Who doesn’t want a little sweet talk?

Leif Lively is the hottest thing to happen to Magnolia Bend. But single mother Abigail Orgeron figures he’s another heartbreaker and does her best to ignore the steamy glances he tosses her way. When he speaks, though, her resistance crumbles! His sweet words, humor and laid-back ways captivate buttoned-up Abigail.

For once, losing control feels so good, and this no-strings arrangement is getting serious. What will she do when Leif solves the family mystery that brought him to town and decides to leave? Because she’s learning that the biggest love means taking the biggest risk…

“I’m surprised to see you here.”

Leif’s smile reached his eyes. “But I’m glad you came.”

If only.

Warmth dripped into Abigail’s belly before she could strike the naughtiness from her head. What was wrong with her? Daydreaming about a guy like Leif? He was too different, too earthy and holistic and—

And standing there with the best smile in three parishes. He had a slight dimple in his left cheek and eyes the color of a fall sky. His jaw had a blockish quality while his lips were sensuous. How Abigail knew they were sensuous, she wasn’t sure, but she was certain he could kiss her up one side of a wall and down the other…and make her beg for more.

Dear Reader,

Poor Abigail. The managing sister of the Beauchamp clan needs to chill. So I gave her the best thing an uptight, lonely woman needs—a laid-back, sexy Norse god. Leif’s not your typical hero. He’s vegan, plays the ukulele and wears natural-fiber clothing. He’s a hippie…but a really fine one. And exactly what the buttoned-up PTA president needs to balance out her life.

Leif has come to Magnolia Bend with one purpose in mind—find his real father and clear his mother’s name. He doesn’t plan on breaking through the prickly Abigail’s defenses or on falling in love with the passionate creature beneath the sweater sets. But when did fate ever care about plans?

Toss in a rebellious twelve-year-old, an ex-husband looking for redemption and the droll Hilda Brunet, and you have a story worth taking the day off for. So grab a glass of sweet tea and a couple of hours to fall in love with Sweet Talking Man.

I love hearing from readers, so give me a shout at liztalleybooks.com or friend me on Facebook (liztalleybooks).

Happy reading!

Liz Talley

Sweet Talking Man

Liz Talley

www.millsandboon.co.uk

A 2009 Golden Heart® Award finalist in Regency romance, LIZ TALLEY has since found a home writing sassy Southern stories. Her book Vegas Two-Step debuted in June 2010 and was quickly followed by four more books in her Oak Stand, Texas series. In her current books, she’s visiting her home state of Louisiana. Liz lives in north Louisiana with her hero, two beautiful boys and a passel of animals. She enjoys laundry, paying bills and creating masterful dinners for her family. She also lies in her biography to make herself look like the perfect housewife. What she really likes is new shoes, lemon-drop martinis and fishing off the pier at her camp. You can visit her at liztalleybooks.com to learn more about the lies she tells herself and about her upcoming books.

To the girls who remember my first training bra, my first kiss and my first Wild Thing (’cause I didn’t like beer): Dianna, Angela, Karen, Tina, Michelle and Heather. I still think I look good in velour and twist-a-beads.

The oldest friends are the best friends!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

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

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

August 1978

SIMEON HARVEY TURNED away from the open window noting the ceiling fan did little to relieve the discomfort of the sultry Louisiana night. He supposed he’d have to buy a damned air conditioner. Days ago, he’d discovered the humidity had damaged some of the priceless artworks hanging in the gallery. And that could not be.

He glanced at his grandnephew, Bartholomew Theriot Harvey, who sat in a chair in desperate need of reupholstering, fanning himself and sipping a gin and tonic.

“I don’t know why you don’t install air-conditioning in this old dump. It’s hotter than shit in here,” Bart said, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. He looked so much like his mother, Brenda, it was difficult to be angry at him...until he opened his mouth. “So why have I been summoned? Usually I call you. Regardless, you pulled the strings and the puppet dances.”

Simeon stared hard at the boy. No, he wasn’t a boy any longer, but rather a spoiled little popinjay of a man who’d turned thirty years old yet still acted like a frat boy, drinking too much, spending too much, ignoring his old uncle until he needed more funds. Simeon itched to smack the boy, but he wouldn’t. Simeon wasn’t a man of violence.

“Pull the strings? That’s the way you see it, eh?” Simeon asked, creeping painfully toward his recliner. His apartment of rooms occupied the upper floor of Laurel Woods, the historic plantation his family had owned for over a hundred years. Simeon seldom left his rooms, and his pride kept him from moving his bed into the downstairs parlor. He wasn’t that damn old, but the rheumatoid arthritis had worsened over the years and he knew his ability to get up and down the staircase was nearly at an end. Yes, for a man who enjoyed the splendor of the natural world, accepting his limitations was a bitter pill to swallow. He missed the wind brushing his skin...not that there was a breeze tonight.

Simeon tucked his sateen robe around his legs, then adjusted his round spectacles. “And that is exactly why I asked you to come to Laurel Woods this evening. Those pesky strings.”

Bart, whose gaze had traveled over Simeon’s collection of beautiful things, jerked his head indicating the life-size sculpture Calliope had unveiled last week. “That thing is starting to give me a boner.”

Simeon looked at the beautiful rendering of two lovers in a passionate embrace. The lithe female arched back, one arm lifted, as her lover suckled her breast. Folds of fabric fell from the bared stomach of the seductress. Diana, the huntress, captured in sensual pleasure.

“It’s a work of art, meant to engage the senses.”

“Well, if it does a better job, we’ll both be embarrassed.” Bart gave a dirty laugh. “Seriously, if people visit and see that, they’re gonna think you’re a perv.”

Simeon took a few seconds to allow the disappointment inside him to settle. He still couldn’t believe guileless Brenda had given birth to someone as low as Bart. The boy made him feel as if he needed to wash his hands. “Bartholomew, I’m sorry to say I’ve done you a great disservice all these years.”

Bart’s Adam’s apple bobbed slightly as he swallowed. “A disservice?”

“Yes, a grave disservice,” Simeon said, stroking the white goatee that brushed his knotted cravat, reaching for calmness, asking the gods to give him the right words.

Bart uncrossed his legs, adjusting his position in the chair. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ve provided for you because I loved both my sister and niece. Celeste and Brenda made mistakes in their lives, lives shortened by heartbreak, but each was free of selfish motive.”

“Do you think I don’t appreciate all you’ve done for me, uncle? Because I do,” Bart said quite prettily, using a cajoling voice and a soft smile.

Trickery.

Bart had blown through half the money he’d inherited on his twenty-first birthday and came to Simeon several times a year to beg for more. His handsome great-nephew always brought presents, like the fine velvet pajamas or Victorian erotic art he knew his uncle treasured. He also exploited his uncle’s loneliness by reminiscing about old times, times where laughter echoed through the halls of Laurel Woods. Though the boy was incredibly selfish and dissolute, he was hypodermically sharp.

“I care about you, Bart, and that’s the reason I’m changing my will.”

“Oh.” Bart straightened, his eyebrows lifting. “Ah, what...” He paused as if unsure what position he should take. Buttoning his mouth, he elected to wait.

“You’ll continue to receive the money remaining in the trust, but I’ve decided the estate will be given to the Laurel Woods Art Foundation on my death. I want the good work we’re doing for artists and the community in general to continue after I’m gone.”

Bart’s eyebrows lowered. “You’re joking.”

“Not a joke. I firmly believe you’ll never change, never grow up, as long as I continue to feed you money. You have two legs—it’s time you learned to stand upon them.”

At that moment his nephew did. Rising abruptly, Bart moved toward him, hand outstretched. As usual. “Uncle Simmy, please. I’m not a bad person. Didn’t I bring you chocolates from the place on Magazine Street you like?”

Simeon looked at the box he’d already opened and sampled from. “A nice gift, Bartholomew.”

“Yes, a nice gift,” Bart said, dropping his hand. “And I think the art foundation is deserving of your generosity. But to give the whole estate to a bunch of fruitcakes who make crap—” he picked up a piece of driftwood carved to look like a sleeping heron “—is insane.”

“I beg your pardon? Insane? What is insane about wanting to leave the world a better place?” Simeon cupped his hands over the recliner’s arms, shifting his weight so he sat taller.

“Leave the world a better place with this stuff? You’re mad.”

Simeon chose to ignore that remark. Keep to the course. “I have an appointment with Remy Broussard tomorrow to make the changes. My mind is made up, but I thought it best to tell you in person. You deserved to know what to expect upon my death.”

Bart turned. “I can’t believe you would do this to me. I’m your own blood, the child of the niece who cared for you when no one else would. I’m a Harvey. You can’t do this. You just can’t.”

“Of course I can. The estate belongs to me. The money you inherited from your mother was gambled away at the track. You think I don’t realize why your hand is stretched out so often? You think I don’t know about the people you owe money to? Dangerous people who would sooner slit your throat than piss on you.”

His nephew jabbed a finger toward him. “I’ll get an attorney and fight this. Harvey money belongs to a Harvey—not a nest of freaks.”

“Do what you wish, but you’ll lose. I know people whisper that I’m odd, and I suppose I am, but being different makes you more anticipatory. Think I’d leave any avenue open for you and some half-assed attorney? No, Bartholomew. I may wear silk underwear and eat macaroons, but my balls are steel.” Power surged through Simeon. He hadn’t felt this way in years. So alive. He had been a millionaire all his life, a burden, he’d often thought, but sometimes it felt good to exert the force his millions gave him.

“Don’t do this,” Bart said, his color fading, a look of panic emerging. “We’re family. I’m—”

“Going to be better off depending on yourself rather than the money my father made. Trust me. You’ll thank me one day.”

A thump below drew their attention.

“Simeon?” a woman called out. “Are you presentable? I wanted to show you the new sketch for the library piece.”

“I’m up here, Calliope,” he called, turning to shoot Bart a warning. He didn’t like to discuss personal affairs in front of his artists, especially the lovely Calliope. Of course, they weren’t “his” artists, but they stayed at Laurel Woods because he fed and housed them, as well as commissioned their art for the town and surrounding businesses. The house and grounds his mother had loved so had been turned into a place of solitude, a place birthing beauty. It was a legacy that would continue with the huge allocation of resources upon his death. Until then, he’d continue to provide for the foundation.

