Who’s a good girl now?

Café owner Lydia Brewster wants to shake things up. And J. T. Delaney, infamous legend of Comeback Cove, just might be the man she needs. With his wild reputation, who better to help a girl shake off a “poor widow” image she’s too young to keep wearing?

Despite the rumors, J.T. doesn’t seem quite the troublemaker Lyddie’s heard about. He actually seems focused on business—the subject they don’t see eye to eye on. Really, all she wants is a fling. But after a few long, hot nights together, the most dangerous thing about J.T. is the unexpected way he makes her feel….

“Hang on.”

J.T.’s voice, low and subdued behind her, was oddly reassuring considering he was the reason for her misfortune. “I doubt there’s any electricity, but I’ll try the light—wait—no, nothing. There should be a flashlight up on the shelf, just give me a—”

The door slammed closed, plunging them into darkness.

Lyddie yelped. J.T. cursed.

“Don’t move,” he said.

“I won’t.”

“Let me get the door open again.” He moved slowly behind her. Something warm—a hand, probably—grazed the small of her back. And all of a sudden, it wasn’t nervousness that was making Lyddie’s heart do double-time in her chest.

For the first time in four years, she was alone in the dark with a man. And now all she could think about was Zoë’s voice, laughing on the phone, telling her to jump him.

Oh. Dear. God.

Four years of zero interest in anything sexual ended in the space of a breath. Every erogenous zone roared back to sudden, urgent, demanding life.

Dear Reader,

This is the book that almost didn’t happen.

I first conceived and wrote this story about a decade ago. The thought of creating a romance between a hero’s widow and the town’s legendary bad boy was one that I couldn’t ignore. I wrote a synopsis and three chapters and sent them to an editor who had requested them at a conference. While waiting for a reply, I entered the book in some contests and finished the first draft. By the time that draft was finished the book had been rejected by the editor, had bombed in contests and had landed on my top ten list of experiences I never wanted to revisit.

Years went by. I sold a book to the Mills & Boon Superromance line. In talking about future books with my awesome editor, Piya, I remembered this story. I pulled it out, girded my loins and started to read. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that the story wasn’t nearly as bad as I remembered. In fact, parts of it really gripped me. By the time I got to the end of that rough draft, I could see it for what it was—a story with a lot of flaws but a whole lot of potential. All it needed was some insight from a fabulous editor and a second chance.

I dove back into it. This time, guided by Piya, it was a joy to revisit the story. J.T. and Lyddie forgave me for the years I neglected them and welcomed me back into their world. I am delighted to share their story with you, and hope you will visit me at www.krisfletcher.com to learn more about them and future stories from Comeback Cove.

Yours,

Kris Fletcher

Now You See Me

Kris Fletcher

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kris Fletcher has never owned a coffee shop or burned down an historic attraction, but there are times—such as that moment halfway through climbing the Eiffel Tower—when she gives serious consideration to one of them. She’ll leave it to you to decide which. A four-time Golden Heart finalist, Kris grew up in southern Ontario, went to school in Nova Scotia, married a man from Maine and now lives in central New York. She shares her very messy home with her husband, an ever-changing number of their kids and the occasional grand-hamster. Her greatest hope is that dust bunnies never develop intelligence.

Dedicated to all those who call me Mom:

the Fraulein, the Geek, the Maestro, the Mensch, Her Royal Highness and the Tsarina.

You have introduced me to new worlds, challenged my sanity and filled my heart.

Good trade.

Acknowledgments

Many thanks are due to the usual suspects, who are all unusual in the very best ways.

The Purples—Gayle Callen, Christine Wenger, Molly Compton Herwood and Carol Pontello Lombardo—who continue to be my lifeline to sanity in a world filled with kids, deadlines and those school activities that always seem to expand to three times as much time as I projected.

Renee Kloecker, World’s Best Hostess, who so generously allows the Purples to take over her country home during our retreats. And Elisa Koniezcko, who so generously answers our many many medical questions (and keeps us howling with laughter) when she joins us on retreat.

The folks at Priceline for cheap hotels—so essential during deadlines. And my husband, Larry, for making sure there is still a parent in the house when I announce I must disappear for a weekend or twelve.

Jessica Faust, Uber-Agent,

for making me believe I could do this.

Piya Campana, Editor Extraordinaire, for the fresh eyes, the amazing insights and the smilies. And especially for catching my mistakes before they get sent to the world.

And, as always, to the writers of Galaxy Quest, who gave me the ultimate words to write by: Never give up. Never surrender!

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

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

THERE WAS NOTHING LIKE walking into the town he’d almost killed twenty-five years earlier to make a man feel there was a bull’s-eye painted on his back.

For the fifth time in as many minutes, J. T. Delaney forced himself to stop checking over his shoulder. He wasn’t in danger—at least, not of the physical kind. Comeback Cove, Ontario, was a small tourist town on the St. Lawrence Seaway. Quiet was the word most often used to describe it, especially at dinnertime on an early June weeknight. He’d passed all of three people since he set off down Main Street toward the river.

But three people was enough. Especially when they were all old-timers who reached protectively toward their wallets the moment they recognized him. That hurt. He might have been the terror of the town when he was a teen, but he’d never picked pockets.

Taking the heat for things he’d done, he could handle. Taking the heat for things he hadn’t done was not gonna happen.

His steps slowed as he walked past the hardware store. Other than a new coat of paint and fresh awnings, it looked the same as it had back when he used to buy supplies for his adolescent pranks. Same story two doors down, in the drugstore where he’d shoplifted his first pack of condoms. Now, with the wisdom of forty-two years behind him, he knew what a damned fool chance that had been. But he still could empathize with the testosterone-driven youth who would rather risk being hauled in front of the police than pay for rubbers under the eagle eye of a pharmacist who’d known him since birth.

Ah, memories.

Seeing the stores and walking the still-familiar route to the river made him keenly aware of the fact only a fool would forget: small towns don’t change. Not the buildings, not the faces, not the sentiments. The only thing different, it seemed, was him.

For as he’d learned the hard way over the years, the last thing most people wanted was change. Especially when it came to changing their minds.

At last he reached the corner of Main Street and River Road and the sight that had drawn him downtown on his first night back: the St. Lawrence River. It lay straight ahead, peaceful on this cool evening, calling him from the other side of the parking lot that connected Patty’s Pizza Express and River Joe’s coffee shop.

Gravel crunched beneath his feet as he hurried across the lot. Technically, this land—and the pizza place and coffee shop, and a few other buildings around town—was now his, bequeathed to him by the father who had died last year. But he hadn’t come to play landlord. Not yet. Tomorrow he would begin the task that had brought him back to town—selling off the buildings and helping his mother move to Tucson with him.

Tonight, though, was his. He increased his pace as he rounded the corner of River Joe’s. Tonight, it was him and the river—

And a woman. There was a woman sitting in his spot.

J.T. stopped so fast that he had to grab the weathered cedar shakes of the coffee shop to steady himself. Talk about your reality checks. The alcove formed by the corner of the shop and fronted by the river was private, true, but come on. Had he really thought no one else would claim it in twenty-five years?

Okay. So every so often, some things did change.

He started to backtrack, but the woman raised her hand as if to wave. Since it was the first friendly overture he’d received all day, he stepped forward, stopping again when he realized she hadn’t been gesturing to him after all. She was talking on her phone and had no idea he was even there.

He should leave before she noticed him. Even in Comeback Cove, a lone woman would be startled by the sight of a strange man hovering nearby. But she seemed intent on her conversation, so he allowed himself a moment to place her.

She wasn’t a tourist. Not only was it too early in the season for weekday visitors, but she also didn’t have the air of someone who’d come to see the sights. No, this woman, with her reddish-blond hair pulled back and sneakers lying beside her bare feet, seemed to belong here.

That intrigued him. She appeared to be about his age, and the town was small enough that he used to know everyone within three grade levels. He studied her more closely, mentally ticking off vivid blue eye shadow, a shaggy hairstyle and higher breasts—all the features that had characterized the girls when he was in high school. Still no clue.

It was possible that she had moved here since he left. But who in their right mind would do that?

She said something and burst into laughter. Even if he’d wanted to leave, that sound alone would have stopped him. Her laugh was like the river—light at first, rippling, then dropping into something full and liquid, with just a hint of mystery.

Whoever was on the receiving end of that laugh was one lucky bastard.

Her “Bye, hon” skipped toward him like a stone across the water. She shoved the phone into a pocket of those pants women loved but men hated—the kind that ended halfway between knee and ankle, revealing enough skin to entice while hiding all the good parts beneath loose beige cotton.

She stood and stretched her arms over her head, fabric pulling tight, and he saw that the good parts were very good indeed.

She slipped into her shoes and scooted around the far side of the building. Intrigued, he waited a couple of seconds before following.

He wasn’t trying to catch her. She was undoubtedly married, and even if she wasn’t, he was only here for the summer. Less, if he could get everything done in time. But he was curious, and this was a lot more fun than waiting for someone to shove that knife in his back.

She followed the walkway that hugged the side of the coffee shop and turned onto River Road, waving to someone he couldn’t see yet. He held back, watching. She took a slow step down the main sidewalk, calling a welcome. In a moment she was joined by a group of elderly women he recognized as friends of his mother. In his day they had ruled the town. They greeted her warmly, drawing her into light embraces that undoubtedly reeked of too much perfume.

This was getting stranger by the minute. Comeback Cove was one of those towns where you were considered an outsider until your family had been around for at least two generations. Yet this woman had been accepted.

Who the hell was she?

J.T. waited until the group had moved on, his quarry firmly surrounded by print dresses and blue hair. For a moment he considered heading back to his now-empty bench by the river. He was a desert dweller now, but he could never go near water without remembering the river.

He’d go back in a minute. After he tailed his mystery woman.

He turned in the direction she’d gone. There she was—straight ahead on the other side of the road, mounting the steps of Town Hall while the older women gazed up at her and waved farewell. It was like watching the queen ascending the stairs.

He took two steps before old instincts kicked in. Town Hall also housed the police station. Given the reception he’d gotten, they probably still had his face on a homemade Wanted poster in the lobby.

Comeback Cove wasn’t that big. He would find out who she was soon enough. In the meantime, there was a river calling. When he inhaled he could smell it, fresh and still familiar. Maybe he would even kick off his sandals and stick his feet in the water.

But when he began to retrace his steps, he knew he was screwed. For there on the sidewalk was one of the many reasons he had stayed away all these years.

He swore under his breath, then gave in to the inevitable.

“Hello, Jillian.”

She came to an abrupt halt, glanced at Town Hall and looked back at him. J.T. had detected more warmth from planets at the farthest reaches of the solar system.

“So it’s true,” she said. “You’re back.”

It wasn’t an open-armed welcome, but at least she spoke to him.

“How are you?” J.T. nodded toward her blue power suit, the briefcase, the heels. “You’re looking very official for a summer night.”

“I am official,” she snapped. “I’m the mayor.”

“That’s right.” He remembered his mother mentioning it. “Congratulations—I think.”

She glared. “What does that mean?”

He shrugged. “I’m just surprised to see you here. Weren’t you the one who always bragged about having more ambition than the rest of the town put together?”

Jillian scanned the sidewalk, no doubt ensuring he hadn’t insulted any potential voters, then ran a critical eye over his travel-rumpled Hawaiian shirt and baggy shorts. “Enough small talk. Why are you here, J.T.?”

“My parole officer finally let me leave the country.”

“Don’t be cute. How long are you staying?”

He considered telling her that it was none of her business, but reminded himself that some things weren’t worth the fight.

“Just for the summer.”

“You’re sure you’re not here to stay?”

“What, move back? Hell, no!”

