard for you to come here, so I’ll come up there. I got a new van, did I tell you that? Actually, it’s new to me but a couple of years old. I can throw all my stuff in the back, a sleeping bag, and be gone at a moment’s notice.”

“No, you didn’t tell me. And...wow.” Her attempt at excitement fell a little short.

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not.” She answered quickly, decisively. She couldn’t hurt his feelings. The cat looked up at her, as though sensing her ambivalence. “It’ll be fun. When will you be here?”

“How about the Monday or Tuesday before Thanksgiving?”

“Perfect.” She just had to make sure her commission was completed so she could show him around. She could do this.

“Great.” She could hear the smile in his voice and was glad she’d made him happy. Then he added with a sudden burst of speed, “I’ll stay through Christmas, then we can say goodbye.”

She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together to prevent anything he wouldn’t want to hear from coming out. Through Christmas? He’d done that deliberately. He’d been a very astute father and he’d always read her like a book. He knew she wanted to be on her own to prepare herself for Florence. Leaving family and friends behind was difficult, but she was desperate to do this, so she’d started with the move to Astoria. And now he was doing his best to foil her plans.

He didn’t want her to go. He’d been clear about that more than once. He considered her still too delicate to be on her own in a foreign country with what some considered less sophisticated medical options. Or—she had to face this—he was afraid she’d die there and he’d never see her again.

But she felt sure she had time. She didn’t have forever, but she wanted to spend all the time she did have stretching the artist in her to the furthest reaches of her talent. And she couldn’t do that with her father’s arms around her. Or a husband’s.

She ramped up the cheer in her voice. “That’ll be fun, Dad. I’ll love showing you around. This is the most beautiful place, everywhere you look.”

He expelled a breath. Relief, she guessed. “Good. Good, Bobbie. I’ll see you in about a month.”

“Okay, Dad.”

“Okay. I love you, baby.”

“Love you, too, Dad. See you soon.”

“Bye.”

She turned off the phone and growled and stamped her foot. Monet jumped down and meowed in protest. Bobbie stroked him with the sole of her shoe. She wanted to cry, but she didn’t let herself do that anymore. It was a waste of energy and she had too much to do.

She could do this. She could walk into her father’s embrace one more time and be able to let him go at the end of it. She just hoped he could do the same.

She sipped at her tea and carried the cup to the second bedroom, where she had a drafting table and her paints and inks. She put her cup safely out of the way and leaned over the piece she was working on. A quote from Oliver Wendell Holmes about dying with one’s music unsung was partially complete. It was going well. She wouldn’t say that aloud, of course, because it had a way of jinxing a project, but she could admit to being happy with her progress.

She had just pulled her stool into position when there was a rhythmic knock on the front door. Sandy. “Come in!” Bobbie shouted.

Tall and red-haired and just a little plump, Sandy Evans breezed into the room in jeans and a short, pumpkin-colored jacket. Her two little girls, Adalyn—Addie—and Zoey, were with her. Three and four respectively, they were fair-haired like the father, who’d walked away after Addie was born, claiming to be overwhelmed.

Sandy didn’t know what the word meant. She worked full-time as an office manager, was completely devoted to her daughters and still found time for community involvement. She made Bobbie feel like a slug.

She dropped a white paper bag on Bobbie’s table, then came around to look over her shoulder at the artwork. She was distracted for an instant when Zoey reached out to touch a jar of paintbrushes. “Hands in your pockets, girls,” she said. “No touching. This is all important stuff to Aunt Bobbie, and we don’t want to break anything.”

Leaning over Bobbie’s shoulder, she breathed an “Oh!” of approval. “That’s going to be gorgeous!” She pointed a pumpkin-painted fingernail at a pale blue flower petal in the paper. “What is that?”

“I dried hydrangea, and took one of the petals.” She indicated another spot. “That’s a hawthorn leaf. And that longer yellow petal is from a forsythia I saved from the spring.”

Sandy gave her shoulders a squeeze. “You are so clever. And that’s what I came to talk to you about.”

Bobbie opened the white bag. Sandy had brought a berry scone from the Astoria Coffee House downtown, one of Bobbie’s favorite indulgences.

She looked up at her friend suspiciously. “Thank you, but what do you want from me that requires a bribe?” The girls came closer at the possibility of treats. “Can I give them a bite?”

“Just a little one.”

Bobbie broke off two chunks and offered them to the girls, who accepted greedily. Then she tore one off for herself.

“Astor School needs someone to help with a couple of art classes for the lower grades. The budget for that kind of thing is gone this year. Would you do it?” Sandy waited expectantly.

“How do you know they need someone? Your kids aren’t even in school yet.”

“My boss is on the school board, and our office is donating supplies if we can find a teacher.”

“But I’m here only until January.”

“Holidays are when the kids get restless, and art gives them something fun to focus on. What do you think?”

“Sure. I guess.” She wanted to help, but wasn’t certain she was qualified. “I don’t know a lot about teaching children. I suppose I can find projects on the internet.”

Sandy opened the big tote she carried as a purse. A sock monkey wearing a tutu and ballet shoes tumbled out as she withdrew a large paperback. She held it up. The title was Holiday Art Projects for Elementary Grades. She handed it to Bobbie, while Zoey rushed to rescue her ballerina monkey.

“Thank you.” Bobbie flipped through the book. The projects were simple and she’d seen them before, but that was probably good for children. Maybe she could handle this.

“So, you’ll do it?”