“Oh, shall I come up?” she called.

“Make her go away. We’re not finished yet,” Bart said.

“No, we are finished,” Simeon said, rising. He didn’t want Calliope to see inside his rooms. Hattie hadn’t come to clean in a few days because her grandson was ill. A pair of pajamas on the floor and rumpled bedclothes weren’t an acceptable tableau for receiving a lady. “I’ll come down.”

Even if it meant another flare-up of pain.

“Is that the one the town says is after your money?” Bart asked, his voice low, still panicked.

“Pish posh, that girl isn’t after my money. But Calliope is the person I’ve chosen to run the foundation. She’s bright, talented and—”

“A whore. I’ve heard about her. Seducing all the men in town. Barefoot, no bra—she’s a dirty heathen. And that’s who you want to give the money to? Some fruitcake hippie who has slept with half the men in town?”

“Well, if it isn’t the pot,” Simeon said, picking up the ebony cane and moving at a turtle’s pace toward the open door. “Seems rather a double standard from a man who’s paid for two abortions.”

As Simeon entered the upper hall, he caught sight of the loveliest artist he’d ever had the pleasure of hosting. She’d already turned and was heading down the stairs toward the marble-tiled foyer, her elegant hands gripping a sketch pad. She wore a broom skirt and her unbound blond hair just touched the curve of her buttocks. She padded barefoot, soundless on the curving staircase, a lithe sprite, full of energy and light. He’d never felt an attraction for a woman before, his tendencies leaning toward nubile young men, but he fancied he had a crush on the ethereal sculptor.

Something about her pulled at him.

Just as he reached the stairs, he felt Bart behind him.

“Please,” Bart begged. “Please don’t do this, uncle. We’re family.”

Simeon shook his head, turning back to tell Bart to stop groveling. Simeon felt his weight shift oddly, the foot that dangled over the first step downward found only air. He grasped for the banister, the cane falling from his hand and clattering to the tile below. And then he fell, slamming into the wall with enough force to make the sconce flicker, striking his head hard. Needles of pain flew at him from all directions as his body crashed down the marble staircase.

He heard the terrified scream and didn’t know if it came from him or someone else. And just before he surrendered to the darkness coming for him, he saw the angel. Her eyes were wide, the color of the hydrangea still blooming at his door. Her silken hair, golden like the sunrise. She reached out for him, radiating comfort.

And then he was no more.

CHAPTER TWO

December, present day

ABIGAIL ORGERON GLANCED back at her twelve-year-old daughter as they approached the small white house located directly behind the antebellum home where they lived. Birdie resembled a prisoner sentenced to hang, trudging as if the happy cottage was the scaffold.

Birdie looked at the house with the stained glass and bamboo wind chimes, soulful eyes roving the charcoal shutters, regret shadowing her face. Not even the string of large-bulb Christmas lights could erase the dread from her face.

Well, Birdie shouldn’t have stooped to spying on the lone occupant of the house if she didn’t want to face the consequences of her actions.

“Please, Mom,” her daughter said, her glance sliding to meet Abigail’s.

“Sorry, but you must,” Abigail said, her lips automatically dipping when she noticed the makeup Birdie had applied. Over the past year, her daughter had grown rebellious, doing things she knew her mother did not approve of. “Are you wearing eyeliner?”

Birdie looked away. “Yeah.”

Since muttering whatever or giving the silent treatment was Birdie’s typical reply, Abigail counted herself lucky to get an actual response. Her daughter had tucked away the manners Abigail had instilled in her from the time she began babbling. “It’s yes, ma’am, and I don’t want to see that crap on your face again. You’re too young.”

“I’m not too young. I’m in the seventh grade. All the girls wear makeup.”

“Except you.”

Birdie made a great show of sighing and rolling her eyes. They were pretty green eyes, lined in black. She’d also managed to find some awful bubblegum-pink lip gloss. She looked like a little girl playing dress up, but maybe in Abigail’s mind she always would look like her little girl.

“I can’t believe you’re making me do this. It was no big deal and you’re making a federal case out of something stupid.” Birdie stopped on the walk and crossed her thin arms. Pink stained the girl’s cheeks, and Abigail was certain it hadn’t come from the cosmetic drawer. She also suspected this was a bigger deal than Birdie wanted to make it. Birdie had told her she’d spied on Leif Lively only twice last month, but Abigail doubted her claim. The kid had gotten awfully interested in drawing birds from the perch in the big tree out back.

“Spying on people is a crime. It’s called being a Peeping Tom...at worst, stalking.”

“I wasn’t stalking. Just, uh, looking a little. I didn’t intend to spy,” Birdie said, not moving another inch up the walk.

“All you have to do is apologize. Don’t worry. No beatings or stringing up by the toenails will commence.”

Birdie shook her head. “Don’t make me. He doesn’t even know.”

“That doesn’t change the fact your actions were wrong. You have to apologize, Birdie.”

“Stop calling me that ridiculous child’s name.”

Abigail sighed. “It’s not a child’s name. It’s cute.”

Birdie burned her with a laser glare. “I don’t do cute, Mom.”

No, she didn’t. Not anymore. Birdie had gone from fluffy tutus and sparkly shoes to skinny jeans and a black hoodie. The one thing that hadn’t changed was her size. Birdie may have been in the seventh grade, but she looked like a fourth grader. Slim, small and defiant, she had gone from funny Birdie to brooding Brigitte.

“Fine, Brigitte. Let’s go apologize to Mr. Lively.”

Birdie gave a short puff of aggravation. “Dad said I didn’t have to if I didn’t want to.”

“Oh, did he? Well, since he’s failed to be a parent for the past five years and doesn’t even live in the state, his insight into the situation isn’t va—”

At that moment the door swung open and there he was. Leif Lively himself...or, as Abigail had dubbed him, resident cuckoo bird. Okay, sexy cuckoo bird was a more accurate descriptor. The head of the art department at St. George’s Episcopal School had flaxen hair that fell to his shoulders, bright blue Nordic eyes, a chiseled jaw and a body that made half the women in town salivate. He probably could make the other half salivate, too, but some women had principles and sense.

Like Abigail. She snapped her mouth closed and gave him her committee smile—the one that got things done.

“Ah, my neighbors,” Leif said with a warm smile that touched those pretty eyes. “I don’t see any casseroles in hand so I’m guessing you’re not welcoming me to the neighborhood?”

He said it like a joke. He knew, of course, that Abigail would be the last person to welcome him to Laurel Creek, the new subdivision that had opened behind her historic Laurel Woods Bed-and-Breakfast in the small Louisiana town of Magnolia Bend. Abigail had vehemently protested the development behind her place of business. Laurel Woods, a plantation that had been around since before the Civil War, had always been surrounded by lush woods. The solitary, serene location was a main selling point for Abigail’s business. But a planned patio community had taken away a third of the pines and hardwoods that lent peace to the bed-and-breakfast. Abigail hated the subdivision with every fiber of her being, but she hadn’t been able to stop Bartholomew Harvey from selling the acreage to a developer.

She’d lost that battle, but she wasn’t conceding to the hotness standing in front of her.

Wait. No. Not hotness.

She refused to think of the local artist as a sexual being...even if he made it difficult not to.

Chasing those thoughts felt too, well, dangerous.

And just why were those thoughts even in her mind anyway? She’d encountered Leif many times at St. George’s and, though she appreciated his good looks and easy charm, she didn’t consider him a prospect for anything other than an art teacher. In his eyes she’d seen what he thought of her as she organized wrapping-paper drives and delivered muffins to the teachers’ lounge. Her dedication to being the PTA president amused him. He probably thought she was totally lame. Or at least she’d convinced herself that’s what he thought of her. Either way, this man was on the other end of the spectrum from her.

“You’ve been living here for three or four months so I think the welcome period is over. I’m here on another matter entirely, Mr. Lively,” she said.

“Call me Leif, and I’m just saying a casserole would have been delish,” he teased, padding barefoot down the freshly painted steps, stopping way too near her.

He wore baggy cotton pants that gathered in at his waist. His bare torso belonged in an ad for suntan lotion, all bronze and free of chest hair. He looked like a man too comfortable in his own skin. Abigail swallowed, but refused to step back. “I thought you were a vegan anyway.”

“Word gets around, huh? Well, vegans like casseroles,” he said with another smile, craning his head around her to spy Birdie standing stock-still on the walk. “Hey, Birdie.”

Abigail glanced at her daughter. The child’s face was the color of the camellias blooming by the white picket fence. Good gravy.

“Hi, Mr. Lively,” Birdie said.

“So what can I do for you?” Leif asked.

A naughty thought popped into Abigail’s mind. Really naughty. But she flicked it away and cleared her throat. “Birdie has something to say to you.”

“Oh.” Leif’s gaze swept down Abigail’s body, taking in the clothes she’d donned for the open house held at St. George’s Episcopal School earlier that day. She’d aimed for professional but suspected she looked overly conservative. But who cared? Besides it was winter, for Christ’s sake. Leif needed to put on a shirt. What kind of man answered the door in such dishabille? Not any man she knew, that’s for sure.

Abigail smoothed the wool slacks against her thighs before she could catch herself and turned toward her daughter with an arched eyebrow.

Birdie just stood there, looking scared.

“I hope you’re coming to tell me you want to take the art class I’m offering at the community college next semester,” Leif said, his eyebrows lifted expectantly. “I’m looking forward to having a talented artist in my class at school this semester, but it would be awesome to have you in the enrichment class, too, Birdie.”

“Brigitte,” her daughter said.

“Oh, of course. Brigitte, very French,” Leif said, with another sweet smile.

Christ, why did he have to be so nice?

“Uh, I’m thinking about taking the course. Uh, if my mom will let me.” Birdie turned pleading eyes on Abigail. Eyes that nearly swayed Abigail into scrapping the plan to make Birdie apologize. Abigail could always make up something about a dead branch on her property threatening Leif’s back fence.

Wait. No.

She’d told Birdie she had to apologize. Children needed consistency. Every mother knew that. Still something pinged in her heart. Maybe if she bent just a little, Birdie would toss a piece of sunshine she hid somewhere beneath that awful hoodie Abigail’s way. Maybe it would be a starting point to discuss why her daughter had spied on Leif in the first place. Obviously Birdie had questions about men, their differences and perhaps even—Abigail swallowed—sex.