She narrowed the big blue eyes that she used to bat so effectively back in high school. “You don’t have to be that emphatic. This can be a pretty good place, you know.” She paused, then added with lethal softness, “That is, when you’re not here stirring up trouble.”

So that was how it was going to be. He hadn’t been imagining that bull’s-eye on his back. It was as real as the fact that in the eyes of this town, he would never be anything other than the juvenile delinquent who burned down the prime tourist attraction all those years ago.

Okay. They had every right to hate what he’d been. He’d caused a lot of hurt to a lot of folks, and if some of them couldn’t forget that, well, neither could he. Half the reason he lived in the desert now was because nothing there—not a tree, not a river, not even a flower in the grass—was the same as the ones found in this lush green village. No reminders. Knowing what he’d done still hurt that much.

But he also knew that there was a hell of a lot more to the story than most folks wanted to hear.

“What trouble? I’ve been back a couple of hours, done nothing more than walk down the damned street and you’re already judging me?”

“Some things never change,” Jillian said. “Some people never change. There’s a reason we called you J.T. You were Just Trouble back then, and from the looks of you, I’d say you’re still Just Trouble.”

Further proof that change was the one force designed to generate the most opposition from the greatest number of people.

“You know, Jillian, it’s been a long time. I screwed up. I admit it. But that was a frickin’ lifetime ago. We’re adults now. How about we make the summer a lot more pleasant for both of us and call a truce?”

She took a step back as if in disbelief, then fixed him with the same glare that he had required years of effort to forget. “Here are the rules. Lie low this summer. Do nothing to destroy my town. And be gone by Labour Day.”

Something about this wasn’t sitting right. Hell, nobody had given him a warm-and-fuzzy homecoming, but Jillian’s reaction seemed extreme. There was only one reason he could think of for her to be this defensive. Luckily for her, it was a memory he was more than happy to leave buried.

Jillian squared her shoulders, checked the time on the clock outside Town Hall and shifted her briefcase to her other hand. “I have to go,” she said. “But I’m warning you, J.T. Don’t mess with my town.”

He faked a salute. “Ma’am, yes, ma’am.”

“You haven’t changed at all, have you?”

Before he could come up with an answer, she walked a wide circle around him and vanished from his sight. He let his grin slip as the sound of her heels faded away.

He didn’t want to upset Jillian. Not really. For one thing, he had enough bad Comeback Cove karma already. For another, it probably wasn’t smart to annoy the mayor when he was trying to sell off a bunch of properties, many of them needing planning-board approval.

On the other hand, if he were going to walk around with a target on his back, he might as well have some fun with it.

* * *

LYDDIE BREWSTER SCURRIED into the Brewster Memorial conference room in Town Hall and slid into one of the last empty chairs gathered around the polished maple table.

“Thank God this is the last time this committee has to meet,” Lyddie said to the older woman on her right. Beneath the table, she eased her shoes off and wiggled her toes. Some days were harder on the feet than others. “Please tell me I’m late enough that the meeting is over and I can go home.”

“Sorry, kid. Her Worship hasn’t made an appearance yet.” Nadine Krupnick was not only Lyddie’s assistant at her coffee shop, River Joe’s, she was also both friend and secret keeper to half the town. More important, she was the only one who could get away with calling Mayor Jillian McFarlane “Your Worship” to her face. “What made you late, anyway?”

“Sara called. She wanted to tell me every detail of her day.”

“I thought she wasn’t speaking to you.”

“I’m her favorite mom again since I said she could go to my sister’s for the summer.” Lyddie raised a hand in anticipation of Nadine’s protest. “I know, I know. She’s only fourteen, Vancouver is too far away, yada yada yada. But there’s not much for someone her age to do here all summer, and Zoë can use the help. It’ll be good for Sara to take on some responsibility.”

“No need to sound so defensive. I think it’s a great idea.”

“You do?” Lyddie reached into the paper bag Nadine pushed toward her and pulled out one of the muffins left from that day’s baking. Lemon poppy—her favorite. She peeled back the paper before helping herself to a healthy bite. Tart lemon and crunchy seeds combined to give her the most sensual treat she’d known in ages. “Everyone else thinks I’m crazy.”

“Let me guess. By ‘everyone,’ you mean your mother-in-law.”

Lyddie stayed silent, not ready to let Nadine know she’d hit the nail on the head. Nor did she want to get into a discussion of why Ruth Brewster was afraid to let any of her family slip beyond the town line. Lyddie understood her mother-in-law’s sentiments. She couldn’t deny that there were times late at night when she, too, feared that Sara would never want to return to a quiet little tourist town after two months in Vancouver.

But in the light of day, things seemed far more optimistic. This was home now, and had been for four years. Sara was old enough to remember their old life, but still, this was her reality. Of course she would come home.

“Speaking of getting away, I booked my own flight last night.” Nadine must have understood that Lyddie was ready to talk about something other than family. “As soon as Labour Day is over, I’m out of here. Las Vegas, here I come.”

“Planning to hit the jackpot and run away with an Elvis impersonator?”

“Hell, no. I’m holding out for a magician. I figure if they can saw a woman in half, maybe I’ll find one who can slice off some wrinkles, shave off a few years then put me back together so I look like I’m thirty-two again.”

Lyddie laughed. “Throw in a breast lift and I’m next in line.”

“Like you need it. Wait until you hit your sixties and it takes a crane to get the girls off the floor.”

Good thing there was a water pitcher on the table. Lyddie needed a drink, fast, after Nadine’s comments left her choking on a poppy seed. When she had finished coughing and Nadine had delivered a final blow to her back, Lyddie shook her head.

“You might have twenty years on me according to the calendar, Nadine, but you still have the mouth of a teenager.”

“Three decades slinging hash in the school cafeteria stomped the shrinking violet out of me real fast.”

The door to the conference room flew open. Jillian marched in, heels snapping on the floor, two bright spots of color burning high on her cheeks.

“Uh-oh,” Nadine whispered. Lyddie agreed.

Jillian set her briefcase on the floor, dropped into her chair and smacked a handful of papers against the table.

“Good evening, folks. Let’s get moving.”

And with that, the Discover Downtown meeting was launched. Jillian led them through the agenda at breakneck speed, slowing only when Tracy Potter, the local postmistress, tried to slip in unnoticed fifteen minutes late. Jillian glared at Tracy with such righteous indignation that it was all Lyddie could do to keep from bursting into laughter.

Honestly, the things she endured for this town...

By Lyddie’s standards, it was a reasonably successful night. Jillian seemed too distracted to try to rope anyone into extra duties, and the rest of the committee members actually spoke up on their own a couple of times instead of waiting for Lyddie to speak first and then echoing her thoughts. The final report was given, and the meeting railroaded to a close. Lyddie, Tracy and Nadine walked together into the coolness of the night, chatting as they rambled toward Lyddie’s van.

As soon as they were out of earshot of the other committee members, Nadine broached the subject that had kept Lyddie entertained throughout the meeting.

“What bug crawled up Jillian’s arse and bit her tonight?”

“No idea,” Lyddie said, but Tracy was practically dancing with excitement.

“You mean you haven’t heard? You’ll never guess who’s back.”

“Is Bill Shatner here again?” Nadine asked. “He owes me money.”

Tracy laughed and pulled black curls back from the breeze. “Better. J. T. Delaney.”

For only the second or third time in their years together, Lyddie had the immense pleasure of seeing Nadine struck silent. She hoped it wouldn’t last long. Tracy was obviously dying to spill, and Nadine could weasel out any forgotten tidbits Tracy might forget. Lyddie needed to get home soon—there were three children waiting to dump a day’s worth of living on her—but after years of hearing stories about the legendary bad boy of Comeback Cove, she was dying to know more. She leaned against her van and waited for Nadine to regain her powers of speech.

“J.T. is back?”

Tracy nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I saw him myself, late this afternoon, driving Iris’s little Honda up Main Street. At first I didn’t think it was her car because it was in the middle of the road instead of the middle of the sidewalk. That woman really needs to stop driving, you know? Then I saw who it was and I almost went off the road myself. And I was walking!”

“How’s he look?” Nadine leaned forward in her favorite you-can-tell-me-anything pose. Tracy grinned and fanned herself.

“Still?”

Tracy nodded. “Just like that picture in the yearbook where he was voted most likely to deflower a nun.”

Lyddie nudged a pointy bit of gravel away from her tired feet. “So what exactly did this guy do? I mean, I know he started that fire. But there was more than that, right?”

Nadine’s words came slow. “He wasn’t bad, really. Just a little wild. The long hair, the leather jacket... All those things that make a boy look suspicious.”

“Don’t forget when he reset all the clocks on the village square to different time zones. Or the time he stuffed the cannon in the square with dead fish, so when they set it off for Canada Day it rained fish guts on everyone.”

Nadine’s nose wrinkled. “He had his moments, I won’t deny it. But I don’t recall him ever hurting anyone.”

Tracy snorted. “Except when he broke Ted McFarlane’s nose.”

Nadine waved Tracy’s words away. “That was Ted’s fault, and you know it. Still, J.T. would have been okay if not for the fire.”

This part, Lyddie knew. No one could live in Comeback Cove for long without hearing about the Big Burn, in which the town’s primary draw of the time—a reconstructed historic village—was destroyed in a few blazing hours. The resulting drop in tourist business had left many on the edge of bankruptcy. It had taken years for Comeback Cove to recover.

“They never proved he started it, did they?” Lyddie asked.

“Not enough to press charges. But he was spotted running from the fire, then he took off that night and never came back. Except for his dad’s funeral, of course.”

Lyddie couldn’t blame him for leaving. In a town where public opinion was king, J.T. wouldn’t have needed anything as mundane as a trial. If he’d stayed, he would have lived a never-ending prison sentence every time he went out in public.

“Twenty-five years,” Nadine said, staring at the river. “What finally brought him back?”

For the first time, Tracy looked uncomfortable. “It’s getting late. I should head home.”

Uh-oh. Lyddie was no expert on body language, but even she knew that Tracy’s averted eyes and sudden lunge for her purse were not good signs.

Nadine latched a bony hand on the would-be escapee’s arm. “Tracy Potter, I have known you since before you were born. You can’t con me. Tell us why J.T. is back.”

“Well, nothing’s certain yet—” translation: Tracy had heard something from two sources but had to receive definitive proof “—but word is he’s home for Iris.”

“She’s okay, isn’t she?” Lyddie asked. “I saw her yesterday and she looked fine. I know she was sick in the winter, but—”

Tracy shook her head. “No, nothing like that. Look, Lyddie, I know Iris is your landlady and all, so I hate to be the one to tell you. But what I heard is that he’s here to finish up his father’s estate.”

Lyddie’s gut did an unhealthy lurch. “What does that mean?”

Tracy sighed and sent a pleading look toward Nadine. It only made Lyddie’s suspicions shoot higher.

“Now, Tracy.”

“Iris is moving, Lyddie. Probably to Tucson with J.T., though nobody’s sure about that. He’s here to sell all the buildings his father owned.” She jerked her head back toward River Joe’s. “Including this one.”

CHAPTER TWO

J.T. STOOD IN THE cramped upstairs bathroom of his mother’s home bright and early the next morning, carefully peeling the backing from the temporary tattoo he’d applied to his arm.

“There,” he said to the lumpy mutt lying half in the bathroom, half in the hall. “It’s not a heart that says Mom, but it should do the trick.”

Charlie—the latest in a string of mongrels—yawned, obviously not impressed with the way the morning sun gleamed off the stylized maple leaf now adorning J.T.’s biceps. J.T. shrugged, wadded up the paper and tossed it toward the trash, congratulating himself when he hit it the first time. Courage bolstered, he turned to the mirror to see if he passed muster.