“What’s the schedule?”

“Once a week, Friday mornings, ten to eleven-thirty—until the kids get out for Christmas break.”

“I’m still working on the pieces for your office, remember.”

A wave of Sandy’s hand dismissed that as a problem. “I know you to be brilliant. You’ll get it all done. And what’s an hour and a half a week?”

Bobbie hadn’t intended to get this involved in her temporary residence, but she remembered how exciting her art periods had been in grade school. She liked the thought of providing that sense of fun and discovery to kids. And her father would love knowing she was spending time away from her studio.

“Okay, I’ll do it. Should I call the teacher?”

“I put her name, number and email on the bookmark.” Sandy indicated where it protruded from the book. “She’ll be thrilled. Great! Okay, girls.” Bobbie’s friend shepherded her daughters toward the door. “Can we come by and trick-or-treat?”

She got up to walk them out. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t. In fact, I made you something to put on your front porch.”

The three followed her into the kitchen, where she retrieved a medium-size pumpkin sporting a cat face. She’d cut off the top and cleaned out the seeds, then carved part of the eyes and nose. With a special tool, she’d removed only the orange skin and thinned out the pumpkin flesh in a few places, defining the cat’s features so that a candle would shine through. The cat had a whimsical expression, wide eyes, whiskers, and a tongue protruding from his scalloped mouth. She’d placed a flameless candle inside and turned it on to demonstrate.

The girls giggled and squealed. Bobbie felt as fulfilled as if she’d sold a 24” x 36” oil on canvas.

She pointed to two smaller pumpkins she’d made with less interesting faces, but that she’d drilled to hold a wire loop. She held one up in each hand. “Or do you like these better? You can hang them in the tree in the front yard.”

The girls both voted on the cat pumpkin.

“Okay. I’ll carry it out to the car for you.”

Sandy strapped the girls into their car seats, but there was great protest when she tried to put the pumpkin in the trunk.

“If I set it on the seat between you,” Sandy explained, “it might fall over when we go down the hill.”

Logic didn’t sway them. Bobbie ran into the open garage, found a box the right size and placed the pumpkin in it, then set the box between the girls. Each rested a hand on the pumpkin, delighted.

“There!” Bobbie exclaimed, hugging Sandy. “Peace reestablished.”

“You’re really very good at this, Bobbie. You sure you want to devote your life to art rather than children?”

There was no question. “I’m sure. Now, get out of here so I can get back to work.”

“Incidentally...” Sandy opened the driver’s door, then stopped. “What do you hear from Laura?”

Laura Kirby had been having chemotherapy at the same time that Bobbie had her first infusion. Sandy managed time away from work and her mother was able to babysit so that she could provide moral support. Bobbie and Laura had become fast friends, bonding over their mutual need to accomplish pressing goals. Laura’s was to have a baby—something she and her husband, a law student, had put off until his graduation. Fortunately for Laura, she’d been given none of the drugs that played havoc with a woman’s fertility.

Laura and Bobbie had lunch occasionally, and since Bobbie had moved to Astoria, kept in touch through email. Sandy had seen Laura just that one time, but had liked her and was happy that she and Bobbie had forged such a strong friendship.

“Is she pregnant yet?”

“Latest report, not yet,” Bobbie replied. “But they’re having fun trying.”

“Great! Next time you email, tell her I said hi.”

“I will.

Bobbie waved off Sandy and her girls and went back inside. Monet wandered out from behind the sofa—his usual hiding place when children visited—and followed her into the kitchen to a favorite spot on a sunny windowsill.

Before going back to work, Bobbie went out to the garage to get the hat and jacket she’d left there. They’d been soaked with tea and should be thrown into the laundry.

She stopped in surprise at the sight of three pristine shelves leaning up against the inside wall. She slipped one onto a surviving bracket and found it a perfect fit.

Feeling guilty that the boys had probably gotten into trouble for the morning’s escapade, she picked up the two small pumpkins Addie and Zoey had rejected in favor of the cat-faced one, and headed next door.

The Raleighs had left earlier, but she’d noticed the car was back. She walked around to the front. The tall mountain ash on the deep lawn was covered in red berries. Birds chirped and fluttered, so that the tree seemed alive. Bobbie stopped to take in the pleasure of the moment. There was such richness in nature for her now. She’d always been aware of it, but since she’d been ill, she felt more a part of it—as though everything in the universe was connected, herself included.

She stepped over a toy truck and climbed the steps to the wide front porch of the yellow house. A seasonal figure made of straw and wearing overalls and a baseball hat sat on a wooden bench. Two pumpkins, obviously carved by children, sat beside him.

She knocked on the front door with its classic Craftsman leaded window, and heard Arnold’s deep bark, followed by the sound of running feet.

The door was yanked open and she was greeted by...well, she wasn’t sure who. She’d apparently walked into a comic book.

“Hi, Spidey!” she said, recognizing the blue-and-red costume worn by the smaller boy. But she wasn’t sure which character the red-gold-and-black costume represented. “Who’s your friend?”

“I’m Iron Man,” Dylan replied, striking a pose.

“Ah. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you.”

Arnold, standing between the boys, wagged his tail and reached up to lick her hand when she patted his giant head.

Dylan did a turn. “Iron Man is really Tony Stark. He made armor to escape terrorists in Afghanistan.”

“Iron Man can fly,” Sheamus said, “but I can shoot spiderwebs.”