“Mom?” Birdie waited for her to speak.

“We’ll talk about art class later,” Abigail said, giving Birdie the “go ahead” nod.

“Uh, I’m here because, uh—” Birdie dug the toe of her sneaker against the concrete walk. “Well, you see, I used to like to climb trees. For sketching. Uh, Audubon once stayed at our house and, well, there are a lot of birds and stuff. I like to draw them and the best place to get a bird’s-eye view is the old sycamore out back.”

Leif held up a fist. “Mad props to our boy John James Audubon. He’s one of a kind.”

Birdie fist-bumped him. “Yeah, we have some originals. Two to be exact.”

“You’re kidding. I’d love to see them.”

“Come over anytime,” Birdie said.

Abigail started to shake her head, then caught herself. To be stingy with the original John J. Audubon watercolors would not do. Abigail had always welcomed anyone who wanted to take a peek at the tufted crane and the brown pelican the famed woodsman had created almost two hundred years ago. Leif Lively was no exception just because something about him made her...

Okay, fine. Abigail had a weird attraction to Leif that she’d never wanted to admit even to herself. When she dropped in at the school, she found her gaze hanging on him. And she hated herself for it. After all, she wasn’t one of those women who fluttered, starry-eyed over the handsome artist. She wasn’t like other room moms who cracked ribald jokes about Leif’s ass.

Fawning wasn’t something she did. Ever.

“I’d love to see the Audubon pieces,” Leif said with another smile at Birdie...and then at her. Christ, he smiled a lot. The Ryan Seacrest of Magnolia Bend.

Abigail nodded. “Sure, drop by anytime and Birdie can show you.”

“Anytime? I could come now. It’s about suppertime and I heard you’re a good cook.”

“Are you hungry?” Abigail had been knitted together with a strong thread of Southern hospitality so guilt pecked at her for not welcoming Leif and the other Laurel Creek residents with banana bread or cookies. But she was not inviting him for supper. The thought made her feel too warm...too nervous.

“I’m just joking, Abigail. You seem a little tense.” His gaze moved over her once again.

Abigail tugged her cardigan closed and gave him the smile she usually reserved for her brothers. “I’m not tense. It just didn’t sound like a joke. I grew up with three brothers—I know jokes.”

“Well, I’ll be more careful around you, then. Might end up popping open a can of snakes or sitting on a whoopee cushion.” Leif’s eyes danced, and even though she wanted to smile, she didn’t. She held on to prickliness like a cape protecting her from being silly. She’d tucked away being lighthearted. Hadn’t worked out for her. Besides the hot weirdo who strummed a ukulele at the local coffee shop and practiced tai chi in his yard wasn’t the kind of guy to let her guard down with. Too different from her.

“Don’t worry. I’m an adult and no longer put crickets in my brothers’ trucks.”

“Oh, that’s a shame.” He said it like he was truly sorry for her. Why? Because she didn’t do asinine things anymore? Because she didn’t crack jokes? Or wear flowers in her hair? She crossed her arms as he added, “I like your cardigan, by the way. Angora?”

“Are you making fun of me?” Abigail asked, a dart of hurt nicking her.

“No. Why would I?”

“Because I’m wearing... Because I don’t frolic in my underwear.”

Birdie closed her eyes. “Oh, God.”

Leif’s eyes widened. “I don’t frolic in my underwear.”

Abigail opened her mouth, then shut it. Silence as comfortable as a prostate exam descended. Not that she knew about prostate exams...but she could imagine.

Just as she was about to prod Birdie again, the squeal of tires sounded. All three turned their heads to see a bright red Mustang hurtling down the street. Another squeal of tires and the vehicle swung into Leif’s driveway, halting with another screech.

“What the—” Leif muttered as the tinted driver’s window rolled down to reveal a pretty brunette who looked...worried. Abigail tugged Birdie back, but her daughter pulled away, obviously engrossed in the frantic pantomiming of the driver.

“Sorry about this, Leif,” the driver said as the passenger door opened and a ball of white fluffy tulle emerged. “Marcie made me do it. I was supposed to be her maid of honor. I guess it’s, like, an obligation.”

Maid of honor?

Abigail glanced at Leif; he looked gobsmacked, blinking his eyes a couple times before repeating, “Maid of honor?”

And that’s when the fluffy ball flipped over her veil and sneered. “Yeah, maid of frickin’ honor. Today was supposed to be our wedding day, asshole.”

* * *

LEIF’S MIND WHIRRED, random numbers lining up like on a slot machine. December sixteenth. Today would have been his and Marcie’s wedding day.

Oh, shit.

Marcie’s veil was pinned to heavily sprayed blond tresses and one side had fallen down to wag against her sweaty face. Mascara ran beneath her eyes, reminding him of something he’d once seen in a horror movie.

“Marcie—” He couldn’t even figure out how to ask why his ex-fiancée had put on a wedding dress and tracked him all the way to Magnolia Bend. They’d ended their engagement five months ago, and he hadn’t heard a peep from her until now...when his very proper neighbor stood on his front walk, no doubt looking on with disapproval.

This might make the Magnolia Bend Herald...or, at the very least, the Facebook hall of fame.

“Ohhh,” Marcie slurred, wriggling around the car in the tight mermaid gown she’d raved about for weeks last summer, nearly tumbling to the ground despite hiking up the dress. “You remember my name. Ain’t you sweet?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Didn’t think I’d find ya, did ya?” she asked, shoving a finger in his face. “My daddy knows a lot of people in this state. You can’t hide, you no-good bastard.”

Leif inhaled and exhaled slowly, trying to figure out how a dude handled something like this. He felt caught in some crazy docudrama or a Maury Povich special. “I wasn’t trying to hide from you.” Much.

“Bullshith.” Marcie teetered as she tried to square her shoulders. “You were runnin’ like a damn...uh, something I can’t think of right now.”

He glanced at Marcie’s best friend, Rachel, who still sat in the Mustang looking guilty as hell. “How much did she drink, Rach?”

She held up a half-empty bottle of Crown Royal. “She started last night. I’m sorry. I couldn’t talk her out of it and I couldn’t let her drive herself. She’s loaded.”

Good Lord. Marcie swayed, her blue eyes still locked on him. Abigail had edged onto the grass and he could only imagine the censure in the woman’s eyes. He’d seen her around St. George’s, hovering over the school like a blimp or like that character in Monsters, Inc. Always watching. Abigail Beauchamp Orgeron seemed to be the perfect mother, business owner and citizen—always going the extra mile. She was the kind of woman who made him twitchy.

“Okay, look, Marcie, this isn’t the time or place to talk about what happened between us. Things didn’t work out, honey. One day you’ll see breaking off the wedding was the right decision for both of us.” Leif placed a hand on her elbow, mostly so she wouldn’t fall, and turned her toward the car. “Now go back with Rachel. It’s crazy to show up here like this. When you sober up, you’re going to feel—”

“Don’t tell me what I feel. I waited all my life to wear this dress. See what you’ve done to me,” Marcie said, wrenching her arm away and catching sight of Abigail. She dragged her drunken gaze from his neighbor’s head to her loafers. “Wait. Who’s that?”

“Uh, nobody,” Leif answered before Abigail could open her mouth. Somehow it made him sound guilty. Marcie narrowed her glazed eyes.

“Wait, are you sleeping with her? Her? She’s not your type. She’s, like, old. My mom wears shoes like hers.”

Abigail looked at her sensible loafers, then at Marcie. It was like watching Courtney Love go toe-to-toe with Katie Couric. “For your information, I’m his neighbor, and every woman should have a good pair of loafers—even rude, inebriated women.”

Marcie’s brow crinkled. “Inevreated?”

“Drunk,” Abigail clarified.

“Well, that’s his fault,” Marcie said, pointing to Leif. “But I’m sorry I said that. Still, my mom totally has those shoes. Guess you shop at Talbots, too.”

Abigail turned to the waiflike preteen staring at him and Marcie with eyes as big as dinner plates. “Come on, Birdie. We’ll do this later. Mr. Lively has his hands full.”

Birdie stood agog, not budging. “Okay.”

“Wait.” Marcie held up a finger. “I got something for you, Leif.”

Oh, God. Please don’t let it be a shotgun. Surely Rachel didn’t let her bring a weapon. But then again, Rachel wasn’t the most sensible of girls. She’d brought a drunk, bridal-gown-wearing Marcie from New Orleans.

“Now, Birdie. Come on.” Abigail’s voice sounded more urgent.

Leif glanced at Abigail, then worriedly at the rump of Marcie. The rest of her had disappeared into the car. “You guys don’t have to go. It’s fine.”

But it was not fine.

The fluffy veil swayed as Marcie wriggled out, lunging toward Leif.

Whew. No shotgun or pistol or machete.

Just a plate. With a huge hunk of cake.

“This is for you,” she said, scooping a hunk of white iced cake off the plate. “Thought you might like a piece since you insisted on almond buttercream for the wedding cake.”

And then she smashed the entire piece right between his eyes.

He didn’t try to stop her because he knew he had it coming. He was the one who’d broken off the engagement. He was the one who’d broken her heart...or at the very least ruined her grand New Orleans wedding, complete with the vows at Saint Louis Cathedral, a carriage ride through the Quarter and a honeymoon in Tahiti.

“There,” Marcie crowed, twisting her hand, grinding the cake in good. He felt the icing slip down his face and tasted the sweet buttercream frosting. “Hope you like it.”

He swiped the cake from his eyes in time to see Marcie rake her icing-covered hand down her gown and spin on a heel, nearly falling onto the hood of the still purring Mustang. She marched to the open passenger door, spit out some of the netting that had gotten into her mouth and glared at Leif. “And now you can go screw yourself.”

Except she didn’t say screw. She said the other word, making him glance over at Abigail, who had earmuffed Birdie. Too late, of course.

Leif scraped off some cake and flung it to the ground, then swiped a finger through the icing, sliding it into his mouth. “Mmm. Almond buttercream was the best choice.”

Marcie growled at him before giving him the finger and crawling into the car. “Get me the hell away from him.”