Good. He looked only half as idiotic as he felt.

He’d left his hair uncombed, both to increase the rumpled look and to hide the gray that had started taking hold. A day’s worth of stubble paraded across his jaw. The bags under his eyes were a by-product of flying across time zones, but they added to the seedy appearance. An earring would have been a nice touch, but he had his limits.

Black biking shorts and an electric blue muscle shirt completed the mugger-in-training look. All he needed was a motorcycle. But he’d spent years learning caution and common sense since leaving town, and he wasn’t about to abandon them completely. He’d settle for Rollerblades and hope they were enough to cause a stir.

Satisfied that he looked vaguely reminiscent of the delinquent teen he’d once been, he stepped over Charlie and crept down the stairs, hoping he could make his escape without his mother hearing. She would have to see him like this in time, but he didn’t want to ruin her breakfast.

“J.T.?”

He should have known. The minute he walked into town, his luck turned tail and hopped the next flight out.

He nearly tripped over the damned stealthy dog and steeled himself for the worst.

Iris Delaney stood in the hall, thinner than she’d ever been in his life, snug in a white housecoat festooned with the flowers she’d been named for. She had a mug cradled in her hands and an expression of sheer horror on her face.

Wait for it....

She opened and closed her mouth. Raised one hand to her lips. Lowered it again.

At last she spoke.

“Make me a happy woman. Tell me you’re going jogging and then you’ll shower and get dressed for real.”

“Sorry, Ma. What you see is what you get.”

“Do I dare ask why?”

She could ask, but he wasn’t sure he could explain. He knew that when he left town, he’d broken her heart. Her hurt was compounded when she realized that no matter what he did—graduating from university, getting his PhD, moving to Tucson to teach high school and the occasional university class—no one wanted to hear about it. She’d been deprived of both her son and her bragging rights. She didn’t need to know that he’d already been tried and condemned on his first day back.

“Let’s say I’m giving the people exactly what they want to see.” He kissed the top of her head and swiped her mug with every intention of helping himself. One whiff of the contents made him hand it back, fast.

“What the he—heck is that?”

Iris rolled her eyes. “Please. You’re leaving here dressed like a hoodlum but you won’t say hell in front of your mother?”

“I figured you’d wash my mouth out with soap. What is it?”

“Astragalus tea. Strengthens immunity and enhances body energy and defenses.”

So she was trying to build herself back up. Good.

“When was your last doctor’s appointment?”

“About three weeks ago. Maybe longer.” When he started to speak, she shushed him with a shake of her head. “Don’t fuss. I’m fine now.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“Mothers don’t like to worry their children.” She stared into her tea. He tipped her chin up so he could look her straight in the eye.

“And children don’t like being kept in the dark, Ma.”

“I’m not hiding anything.” She paused, before adding, “Not from you, I promise. Not anymore.”

He could live with that. If Iris wanted to keep the rest of the town from knowing the truth about her ongoing fight with seasonal affective disorder, well, that was her right. As long as she didn’t try to hide it from him. He never wanted to get another phone call like the one he’d received last winter—the call in which an artificially calm voice informed him that his mother had tried to kill herself.

But she was doing better now. She was gradually adjusting to life without his father. And it was summer, when the long light-filled days held her depression at bay. As long as he got her out of Comeback Cove before fall, she would be fine.

The trouble was that while Iris said she was ready to move, he had the feeling she was really hoping for some sort of reprieve. Something, perhaps, like convincing him to move back.

“So.” He sniffed the tea again, turned up his nose. “Where can I get a cup of real coffee these days?”

“The same place you always could. River Joe’s.” She looked him up and down. “You know it’s going to be crowded this time of day.”

It was a gentle hint that he might want to change. Little did she know that there was no way he was going to reveal the depths of his changes to this town. He could handle them rejecting the kid he’d been. The man he’d become, though—that was off-limits.

Besides, it was fun to put on the old ways and tweak folks a bit. He kind of missed letting his inner daredevil have his day.

“River Joe’s, huh?” A picture of the woman he’d spotted the previous evening flashed through his mind. Maybe the answer to her identity was closer than he’d expected.

He snagged his Rollerblades from beside the deacon’s bench in the front hall, then sat down and wriggled the first foot in. Keeping his voice casual, he asked, “Who’s running it these days?”

“Lydia Brewster.”

“Who’s she?”

“Buddy Brewster’s daughter-in-law.”

J.T. wound the laces around his hands, tugged and looked up. “Glenn’s wife? How did she end up with the shop?”

“Glenn’s widow, yes. She moved here with her children after Glenn and Buddy died.”

Memories raced through J.T.’s mind, outtakes from the one and only time Comeback Cove had gained national attention. There had been a tanker on the seaway—a common enough occurrence. But this tanker had been targeted by a nutcase with a statement to make and enough explosives to make sure he was heard. Buddy and Glenn had been out deer hunting when they stumbled across the man. They stopped him. But in the process they lost their own lives.

J.T. tied a quick bow and moved on to the next foot. “Must have been tough for her.”

“It was. I’m sure it still is.”

The slight catch in his mother’s voice was proof that she understood Lydia Brewster’s pain better than he ever would. He hunted for something to say that would keep them on even emotional ground. “What made her come here?”

“You say that like it’s a life sentence.”

“You mean it isn’t?”

“Maybe when you’re a child. But adults usually enjoy it.”

Any minute now, she’d start a commercial on the joys of life in Comeback Cove. “Lydia Brewster?” he prompted.

Iris sighed. “Well, she and Ruth were both hurting, as you can imagine. Ruth was all alone in that big house, and Lydia’s children were so small—the youngest was little more than a baby. She brought them here, and Ruth helped with the kids while Lyddie ran the store. It was good for both of them.”

It made sense. But he still couldn’t see how moving to the Cove could be in anyone’s best interests.

“This is her home now,” Iris continued, “and people are glad to have her. Losing Buddy and Glenn was terrible. It helps to have her and the children here, like a part of them is still with us. And Lyddie is so sweet and brave that everyone wants to help.”

J.T. could only imagine. From what he remembered, if the nutcase had succeeded, the resulting explosion could have destroyed the town far more completely than he ever had. Lydia Brewster must be the next thing to a saint around here.

If she were indeed the woman he’d seen, it explained the ease with which she’d been accepted into town. Even the Cove couldn’t keep a hero’s widow at arm’s length.

He gave the laces a tug vicious enough to risk snapping them. He hoped to hell that this Brewster woman either wanted to close the shop or had enough money tucked away to buy her building from him. Because even with skates on, he doubted he could outrun the wave of condemnation that would crash over him if he had to sell Lydia Brewster’s business out from under her.

* * *

THE WEDNESDAY-MORNING RUSH was in full gear, leaving Lyddie little time to worry about Tracy’s revelation of the night before. Good. If she let herself think too long about this, she could come up with a dozen possible outcomes, each one scarier than the last. She was all too aware that the worst-case scenario really could happen in a life.

She could lose her business. Have to start over in another location. Worst of all, she would have to say goodbye to another piece of her children’s history—the shop their grandfather started, the place where their father carved his initials into the kitchen wall.

But all that had to wait. Right now she had to draw a hazelnut roast for Jillian.

“Leave it black, please,” Jillian called, as though this were a new request. Every morning she ordered the same thing. Nadine and Lyddie were getting on in years, but even they could remember a medium hazelnut, no cream, no sugar.

On the other hand, Jillian hadn’t attained the office of mayor—and every other title in town, from Little Miss Fall Festival on up—by leaving anything to chance. Maybe Lyddie should take a lesson from her. Jillian would never find herself breathless and foundering while her building was sold out from beneath her, that was for sure.

“How about a blueberry muffin, Your Worship?” Nadine was in fine form. “Mmm, look at that brown sugar streusel.”

Jillian, queen of the Thighmaster, shuddered visibly. “No. Just coffee. No food.”

On the other hand, there had to be a more positive role model than an anorexic power slut.

“I need music,” Lyddie announced, and scooted around the counter to reach the long-outdated CD player. Usually she didn’t start the tunes until the morning rush had cleared and conversation had dwindled. But today she needed all the distraction she could get.

She thumbed through the CDs and shook her head. Gregorian chants, harp music, the sounds of relaxation... None of those felt right. She needed in-your-face vocals that would give her a socially acceptable outlet for the frustration perking inside her. She needed—

“Oh, yeah.”

Bonnie Raitt’s greatest hits slid into place. In a moment, assertive guitar chords punctured the atmosphere, mingling with the warm smell of coffee and the casual ambience. It was almost enough to make her relax.

She boogied her way behind the counter where Nadine waited with her arms crossed and eyes rolling.

“Lydia, it’s bad enough you make me work at this hour. Force me to listen to that and I’ll report you to the labor board.”

“Stop. This is good. People like it.”

“It has a beat, I’ll give you that.” Nadine scanned the room, pausing briefly at the opening door. “But I think you need to try something... Oh, my God.”

“What?” Lyddie looked up, more worried by the sudden drop in Nadine’s volume than her words. Then she realized that the entire room had gone suddenly, eerily still. If it hadn’t been for Bonnie belting from the CD, asking if she was ready for the thing called love, there would have been dead silence.

“Nadine?”

A nod toward the door was the only answer.

Lyddie glanced in the direction indicated and saw that a man had entered the shop. Dark hair. Slightest hint of stubble on the chin. Electric blue T-shirt over black biker shorts. The most remarkable thing about him was the Rollerblades on his feet, and even Comeback Cove had progressed enough to handle those.

On closer inspection, this guy didn’t need anything remarkable to stand out. He wasn’t what she’d call drop-dead gorgeous, though he certainly was making the second look worth the effort. It was something about the way he held himself. The set of his shoulders, the slight quirk at the corner of his mouth, the calm and purposeful way he scanned the room sent a clear message that this was a man who knew exactly who and what he was, and nothing would change him.

So why did she get the feeling he was braced for attack?

“It’s him,” Nadine whispered. “J. T. Delaney.”

Ooooooooh.

The quirk spread into a cocky grin. “Nice to see I still know how to make an entrance.”

The room echoed with the sound of about a dozen throats being cleared.

His gaze settled on Lyddie. Something like recognition flashed in his eyes, confusing her. “Okay to wear these in here?” he called over the coughing and harrumphing.

“Uh...” Somewhere in her brain she understood he was referring to the skates. She wanted to toss off a casual reply, but something—anger?—had started curling low in her belly, interfering with her thought process.

It wasn’t fair. She hadn’t had time to think, no chance to determine her plan of attack. Why was he here already?

And why did he have to look so...interesting? Despite what Nadine and Tracy had said, Lyddie had expected a middle-aged version of his late father: sober and responsible, slightly balding, wearing sensible loafers and madras plaid shirts. That kind of man she could handle. What was she supposed to do with James Dean the Second?

His grin widened. “If you’d rather I didn’t, could we pretend this is a drive-through?”

From the corner of her eye she saw a flash of red. Oh, no. Jillian was moving in for the kill.

“Well, well, well. So much for that line about being adults.” Jillian crossed her arms and looked him up and down with—in Lyddie’s opinion—a bit too much interest. If Ted heard about this, there would be hell to pay. “You’re still as crazy as ever.”

“Only when I’m here, Jelly.”

Behind Lyddie, Nadine snickered back to life. “Jelly?”

Lyddie had much the same thought. She’d never met anyone who could put Her Worship in place with five little words. When the mayor clamped her lips together and hustled out the door, Lyddie had to remind herself that this was the potential bad guy in front of her.

But bad guy or not, she couldn’t leave him standing in the doorway. She waved to let him know the blades were acceptable but couldn’t keep from adding, “After all, it’s your place, Mr. Delaney.”