“Iron Man can fly without having to hold on to spiderwebs or anything else.”

Sheamus shrugged off the implied criticism of his powers and pointed to the pumpkins in Bobbie’s hands. “What are those?”

“Miss Molloy.” Nate appeared behind his nephews and opened the door wider. He now wore a dark blue sweater and had shaved. She couldn’t help staring a little. He looked fresh and crisp, but he still wasn’t smiling. The “what are you doing here?” look in his eyes seemed to mirror his polite but cool greeting.

Still, he was handsome. She felt the smallest flutter behind her breastbone. Of course, she’d had radiation there, and a burn remained as a result. There was a little bit of a laserlike quality to his expression.

“The shelves fit okay?” he asked.

“They’re perfect. Thank you.” She remained on the porch, but held out the pumpkins. “I have only a minute. I made a few pumpkins for myself and a friend’s children, and had these left over. I thought the boys might like them. But I see they already have some really cool ones on the front porch.”

The boys pulled off their headpieces and each reached excitedly for one of her pumpkins before she could withdraw them.

“Whoa!” Sheamus held his up, then turned to study Dylan’s. “I like mine better. It has a smiley face.”

Dylan’s had a saw-toothed mouth to indicate distress or fear. He seemed to like that. “Who wants to smile on Halloween? It’s supposed to be scary. This one’s the best!”

“You can hang them on the plant hooks on the porch,” Bobbie said, “or in the tree in the yard.” She reached into Dylan’s to show Nate the flameless candle. “No fire, so you don’t have to worry about where they put them.”

“Good idea.” Nate duly admired each one. “We do have our share of disasters around here. I’m happy not to have to deal with fire. Thank you. That was very thoughtful.” He said it in the same tone one might use to say, “And don’t let the door hit you on your way out!”

She ignored him and smiled at the boys. “I have to get back to my work. Be sure to come by trick-or-treating. I’m making something special.”

Sheamus jumped up and down. “We’ll come to your house first!”

“Thanks, Bobbie.” Dylan’s smile was wide. “I’m going to put my pumpkin in my room.”

“Me, too!” Sheamus ran off toward the stairs. Dylan followed more slowly, holding his up to study it as he walked, Arnold at his heels.

“You made them very happy.” Nate stepped out onto the porch, the statement sounding a little like an accusation. She frowned up at him, wondering what his problem was. “Thank you,” he added grudgingly. “I sometimes have trouble doing that.”

Ah. She’d overstepped somehow. But she’d be darned if she’d apologize for having pleased his nephews.

“Gotta go,” she said with a pretense of a smile. “Thank you for the shelves.”

She was halfway down the stairs when he ordered, “Wait!”

She stopped in her tracks, holding on to the railing to get her balance. She turned to ask what he wanted, and found him right beside her. He caught her arm. “Sheamus left one of his trucks at the bottom of the steps.” He tightened his grip and led her around it. “I’ve told him a million times about leaving his toys out, but he never remembers.”

Nate’s eyes were turbulent suddenly, that remote, unsettling quality gone. It made it somehow easier to talk to him.

“How did you become a parenting uncle?” she asked. She thought the answer to the question might help her understand him. Not that she had to make a connection here. By all indications, he didn’t want one, either. “On second thought,” she said quickly, turning to start across the lawn, “it’s none of my business. I apologize for invading your space.”

“No.” Again he stopped her with a single word. “You did no such thing. And there’s nothing secret about it. Their father was my brother. He and my sister-in-law died in a boating accident six months ago.”

“Oh.” The small sound expressed her horror at that information. She felt sudden sympathy for him. “I’m so sorry. How awful for all of you.”

He made a one-handed gesture of helplessness. “It is what it is—at least that’s what everyone says about things they can’t explain or do anything about.” He stopped on the lawn, his expression grim. “I guess the suggestion is that since you can’t change it, you have to accept it. I’m having a little trouble with that.”

She nodded in understanding, his admission forcing her to reassess her opinion of him. “I get that. I tore my curtains off my bedroom window when my mother died. I was in my teens. Then I had to replace a window in my kitchen door after my teacup went through it when I got my cancer diagnosis.” She smiled in self-deprecation. “Sometimes it’s just too hard to pretend that we’re adult and in control.”

He frowned as his eyes went to her hair. “I wondered if that was the case. Not that it’s any of my business.”

“It’s all right. Nothing secret with me, either. Millions of people deal with cancer every day, and my prognosis is better than many.” She ran a hand self-consciously over her head. “And my hair’s back. Well, mostly. So, all in all, things aren’t too bad.”

His eyes roved her hair, then slowly and with an interest that pinned her in place, moved over her face, feature by feature. He lingered for the barest moment on her mouth, then went back to her eyes.

“So, the cancer is gone?” he asked.

“Ah...” She had to pull her thoughts away from his close scrutiny. She swore she could feel fingertips everywhere his gaze had touched. “No. But I can live with it for a long time. It doesn’t go away, but it’s not as aggressive as other types.”

“You seem to have adjusted,” he said. “Or maybe the better word is accepted. How did you reach that point?”

She didn’t have to think. It was the decision to move to Florence that had finally put her on her feet. “You’re right. It is what it is. Nothing says it quite so well. I couldn’t change it, and I was tired of pouting and being scared, so I started to make plans.”

She began to walk across the yard. She was surprised when he kept pace with her.

“What kind of plans?”

“I’m moving to Italy after the holidays to pursue an art career.”

“I thought you had an art career.”