And with that last directive, Rachel reversed the car out of the driveway. With a small regretful wave, she aimed the shiny Mustang toward the bricked gate of the subdivision. Leif waved, then took another swipe of icing and sucked it off his finger. The cake really was excellent. He wondered if Marcie had been obligated to pay for the wedding cake she’d hemmed and hawed over for a month. Or maybe she’d picked up a random white cake and played it off as the wedding cake. He wouldn’t put it past the pretty drama queen.

He’d loved that about her.

At one time.

Abigail’s head wagged between him and Birdie.

Leif shrugged. “You know, it really is good cake.”

The too put-together woman’s mouth opened slightly and she stared at him as though he’d grown devil horns...rather than having just gotten cake in the face from a drunken woman wearing a bridal gown.

Birdie shimmied down the driveway, craning her neck to catch a final glimpse of the sports car. As the vehicle roared onto the highway, she spun toward them, a fantastical smile invading her face. “That was awesome.”

CHAPTER THREE

THIRTY MINUTES LATER, Leif stepped from the shower and shook his hair, causing droplets to fly and speckle the mirror spanning his bathroom wall. No more buttercream frosting, thank God. Only the lavender and mint of the organic shampoo his friend in Colorado made by hand. The scent comforted him, reminding him who he was, where he came from.

Damn, Marcie.

What kind of woman did something like what she’d just done? So over-the-top. Thank goodness he’d realized what his life would be like with the drama queen of Saint Charles Avenue and gotten the hell out of town. Of course, he probably should have broken things off before she had ordered the cake, but by that time Marcie had turned into a locomotive, bearing down on the planned wedding date full force. Once he’d agreed they should get hitched—a proposal extracted in the middle of some raunchy sex—Marcie had taken the reins and dragged him behind her on her way to New Orleans’s wedding of the century.

Before he could say “maybe this isn’t a good idea,” wedding rings were ordered. Looking at the excitement on Marcie’s face and checking out the emerging crow’s-feet around his eyes, he’d decided marrying the daughter of old New Orleans money wasn’t a bad way to spend the rest of his life. She was good in the sack and pretty as a buttercup. So while Marcie spent the next few months booking reception halls, ordering invitations and analyzing bridesmaids’ dresses, Leif tried to envision a life of...chains.

Because eventually that’s what his impending marriage started to feel like. Prison. His casual proposal spoken in the heat of the moment had turned into a nightmare.

And then his mother passed away, leaving him a cryptic piece of the puzzle to her past, to a life he’d never known existed.

He’d returned to New Orleans a week after the funeral, telling himself that finding out the truth about his past wouldn’t change his future with Marcie. But he’d awoken the next morning beside his future wife and couldn’t breathe. Not literally, but almost. His heart galloped, a crushing weight sat on his chest and his clammy palms curved around the edge of the bed, holding on for dear life.

He just couldn’t do it.

Marcie was a nice girl, but not his soul mate, not the woman he wanted to wake up next to each morning, not the woman he wanted to sit beside in a rocking chair, watching the sun sink over the marshlands of Louisiana. He had never wanted to live in Louisiana. He craved the mountains, thin air and people who appreciated good tofu.

So Leif had broken the engagement three weeks before the first wedding shower. This time he’d not written a Dear John letter and bolted. He’d learned his lesson at the hands of his second former fiancée’s brother and found the balls to pull Marcie out of a gown fitting to tell her he wasn’t going to marry her.

She’d thrown a trash can at him.

That particular action had scared the hell out of the coffee-shop patrons sitting outside enjoying a sweltering day on Magazine Street. The trash can had spilled nasty old coffee on his new trainers, but he hadn’t had time to worry about that. Marcie picked up the nearest plate and hurled it at him, screaming “asshole” over and over. The poor man who didn’t get to finish the bagel that rolled into the street didn’t shout in outrage—he just slunk in the opposite direction.

Leif couldn’t blame him.

He also couldn’t make Marcie listen to reason. She was like a wounded rhino—nothing but a tranquilizer dart would calm her down. She had to burn herself out, and Leif didn’t intend to stick around for the show. Eventually, Marcie would figure out that his ending their relationship would save her greater heartache down the road.

Guess she hadn’t internalized the last words he’d spoken—someday you’ll thank me.

Unless the cake was a belated thank-you gift.

Immediately after the trash-can throwing, Leif had resigned from the art department at Delgado Community College and packed up the small garage apartment he’d rented in the Garden District. Then he’d left New Orleans much the same way he’d entered it—running from a woman.

Yeah, he’d made a bad habit of getting engaged to girls who, on the surface, seemed perfect but underneath weren’t what he needed. The broken engagement prior to Marcie had occurred three weeks before the wedding. He hadn’t wanted to hurt Jenna—she was as sweet as the buttercream frosting he’d just washed off. Her father and brother, however, weren’t as nice. Leif felt lucky to still be walking after they’d caught up with him in Beaumont.

So Leif had regrets...lots of them. He’d escaped the wedding noose three times and regretted hurting the bystanders. But most of all, he hated that his fear of commitment had dragged three innocent women through the mire with him. Hadn’t been fair to them, but he comforted himself with the thought he’d done the right thing.

Leif’s feet couldn’t be nailed down. He wasn’t the kind of guy who stuck...and stayed. Even though he wanted to be someone who belonged somewhere...and to someone.

Arriving in Magnolia Bend had been an accident of fate, but even if he hadn’t gotten lucky with the position as art teacher at St. George’s, he would have come to the town that held the answer to the biggest mystery in his life.

So the time to uncover his past was here. This place held the secrets about why his mother had run...and it held the secret of who Leif’s father was.

Here he began, and here he would hopefully find the answer to the questions that had pricked at him for years. Then maybe he could stop avoiding the ties that bound and find a good spot to settle down.

The doorbell sounded and he grabbed a linen drying towel and hurriedly scrubbed the remaining moisture from his body. Sliding on the hatachigi pants he’d abandoned on the bathroom floor, Leif hurried toward the foyer. The darkening sky had thrown his living area into gloom. Flicking the porch light switch, he opened the door to find Birdie standing on the stoop. Cool air swooshed in, so he grabbed the Patagonia pullover from the nearby hook and tugged it on.

“Birdie,” he said, peering out to see Abigail standing once again at the mailbox. Obviously the two had given him some recovery time before resuming whatever mission they were on. Something about drawing. Maybe Abigail wanted her daughter to have private lessons.

“Hey,” the girl said, shifting nervously in her Converse high-tops. “Mom made me come back to apologize.”

“For...?”

“Uh, two things. First...” She glanced at her mother. Abigail gave her an encouraging nod. “I shouldn’t have said that woman smushing cake in your face was awesome.”

Leif couldn’t stop the laugh. Right after Birdie had declared the awesomeness of Marcie’s actions, Abigail had hustled her daughter away with a quick farewell. She’d nearly dragged Birdie toward the adjacent access walk to the Laurel Woods Bed-and-Breakfast. “Well, it wasn’t awesome for me, but I can understand from your vantage point.”

“Yeah. She was pretty mad at you.”

Leif lifted a shoulder. “Eh, I deserved it.”

“You did?”

From her post Abigail cleared her throat. Loudly.

Annoyance shadowed Birdie’s eyes. “And the second thing I’m sorry for is spying on you.”

“Huh?”

Birdie turned and called to her mother. “There. I told him. Are you happy?”

Abigail gave her daughter the “watch it, missy” look mothers had been giving from the beginning of time.

Leif braced his hands on the door frame, drawing Birdie’s attention. “You’ve been spying on me? Why?”

Birdie swallowed, shifting restlessly before tilting herself closer to him. “It was last month. I accidently spied on you when I climbed a tree...for, uh, some sketching.” She inclined her head toward her mother and dropped her voice to a whisper. “That’s how I get away from her. She stresses me out.”

He could see that. His observation of the buttoned-up Abigail had given him the impression someone needed to release a pressure valve inside the woman. Glancing at her now in her navy sweater, her mouth pressed into a serious line, he figured it was tough to have a mom who carried a label maker and a thick accordion binder of forms, calendars and sanitizing wipes. “Okay. Apology accepted.”

The girl leaned even closer, so that he could smell the apple scent of her shampoo. Her gaze pleaded with him. “I didn’t tell my mom you were naked. Please don’t tell her.”

Whoa.

Leif sucked in air. Dear God. He’d never considered that while swimming his daily laps, someone would see him clad in his birthday suit. His privacy fence topped out at eight feet and he usually did laps in the cloak of darkness. It had grown colder the past few weeks so he’d started swimming at the rec center, but last month he’d been in his pool. “Jeez, Birdie, that’s, uh, not cool.”

The girl rocked back on her heels, tears sheening her eyes. “I didn’t mean to, okay? I didn’t really see anything. Much.”

“Okay, don’t cry. The human body isn’t something to be ashamed of so let’s not make this something skeevy.”

“You’re not mad?”

“No, but you need to tell your mom at some point. Keeping a secret like this isn’t a good idea.” He nearly choked on the last thought. He’d kept a big secret from everyone in the town. He was the son of Calliope—a woman they thought murdered someone. He was also the son of some guy who still lived in Magnolia Bend. He just needed to find out who that guy was.

“She’ll make it into something bad.”

Leif looked at Abigail, who had given up the aggravation and now appeared concerned about the quiet conversation her daughter was having with him. “Curiosity about the opposite sex is natural, Birdie. Not bad. It’s how we’re made. But the deal is I’m a teacher at your school. Things like this can get complicated.”

Birdie squinted her eyes, obviously seeing it from his point of view for the first time. But then her expression grew pleading again. “It was an accident. I won’t do it again, and we don’t have to tell anyone you were naked. This is all my fault. Not yours. I’m the pervert.”

“Is everything okay?” Abigail called.

Leif raised a hand and gave her a flashbulb smile before directing his regard to her child. “Don’t say that. You did what any eleven-year-old would do.”

“I’m twelve.”

“Okay, but even so, you don’t have to be ashamed of being curious. I accept your apology, and I will make sure next time I pull on a suit, okay?”

Birdie nodded, diamond teardrops clinging to her long lashes. “I’m really sorry.”

“Okay. We’ve put this behind us. And you do realize that in some art classes, students sketch unclothed bodies. Artists see things differently, right?”