The soft whir of wheels across slate marked his progress. That and the swiveling of every head in the room. He moved slowly, as if making sure everyone had a chance to size him up.

“Morning, Mrs. Krupnick.”

“Morning, J.T.” Nadine spoke far more cautiously than Lyddie would have expected. “What can I get for you?”

“A cup of French roast.” There was a slight pause before he added, “Please.”

Lyddie stifled a groan. Just what she needed. A landlord with a God’s-greatest-gift complex.

She had to meet him eventually, so she straightened her shoulders and prayed that she would come off as an efficient businesswoman instead of the brain-dead twit she was currently channeling. Though how she was supposed to do that when he’d dropped in on her out of the blue like this...

“Hi.” She thrust out a hand, well aware that it was more challenge than greeting. “Welcome to River Joe’s. I’m Lydia Brewster.”

“J. T. Delaney.” He took her hand, palms meshing in a perfect fit. An unanticipated fog rolled through her brain. All she could think was that he sure didn’t look like a landlord. Nor, to be honest, did he resemble her idea of a wild arsonist. She wasn’t sure why. He certainly had the “wild” part down. Maybe it was his teeth. They seemed far too straight and white for someone with a juvenile past.

Nadine slid a full mug in his direction. He lifted it and inhaled like a drowning man who’d just found an oxygen tank.

“God, that smells good.”

Okay, he appreciated good coffee. That was a plus. But looking at him made something bubble inside Lyddie. She couldn’t put a finger on it. She was irritated and intrigued and frustrated and fascinated, all at the same time, but none of those emotions seemed to capture exactly what she was feeling.

All that was certain was that she needed to know the truth—not through a rumor, but from him.

She gave him a moment to swallow before saying, as casually as possible, “I hear you’re selling the building.”

The room echoed with a dozen sudden inhalations.

J.T., however, showed no reaction other than a slight quirk of an eyebrow. “Word travels fast as ever, I see.”

She nodded. Crossed her arms. Settled her hip against the corner of the counter so he’d know she was in no hurry.

A slow smile spread across his face. No surprise. It was the brief hint of some other emotion flashing in his eyes that made her pay attention. Was that guilt she spied?

But his next words laid to rest her brief hope that J. T. Delaney was having second thoughts.

“That’s right.” He spoke clearly, slowly. She had the impression he wanted to make sure everyone in the room caught every word. “I’m selling this and every other building my father owned. I want it done quickly and easily so I can leave at the end of summer. The sooner I can get back to Tucson, the better.”

A chorus of whispers filled the room. Lyddie was glad for the solid wood against her hip. It compensated for the weakness in her knees.

He looked straight at her, but again the words were meant for the crowd. “This is prime waterfront property, Mrs. Brewster. I won’t have any trouble selling.” He fished in his pocket, tossed money on the counter. “I’ll stop by at closing time to discuss the details.”

He saluted her with his mug and took another long swallow before setting it on the counter with what looked like regret. Without another word, he skated out the door.

Silence filled the shop.

“Damn that boy.” Nadine’s words were soft but heartfelt.

“Ditto.” It was the only word Lyddie could manage. Too many thoughts vied for attention in her head, pushing her toward panic mode. The rumors were true. Could she buy? Would she get a new landlord? Was her rent going to jump? Would she have to move? Would he—

“He never was any good at math.” Nadine whisked the coins off the counter, shaking her head, and Lyddie finally clued in.

Not only had J. T. Delaney stolen her piece of mind and upset her business for the morning, but he’d also shorted her on the price of the coffee.

* * *

WELL, THAT HAD definitely not been one of his finer moments.

J.T. sauntered down Main Street that afternoon on his way back to River Joe’s, hoping no one could see that beneath the outer confidence, he was beating himself up. He kept a practiced, slightly patronizing smile in place as he observed the street, never once letting on that he was actually impressed with what he saw.

Last night he’d been so intent on searching out familiar landmarks that he hadn’t noticed the changes. How was that for irony? He had locked up his perception of the town just the way the town had frozen its opinion of him.

But today, after cursing himself for the way he’d behaved in the coffee shop, he could see the bigger picture. The Cove was still no crowded tourist hotspot, but it had grown and even thrived over the years. He remembered a sad downtown in which there were three empty storefronts for every one business clinging to life. Now there wasn’t an empty space to be seen. Pizza and doughnuts, T-shirts and antiques, even a natural food and vitamin shop—all seemed to be bustling between the standard grocery, post office and hardware store.

No wonder Lydia Brewster got that deer-in-the-headlights look when he said he was selling. There was no place for her to go.

The load of guilt on his shoulders got a little heavier—again—at the memory. She hadn’t deserved to get drawn into his give-’em-what-they’re-expecting joyride. She hadn’t done anything to him, and he had no right to assume she would condemn him like the rest of the town. He couldn’t let himself get ticked off at the way he’d been treated and then turn around and do the same thing to someone else.

Even at his worst, he’d never been heartless—yet he had a lousy feeling that he’d been exactly that this morning.

It hadn’t helped that when he walked in and recognized her as his mystery woman, his first thought was of the way she’d looked when she stretched the night before—long and curvy and inviting. That had knocked his carefully prepared words flat out of his mind. By the time he realized what he was saying, he’d already messed up.

It was all he could do to keep a determined spring in his step as he pulled open the door to River Joe’s, setting bells tinkling. He hoped to God he could get everything sold quickly. The kick he’d got from resurrecting his long-ago persona was fading fast.

“Hello?” He peered around the deserted dining room. No signs of life. Chairs were neatly upended on round tables, the counter was empty, lights dim. If it hadn’t been for the unlocked door he’d have thought she stood him up.

He was about to make tracks for the kitchen when that door flew open. Out marched Nadine Krupnick. He recognized the scowl on her face. He’d seen it enough times back in school, when she was the lunch lady and he was the idiot who’d just yelled, “Food fight!”

“Afternoon,” he said cautiously, turning so she couldn’t get between him and the exit.

“Afternoon? Ha. More like, high time someone talked straight to you, Mister Delaney.”

The bitter twist to her words told him precisely where Nadine’s loyalties rested. Before he could muster up an apology, Nadine was in his face, bobbing like a pissed-off bantam hen. The fact that he stood a good eight inches over her did nothing to dispel the feeling he’d just come between a mother bear and her cub.

“Listen here, J.T.” She poked his chest. Hard. “Up until about nine o’clock this morning, I was ready and willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. Then I heard what you’re doing. From your own lips, no less. And all I can say is, if you take this place away from that girl, then you might as well turn yourself in to the police right now, because you’ll be killing her just the same as that nutcase killed her husband.”

She finished her words with another jab that barely avoided being a punch. It took all his effort to keep breathing in a seminormal manner.

“You been working out, Mrs. Krupnick? I don’t remember you having such a mean right hook back in school.”

“That’s because you still had some brains back then. And a heart. Now it seems you’ve got a rock in your chest. And as for what’s filling your head instead of brains, well—”

“Nadine.”

Lydia leaned against the counter the way she had earlier that day, but this time she seemed almost relaxed. Even with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, she seemed more amused than worried. Maybe it was the smile tugging at her lips. He’d spied it this morning, briefly, before Nadine had obviously told her who he was. He hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted to see her smile again.

Too bad it was currently directed at Nadine, not him. When she glanced in his direction she frosted over. Wariness replaced the amusement that had encompassed her just a second earlier.

I did that. His shoulders sagged.

“Kick him out, Lyddie. Don’t talk to him until you call your lawyer.”

But Lydia shook her head. “It’s his building, Nadine. Besides, I’m certain Mr. Delaney and I can come to some reasonable agreement.”

Nadine muttered something under her breath. He wasn’t positive, but he was pretty sure that back in school, if she’d ever caught him saying what he thought she’d just said, he would have been carving yet another notch in his favorite chair in the principal’s office.

“Absolutely.” He ducked his head, stepped back and opened the door with a show of politeness. Nadine flounced through the opening, looking from him to the river behind them so pointedly that he would have to be an idiot to miss her meaning.

He allowed himself one lungful of the coolness coming off the water before turning back. Lydia stood by the set of love seats that flanked a coffee table at the fireplace end of the room.

“No Rollerblades this afternoon?”

He glanced at his sandals. “This is a business meeting. I thought I’d go formal.”

Something like amusement twitched at her lips before quickly fleeing.

“Shall we get started?” She gestured to one seat before sitting in the opposite one. She moved with a fluid grace that reminded him of the waves he’d spied on the water. But just like the water, he was pretty sure there was a lot more beneath the surface than she was going to show. At least to him.

He sat, well aware that he had some atoning to do. He hoped he could get through this meeting without turning back into the rebel without a clue.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been in this place,” he said. “Even when I lived here, I usually wasn’t allowed inside. My dad came here to hang out with his buddies. Your father-in-law was his best friend. Having me here would have cramped their style.”

She nodded. “Your father never came back after...after I took over.”

“Really?”

Another nod. “I’m sorry you lost him.”

“And I’m sorry, too. For your loss, I mean.”

This time she merely pursed her lips, as if he’d said something unexpected. It took him a moment to realize that expressions of sympathy might not go with the image he had presented that morning.

God, when he messed up, he did it big-time.

After a moment of silence, she spoke again. “I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Delaney, but my—”

“J.T.”

“Fine. I’m Lydia, and my children will be here soon so I can drive them home from school, so could we please skip the getting-to-know-you stage and get down to business?” She leaned forward slightly. “I want to buy the building.”

He tried to answer. He really did. But when she leaned in, he got a glimpse of something purple and lacy beneath her no-nonsense polo shirt, and boom, his neurons went into some kind of overactive shock. Which, as a scientist, he knew wasn’t possible. But he also knew that science couldn’t explain everything.

“Mr. Delaney? J.T.?”

“Uh...sorry, I...long day yesterday. I’m still foggy.”

“Then let me say it again. I want to buy the building. How much are you asking?”

He wasn’t seeing the Realtor for a couple of days, but he knew the assessed value of the building. He added a few thousand for good measure and named the resulting figure.

She blanched just a little.

“That’s a bit more than I expected.”

He reminded himself of the costs of moving his mother and establishing her in a new home in a country without subsidized medical care. “This is a good-sized building. It could probably be subdivided into two or three stores. Or it could stay as one large space, which I gather is what the other potential buyer plans to do with it.”

A bit more color drained from her face. “Someone else wants it?”

In going through his mother’s papers he’d found a letter from a Brockville snack maker asking about the possibility of buying the building to house a Comeback Cove spin-off of his establishment. J.T. didn’t want to come off like a hard-ass, but she needed to know that he had to get the best possible price.

“There is other interest,” he said slowly. “It would be a lot easier to sell to you, and I have no problem doing that. But I can’t dismiss another buyer simply because you were here first.” Then, because the way she was shrinking in on herself made him feel like he’d stepped on a robin’s egg, he added, “I need to do what’s best for my mother.”

He wished he could tell her the truth, that he wasn’t a heartless bastard, that he was only cutting as many ties as possible to make sure there was no reason for his mother to ever come back to this place of long, dangerous winters.

But Iris had gone to great and elaborate lengths during her hospitalization to convince the town that she was suffering from a very contagious flu. If he breathed so much as a hint that she was actually being treated for depression she would never forgive him. Worse, she might never leave town with him. She had already been dropping too-casual hints about how good life was in Comeback Cove and how the school could use an energetic science teacher. If he pissed her off, she would stay here with her friends, for another winter, and pretend she could ride out her illness on her own.

And he would lose her.

“Your mother. Of course. I understand.” Lydia stood, smoothing the fabric of her khaki-colored pants, drawing his attention to nicely rounded hips. All thoughts of the building and the town and even his mother fluttered from his mind at the sight of long fingers sliding nervously down her thighs.