“What I do now is commercial. I want to go where the masters worked, to study their genius and try to learn and absorb. I want to see if there’s fine art in me. You know, art that changes the world.”

“That’s a big dream.”

“Well, when you flirt with death, you tend to think big. I mean—I think I have time, but I don’t have forever. So, if I’m going to get to it, it’s now or never.”

He took her hand as they reached the row of chrysanthemums that bordered his side of their adjoining driveways. She talked to cover a little nervousness. His grip was strong, the skin on his hands smooth. “And I feel really good. My father is a doctor and moved in with me during my treatments. He cooked all the right things for me, and when I came here, made up a diet that I try to follow. If he hears I’m eating badly he’ll come and take over my kitchen again.”

“Ah. The hovering parent.” Nate freed her hand and they walked side by side around his car, then her truck. “I know something about that. My mother died of cancer when Ben and I were in high school, but my friend’s mother is my housekeeper and she’s a dragon where the boys’ and my health are concerned. When she thought I wasn’t getting enough sleep, she bought me bed pillows made of Hungarian goose down mingled with herbs that are supposed to help with stress relief.”

“I’m sorry about your mother,” Bobbie said gravely. Then she smiled. “Buying you goose down pillows is just caring and concern. My father cooked every meal for me with fresh organic produce and grains, and hid all my chocolate.”

Nate questioned her with a look. “Isn’t that just love and concern?”

“I guess it is,” she conceded, stopping to study her dormant rhododendron. “He taught me to fend for myself, and now wishes he hadn’t. And separating me from my chocolate is a suicidal move.” She plucked at a dead flower in the middle of the bush.

“Stella—that’s my housekeeper—says it’s as important to accept help as it is to give it. Maybe you should give your dad a break. He sounds like a great father. And I’m just learning how hard it is to be a good parent.”

“He’s wonderful. But healing the body is simpler than healing the soul and the emotions.” She frowned sympathetically. “And you’re in pain, too. If you don’t feel like the perfect stand-in father, I think you should give yourself a break.”

She reached farther in for another dead flower. “My dad’s coming for Thanksgiving. He called me today to make sure I was getting out and meeting people and not spending every waking moment in my studio. I guess you have to be an artist to understand another artist.”

“Have you met people?”

“I’ve been here just a month. And I’m working on the commission, so there hasn’t been a lot of free time. But the friend who got me the commission just talked me into teaching art classes at the school once a week.” She laughed softly. “At least I’ll be able to tell Dad I know a lot of children.”

“Astor School?” he asked. When she nodded, he said, “The boys go to Astor. What grades?”

“It sounds like they’ll be combining a few of the lower grades for my class.”

“Sheamus is in second grade. Dylan, though, is a fifth grader, so he probably won’t have access to the class. And he’s the one who shows definite artistic abilities. He’s really smart all around. He’s crazy about the MythBusters. Do you ever watch that?”

“No. Not much time for TV. Except Dancing with the Stars.”

Her neighbor closed his eyes. “Saints preserve me. Anyway, when I was just his uncle, we used to watch it together, and I used to think his love of exploring and experimenting was fun. The two hosts take accepted myths and action scenes from movies to see whether they could really happen. Even the president and his daughters watch it, and asked the show to prove an old myth about Archimedes’s death ray.”

“Archimedes...” Bobbie repeated the name, trying desperately to remember who he was.

“Among other things, he was a physicist and an astronomer. He’s supposed to have set fire to an invading Roman fleet by positioning his army to direct mirrors that reflected the rays of the sun. The hosts of the show used five hundred students with mirrors, but it didn’t work. Anyway—now that it’s my job to keep Dylan from killing himself, I don’t enjoy the show as much anymore.”

“You mentioned the power saw this morning. What was he doing when that happened?”

“Trying to build a bike ramp. We got off lucky. I hate to think what he could have done to himself with the saw or the ramp if he’d finished it. I locked up my power tools and asked Stella to be extra vigilant. Meanwhile, I’ve got to get him busy with something.”

“I have a thought.” Suddenly inspired with a positive solution for Dylan, Bobbie withdrew her hand from the bush and started off toward the house.

At the sight of a large spider on the back of her hand, she stopped in her tracks and shook her arm frantically. The spider held on. She screamed.

Nate caught her wrist in one hand and swatted the spider away with the other. “You confront a major disease with heroic resolve and freak out over a spider?” He almost smiled, but not quite. “It is Halloween, after all. They’re supposed to be here.”

She did a sort of all-body shudder and brushed both arms. “Okay,” she allowed. “But not on me.”

“I guess Nature doesn’t know that.” The remark was teasing, but he still didn’t smile. “You said you had a thought,” he prompted.

“Right.” She gave up trying to figure him out and ran lightly up the back porch steps. “If Dylan’s interested in art, I can give you a sketchbook and some pencils.”

Nate hesitated, then nodded. “Sure. If you can spare them.”

“Come with me.” She pushed open the back door. “I’ve got pastels I never use, too. But that can get messy.”

He followed her inside. “I don’t care about the mess, if he’ll be occupied with something that carries low injury potential.”

“Great. Wait here for a minute. I’ll find some things for him.”

* * *

NATE WALKED INTO her small living room while she disappeared into the back of the house. He was curiously uncomfortable in her presence, though he wasn’t sure why. Possibly because there was such brightness about her and it seemed intrusive in his dark, angry world. But if she had something that would interest Dylan, Nate would be happy to have it.