“Of course,” Birdie said with a nod before easing off his porch. “Thank you, Mr. Lively.”

Leif smiled, even while inside his gut clenched. He would have to tell Abigail about the “secret” he now shared with Birdie. But that would be hard. He could envision Abigail overreacting to her daughter acting on natural curiosity. She’d make it something it wasn’t. Abigail Orgeron wasn’t a helicopter mom—she was a tank who sat on her daughter. Poor kid. Birdie tried to escape someone who wanted control over every aspect of life.

Shove a lump of coal up Abigail’s ass and he’d have a diamond in a week.

But, damn, it was a nice ass. He’d noticed as she marched up and down the halls of St. George’s, outlined as it was in slim trousers that hung perfectly, the hem brushing sensible loafers...that he guessed she bought at Talbots. Abigail also had a nice rack and a slim waist. But most striking of all was the shiny black hair that fell just past her shoulders and held a single silver stripe that framed the right side of her face. The whole look was somehow sexy. The artist in him loved the contrast, the eruption of something so unexpected. It made him want to dig deeper, to know her better, to unwrap the fleeting vulnerability that shaded her eyes.

He could see the sensuality in the curve of her bottom lip, the grace in the way she moved her elegant hands and the passion trapped beneath those ugly-ass sweaters.

Leif had seen a lot of woman who needed a good screwing, but he’d never seen a woman who needed it more than Abigail.

If she weren’t such a cactus with a lonely daughter, he would take up the challenge of giving her relief, but after the bad decisions he’d made with the last few women in his life, he would take a rain check.

He’d come to Magnolia Bend for one reason, and one reason only—to clear up the past while finding out who his father was. After that, he would likely be off again. His papa wasn’t a rolling stone, but Leif was. When things got tough, he got out.

Birdie jogged down his steps and just before she reached her mother, turned. “I’m going to ask Fancy to give me the art lessons as a Christmas gift.”

“Fancy?”

“My grandmother. She hangs my art all over her house.”

“Great. Thanks for apologizing, Birdie. Takes a big person to do that.”

Abigail gave him a smile then. Not a big one, but one that expressed appreciation for his being gracious.

If only the woman knew.

But not yet. He’d speak to Abigail later because presently he had to get his midterm test typed up and follow up with the Magnolia Bend Chamber of Commerce president about the upcoming Laurel Woods Art Festival. The chairman of the festival, Hilda Brunet, had contacted him weeks ago and asked him to serve on the committee. Being an artist of slight renown had its pros and cons. This wasn’t necessarily a pro because he wasn’t the committee type. Yet having some of his work featured in a few galleries across the Southwest and being named an up-and-comer in Objet d’Art magazine apparently made him desirable as head of judging. The Golden Magnolia art prize once meant a great deal in the Southern artistic community. The town was hoping to resurrect the festival and the prestige of the award. Hilda had beamed at him when she asked him to be part of the team to put the Laurel Woods Art Festival back on the map. What could he say?

Telling Hilda no didn’t seem to be an option.

Yeah, he guessed he had a problem with telling women no.

But surely saying yes to being on the committee wouldn’t land him a face full of buttercream frosting.

“Good night, Mr. Lively.” Abigail waved, placing a hand on Birdie’s shoulder, which the girl immediately brushed away.

“Night,” he called, turning to the house he’d leased four months ago. The clean lines and blank canvas of the cottage had appealed to him, and the lap pool in the backyard and nice stretch of zoysia grass for practicing tai chi had sold him. He closed the door and entered the living area he’d furnished with an overstuffed sofa and huge beanbag chairs. The soft carpet beneath his feet had come from his mother’s last residence. The walls were covered with huge canvases, some done by his mother and others by friends. The incense he’d lit after Marcie’s fit in order to clear the bad karma had burned away, leaving a pungent, earthy scent.

He scooped up a crumb that he’d missed during cake cleanup.

Not exactly the way he’d planned to spend Sunday evening, but then again, what in life came when expected?

Certainly not a marauding drunken bride.

Or an attractive neighbor with a disapproving stare.

Or a twelve-year-old voyeur.

Long ago Leif had learned to roll with the punches, a requirement for the son of a renowned artist, for a kid with no father, for a man with no ties.

Yes, he embraced the unexpected as the poetry of life.

CHAPTER FOUR

Six weeks later

ABIGAIL STOOD OUTSIDE the college classroom next to Birdie and read the sign next to the door. Introduction to Drawing. Leif Lively.

What in the hell had she been thinking?

She couldn’t draw a straight line. Or a circle. She’d never even mastered one of those stars everyone could draw, though she had managed to render the brick wall with Ziggy peeking over it. That image had graced every notebook cover in middle school.

Birdie turned to her, excitement pirouetting in her eyes. “This is going to be perfect.”

That, right there, was why.

Birdie looking at her the same way she’d looked at her when she learned to ride her bike—that was the main reason she’d agreed to the mother-daughter art class.

That, and the fact that the classes were a Christmas present from her mother, Fancy. Her mother had given her a talking-to as they took down the Beauchamp family Christmas tree several weeks ago.

“Why the art lessons, Mom?” Abigail had asked.

“Because you need to do something to connect with Birdie. And that means doing something she wants to do, not what you want to do. Organizing her closet with pink bins and polka-dotted shelf paper is not fun for Birdie.”

“I can’t draw to save my life, Mom,” Abigail had complained while nestling antique glass ornaments in bubble wrap. She’d enjoyed organizing Birdie’s closet. She’d even downloaded current music for her iPad, docking it so they could rearrange to some new jams. Birdie had given her a look that could peel paint. So, yeah, she guessed it was safe to say her daughter hadn’t enjoyed the closet revamp dance party.

“Your life is not in danger. Just the relationship you have with your daughter. Remember the camping trip we took when you were about Birdie’s age?”

Abigail thought to when she was in Girl Scouts and her poor mother had tried to start a fire and chipped her recently manicured nails on the flint. “Okay. Point made.”

Fancy had given her the “good girl” smile she’d been using to manipulate Abigail all her life, and just like that—snap! Abigail and Birdie were signed up for Leif Lively’s introductory art class at the Southeastern Louisiana University Annex.

“Let’s get a seat up front,” Birdie said now, motioning for Abigail to hurry up.

“I’m more of a middle-of-the-classroom kind of girl.” Anyone who had graduated from St. George’s with Abigail would know that was the fib of the century. Abigail loved sitting up front and being teacher’s pet. But being that close to luscious Leif Lively filled her belly with crickets.

Abigail had no clue why.

The guy was strange.

He smelled like the vegetarian café her friend had taken her to in Baton Rouge. Like herbs and incense. And he paraded around in all states of undress. Once she’d seen him doing some kind of strange dance with swords in his front yard. He also played bongo drums on his front porch, just like Matthew McConaughey.

And he was sexy, just like Matthew McConaughey.

For the past month, Abigail had been having erotic dreams about Leif. In one they’d been twined in silken cords like circus acrobats, clinging to the peach-colored swaths of fabric as they arched and twisted...totally naked. She’d woken up covered in sweat and so turned on that she’d almost reached for the vibrator she kept locked in a box in her bedside table. But if she went there, she knew she’d never go back. All her fantasies from then on would be about the hot blond guy who lived less than a football field away from her.

Yet despite that restraint, she couldn’t stop thinking about Leif naked. Her mind was as rebellious as her daughter.

“I want to be up front,” Birdie said, petulance surfing her tone.

“Fine,” Abigail breathed, finally stepping over the threshold. She spotted Leif talking to an older woman with big hoop earrings, bright red lipstick and dyed-blond hair piled on top of her head like a haystack. He appeared to be listening attentively.

As she and Birdie wound through the tables, Leif glanced in their direction, his Nordic eyes widening when they stopped at the long table in front.

“Hey, Mr. Lively,” Birdie said, brightly.

Oh, God. Ever since the apology last month, Birdie forgot to be brooding each time Leif’s name came up in conversation. The child had even tried to invite him to the Beauchamp family Christmas Eve extravaganza. Luckily, Leif hadn’t been in town. The last thing Abigail needed was someone picking up on her attraction to him. Her cousin Hilda would have noticed for sure, which was why Abigail had balked when Hilda had approached her about volunteering for the art festival. The Beauchamps were such a tight-knit bunch they might as well have been high-thread-count bedsheets. Hiding anything from family was impossible.

“Hey, Birdie,” Leif said, holding up a finger to the older woman he’d been speaking with. She shot Birdie a look of aggravation before pasting a smile on her face.

Birdie set her drawing pad and pencil case on the table. “I brought my mom.”

Leif’s gaze strayed to Abigail’s. “So I see.”

“And I have a new drawing pad and pencils. Fancy and Pops got them for me for Christmas.”

Abigail hadn’t heard Birdie string two sentences together since the girl had decided to go all Joan Jett on her. But in Leif’s presence, Birdie was...effervescent. Abigail found it slightly embarrassing. Leif seemed to understand and kept his warm smile on Birdie.

“And what about your mother?”

Birdie glanced at her. “My mother?”

“Does she have a new pad and pencils?”

“Nope,” Abigail said, waving a pad half-filled with Birdie’s drawings. “I’m starting with a used pad and pencils.”

Leif’s smile reached his eyes. “I’m surprised to see you here, but I’m glad you came.”

If only.

Warmth dripped into Abigail’s belly before she could strike the naughtiness from her head. What was wrong with her? Daydreaming about a guy like Leif? He was too different, too earthy and holistic and—

He had the best smile in three parishes. He had a slight dimple in his left cheek and eyes the color of a fall sky. His jaw had a blockish quality, while his lips were sensuous. How Abigail knew they were sensuous, she wasn’t sure, but she was certain he could kiss her up one side of a wall and down the other. And make her beg for more.

“I didn’t have a choice. My mother gave us the lessons for Christmas.” Abigail pulled out a chair next to an older African-American woman who was knitting a baby blanket while watching them with hawk eyes.

Birdie’s thunderous expression told Abigail she’d screwed up again.

“So the college wouldn’t give you the money back, huh?”

Abigail smiled. “Nope. You’re stuck with me.”

“Well, your daughter has to have gotten her talent from somewhere.”

Birdie bloomed pink. “I get it from my dad. He’s a musician. Don’t you play guitar, Mr. Lively?”