He shook his head. Four months of celibacy was obviously too long. If this were anyplace but the Cove he could try to amend that sad condition, but the mere thought of finding someone here was enough to bring a wry smile to his lips.

“My children will be here any minute.” Her words pulled him back to attention. “I need to get ready for them.”

“Right.” He sprang to his feet, reached for her outstretched hand. Her shake was firm. His grasp lasted a fraction of a second too long. Well, to him it was too short. Who would have suspected that her palm would nestle so intimately against his? But from the slight frown and the speed with which she pulled back, he knew he’d overstayed his welcome.

“I don’t want a bidding war, but I’m not giving up and moving out meekly, Mr. Delaney. I have too much invested here to let go just like that.”

He nodded, certain that if he tried to say anything, he’d end up apologizing all over himself and practically giving her the building. “I understand. Why don’t you take a day or two to consider your options and get back to me?”

Lydia’s gaze darted around the room, lingering in the oddest places—a scarred section of the fireplace, a pane of glass in the window that didn’t seem to match those surrounding it. He would have thought she was reassessing as she looked around, but the soft glow in her eyes told him he’d missed the boat.

“I’ll be in touch as soon as possible,” she said as she walked him to the door. He nodded and reached past her for the handle. For a moment they brushed against each other. He was close enough to breathe in the scents of coffee and vanilla that clung to her, near enough to hear the small breath that escaped from her lips when he touched her. He was filled with a crazy yearning to forget the door and reach for her instead.

It was impossible, of course. She might not have judged and dismissed him like the rest of the populace, but a hero’s widow and the town bad boy—reformed or not—wasn’t what anyone would call a likely pairing.

The best thing he could do was hope that from now on, she would wear shirts that wouldn’t get him thinking.

CHAPTER THREE

WHERE WAS SHE going to get the money?

Lydia gave the wheelbarrow a vicious push as it caught on a root hidden in the grass of her front yard. Officially, she was toting the embers from the evening’s barbecue out front to dump on the giant maple stump in the middle of the yard. In reality she’d jumped at the chance to gain a moment’s privacy—a moment to relive her conversation with J. T. Delaney.

“Another buyer, my left foot,” she muttered as she wheeled her load across the grass. “J.T. probably stands for Jerk the Tenant.”

She upended the barrow and carefully shook the coals onto the last reminder of the tree that had towered over the yard until a January ice storm brought it down. The hiss and spit of the embers as they hit moist wood was nothing compared to the hissing and snarling she longed to indulge in now that she had the chance.

Except she couldn’t.

Oh, she was mad, that was for sure. Angry at the way her new security was being yanked out from beneath her, frustrated that these changes were being forced on her, scared silly whenever she considered the money she would have to dredge up. That line about there being another potential buyer, well, that was just the whipped cream on the latte. Honestly. Did the man really think she would fall for that?

She pulled the wheelbarrow away from the stump and sighed. She was ticked at her new landlord, true. But she couldn’t work up as much steam as was currently billowing into the air before her. The man was infuriating, but at the same time, he was so different than she’d expected that she was kind of intrigued. Different wasn’t something that happened a lot in Comeback Cove. She was usually okay with that. Her life had been thrown into chaos once. Stability and routine were her good friends now.

She didn’t want that to change just because J. T. Delaney had skated into town, even if he was the most interesting thing she’d seen in ages.

She gazed up into the blue sky, focusing on a wisp of long, thin white cloud. “Glenn,” she said softly, “remember when you bought me that really awesome necklace for Christmas, and then you forgot all about it until I found it, like, two years later? Well, is there any chance you could have done that with some off-shore bank accounts, or—”

“Mommy!”

Lyddie’s focus jerked back to earth and the sight of her youngest child bounding across the yard with a cell phone in her hand, pigtails bobbing in time with her leaps.

“Slow down, Tish. These coals are hot. You don’t want to fall in them.”

“Mommy, I’m not a baby. I’m almost seven. I know how to walk.”

“Humor me, okay?” Lyddie walked around the steaming stump and met Tish on the safe side of the yard. “Who’s on the phone?”

“Aunt Zoë.”

“Thanks, kiddo. Go back inside and tell Sara to start your bath. I’ll be there soon.”

“Can’t I skip? I don’t want a bath.”

“Nope. School night. Hop to it.” Lyddie bestowed a loud kiss on Tish’s soft cheek, then patted her daughter’s denim-clad bottom before lifting the phone to her ear.

“Hey there, fertile one.”

A long groan was her answer, deep and painful enough to make Lyddie’s heart do a quick thud.

“Zoë? What’s wrong, are you in labor? Talk to me, Zo.”

“No.”

“No, you won’t talk to me, or—”

“No, I’m not in labor.” Zoë sounded more like her normal overwhelmed self now. Whew. “It’s these stupid Braxton Hicks contractions. Who invented them, anyway? I mean, what’s the point of a contraction if you’re not in labor? Is this supposed to be like the previews at the movies?”

Lyddie laughed and picked up a long stick to poke at the still-simmering coals. “This is your third kid. You don’t need a preview.”

“Damn straight I don’t. It took me years to forget what labor feels like. I don’t need reminders.”

“Cheer up. It’s going to get worse before it gets better.”

Zoë moaned and called Lyddie a name that would have earned her a bar of soap in the mouth if their mother had heard it. Lyddie merely giggled.

“So what’s up?”

“Nothing.” Her sister’s voice was a sound portrait of frustration.

“Nothing? That’s why you called?”

“Kevin left early this morning and has a dinner meeting tonight, and Nick has a cold so he’s clingy and miserable, and Dusty decided that today was the perfect day to see what would happen if you cook Play-Doh in the microwave for ten minutes on high. I hurt all over. I can’t breathe. I’ve been having these stupid Braxton Hicks all day and it’s hotter than Hades here and if this baby doesn’t come out the minute Sara gets off the plane, I’m grabbing a knife and giving myself a homemade Cesarean.”

Lyddie pushed a coal farther over on the stump. “Congratulations. You’re having your eight-month breakdown.”

“You don’t have to sound so damned happy about it!” Across the miles, Zoë burst into tears. Lyddie sighed and sat on the ground. Might as well get comfortable.

Five minutes of soothing, empathizing and commiserating later, Zoë finally stopped crying.

“You okay now?”

“A bit.” Sniff. “It helps to hear another adult voice. I should have kept working right until I popped. I wasn’t made to be a suburban housewife. Tell me stories of the real world.”

Despite herself, Lyddie laughed. “The real world? Have you forgotten that I live in Comeback Cove?”

“It beats the hell out of the ’burbs. At least people talk to each other there. Tell me—anything. Make something up. Anyone interesting come into the store today?”

This time it was Lyddie’s turn to groan.

“That sounds promising. Now use words.”

“They won’t all be nice,” Lyddie warned, and after glancing around the yard to make sure none of the kids were lurking in the evening shadows, she gave Zoë the scoop.

“So that’s where I am,” she said. “You have a spare hundred grand or two tucked away with your cookie stash?”

“Sorry, I blew it all last week on nursing bras. But seriously, are you sure you want to buy the place?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Why? Wasn’t it obvious? “This is home now.”

“Is it? I mean, I know you like it there, but geez, Lyddie. Do you really want to tie yourself to a place where they call you the Young Widow Brewster?”

Oh. That.

“Not everyone says that.”

“But they think it,” Zoë pointed out, and Lyddie realized that what had intrigued her most about J.T. was the way he’d talked to her. There’d been none of the deference that characterized so many of her interactions with her fellow residents. Other than his brief condolences, there had been no mention of Glenn, no pity in J.T.’s gaze. It had been, well...refreshing.

Still, even if she sometimes felt a bit stifled by the way people dealt with her, she couldn’t discount the way she and the kids had been embraced by the town. “This is a good place. The kids need to be here.”

“That’s debatable. Sara seems awfully excited about coming here for the summer.”

“Sara is fourteen. Of course she wants to get away, it’s part of the adolescent code.”

“Are you sure that’s all it is?”

The question was so un-Zoë, so very much like something her mother-in-law would say, that Lyddie had to laugh. “Did Ruth pay you to do this?”

“Oh, my God. You mean Ruth and I actually agree on something?”

“Not precisely, but...” Lyddie sighed and leaned back until she was flat on the ground, staring at the pink-tinged clouds floating through the darkening sky. “Look, you know why I’m here. I agree it gets a little, um, claustrophobic at times, but everyone is really very nice. Plus it’s the closest I can come to keeping Glenn alive for the kids.”

“And there’s no other way that could be done?”

“Not nearly as well.”

There was a moment of silence, during which Lyddie could easily visualize her sister perched on the edge of her bar stool, one finger twirling her hair while the other tapped against the phone—Zoë’s favorite thinking position.

“Is he married?”

“Excuse me?”

“The landlord. Is he married?”

“What the heck does that have to do with anything?”

“Because if he’s married, I can’t tell you to jump him.”

“Zoë!”

“Oh, come on, Lyd. You said he’s kind of James Dean–ish, right?”

Lyddie remembered the shorts, the sass, the smile. The man did have a basic animal appeal. Maybe it was just the shock of seeing someone who obviously didn’t care what anyone thought about him—a rare find, indeed, in Comeback Cove.

“I am not going to jump him.”

“You sure? It would go a hell of a long way toward improving your negotiating position.”

“Positive.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to start researching mortgages.”

The shudder that rippled through Lyddie had nothing to do with the damp ground or the cool breeze coming off the river. Of course she had to get a mortgage to buy the building. It was the only way. She hated the thought of taking on that much debt, but she would do it. Even if it meant working until after she was dead to pay it off.

Her kids had already lost their father. They weren’t going to lose one of their strongest links to him, too. Not while she had any say in the matter.

* * *

LATE THAT NIGHT, Lyddie stared at the computer, the only light in the darkened den, and tried not to get too depressed as she focused on the sample mortgage payments in front of her. Amazing, how simple squiggles on a screen could generate such worry.

It hadn’t been like this before, when she and Glenn had bought their house. That research had been accompanied by giggles, nervous excitement and a bottle of champagne.

This time, each figure she took in seemed more overwhelming than the one before it. It was almost enough to make her seriously consider Zoë’s suggestion that she improve her negotiating position by jumping her landlord.

Right. And then she would pull a Lady Godiva in the middle of Main Street.

She minimized the page and clicked on the next bank in the list she’d generated. Maybe this one would have better terms. And maybe she could forget about J.T. And maybe she could even stop Zoë’s other question from surfacing every time she printed out another loan application.

Do you really want to tie yourself so permanently to a town where they call you the Young Widow Brewster?

“Yes,” she muttered as she stabbed her pencil against the notepad. Concentrate. That’s what she had to do now. Focus on the store, on her future, on building a forever life in Comeback Cove. All those other thoughts would have to wait until—

“Lydia?”

Until she dealt with her mother-in-law.

“Do you have a minute to talk?”

Oh, no. Not that tone. Not the I’m-alone-and-lonely voice.

“A minute.” She turned away from the computer, not certain if she were getting into something better or worse. “What’s up, Ruth?”

“I know you’re planning to send Sara to your sister’s for the summer, but is that carved in stone?”

Lyddie was tired and frustrated, haunted by questions she couldn’t answer and worries she couldn’t share, and all she wanted was to check out a couple more banks and then go to bed. She longed to tell Ruth that whatever it was, it would keep until a better time. But in all honesty, between the coffee shop, Ruth’s job and three kids needing to be carted around town and/or talked around, that “better time” was about twelve years down the road.

It looked as if she were going to have to get it over with.