The walls in her living room were a go-with-everything off-white that would have seemed dull but for the berry-colored sofa and chair, the coffee table painted with stylized flowers and vines trailing down the legs, and all the unrelated but individually striking paintings on the walls. There was a seascape, a still life, a wild pattern of some sort, a languorous nude in the grass and a large canvas covered with what looked like a conveyor belt with rabbits on wheels careening off it. A bright sun shone, smiling birds flew around the rabbits and in the background ducks on a pond bathed happily. He stepped forward for a closer look.

The painting defied explanation. He’d always thought he preferred representational art—a pot of flowers, a portrait, a familiar scene—but this brought a smile and seemed to inspire in him a sense of good cheer. It was ridiculous, but somehow enjoyable. The signature on the bottom right read “RLM.”

He heard light laughter behind him. “That’s called Hare Raising.” It was Bobbie’s voice.

He continued to study the canvas. “Really. It’s wild. I’m surprised that I like it, but I do. Who’s RLM?”

“I am.”

He turned to her in surprise. She had an armload of books, papers and boxes, and a canvas tote she was trying to put it all in. He took the bag from her and held it open. “So, Bobbie is for, what? Roberta rather than Barbara?”

“Right.” She dropped everything inside, then took the bag from him and gave it an adjusting shake. She handed it back. “Roberta Louise Molloy. That was my one foray into surrealism.”

“I think of myself as a traditionalist, but I really like it.”

“I did, too, when I did it. It was toward the end of my first round of chemo and I had to dig deep for energy and enthusiasm, so I tried something new. I had a dream one night about a similar scene. I added the birds and the ducks just because I like them. But I haven’t been able to find that feeling again.”

He looked at the painting once more, then at her. “The feeling of a frightened rabbit on a wild ride?”

She blinked and stared. He was obviously on target, but he felt sure she didn’t appreciate it. Something shifted in her eyes as she lowered them and closed him out. He could almost hear the sound of a slamming door.

She gave him an artificial smile. “Yes. That was perceptive. I think you probably understand the boys better than you think you do.” She walked ahead of him to the door and opened it for him.

He paused in the entry before she physically pushed him out. Instinct told him that was coming next. “Thank you.” He held up the bag. “Dylan will be very happy.”

“You’re welcome. See you on Halloween.”

He stepped onto the porch as the door began to close.

It was clear that, for whatever reason, she didn’t like being understood. Which was probably best. He didn’t want her to become a chummy neighbor and understand that he was a deeply angry man who wasn’t dealing very well with his life, and had no idea how to raise two lost and frightened little boys.

God, he missed Ben.

CHAPTER THREE

“COOL!” Dylan studied the art supplies spread out on the kitchen table. He picked up a sketch pad and flipped through the blank pages. “Really?” he asked Nate for the third time. “Bobbie gave you all this for me?”

“Yeah.” Nate turned off the burner under the whistling teakettle. “She was telling me she’s teaching art at your school until the holidays, but just for the lower grades. I told her that was too bad, because you like to sketch. She thought you might like to have some stuff to work with.”

“Wow.” Sheamus hung over Dylan as he zipped open a green fabric envelope that contained pencils, some new, some stubs. There was a large-format paperback on basic sketching and a box of pastels. Dylan held up a two-inch-square gray object wrapped in plastic.

“What’s that?” Nate asked.

“The wrapper says it’s an eraser.”

“I’ve never seen one like that.”

“It’s probably for real artists. Wow.”

Nate turned back to the stove before Dylan could think he was too interested. That would certainly ruin his own fascination with Bobbie’s gift. After pouring boiling water over the cocoa powder in the mugs, Nate added two ice cubes to each, then topped them with miniature marshmallows. He poured himself a cup of coffee.

He put the cups on the end of the table, away from the supplies. Sheamus, wearing a pout, sat down in front of his cup. His hair was disheveled and a smear of dirt ran across his cheek like a scar. Stella would be horrified that Nate had seated the boys at the table without making them wash first, but there should be some advantages to an all-male weekend.

“She doesn’t like me, does she?” Sheamus asked, his voice a little strained. “’Cause I thought she was a witch.”

Nate gave him a gentle shove. “Of course she likes you. But this is for Dylan because he’s interested in the same thing she’s interested in. And she gave you a carved pumpkin to hang in your room.”

That didn’t help. “But Dylan got one of those, too.”

“Remember when we bought you a new winter jacket, but we didn’t get one for Dylan because he didn’t need one?”

Sheamus was horrified by the comparison. “That’s clothes! Who cares about clothes?”

Nate bit back laughter, having to give him that one. “I’m sorry. You can’t have everything he has, and he can’t have everything you have. It’s the way the world works.”

“It sucks!”

“I know.”

Sheamus blew out air and sipped carefully from his cup. He gave Nate a pleading, put-upon look over the rim. “Can we buy me a new game for my Nintendo?”

“No.”

He sighed noisily. “Then can I have a cookie?”

“Sure. Help yourself.”

Dylan put everything in his bag and picked up his cup. “I’m going to look at this in my room.”

“Bobbie said the pastels are messy,” Nate warned. “So be careful, okay?”

“Okay.” Dylan walked away, the bag slung over his shoulder, the cocoa held carefully ahead of him. Arnold, curled up under the table, stood—unsure whether to follow Dylan or stay with Sheamus. Then he heard the cookie jar lid and the decision was made.