“In this class, I’m Leif. Save the mister stuff for school. And, yeah, I play guitar, ukulele and—”

“Drums,” Abigail added.

His head jerked toward her. “Not too loud, I hope.”

Abigail shook her head. “I saw you playing them once when I was passing out flyers.”

Leif’s eyes twinkled. “Ah...the flyers about the noise ordinance or the zoning issue?”

“Both.” Abigail shrugged. “Didn’t do much good, but a girl has to try. I owe it to my guests. They come to the B and B for tranquillity.”

“And your banana bread.”

“That, too.”

Leif glanced up as another woman entered the room. “Well, I’m happy to have you both in class...whether you had a choice or not.”

He moved to speak to two college girls who had tumbled into the room in shorts...in January, for cripes’ sake. They were wearing UGG boots, slouchy tunic shirts and ponytails that swung in tune with their lazy strides. They took a seat at the middle table, the smell of honeysuckle wafting off them.

Leif took his place in front of the classroom and held up his hands. “Welcome, friends, to Introduction to Drawing. I’m Leif Lively, your instructor, and I know something brought each of you here for a good reason.”

Oh, please.

Yet the man sounded so sincere, so welcoming.

“I know some of you are here because you need the credit—” he gestured to the coeds behind Abigail “—and some of you are here because you want to progress in your study of art.” This time he looked at Birdie.

“And some of you don’t know why you signed up for a nighttime class that will teach you the basics, and hopefully the joy of drawing.” At this, he looked at Abigail.

She felt the heat in his glance, a small flare of attraction. Her first inclination was to revel in the idea he found her attractive, but she quickly quelled the thought. She’d misread the emotion in those blue eyes. She wasn’t the kind of woman Leif pursued. She’d seen Marcie in her tight, gaudy gown and flashy red Mustang. The bodice had dipped to the woman’s navel, showcasing enough boobage to smother a small child. Marcie was young, pretty and nubile—three things Abigail was not.

She had no business reflecting her bizarre attraction to her art teacher back on herself. Something was wrong with her—probably the beginning of a midlife crisis. Turning forty pressed down on her. When her ex-husband neared forty, he’d loaded his convertible with his Les Paul guitar, a new wardrobe and Morgan Cost, the waitress/karaoke deejay at the Sugar Shack in Raceland, and headed to California to pursue his dream of becoming a recording artist.

Yeah, midlife crisis.

“So, let’s get started,” Leif said, clapping his hands together and jolting Abigail from her reverie.

After they’d been drawing for a while, Leif came by her table where she’d flat-out screwed up her attempt at shading an apple. She really sucked at drawing—but if Leif needed his closet organized, she was his gal.

“That’s a nice line,” he said, leaning over her, flooding her senses with the heady scent of mint mixed with pure male. Dear God, he smelled good. Not like incense at all, but rather clean with a hint of sultry. Like sitting by a fire atop a mountain, crisp air dancing—

What was she doing? Waxing poetic over Leif’s shampoo?

But that didn’t stop her from swaying toward him, before she caught herself. “I’m not good at this,” she said.

“Relax,” he said, his voice stroking over her like a hand over velvet. “You’ve got the basic concept. All you need are—” using his own pencil, he made a few swoops, rounding out the shading “—a few curveballs in your life. You like to live on the straight and narrow, don’t you, Abigail. Or is it Abi?”

His question oiled the creaky, unused portion of her heart. No one called her Abi anymore. Except her mother, now and again. She’d once been like those girls at the middle table—young, silly, full of dreams. But as time went by and she struggled to take care of Birdie while her husband drove into the sunset with a mediocre karaoke singer and the funds from the savings account he’d emptied, she’d transformed into Abigail—a woman who didn’t moon over sappy movies or embrace being called by a nickname.

“Abi?”

“Oh, sorry. Um, call me Abigail, please.”

His hot breath fanned her neck. “Whatever you want.”

Cripes, why did everything the man said sound like an invitation to have sweaty marathon sex? She rubbed away the goose bumps rippling up her arm. “That’s what I like to hear.”

His soft laugh only increased her awareness of him. Something in her longed to lean back and place her head in the crook of his neck. Wait, had she just purred That’s what I like to hear? Jesus. What had she been—

“Leif?”

The red-lipstick-wearing middle-aged haystack waved her hand. “I need a little help over here.”

The woman asked for his help the same way a woman might ask a man to slip off his boxers and mount her.

But maybe Abigail’s imagination hadn’t punched the time clock. She glanced around, realization dawning on her. The whole class was filled with women. Not a hairy chest in sight.

Right.

She felt as if she’d been sucked into the Leif Lively fan club. Haystack would likely run for secretary. Birdie might go for treasurer. The kid was good with money, and firmly entrenched in the belief that Leif was the sun, moon and stars—all wrapped up with a bow.

But even though Leif looked mighty fine in his worn blue jeans and waffle T-shirt that left little to the imagination, Abigail had to remind herself that he was the David Lee Roth of Magnolia Bend. “Just a Gigolo.” “The Ice Cream Man.” A “love ’em and leave ’em” sort, with his laid-back charm and sexy blue eyes. She had no business wanting to take a lick from Leif’s ice-cream cone.

She needed to remember who she was—a mother, a business owner, a crappy art student. A woman who should leave ice cream well enough alone.

She renewed her efforts to draw an apple, as a new Van Halen song became an earworm—“Hot for Teacher.”

* * *

LEIF CAREFULLY HELPED Peggy Breaux correct the curve of the pear she’d drawn on her page while avoiding the way she intentionally brushed her breast against his biceps.

“You’ve got the general idea here,” he said, breathing through his mouth because her perfume stung his nostrils.

“Oh, I’m not good at it. But I want to be,” she said, her words dripping with double entendre.

“That’s why you’re here,” he said neutrally, lifting his head to survey the class. Most of his students were concentrating on their work. Birdie had her tongue caught between her teeth as she carefully controlled the lines she made with her charcoal pencil. Her mother sat with her head bent, mouth twisting this way and that as she focused on her pretty horrible drawing of an apple. The college girls were texting. Not cool. He shot them a look. The older lady who had been knitting earlier had already rendered quite a nice drawing of a pineapple. She’d returned to her knitting and her needles clacked a steady rhythm that didn’t seem to bother anyone around her.

He returned his gaze to Abigail.

He didn’t understand his fascination with her. She seemed layered to such a degree that no man could unwrap her. Steely one minute, achingly vulnerable the next. Abigail was the Mona Lisa, complicated and mysterious. Her beauty a masterpiece of shadow and illumination, a study in contrast. He found himself wanting to know her better, to break through the shell she’d built around herself.

If only Abigail could let go.

He imagined her clothes pooling on the floor, her lithe body moving in the moonlight, eyes dark and dilated. Moments before she’d swayed toward him and he’d wondered if she felt something, too.

Maybe...

“Is this better?” Peggy asked.

“Huh?”

“Ha, caught the teacher daydreaming.” The older woman chortled, a flirtatious smile curving her lips.

Abigail lifted her eyes, catching his gaze on her. A faint pink stained her cheeks as if she could read his thoughts before she lowered her head and resumed drawing. Maybe...

“Daydreaming’s good for an artist. I often think a good deal about what I want before I go after it.”

Peggy raised her painted-on eyebrows. “Indeed.”

Leif caught himself. “I meant artwise, sly lady.”

Peggy liked that, giggling like a geisha, her hand pressed to her mouth.

“That’s a good point,” he said to the class, noting the college girls slipping their phones into their pockets. “Envisioning your subject is very important, which is why I asked you to sketch from memory a particular fruit that spoke to you.”

“Fruits can’t speak,” Abigail said, humor lacing her tone.

“You must never have tripped on LSD,” he joked.

Everyone laughed. Except Abigail.

“I’m joking,” he said. “Whimsical wording amuses me. I’m aware fruit doesn’t talk, Mrs. Orgeron.”

She shrugged. “Never know with you guys from California.”

“Ah, she has a sense of humor,” he said with a smile, enjoying the good-natured volley of words. “And it’s Colorado, actually.”

“Where it’s legal, of course,” one of the college girls joked.

“Actually, when it comes to art, I don’t recommend using drugs or alcohol as a creative aid. My purest ideas come at times when I am open to the universe, not under the influence of any chemicals. I urge you to think about your subjects, delve into why you are attached to that particular image. When you approach your work, a measure of passion is important. You need to feel something for that piece, for art is the transfer of emotion. The best works of art convey the intent of the creator.”

Several people nodded, washing away the fear that he would be stuck with a classroom of students who didn’t understand the significance of emotion in art.

“When you complete your drawing, place it on my desk. I want to study each one to help me determine your current level of skill. There are no bad drawings, only opportunities for improvement, so please don’t be embarrassed if your banana resembles a—”

Peggy opened her mouth.

“Don’t say it,” he teased.

The rest of the class chuckled good-naturedly. Except for Abigail. She bobbed her head toward Birdie and he got the drift. No quasisexual jokes. Or jokes about LSD for that matter. He had to remember he had a child in his class.

Even if Birdie had likely heard much worse in the halls at school. St. George’s might be a religious school, but its students were worldly thanks to Snapchat and YouTube. Not that that justified making off-color jokes.

He gave Abigail a look that said he understood her unstated concerns. She inclined her head as a thank-you.

“Once you’ve turned in your drawing you may leave. Your homework is to look for opportunity. Where are the subjects you wish to sketch? Why do you feel compelled to draw them? Tie your emotion to the object and examine it.”

Five minutes later, only Birdie and Abigail remained in the classroom. Birdie hunkered over her drawing, eraser crumbs scattering the tabletop, her tongue trapped between her teeth. Abigail stood beside her, shifting in an impatient manner.

“She’s almost done,” Abigail said as he moved closer.

“Let her finish. No big deal.” He pushed a chair into place and met Abigail’s gaze. “Someone told me you’re taking Shannon’s place on the Laurel Woods Art Festival committee. Guess having a baby trumps art, huh?”

“Motherhood isn’t something you do part-time.”

“No, I guess not.”

“You’re on the committee?”

He knew she knew that he was. What was her game? Did she not want to appear interested in him? And if so, what did that mean? “Yeah, I’m in charge of procuring judges and cataloging the entered artwork.”