“Her plane ticket is bought and paid for. Zoë is counting on Sara to help with the boys after she has the baby. So yeah, it’s pretty well definite.”

“I see. It’s just that...” Ruth paused as she walked into the room and sat in the desk chair beside Lyddie’s. “I talked to my sister today. She suggested that I bring the girls along when I go to Florida next month. Ben will be at camp and I thought it would be a nice treat for them.”

Florida in July? Ew. Tish wouldn’t mind the heat, she thrived on it, but Sara had inherited Lyddie’s love of cooler weather. She would wilt in two hours. Besides which—

“Ruth, that’s a wonderful offer, but Sara has her heart set on Vancouver. Zoë has arranged for her to have weekly lessons from someone who plays clarinet in the Vancouver Symphony, and you know Sara and music.”

“Clarinet lessons? I know everyone is making a big deal over her winning that orchestra award in school, but does she think she’s a musical genius now?”

“Actually, I think that being a musical genius is what led to her getting the award.” Lyddie spoke a bit more sharply than she’d intended, but tough.

Ruth shook her head. “I didn’t mean to dismiss her ability. You know I’m as proud of her as you are. But are you going to let one factor dictate her future?”

“Sara’s future is Sara’s concern. She loves music. She wants to make a career out of it.”

“But that’s ridiculous. She has her father’s brain—she could easily do anything she sets her mind to do.”

“And her mind is set on music.” Lyddie raised her hand before Ruth could speak again. “Look, she’s fourteen years old. She could decide next week that she wants to be a politician, or an undertaker or even a physical therapist, like Glenn. But right now she’s set on music and I have the chance to give my child something that could further her dreams. What kind of mother would I be if I didn’t do that?”

“A mother who wants to keep her child safe at home.”

In a moment Lyddie’s budding anger drained into understanding. Ruth had Lyddie, the children and her sister in Florida. That was it. The core of her world—her husband and her son—had been ripped from her. Lyddie couldn’t blame her for wanting to hold on as tightly as she could.

But as much as she felt for Ruth, her needs could not override Sara’s.

“Ruth.” Lyddie placed a hand on the older woman’s arm. “I’m going to miss her, too. It won’t be the same without her. But she’s at the age when she needs to spread her wings a little. Florida would be wonderful, and I’m sure she’ll be torn, but this trip to Vancouver is making her happier than she’s been in months. I know you wouldn’t want to take that away from her.”

Ruth sighed and patted Lyddie’s hand. “I suppose not. Just promise me she’ll come home in September.”

“She’ll come home if I have to fly there myself and drag her back by the hair.”

“Good.” She waited, then said, “What about Tish?”

For a moment Lyddie’s own desire to be the one to introduce her child to the wonders of Disney made her hesitate. Then she gave herself a mental slap. Who was being selfish now?

“How long will you be gone?”

“Just over two weeks.”

“At the end of July, right?”

“That’s right. The second half of the month. The dates are marked on the calendar.”

With just the slightest lump in her throat, Lyddie said, “It’s up to her, but I think she’d be delighted to go. Let’s iron out the details tomorrow, okay? It’s been a long day. I’m wiped.”

Ruth looked as though she wanted to say more, but Lyddie turned back to the computer. She bookmarked the pages she needed, shut down the computer then dragged herself up the stairs, wondering who on earth had ever thought that a two-story house was a good idea.

Before she could collapse into her own bed, however, she had one more job to do. Barefoot, she padded down the hall for her nightly peek into the kids’ rooms.

Ben had fallen asleep with the light on, as always. A copy of Carl Sagan’s Cosmos lay on the bed near his outstretched hand.

“Good night, my little brainiac.” Lyddie eased the book from its landing place and set it on the dresser where Ben would be sure to see it as soon as he woke. She smoothed the hair from his forehead and tiptoed to the door, where she paused to look back again.

“Glenn,” she murmured softly, “he’s getting too smart for me, hon. I can’t understand the things he talks about anymore, and he figured out that I’ve been faking for a while now. Could you maybe send him a friend? Preferably one who understands all that physics stuff, so he doesn’t walk around feeling so alone?”

Book safe, light out, she moved to the big room shared by the girls. Tish had kicked off her covers. Lyddie smoothed the blankets over her once again and kissed the sleeping child gently on the forehead. A glance across the room showed Sara curled in a fetal position, slumbering peacefully under the Clarinets RULE poster she’d tacked above her bed.

Ruth was right about one thing. Letting Sara leave, even for the summer, was one of the scariest things Lyddie had ever done. In her heart of hearts she knew that Sara was going to fall in love with Vancouver, with the opportunities, with the sights and sounds and offerings that awaited her.

She was prepared to do anything—go into debt until she was ninety-two, bind herself to a town where she would always be the hero’s widow—to make sure her children had every possible chance to connect with the father they’d lost. But what would she do if Sara didn’t want to come home?

* * *

TWO DAYS AFTER making an ass of himself in River Joe’s, J.T. made his first foray to the post office. Conversation dropped a bit when he walked through the door, but didn’t come to a dead halt the way it had at the coffee shop. He wasn’t sure if that was good or not.

He nodded in the general direction of the room and took his place at the end of the line. He didn’t recognize any of the people ahead of him. Of course, from their surreptitious glances, he saw that they certainly knew who he was.

“Morning,” he said when he caught the woman ahead of him giving him the once-over. She blushed and inched away. It seemed public opinion had indeed taken his measure and found him wanting, even when he was wearing regular street clothes.

It was kind of like back when Pluto was demoted from planetary status. Science and reason were nothing compared to long-standing opinion. He’d had to endure many a tirade from folks who insisted that Pluto was and always would be a planet, simply because that was what they believed.

He never thought he would empathize with a dwarf planet, of all things, but something about being on the receiving end of those glances had him feeling sorry for old Pluto.

The line moved quickly. J.T. stepped up to order his stamps but was stopped by a shriek that echoed through the room.

“J. T. Delaney, it’s you!”

He blinked and focused on the smiling face on the other side of the counter. It took a second to subtract twenty-five years and about that many pounds from the woman beaming at him, but once he made the connection, recognition flooded through him.

“Tracy?”

If anything, her grin grew wider. “You old dog. What took you so long to come and say hello?”

“How about, I was saving the best for last?”

It wasn’t until he saw her smile that J.T. realized how much he’d needed a friendly greeting. It was nice to know that at least one person remembered him with something other than loathing.

Tracy laughed and swatted his shoulder. They passed a couple of pleasant minutes playing catch-up before the door opened to admit the next customer.

“Oh, geez,” Tracy muttered. “Incoming.”

J.T. glanced over his shoulder to a most unwelcome sight. Jillian McFarlane was advancing on the counter with a smile more synthetic than that on any of the themed Barbie dolls she used to collect.

“Hello, Tracy. Hello, J.T. Lovely day, isn’t it?”

J.T. refrained from pointing out that the cold front accompanying Jillian would cast a pall over any day. He couldn’t believe she’d actually been elected mayor. All he could think was that nobody else had wanted the job. Either that or she scared all the other candidates away.

“Mornin’, Jelly. Good talking to you, Tracy. I’d better hit the road.”

“Don’t be a stranger, J.T.” Tracy waved. J.T. thought he was free and clear until he felt Jillian’s hand on his arm.

“Hang on. I need to talk to you.”

Talk to Jillian? Alone? Not without body armor.

“Sorry. Have to run.”

“Tracy, would you excuse us for a moment?”

Tracy crossed her arms and smirked.

“I don’t know, Jillian. What if someone comes in? I could be accused of deserting my post.”

Jillian shook her head so hard that her hair broke loose from the coating of spray holding it in place. The resulting wave of fumes was probably enough to be federally regulated.

“Honestly, Tracy. Go sort something, will you?”

“Whatever.”

Tracy wiggled her fingers in a lazy farewell and ambled to the back room. The minute she was gone, Jillian tightened her grip on his arm.

“I had an interesting phone call this morning, J.T. From Randy Cripps down in Brockville.”

It sounded familiar, but for the life of him he couldn’t place it. Jillian heaved a major-league sigh.

“You know. Cripps Chips?”

Oh, right. The potato-chip guy who had been interested in buying the coffee shop. “Why did he call you? Complaining that I’m taking so long to get back to him? I thought I’d wait until I heard from Lydia Brewster before I—”

“He wasn’t complaining. He wanted me to listen to his plans for expanding here.”

“Oh. Well, good for him, but I’m not doing anything until I hear from Lydia.”

“J.T. Pay attention. Lydia Brewster is a very nice woman who had a very rough time. I’ve had no problem encouraging the town to support her and Ruth, and she’s become an active, valuable member of the community. We’re glad to have her.” Jillian raised a finger. “But she runs a very small operation with only two permanent jobs and a handful of seasonal helpers. Cripps wants both buildings—River Joe’s and Patty’s Pizza. One would be a retail outlet and one would be a production site. Do you know how many jobs that could bring in?”

“Wait. Neither of those properties is big enough to put a factory in it.”

She sighed again, this time speaking as if he were a particularly obtuse toddler. “It’s a small-batch company. They don’t need a huge amount of space. But he wants to expand, get his product in front of a larger audience so he can begin to add new markets. We have enough tourists to make that possible.”

“Okay, so, good for him, good for the town.” He crossed his arms. “But Lydia has first crack at it.”

“But—”

“Don’t waste your breath trying to talk me out of it, Jelly. River Joe’s has been there forever. If she wants to keep it there, she should have that right.”

“We’ll help her find a new place.”

“Where? You know as well as I do that the riverfront area is full up. That was probably your doing, and if so, then let me be the first to say, good job, Madam Mayor.” He meant it. No matter what had or had not happened in the past, he still wanted the town to thrive. “Lydia deserves that tourist traffic just as much as Mr. Crispy does.”

Jillian’s eyes sparked and she spoke through a jaw so tight he could probably bounce a loonie off it. “We will take care of Lydia. We owe her. But you owe this town, J.T., and this is your chance to help make things right. Think of it as balancing your karma.”

“My karma’s in great shape right now. Giving a widow the heave-ho just to bring someone else into her place, well, that sounds like something a whole lot more likely to feng my shui and all that jazz.”

“But you—”

“Need to get going. You’re right.” He waved his stamps in the air, but with Jillian about to blow her top, he wondered if he was just wiggling a matador’s cape in front of an enraged bull. “My dad’s old boathouse is available. Some cabins, too. If Mr. Chippy is interested in any of those, let me know. Otherwise, sayonara, Jillian.”

* * *

THE NEXT MONDAY, Lyddie hung up the phone in her so-called office and tried to keep from either screaming, swearing or sobbing. All were appropriate reactions to the news she’d just received, but none would do a bit of good.

She balled up her apron and threw it into the far corner. It hit the wall with a highly satisfying smack before slithering down to the floor.

“Damn, damn, damn...”

Her volume increased with each utterance, forcing her to clamp her lips tight before she totally lost it. If she started yelling now, she knew it would be heard in the dining room. The last thing she needed was Nadine asking questions. Not yet. Not until she’d had a chance to vent in private.

Lyddie marched to the front of the kitchen and forced herself to take one of those deep, cleansing breaths that the Lamaze instructor had insisted would get her through the worst contractions. It had proven to be a bald-faced lie during labor, but at least now it enabled her to maintain some control as she pushed open the door to the dining room. When she peeked in she was relieved to see that business was still light. The midafternoon lull meant this was her best chance for escape.

“Nadine, will you be okay alone for a few minutes?”

“Sure thing, boss. You got a hot date you have to squeeze in?”

“Yeah, Ryan Gosling’s yacht is passing through and he has a few minutes free for a quickie. Call me if you need me. Otherwise I’ll be back in a few.”