Sheamus came back to the table with three cookies. He handed one to Nate, held one out to Arnold, who snatched it greedily without touching the small hand with even a tooth, then sat down again.

“Thank you,” Nate said. Sheamus sloshed his cocoa and Nate handed him a napkin.

“Maybe I could be an artist, too.” Sheamus twisted his sandwich cookie apart and scraped cream off the bottom half with his teeth.

“Maybe you could. I have paper in my office. We’ll get you some.”

“Artists use special paper.”

“Right. Maybe Dylan will give you a sheet.”

Sheamus gave Nate a look that told him he knew better than that.

“My mom would buy me something to make me feel better,” he said, trying another tack. “Maybe some different kind of art stuff.”

Nate pushed his cup aside, crossed his arms on the table and leaned closer. “No, she wouldn’t. She never let you whine, remember? And she didn’t like it when one of you had to have something just because the other one did.”

Sheamus’s eyes filled with tears suddenly. Nate could see this was no artful manipulation, but real emotion. “I don’t like to remember,” he said, a quiver in his lips.

Nate reached for his arm and drew him onto his lap. “I know. Sometimes I don’t, either. But if you don’t ever think about them, then you can’t remember the really nice things.”

Arnold whined in concern and came to sit beside them.

Sheamus leaned into Nate and kicked out with a grubby tennis shoe. “When I think, all I think is that they’re not here.”

“Yeah.” He couldn’t deny the truth of that. “I really miss them, too. When your dad and I were little, we were a lot like you and Dylan. We did a lot of things together and we fought a lot, but when we got older, I realized how smart he was. We stopped fighting so much and started helping each other. Someday, you and Dylan will be like that.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I do. And when your dad met your mom, I would have been jealous because she was so pretty and so special. But she and your dad were so happy, and when you guys were born, it was hard not to be happy with them.”

There was a moment’s silence, then Sheamus asked worriedly, “Do you think they’re still happy?”

“I do. They’re together, so they’re happy.”

The boy thought about that, then sat up in Nate’s lap and rested an elbow on his shoulder. His blue eyes were troubled. “Okay, but you’re not going anywhere for a long time, are you?”

“No, I’m not.” He prayed that fate would support his conviction.

* * *

NATE DROPPED THE boys off at school Monday morning, then detoured a block and a half to the Astoria Coffee House to pick up a triple Americano. By the time he parked in the transit center lot just steps from his office, his cup was almost empty.

It had been an awful morning. Mondays were tense for the boys anyway after two days of not having to conform to a schedule. But today was Halloween and Sheamus was so excited he was practically airborne—without benefit of a spiderweb. Nate hated to think what the added sugar after trick-or-treating would do to him.

Dylan pretended to be taking the day in stride, but Sheamus was driving him into a foul mood more easily than usual. The ride to school had been loud and contentious. Trying to focus on the road, Nate had heard Sheamus accuse, “You’re on my side of the seat!”

Dylan rebutted with typical hostility. “How can I be on your side? You’re in a stupid little-kid seat!”

Nate looked in the rearview mirror just in time to see Sheamus fling a hand at Dylan. His brother caught it and squeezed. Sheamus’s screech felt as though it drove a spike through Nate’s ears.

He’d pulled up to the school and turned to frown at both of them. Sheamus was crying and rubbing his hand, and Dylan’s expression could have drawn blood.

“I’d love to make this trip once,” he said, suppressing the bellow in his throat through sheer force of will, “without the two of you screaming at each other before we even get here.”

“He broke my hand!” Sheamus wept.

“You hit him first.” Nate came around the car to help Sheamus out of his seat. “When you react by hitting, you have to expect the other person to hit back.” He leaned over the little boy and gently manipulated his hand. It felt intact, though there was a slight bruising on the back. “Can you close it tight?”

Sheamus made a fist and didn’t even wince.

“I think it’s fine. Now, don’t hit anybody else, okay?”

Sheamus looked abused and misunderstood. “I don’t ever hit anybody. I just hit him ’cause I hate him!”

“I hate you more!” Dylan replied venomously.

“You don’t hate each other,” Nate insisted, pained over the thought that they really might. “You get angry because life is hard, and you take it out on each other.”

They looked at him as though he were a Klingon come to life. It occurred to him to be grateful that at least they agreed on that.

“No,” Dylan insisted seriously. “We really hate each other.”

Nate gave Sheamus a gentle shove toward the school yard, where kids ran and shouted and waited for the bell to ring. “Remember that tonight you’re Spider-Man and everyone’s going to give you candy.”

“We have to go to Bobbie’s,” Sheamus said over his shoulder. He’d stopped crying, and excitement now battled the misery in his eyes.

“Right. First thing.” Nate caught Dylan by the shoulder and stopped him from following Sheamus.

They boy squirmed, trying to escape. “I’m going to be late!”

“You’ve got four minutes.” Nate held on to him. “Look, Dyl. You have to stop being so mean to Sheamus.”

“But he...”

“I know. He swung at you first because he’s even more scared than you are, and you’re always awful to him. I know he can be exasperating for you, but try to have patience. Try to help him out a little.”

“He’s a dork.”

“He’s seven.”

“I’m not scared. I’m just...”

When Dylan hesitated, Nate offered carefully, “Lonesome?”

Dylan looked into his eyes and for just an instant the vulnerability he struggled so hard to hide was visible. He opened his mouth to speak. Nate waited, hoping. Then the bell rang and the moment was gone.