Abigail sighed. “It’s hard to say no to Hilda. She’s more like Attila. That’s what Jake calls her—uh, Jake’s my younger brother.”

“We’ve met. And, yeah, Hilda as Attila the Hun is a pretty good comparison. My arm still hurts,” he said, rubbing his biceps.

“Your arm?”

“From the twisting,” he said, nodding toward where Birdie still fussed over the teeniest line of her fruit bowl. “Overachiever like her mother?”

Abigail’s lips held a ghost of a smile. “She’s serious about art.”

“She has natural talent,” he said, winking at Birdie when she glanced up, gratitude in her eyes. “So, we’ll be working together on the committee? That should be fun.”

“I’ve never found committee work fun.”

He was certain Abigail found very little in life fun...and what a travesty. Life wasn’t always a party, but he always dressed for one, hoping that whatever lay ahead would be good, soaked in bubbly with a decent dance floor. To approach life as if it were anything less didn’t make sense to him. “Well, I’ll bring some tofu dip and some beer I’ve brewed. We’ll make it fun.”

Abigail’s eyes widened. “You’re going to bring beer to a committee meeting?”

“No?”

“Probably shouldn’t. We’re meeting at Hilda’s.”

“Scotch, then?”

“Uh...”

“Well, I’m running out of the fun stuff.” He gave her a wolfish smile just because he wanted to. Maybe he wanted her to feel the full effect of his charm or maybe he simply liked putting her out of her comfort zone. Because it was...fun.

“I’m sure you don’t have to bring a thing but a willingness to serve.”

She sounded like a Sunday schoolteacher. Abigail wasn’t just a good girl—she was the girl everyone hated because she didn’t screw up, because she gave others “that look” when they did. “You don’t like me much, do you?”

Abigail pulled back. “Oh, no, that’s not true at all. We’re just very different people with different views.”

“But different is good. Makes life much more interesting, don’t you think?”

Abigail seemed to turn that over in her head—a virtual convenience-store hot-dog rack. “Sure. I guess that’s a good way to look at it.”

But he could see she was lying. Different likely scared Abigail right out of those loafers. He glanced at her feet and saw that she wore boots. Sensible boots. The woman was as challenging as a blank canvas. What wonder could be brought forth if one bothered to spend the time creating on her page?

But as tantalizing as the thought of pulling out his brushes and tackling the wall she’d erected was, something inside him warned against delving beneath her stoic facade. It was presumptuous of him to think he stood a chance with the obviously damaged woman. Still, he’d seen her gaze linger on him. He’d felt the interest she tried to hide behind her disapproval.

But Leif never went where he wasn’t welcome.

Birdie gave a sigh, lifting her drawing, eyeing it critically.

“So I’ll see you at the next meeting?” Leif said.

Abigail had been staring at him, her eyes revealing...desire. She quickly looked away.

At that moment he wanted to gather her close to him, push back that intriguing dark hair with the silver streak, cup her face and break through her wall. Whether either of them admitted it, the music had started. There were only two ways to go—leave the dance floor or hold on tight.

Abigail raised her chin—the gesture seemed stubborn to him—and looked at him with eyes the color of emerald gulf waters. “I’ll see you on Thursday.”

“Yes, you will.”

The sound of the door opening and a “Yoo-hoo” made them all turn. In the doorway was a man Leif had never seen before.

“This the Intro to Drawing class?” he asked, his gaze landing on Birdie and Abigail. He laughed. “Well, well. There’re my girls.”

Birdie jumped from her chair, sending it screeching back. “Daddy!”

Abigail stiffened, a panicked look on her face. “Hello, baby doll,” the man said, catching Birdie in midair as she launched herself at him. “A little birdie told me my little Birdie was taking art lessons.”

“Cal?” Abigail said, her voice incredulous. She appeared to vibrate beside him. As if a unicorn had stepped through the door. Or, on second thought, a dragon.

“Hey, babe.” The man looked uncertain but determined.

“What are you doing here?” She moved away from Leif, stumbling over the chair Birdie had abandoned.

The man with the broad face and silver-flecked dark hair offered a smile. “Well, no good reason to keep it from you—I’m moving back to Magnolia Bend. To stay.”

“What?” Abigail clapped a hand to her chest before dropping it to her side.

“Yay!” Birdie shouted, sliding out of her father’s embrace. “You’re going to live here again?”

“You’re... Wait, what about Morgan? And LA? You haven’t been back since—”

“Don’t worry, we’ll work it out. I’m home now and ready to be the man I need to be. For Birdie.” He chucked the child under the chin. “And for you, too.”

Abigail blinked, looked at the scuffed tile floor and then at Leif, her eyes jumbled with emotion. “But why are you here?”

“I told you—”

“No. Here.” She jabbed a finger toward the floor. “Why would you come here? We’re taking a class. Couldn’t you have waited?”

Cal’s smile reminded Leif of an alligator. “Well, honey, when you wake up from a trance and see who you’ve been for the past few years isn’t who you really are, you want to get back to where you belong as fast as you can.”

Abigail shook her head. “You’re crazy.”

Cal’s smile flickered. “No, I was crazy. Now I’m sane. I’m ready to make things up to you and Birdie. When I crossed that city limit sign, I felt like my life started again. Mama told me where y’all were so I came. I couldn’t stop myself if I tried.”

“Well, you should have. This is just like you. You don’t think. You should have called me. You should have—”

“Mom,” Birdie cried, shaking her head. “Don’t turn this into something bad.”

In Birdie’s eyes was a soft plea, a child’s yearning for her father. Leif could feel Abigail soften. So could Cal. “We’ll talk about this later. This is obviously not the time or place.” She shot Cal another look.

The man ignored it, directing his attention to Leif instead. “Sorry for interrupting your class. The older lady said y’all were finished and my girls were still inside. Didn’t mean to impose.”

Leif nodded because he had no other choice. This was Abigail’s business. Not his. And even though an emotion he barely recognized as jealousy welled inside him, he knew this was the universe’s way of reminding him that Abigail Orgeron was not his...no matter how much he wanted to rip her from her world of schedules, logic and reason to a place where only sensation reigned. “It’s fine.”

“Good,” Cal said, wrapping an arm around Birdie. “Don’t be mad, Abigail. I couldn’t wait to see Birdie.”

“Really? Wish you had felt the same way at Christmas.”

Cal’s eyes shadowed. “Don’t, okay?”

Abigail snatched the two art pads and pencil cases sitting on the table, muttering “surreal” and “bastard” if Leif heard correctly. “Thank you, Mr. Lively, for the interesting class. I’m sorry about this last bit with Cal. Sometimes life hands you—”

“It’s not lemons, Mom,” Birdie called, impatience mixing with disappointment in her voice. She looked at her father and beamed. “It’s lemonade.”

Her father tweaked her nose and Leif almost vomited in his mouth. He couldn’t picture Abigail with this slimeball with the saccharine smile and slick ways. He wondered what had happened between them. Wondered if Cal had left her and now regretted his choice. Leif understood regret. But he didn’t understand a man abandoning his wife and child. He knew what it was like walking life’s path without a father. Not easy.

But there was no sense jumping to conclusions.

Abigail rolled her eyes before passing him a sheet of paper. “Here’s Birdie’s assignment.”

“Thanks.” He took the sheet and placed it over Abigail’s drawing of an apple...or a blob. Either descriptor worked.

Abigail walked toward her ex-husband and daughter. “Let’s take this conversation elsewhere.”

“Can I ride with Dad?” Birdie asked.

“Sure,” Abigail said, following them out the door. Just as her nice derriere disappeared, she stuck her head inside, the dark curtain of her hair swishing. “Hey, at least I don’t have to shower.”

“What?”

“My blast from the past didn’t bring cake.”

Leif laughed. “There’s that.”

“Yeah. See you Thursday?”

“Thursday.”

And then she was gone, leaving nothing but eraser crumbs on the table in front of him.

CHAPTER FIVE

ABIGAIL PEEKED IN at Birdie curled beneath her quilt. The girl slept on her back, mouth slightly open, out like Lottie’s eye. Abigail had no idea who Lottie was, but her mother had used that expression all her life and it had stuck.

“She down?” Cal said from over her shoulder. The family quarters were on the third floor of Laurel Woods’s main house. Abigail had wanted to revamp one of the guest cottages to serve as their home, but money had been tight after the divorce—and Cal hadn’t been there to carry out their former vision. Instead, her part-time employee and friend Alice Ann occupied one lone cottage, dividing her time between Laurel Woods and her son’s place in town. Abigail nodded, closing the door with a soft click and motioning toward the stairway. She walked down the stairs to the B and B’s common area, Cal following.

When she reached the main floor, she saw Mr. and Mrs. Hendricks had returned from their day-long swamp tour aboard the Creole Princess.

“Oh, hello, Mrs. Orgeron,” Rita called, wiping snickerdoodle crumbs from her mouth. Abigail set hot cocoa and cookies out each evening for her guests, and her great-aunt Vergie’s snickerdoodle recipe always garnered rave reviews. “I adore these cookies. You must tell me the recipe.”

“Sorry, it’s a secret family recipe. My great-aunt would haunt me if I gave it away...and I’m not sure there’s room for any more ghosts in this house. Rufus is about all I can handle.”

“Rufus, eh?” Mr. Hendricks laughed. “I’ve not seen hide nor hair of your Confederate ghost.”

“Now you’ve done it,” Cal said, smiling at the older couple. They looked questioningly at him, so he extended a hand and his most charming grin. “I’m Cal Orgeron, Abigail’s husband.”

“Ex-husband,” Abigail said smoothly, wiping up the drips of cocoa on the antique sideboard, ignoring the awkward pause.

“Yes, ex-husband,” Cal clarified with a laugh. “And now ol’ Ruf will have to make an appearance. He doesn’t take to doubters.”

“Oh, my,” Rita said, looking to her husband.

“Don’t worry. If Rufus shows, he’s harmless. Not a mean bone in his noncorporeal body,” Abigail said.

The Hendrickses chatted for a few more minutes, before retiring for the evening.

“How many people are staying here tonight?” Cal asked, snagging a cookie. They had always been his favorite.