Without waiting for Nadine to respond, Lyddie retraced her steps through the kitchen to the back door. She shoved it open and was hit by a blast of humid heat, the scent of fresh pizza in the air and Jimmy Buffett begging for a cheeseburger in paradise. If she hadn’t been in such a pissy mood she would have reveled in the assortment. As it was, she turned to glare across the parking lot at the reason for her dismay—Patty’s Pizza—then cursed in frustration.

She needed to get away. Needed to vent. Alone.

Something near Patty’s caught her eye. It was a man. A tall, confident, complicate-your-life-beyond-reason man, walking down the street without so much as a glance at the people he was passing.

“Typical,” Lyddie said, and booted it until she was in J. T. Delaney’s face.

“Hold it right there,” she said without preamble.

He raised his focus from the sidewalk to her face, clearly startled. Something like pleasure flashed in his eye. It was gone in the instant it took her to scowl.

“We need to talk. Now.”

“Is it something I said?”

“More like something you didn’t say. Get in my car. We’re going for a drive.”

“I love a woman who takes charge,” he said, but followed obediently as she fished her keys from her pocket and led him to her minivan.

“In.” She pointed to the front seat, not even bothering to clear away the pile of library books Ben had left for her to return. This was a grown man. He could push books off the seat as well as anyone else.

She let herself in her side, slammed the door and had the car out of the parking lot before he had his seat belt fastened.

“I never pegged you for the dominatrix type,” he said over her squealing tires. “Guess you never can tell.”

“This is not a good time for jokes.”

“Fine. No problem. Can I ask where we’re going?”

She stared out the window, bit her lip. “I don’t know.”

“You said we need to talk.”

“Yes.”

“You want privacy for this discussion?”

She swallowed hard, nodded. “Yes.”

“Fine. My dad’s old boathouse is empty and I have the keys. You know where it is?”

She did. She passed it every day on her way to and from work. She didn’t bother to answer, just stepped on the gas and carried them out of town and down River Road in record time.

She parked the car in the lot and hopped out, crossing the rutted dirt and gravel in long strides, letting her anger build as she waited by the door. For a second she realized that if anyone were watching—and in Comeback Cove, that was more likely than not—then the gossip network would soon be buzzing with the news that she and J. T. Delaney had been alone together in a deserted building.

Well, that would be one way to get folks to stop calling her the Young Widow Brewster.

It took J.T. a minute to find the right key, another couple of tense seconds to convince it to work in the stubborn lock, but at last the door was open.

“Careful,” he said as she stepped inside. “I haven’t been in here yet. It might not be in the best shape.”

His warning was justified. Standing behind her in the half-open door, J.T. blocked a good deal of the sunshine from outside. Dust motes danced in the weak light of the sole unshuttered window, drifting slowly down to earth. Deep shadows hovered outside that small patch of light. The mingled scents of grease and gas and the sound of water lapping at boards reminded her that this was a boathouse—meaning one wrong step in the unfamiliar darkness could land her in even deeper water than she faced already.

“Hang on.” J.T.’s voice, low and subdued behind her, was oddly reassuring considering he was the reason for her misfortune. “I doubt there’s any electricity, but I’ll try the light—wait—no, nothing. There should be a flashlight up on the shelf. Just give me a...”

The door slammed closed, plunging them into darkness.

Lyddie yelped. J.T. cursed.

“Don’t move,” he said.

“I won’t.”

“Let me get the door open again.” He moved slowly behind her. Something warm—a hand, probably—grazed the small of her back. And all of a sudden, it wasn’t nervousness about the dark and the water that was making Lyddie’s heart do double-time in her chest.

For the first time in four years, she was alone in the dark with a man. And all she could hear was Zoë’s voice, laughing on the phone, telling her to jump him.

Oh. Dear. God.

Four years of zero interest in anything sexual ended in the space of a breath. Every erogenous zone roared back to sudden, urgent, demanding life.

She must have made some sort of sound, for in an instant he stopped his slow walk.

“Mrs. Brewster? Are you okay?”

“Fine.” Except she kept remembering the way he had looked when he first walked into the shop, before she knew who he was. And the way he grinned. And the slight suggestion in his voice when she told him to get in the truck and he said he liked a woman who took charge.

Most of all she kept feeling that touch on her back, over and over. Heat pooled low in her belly. Her skin prickled with awareness. Even without contact she felt him moving. Every hesitant footfall echoed through her, pulling her focus back to that spot where she could still feel him. And each time it replayed in her mind her breath came a little faster.

“You’re sure you’re okay? You sound like you’re hyperventilating or something.”

Hyperventilating? More like panting with excitement. All she had to do was turn around and he would be there.... It could happen. It would be so easy. In less than a heartbeat she could be running her hands up that chest, pulling his shirt up to feel hot flesh against her, around her, maybe even in her....

“Lydia?”

“I’m fine. Really.” At least she would be, if ever there was some light to break this spell. “Can you find the door?”

“Hang on. It’s a little stiff. One good shove should—there!”

With a grunt from him and a squeal from the hinges, the door gave way. Light poured back in. Lyddie squinted against the brightness and saw J.T. outside, hunting on the ground, then propping a rock against the door.

“There.” He brushed off his hands and stepped back inside. “Sorry about that. Caught me by surprise.”

He wasn’t the only one.

“It should stay open now, but if you’d rather go someplace else, I wouldn’t blame you.”

“No, I...” Oh, great. She was so befuddled from the hormone surge that she could barely remember why she’d brought him here. Was this how it felt to be a man, left temporarily brain-dead when the blood headed south?

Breathe, Lyddie. You are not some idiot teenager in the middle of her first infatuation, you’re a grown woman with an adult job in front of you. Get with the program.

“It’s hot in the sun. Let’s stay here.”

“You’re sure? I don’t dare offer you a seat. I didn’t expect it to be so dusty. It’s not the way I remembered it.”

For a moment she forgot about the sale. This was the first time he’d been in his father’s boathouse since Roy’s death. Probably the first time he’d been here in twenty-five years.

Her heart ached for him. She knew all about those firsts.

“I’m sorry. We can leave if you’d rather.”

He shrugged, but without any of the cockiness she’d noticed in their earlier encounters. “I had to come back sometime.”

That he did. And that, too, she understood, all too well.

“So what was on your mind?”

She dragged her gaze away from his face—that way lay danger, which she could tell by the low current of warmth still humming through her when she looked at him—and focused on the patch of sunshine in the far corner.

“I called my lawyer today. I asked him to read over my lease and see if I had any rights of first refusal on the property.”

“You don’t. I already checked.”

Give the man credit. At least he wasn’t gloating.

“I know that now. Anyway, he let me in on another little item he thought I should know about.” She crossed her arms as the memory stabbed her once again. “He told me that all sales in the business zone must be approved by the planning board.”

“Right.”

“And that they would never let me buy just my building, because I share a parking lot with Patty’s Pizza.”

“You’re kidding.”

Another bonus point. He sounded truly, sincerely astonished by this news.

“Are you really surprised, or are you just a great actor?”

“You thought I knew?”

She turned to face him. Mistake. The swaggering jokester had disappeared, replaced by a sincerity that made her catch her breath. She had a feeling that she was seeing the real J. T. Delaney for the first time. And it was a damned intriguing sight.

She spoke carefully, uncertain how to proceed. “It’s your property. It would make sense that you would know.”

“I’ve looked at some of the papers, but not everything yet. I never had to know this before.”

That made sense. Damn.

“So I guess the price of my building has just jumped.”

He hesitated before nodding. “If this is true, then yeah. It will have to.”

Her throat tightened. She could have managed payments on her building alone. But hers and Patty’s? The possibility was looking slimmer by the minute.

“Let me guess. You just got off the phone when you ran into me in the parking lot.”

“Right in one.”

“That explains a lot.”

He was being way too understanding. Though maybe she could twist that logic for her own benefit. Maybe that overwhelming desire she’d felt when the lights went out had nothing to do with him. Maybe it was just a by-product of the frustration she’d felt, a kind of emotional leftover that misfired.

She risked another glance at him—strong arms, firm chest, a mouth that begged to be explored.

Nope. Not a leftover.

She sighed. “I need to get back.”

“Maybe we could—” He stopped abruptly, then ducked his head. “You’re right. We’d better go.”

They walked to the van in silence, which persisted through the drive back up River Road. Despite the circumstances, it was a surprisingly comfortable silence. Lyddie almost wished for the pure, hot anger she’d felt a few minutes earlier. That was a lot easier to understand than the mix of despair, hopelessness and residual lust still swirling inside her.

She pulled into the lot that was the source of this latest dilemma. They were sure to be spotted. If she acted like there was nothing to hide, maybe the gossips would go easy on her.

She reached for the door handle, then stopped. It had to be said. “J.T.?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry I dragged you off the way I did. That was wrong.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve been expecting to get lynched ever since I walked back into town.”

That sounded more like the J. T. Delaney she knew. Especially when he slid out of the van, then poked his head back in to flash her that killer grin and added, “But if I’d known it was gonna happen in broad daylight with a pretty woman, I would have offered myself up a whole lot sooner.”

CHAPTER FOUR

THREE DAYS AFTER Lydia Brewster kidnapped him, J.T. drove his mother downtown to help him pick out paint. Not that she was going to make it easy on him.

“You’re working too hard,” Iris said as they walked through the double-wide doors of McCoy’s Hardware. “You don’t need to paint the cabins. You should take some time off, have some fun.”

“I am having fun, Ma. Those fumes will do it every time.”

“Oh, you.” She swatted his arm playfully, but he saw the way her lower lip trembled as they made their way to the paint aisle.

That, in a nutshell, was the problem. Iris refused to believe he was really going to make her move. Rather, she believed it, but let it be known at every possible opportunity that she disagreed vehemently with this decision. No matter how much he talked about Tucson, she insisted that he could stay in Comeback Cove if he would only try. The fact that she was the one who couldn’t stay—not without risking her life—seemed completely irrelevant to her.

It was almost a relief when the owner hurried around the counter to greet them.

“Morning, Iris. J.T. What can I do for you?” Steve McCoy, son of the McCoy who’d run the store in J.T.’s day, spoke to them both but kept his focus on J.T. It was that assessing gaze that worried him. Steve wasn’t giving J.T. the “potential shoplifter” once-over that his father had perfected all those years ago. Instead, the expression on Steve’s face could best be described as...wary.

“We need paint,” Iris replied. “White. With some yellow and green for trim.”

Again, Steve’s attention was directed at J.T. “Is this for the coffee shop? Anything to do with Lyddie gets a discount.”

“Nope.” J.T. ignored Iris’s elbow in his ribs. He still wasn’t sure if the rule regarding shared parking lots had been on the books for years or if it was something Jillian might have shoved through to tip the scales in Mr. Crunchy’s favor. In any case, he wasn’t about to discuss that property with anyone other than Lydia, Iris and his lawyer.

“The cottages,” Iris explained after frowning at her son. “Roy had some cottages upriver that we used to rent out. They need freshening up before we can sell them.”

J.T. suppressed a snort. They needed a hell of a lot more than freshening. There were floorboards to replace, wallpaper to strip and steps that were lawsuits in the making. He would have his hands full getting them fixed up by the end of summer.

“Gotcha. Well, then.” Steve pulled out a few paint chips. “Here’s some popular yellows and greens. Why don’t you look them over, Iris? And J.T., would you mind giving me a hand with a load of mulch in the back?”

J.T. had no doubt that the “load” waiting for him had nothing whatsoever to do with mulch. But before he could say something about a bad back, Iris beat him to the punch.

“Of course he’ll help. J.T., you’ve been showing off those muscles since you got home. Go put them to use.”

God save him from mothers on a mission.