“Now I have to go,” Dylan said.

Nate dropped his hand and straightened. “Right. Try to have a good day. Think candy.”

Dylan seemed to consider whether or not to be amused by that blatant example of bad adult advice, but decided against it. He simply turned and ran for the door, his Iron Man pack slapping against his back.

Nate returned to the present as Hunter pulled open the office door for him. His friend took one look at him and the empty coffee cup and made a face. “Rug rats getting to you, huh? I want to sympathize, man, but the Astoria Food Bank Fund-raiser Committee is in the conference room and they’ve been waiting for you for a good fifteen minutes.”

Nate said something he’d never let the boys hear. “Forgot they were meeting here today. We have to get doughnuts.” Not only had he taken over Ben’s place in the Astoria office of Raleigh and Raleigh, but he’d found himself taking over his brother’s place as a community volunteer. He could deal with never having a free moment, but with charity work he faced a learning curve, since most of his previous activities—both professional and social—had been focused on self-interests. Still, the people involved in this particular fund-raiser were hardworking and appreciated the use of the office conference room. And they probably accounted for all he had in the way of a social life these days.

“Jonni went to Danish Maid Bakery, and Karen is making coffee and hot water for tea and cocoa. I told your committee that you had to stop first at a client’s.” He pointed to the cup Nate still clutched. “The Coffee House is a client. I didn’t say you were doing business, just that you had to stop there.”

Hunter was several inches shorter than Nate, but had a build more appropriate to a quarterback than an accountant. He had the dark blond hair and blue eyes of his mother’s Scandinavian ancestry. Ben had trusted him completely, and now Nate did, too. Hunter had saved his hide more than once in front of clients. He never missed a detail and seemed to have memorized the tax code, complete with current changes.

Nate felt fractional relief. “You should have been a lawyer rather than an accountant.”

His colleague laughed lightly. “They don’t have a tax season. Who’d want to miss that? Here’s Jonni.”

An attractive woman in her mid-fifties wearing a dark skirt and matching jacket ran from a silver compact at the curb to the office door. Nate held it open for her. She was the workplace counterpart of Stella, without whom nothing would function smoothly. She had bright blue eyes, silky blond hair and an easy, efficient manner that had saved him more than once.

She handed him the bakery box and a tub of cocoa mix with one hand, and took his briefcase with the other. “Go,” she said. “Karen and I’ll bring in the coffee and water. Your committee notes are on your chair at the conference table.”

“You’re a treasure,” he told her.

“Yeah, yeah.” She disappeared down the hall toward the kitchen as Nate carried the appeasing doughnuts into the conference room.

The previous renter, a law firm, had had a nautical bent, and the walls of the room were decorated with ship’s wheels, navigation charts and paintings of ships. The pictures made him think of Bobbie and the bright artwork on her walls. These pieces seemed suddenly pale and staid in comparison.

The five people around the table greeted him with pointed verbal abuse.

“Just because you’ve recently adopted two children, don’t think you can keep us waiting.” Sandy Evans, who worked for his attorney and was in charge of developing concepts for the fund-raiser, harassed everyone with equal fervor. “I mean, one of them is ten years old. I have two under five and I was here on time. And I don’t have the luxury of meeting in my office.”

“Go easy on him.” Jerry Gold was the shop teacher at the high school. He was very tall and reedy and wore a University of Oregon jersey over jeans. His wife had given birth to their first baby in August. “He probably got to sleep in and had trouble getting moving. I mean, I haven’t slept in weeks, so it was easy for me to be on time.”

“And I came from across the river.” Clarissa Burke had a fashion boutique in Long Beach, Washington, and one in Astoria. She was a white-haired woman who was the epitome of grace and style—even after her husband left her for one of her young sales associates. “And you’ll see that I—”

Nate put the doughnuts in the middle of the table. “I know. You probably braved pirates to get here in a leaking kayak you had to drag across the river the last mile with a length of rope in your teeth. Right?”

She cocked an eyebrow. “It was a length of leather,” she corrected, “and I was still here on time.”

“And remarkably dry.” Mike Wallis owned the building and The Cellar, a wine shop in the basement, under Nate’s office. He was small in stature but big in ideas.

“I’m just saying,” Clarissa added pointedly, “that punctuality is important in small-town service. There are less of us to do more work, so it’s a good thing if we don’t hold each other up. Your brother understood that.”

Even Sandy groaned at the comment. “Clarie, he’s a bachelor with two little boys and no parenthood experience. Cut him some slack.”

Nate gave Sandy a grateful smile. He wanted to shout at Clarissa that he’d had one hell of a morning, and that while he wished more than anything that Ben were still here, he hated the comparisons to him because he’d always felt that he’d never measured up to his older brother. It was Ben who’d made the skills Nate did have work for the business.

Instead, remembering what he told the boys to do when they’d been misjudged or misunderstood, he fought for patience. He nodded politely to the older woman. “You’re absolutely right. I won’t be late again.”

At that moment, Jonni and Karen carried in thermal pots of coffee and hot water, a stack of white, diner-style plates and cups, and paper napkins.

“Perfect.” Nate smiled his thanks.

The two disappeared quickly, closing the door behind them.

After doughnuts were selected and beverages poured, Clarissa, the committee’s chairwoman, started the meeting. For all the group’s frivolity, the items on the agenda were efficiently worked through one by one. By ten o’clock they’d decided to do several small projects throughout the fall to accommodate all the groups who wanted to help, culminating with one formal event with a Christmas in Old Astoria theme.