He followed Steve into the back room. But as he’d expected, Steve had something else in mind.

“Hang on there a minute, will ya, J.T.?”

J.T. came to a halt between a shelf loaded with potting soil and another one overflowing with hose heads. He hoped he could look reasonably surprised by this request.

Are you really surprised, or are you just a great actor?

He frowned in an attempt to chase Lydia’s voice from his memory. He couldn’t deal with that particular problem now.

’Course, he’d spent the whole night telling himself that. It hadn’t done a bit of good then, either. No amount of rationalizing had made him forget that moment in the dark when she had made that little sound he could swear had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with—

“So listen.” Steve pulled open a box of hammers and began stacking them on the closest shelf. “I hear you’ve got a full plate ahead of you, selling and packing and such.”

“You’re very well-informed,” J.T. said wryly.

“Small town, big mouths. Speaking of which, I have to ask—how long do you think this is gonna take?”

It was a good thing he bore no illusions about his standing in this town. He could get a complex from people asking how long he planned to stick around.

“I’ll wrap things up as fast as I can, but you know it’s not all up to me.” Then, because it was Steve asking, and at one time he and Steve had been pretty tight, he risked a guess.

“People getting nervous because I’m here?”

“Some.”

“They think I’m gonna start another fire?” J.T. paused, watching Steve carefully. “Or do they think I’m going to start talking about what really happened that night?”

“Look.” Steve swallowed hard as he placed the next hammer on the shelf. “I know you got a raw deal back then. You don’t know how many times I wished I’d had the guts to stand up for you, tell people the truth. But I didn’t. I’m not proud of it, but what’s done is done, and now I—”

“Easy, Steve.” J.T. couldn’t take much more of watching the guy fall all over himself. “Look. I’m not here to dig up old memories or start any rumors. None of that crap. As far as I’m concerned, the fire is ancient history.”

“A lot of folks don’t feel that way.”

“Sure. A lot of meddling old busybodies with nothing better to do than—”

“A lot of customers who live here year-round and keep my business going. Folks who make it possible for me to make my child support payments and keep some other people employed, too.”

Oh.

“Let me get this straight. You’re saying that because I came back, people are talking about the fire again. And that’s a conversation that some folks—say, you, and Mike Smithers, and Larry Brown and Tim Pattinson and some others—would rather didn’t get started again.”

Steve’s head bobbed in what J.T. assumed was agreement. “That’s about it.”

“I see.”

J.T. rocked back on his heels, staring out at the yard. If he moved slightly to the right he could catch a glimpse of the river in the distance, the blue calling to him like an old lover.

“They’re all still here in town?”

“Some. The ones who aren’t still have family here.”

He thought back to the new stores on the streets, the names taking on deeper meaning.

He hadn’t been alone the night of the fire, but he’d been the only one spotted at the scene, the only one to flee town. The others had stayed. Stayed, and kept silent.

And helped the town rebuild.

“Steve. Look. I’m not trying to stir up anything. And I’m not—okay, for a while I was pissed that no one said anything, but seriously, it wasn’t like we could undo what happened.”

“So you’re not trying to set the record straight?”

He sighed. “I am here to sell off the properties and get my mother packed up and move her to Tucson with me. That’s it.”

Relief flooded Steve’s face.

“Right. Well, then. Let’s get you some paint.”

“Got anything that’ll whitewash the past?” J.T. asked, and followed Steve back into store.

* * *

LYDDIE HAD COME a long way in the years since Glenn died. The pain of losing him was always there but manageable now, the jagged edges blunted by time. But some days still ripped her. Today was one.

“I hate Father’s Day,” Tish said. Lyddie bit her lip and concentrated on working through the snarl in Tish’s long auburn curls.

“Why do we have to go? It’s yucky. You get sad and Gram cries. And it’s hot there, and you won’t let me run. I have to be a laaaaady.” She wrinkled her nose at her reflection. “It’s not like Daddy can see us or anything. Are you almost done? I want my hair short. Can I get it cut soon?”

“We’ll get it cut when school is out. I’ll be done in another minute—faster if you hold still. And as for why we’re going to the cemetery...” But for this, Lyddie had no easy answer. How to explain to a seven-year-old that some things are done just for the sake of doing them, for the assurance that you’ve done what you could even when you know it won’t make a bit of difference?

“We’re not going for Daddy.” She flipped the comb around and parted Tish’s hair down the middle. “We’re going for us. So we can remember.”

Silence. Then—

“But I don’t remember him, Mommy.”

Lyddie closed her eyes and concentrated on the feel of her daughter’s hair, soft and curling in her hands. “I know, sweets. You were too little when we lost him. But it’s a way of remembering that you had a daddy who loved you. That’s important for you to know.”

“I know that already,” Tish grumbled, but she didn’t sound quite as reluctant. “Are you doing regular braids or fancy ones?”

“Fancy.”

“Oh, great.” Tish slid down in the chair, and blew out a drama-queen sigh that had to have come from her sister. Lyddie snickered and concentrated on the intricate weavings of a French braid, grateful that Tish had given up her protest.

An hour later, standing on the soft ground in front of Glenn’s headstone, she would have given anything to be snickering again. Ruth had left them, overcome by tears as she always was on these outings. It was just Lyddie and the kids in an artificially quiet circle. Even Ben had consented to hold Tish’s hand. And once again, as always happened, Lyddie looked from the tombstone to her children and wondered what she was supposed to say next.

She’d read all the books on helping kids deal with grief. But in real life, standing with the hot sun beating down on them and the murmurs of other visitors in the background, none of those well-meaning suggestions ever sounded helpful. Especially when the kids seemed more bored than sad.

“Are we done yet?” Tish asked.

“No.” Lyddie had no idea what they should do, but she knew Glenn deserved more than three minutes of awkward silence.

“But we gave him the flowers. And the sandwiches.”

“I know, sweetie.”

Tish dropped Lyddie’s hand to twist the sash of her pink eyelet sundress. “Why do we give him sandwiches, anyway? He can’t eat ’em.”

“Tish!” Sara had the adolescent eye-roll mastered.

Ben spoke up. “The ancient Egyptians used to leave food with the mummies. They thought it would be needed in the afterlife. And they left money and pets, and sometimes slaves were even—”

“Enough, Ben.” Lyddie could already imagine the nightmares Tish would conjure up that night. “Why don’t you tell Tish about the peanut butter sandwiches?”

Ben squinted behind his glasses. He opened his mouth, then closed it. “Uh, well...”

No. This couldn’t be happening. Ben had the best memory of any of them. Lyddie refused to believe he could have forgotten.

Sara jumped in. “Daddy ate a peanut butter sandwich every day, Tish. With fluff and blackberry jam.”

He always said I was the jam and he was the fluff, and the peanut butter was the love.

She reached for Tish’s hand once again, gave it a little squeeze and looked at Ben. “Did you really forget, bud?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed once, twice. “I guess I did. Sorry, Mom.”

“Don’t apologize, honey, you didn’t do anything wrong. I just wish... What do you remember?”

Ben shrugged. “Um...well, stuff. He read me stories at bedtime. And he taught me how to skate. That was fun.”

“Sara? Can you tell Tish a story or two about your dad?”

Sara frowned and twisted the daughter’s ring Lyddie had given her on her thirteenth birthday. “Okay. Well, I remember one time when we were in church, and I was bored, and you were working in the nursery, and he took a five-dollar bill from his pocket and folded it so it looked like a man’s shirt. That was cool.” She frowned. “Then Ben yanked it away from me and it ripped.”

“Did not.”

“You did, too.”

“I did—” He stopped, flushed. “Maybe I did. I don’t remember.”

“It’s okay,” Sara said after a moment’s silence. “You might not have grabbed it. I tell myself that story a lot. So I might have changed it a bit.”

“Why do you tell yourself the story, Sara?” Lyddie had planned to stay quiet and let the kids lead the way, but she had the feeling this was important.

“Because...well... Promise you won’t get mad?”

Oh, God.

“Promise.”

“Okay. Well. Sometimes, I kind of... It’s hard to remember him. You know?”

“Because it makes you sad?”

“No.” Sara lifted her head, looked directly at Lyddie with the wide-set eyes she’d inherited from her father. “I mean, I can’t remember. Not what he was really like. Just the stories I tell myself.”

Lyddie had the same feeling she’d had the year she mistakenly wore spike heels to the cemetery: like she was sinking into something better left untouched, but she had no choice because she was already stuck.

“You really can’t remember him? But you were almost ten. I thought—I hoped you were old enough...”

“I remember some stuff. And sometimes I get this feeling, like I’m doing a Daddy thing, but I can’t really say why. It’s just like I said. It’s all stories now that I tell myself to make me remember.” She looked down again. “And sometimes I’m not even sure if it’s really something that happened at all or if it’s a whole bunch of memories I put together in my head.”

Ben nodded. “Me, too. It’s like he was a story, not a real person.”

This was wrong. So, so wrong. Of course Tish had no memories of Glenn, but for Sara and Ben to be losing him, too... Glenn had adored his children. They needed to know who he was and how much he had loved them.

Tonight, she thought. Tonight she would sit down and go through the photo album and start writing stories to go with all the pictures. And everything else she could remember. But she’d already told them all her stories. They needed to see him in a new light, as a person who was once a kid like them, not a fading memory.

Lyddie glanced around the cemetery. For the first time she focused on the other visitors walking the gravel paths and laying flowers on graves. Father’s Day had brought out the crowd. Surely, somewhere in this quiet place of remembrance, there was someone who could tell her children something new about their father.

“Mommy, can we go? I’m bored.”

“No, Tish. Not yet.” There. On the other side of an ostentatious marble angel, there was Harley Prestwick, town historian. He’d lived in Comeback Cove forever. Surely he would have a tale or two.

“Wait here,” she ordered the kids. “I’ll be right back.”

Gravel flew from beneath her sensible pumps as she walked double-time down the path. For a man in his seventies, Harley could move. It wasn’t until she reached out to tap his shoulder that she realized her request might seem a bit bizarre, or that Harley might not be up for company at the moment. But Harley had never been known to suffer in silence. And surely the needs of three children couldn’t be ignored.

“I have a favor to ask,” she began, and explained her request as quickly as possible, stopping a couple of times to catch her breath. She really had to make time to exercise.

Luckily, Harley was not only agreeable, but he also seemed eager to have someone to talk to on this sunny afternoon. Lyddie walked beside him back to the kids and sent up a prayer of thanks.

Within minutes, Harley was seated on a granite bench, Tish beside him, Ben and Sara leaning against a pair of flowering crabs.

“Well,” the old man began, “your father was a couple of years behind my boys in school. But I remember him well. Always a nice fellow, even back then, you know. Polite. And good-hearted, too, looking out for the little kids...”

Harley droned on. Lyddie checked the kids’ faces and saw what she feared: the initial curiosity had dwindled to bored endurance. Once again, they were only hearing what they’d heard a hundred times before. Glenn the saint, Glenn the selfless one, Glenn the hero.

Maybe this hadn’t been such a great idea after all.

She turned to see if there were any other possibilities wandering the cemetery and found herself almost face-to-face with J. T. Delaney.

“Oh!” She stepped back, flushing at the realization that her breasts had been about two inches from his chest. Memories of the boathouse engulfed her. She looked away, fast, before she could start blushing. Or worse—imagining.

“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s okay. You just caught me by surprise.”

“I cut across the grass.” He grinned. “Years of practice playing graveyard tag.”

“What a lovely pastime.” He looked rather lovely, too, she had to admit. The tight shorts and chest-hugging shirts had been abandoned today in favor of a yellow-striped short-sleeved shirt and gray cargo pants. Not exactly Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes, but it gave him a far more respectable air. Almost like an adult.

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