“How formal?” Jerry asked worriedly.

Sandy made a broad gesture, apparently seeing the picture in her head. “You know, something really classy. Something upstairs in the Banker’s Suite.”

“So, dinner and dancing?” Clarissa asked.

The Banker’s Suite occupied the second floor of a former bank built in the Greek Revival style. The upstairs had been remodeled in grand fashion for weddings and other special events.

“Yes, but maybe with a raffle—some special items that’ll really get attention. What do you think?”

A skeptical look went around the table. Clarissa shook her head. “Those twenty-dollar raffles are a thing of the past these days.”

“I know. Bad economy. But what if the tickets were five dollars instead of twenty? People who can afford them will buy several, and people who can’t will buy just one.”

“What special items do you have in mind?” Jerry asked. “I can probably get tickets to the Mariners.” He waggled his eyebrows. “My father-in-law has connections, and he’s crazy about his new grandson. Thinks I’m quite brilliant.”

Sandy rolled her eyes. “Lydia carried this baby for nine months, gave birth after what was probably a grueling labor if the baby takes after you sizewise, and you’re taking credit for him?”

Jerry grinned unabashedly. “I am.”

Clarissa joined him. “You do have to admit that season tickets are a brilliant idea. And that is one beautiful baby. I’ll contribute several items in a winter wardrobe. And my daughter is a jewelry designer in Palm Springs. I’m sure she’ll send us something.”

Sandy applauded. “Okay. You guys are on fire! Except for you, Jerry. You’re just kind of full of smoke. Nate, what can you get us?”

“A couple of free tax returns? I won’t even stipulate that they have to be simple.”

“Wonderful. We all know what getting taxes done costs these days.” She turned to Mike. “Can we count on you for a couple of gourmet baskets and wine?”

“Of course.”

“Great. So what have we left undone?”

Clarissa looked over her notes. “Not much. We’re agreed that we’ll have a series of small events so that all the groups that want to help us can. The high school kids are having a car wash and bake sale. The grade school kids are selling candy. The Astoria Coffee House and the Urban Café are contributing half the proceeds from a particular weekend to the cause. And the Downtown Association has agreed to devote a Saturday from noon to five where a portion of each business’s sales come to us for the food bank. What else? What’s Kiwanis doing, Nate?”

“Our plan is to lend support to whatever the committee wants. And we’re working on the raffle, too. Hunter is trying to get a really big prize to make everyone buy a ticket. Maybe a European trip, with airfare and hotel accommodations.” He went to the door and shouted for Hunter.

His colleague walked into the conference room. “Yes?”

“Can you give us an update on the status of the trip for the raffle?” Nate asked.

Hunter stood near the table, seemingly reluctant to share the news. “It’s not good, I’m afraid,” he reported. “It’s hard for travel agents to comp that kind of thing for us at this point in time. I’ve got a few local hotels and restaurants, but no one can do anything really big.”

Everyone around the table seemed to understand that.

“Does it have to be a trip?” Sandy asked into the quiet.

Nate noticed her eyes roving Hunter’s shoulders as she posed the question, then down the sturdy length of him as he replied.

“I guess not. What else would draw interest?”

“I know an artist,” Sandy said, with enough excitement to get everyone’s attention. “And she’s brilliant. In fact, I’ll bet we can get a painting out of her for the raffle. Something to support the Christmas in Old Astoria theme.”

“Who is it?” Jerry asked.

“Bobbie Molloy. She’s living here while she’s fulfilling a commission for my office.”

Nate looked at Sandy in amazement. “That’s who’s living in your aunt’s old house? She’s my new neighbor.... I didn’t know you knew her.”

“She’s kind of a private person. And she moved here to have time alone to work.”

“Then are you sure she’d want to help us?”

Sandy smiled sweetly. “I’ll talk her into it.”

“Didn’t you already talk her into teaching an art class at Astor?”

Sandy appeared surprised that he knew that. “Yes, I did. Why?”

Nate wasn’t sure why he felt protective of Bobbie Molloy. She insisted that she was doing well, but he remembered vividly how small she seemed, how pale. He wondered if Sandy knew she’d been ill. “Well, she seems a little...fragile.”

Sandy met his eyes and he was suddenly sure she knew everything about Bobbie, and maybe resented his interference. “If we don’t give her something to do, she’s going to spend every waking hour in that studio until she leaves for Italy in January. Her father called me recently to see how she was doing, and I promised him I’d help her get out and meet people.” Sandy looked around the table at the expressions on the committee members’ faces. Her colleagues obviously thought she presumed too much. “What? She was my roommate at Portland State, before she went to the Pacific Northwest College of Art. I care about her.”

“Well, if you ask her for a painting, won’t she still be spending every waking hour in her studio?” Nate asked.

Sandy considered that, then said finally, “As a member of the committee, and her neighbor, you can help her gather whatever she needs, check on her progress, support the work in whatever way you can. Why? Do you object to my asking her?”

He thought a moment. Bobbie Molloy seemed perfectly capable of taking care of herself. “No,” he said finally. “Go ahead.”

“I do like the painting idea,” Clarissa said as she closed her notebook and stood. “Okay. Back here next Monday morning same time?” She gave Nate a slightly apologetic smile. “You can be late as long as you arrive with doughnuts again. We’ll all try to get whatever donations we can for the raffle at the Christmas dinner dance, right?”

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