“Five,” Abigail said, picking up the tray and pushing through the swinging door into the large kitchen. Cal followed.

“That’s pretty good for midweek.”

“Yeah, an early Mardi Gras piggybacking onto Christmas has me busier this year.” She set the tray on the counter, frowning slightly when Cal snagged another cookie. She didn’t like the way he made himself at home. Laurel Woods no longer belonged to him. She’d received the house in the divorce settlement, and though she struggled to make ends meet, she was proud of what she’d done on her own.

“I love these things. If I ate these every night, I could play Santa in the Candy Cane Parade.” He patted his still trim stomach.

“Well, it’s fortunate you don’t eat them every night,” Abigail said, sealing the leftovers in the plastic storage container and tidying up the kitchen. A last-minute arrival had made her almost late for the art class, but she couldn’t turn away a paying customer.

Leif’s image flitted across her mind, and she let it gallop past. She had to deal with the man presently in her kitchen.

“I’ve got some questions, Cal.”

He swiped a hand across his mouth, the silver threads in his hair glinting in the pendant lights hanging over the granite-topped island. California had agreed with her ex-husband. His sun-soaked skin gave him a healthy glow and the crinkly lines around his eyes weren’t as pronounced. Maybe he’d had some work done. She wasn’t sure. She hadn’t really looked at him in years. No reason to take stock of the man who’d broken her heart, betrayed their vows and treated their daughter like she didn’t matter.

“About me coming home?”

“No, about the playlist on your iPod.” She bit off the “dumb ass” she wanted to add. “Of course, that’s what I mean. Why are you back?”

“Because one day I woke up and wondered what in the hell I’d been doing.”

“Simple as that?”

Cal shrugged, settling his behind against the counter. “Yeah. Look, I know I’ve been an ass, but I want to make amends for—” he paused, his dark brown eyes staring into the space above the oven hood “—my midlife crisis? I guess that’s what most would call it.”

Exactly. That’s what everyone in Magnolia Bend had called it.

“Yeah, that’s what they call it,” she said, casting her gaze at the herbs growing in her garden window. The thyme looked a bit yellow. Maybe she’d watered it too much.

“I’m ready to show you how much regret I have. I want to press Rewind, but I can’t.”

“Where’s Morgan?”

Cal flinched. “We’re, uh, not together anymore.”

“Why not?”

His gaze rested on her, searching her face for any crack of sympathy. She wouldn’t give him any and he seemed to sense this. “She’s moved on.”

“Ah,” Abigail said, unable to stop the corners of her mouth from tipping up. “You were forced to ‘wake up’ because she left you. Another man?”

He nodded. “But even before that, I knew what I’d done was wrong.”

Abigail’s laugh tasted bitter.

“I know,” he said. “I don’t expect your forgiveness. I just hope you’ll let me back into my daughter’s life. I love Birdie and I owe her so much. I don’t know where to start, other than being present.”

“I would never keep you from your daughter.”

“And you?”

“Me?” Abigail’s butt hit the opposite countertop, echoing the jarring in her soul. “What are you saying?”

“I’m asking if there is anything left between us.” His eyes beseeched her, his strong throat moving as he swallowed nervously.

At one time, her heart would have leaped at the suggestion of Cal wanting her. She’d known him since elementary school. Big solid Cal, football star, wide smile, girl at each elbow. He’d gone to prep school in Tennessee and returned his senior year, more handsome and confident than ever. With his parents’ prestige and his classic good looks, he’d been the quintessential Southern boy, a little wild, but mostly grounded. He’d come by the church tailgate party after a district play-off win, his truck idling with beer in the cooler, and crooked his finger at Abigail. Her sophomore heart had cartwheeled and her friends had sighed. Cal Orgeron wanted her. And she’d let him have her—body and soul. For a time, nothing else existed but Cal.

But she wasn’t that girl anymore.

“No.” She turned away from him. “It’s too late.”

“Don’t say that, Abi. I lost my mind, had some kind of mental breakdown, but I never stopped loving you.”

“Don’t you dare.” She whirled, jabbing a finger at him. “We’re over and you know it. Don’t try to play me. I’m not some twentysomething-year-old fool with stars in my eyes.”

Cal didn’t say anything, just watched her, like a hunter assessing his prey. Abigail wanted to retreat from the emotions throbbing in the room. She wanted to slap the devil out of him. She wanted to scream all the outrage she’d sat on night after night, knowing her hurt did no good, knowing her pain only trickled into Birdie. She hadn’t wanted Birdie to suffer any more than she already had.

But Abigail didn’t lose control. She dropped her hand and shook her head. “We can’t go there, Cal. You regret what happened now because you’re alone. You were never good at being alone. You think you can slip into our lives like you pressed a pause button and we froze. You want comfort, and I have none to give you.”

Cal inhaled. “Okay, fine. I understand how you feel, but I’m not letting you go that easily.”

“News flash, Cal. You don’t have me anymore. And I suggest you leave well enough alone.” She couldn’t believe him. He was going to try to win her back? Sorry...not going to happen.

“I’ll concede the battle for now, Abi.”

“It’s Abigail. Wave the flag now and concede the war. The last thing we need is another thing we’re at odds over. Focus on Birdie and doing whatever else it is you’re going to be doing in Magnolia Bend. I’m guessing you won’t be headlining at the Sugar Shack?”

Cal gave a sheepish smile. “I think my music days are over. LA has a way of stomping out dreams and pissing on them. I’m going to work for Dad. He gave me my old job.”

She raised her eyebrows, surprised Buster Orgeron would be so quick to accept his son in the family company again. The president of Orgeron Fertilizer hadn’t supported his son’s dream of bright lights and big titties. As far as Buster was concerned, when Cal left his wife, daughter and job, he’d lost his damn mind.

Buster and Minnie Orgeron had been gracious to Abigail, helping with Birdie and providing some of the financing for the Laurel Woods renovation. Abigail had let them help not because she thought they owed her anything, but because she’d been fighting depression along with creditors.

Their anger at Cal had stayed in place for a good year, but then, as to be expected, it had faded. Well, it had waned for Minnie. Cal was her only child and she convinced herself that his running from his life in Louisiana had been Abigail’s fault, that she’d failed to make Cal happy. Minnie believed they’d married too young and never should have bought the Harveys’ historic house. It was too much pressure for Cal. Minnie understood his wanting to leave.

Which was utter bullshit.

Buster hadn’t been as understanding, however.

“Well, that’s good. You staying with them?”

“Until I can find a place. I’m thinking about the subdivision behind here. Nice to be close by in case you or Birdie need me.”

Something shrank inside Abigail. She didn’t want Cal that close. It was bad enough he’d come home, showing up like a bad penny just when she’d developed an interest in another man.

Wait.

Not a true interest. A potential flirtation. Or maybe just good fantasy fodder for cold, lonely nights. Leif wasn’t an actual contender for her affections. That was crazy, premenopausal delusion talking.

Then she recalled the heat in his gaze when she’d caught him looking at her in art class. So maybe Leif was a contender?

She wasn’t a big-boobed Marcie, but she wasn’t chopped liver, either. She knew how to kick off her loafers. WD-40 might be in order, but the parts still moved.

“Well, once you get settled permanently, let me know. You have my phone number.”

He frowned, pushing off from the counter. “Oh, you’ll see me before then. I thought I might come over tomorrow night and take you and Birdie to dinner.”

“I can’t leave the bed-and-breakfast two nights in a row. But Birdie will want to spend some quality time with her father. She didn’t see you for Christmas.” Abigail tried to not make her statement an accusation, but it stuck anyway.

“I couldn’t fly home. Airline prices were crazy and Morgan—” His voice faded. A hurt expression flitted over his face before he regained control. “Things were unsettled.”

So he’d been trying to save his relationship with the twenty-six-year-old, while putting his daughter on the back burner once again. Morgan wore her South Louisiana roots well with her olive coloring, big brown eyes and soft bayou accent. Lithe and sexy, her voice had a mesmerizing, otherworldly quality. Abigail knew because she’d been the dumb ass who had suggested she and Cal watch Morgan perform with her local zydeco band six years earlier. No doubt, Morgan had now moved on to bigger fish who could further her career.

“So you said. I suppose the upside to ending your relationship with Morgan is being more present in your daughter’s life.” Abigail walked toward the kitchen door, hoping Cal would get the hint. His appearance at the art class had pulled the rug out from beneath her. Abigail needed to think. And plan. And think some more. She had to be careful with Cal and Birdie, especially since her daughter had been buzzing with excitement, her eyes sparkling at the news that her father was home. The child had been cut adrift when Cal left five years ago and she’d never really recovered.

“True,” Cal said, following her into the formal parlor with its richly colored carpets, marble fireplace and Audubon painting of a crane standing vigil over the bayou. “I should’ve called you, but I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to surprise Birdie. And you.”

Again, warning bells sounded. “We’ll figure things out. I’ll tell Birdie you’ll pick her up for dinner tomorrow night. Needs to be early since it’s a school night.”

“Good,” Cal said, stepping closer to Abigail. She moved back. “I appreciate that, Abi. I mean Abigail.”

He ducked his head toward her.

Abigail threw up a hand, hitting his chin. “What are you doing?”

“Kissing your cheek. Saying good-night.”

“Don’t.”

Cal scowled. “Jesus, it’s just a friendly gesture. We can be civil, can’t we?”

“Sure. As long as it’s not with your lips.”

“Goddamn, you’re cold,” Cal said in a hurt voice.

“What did you expect? I’d be the same as I once was?” Abigail opened the front door. “I’ll treat you cordially, Cal, because of Birdie. But if we didn’t have a child, you would have never crossed this threshold.”

Cal studied her for a moment, saying nothing, before slipping out the door, leaving behind the scent of Brooks Brothers Gentlemen cologne. She watched the taillights of his truck fade before she stepped out into the chilly night. The porch that ran across the front of the house was deep enough for several sets of rocking chairs perfectly centered on the plantation windows. Her breath puffed white as she shuffled toward the swing at the end of the porch. Her body felt brittle, her soul tormented by tonight’s events. Cal was in her life and she had no say about it because they shared Birdie.

Wonderful, temperamental, soulful Birdie.

She released a breath.

“Sounds like you need a drink.”

Abigail nearly jumped out of her skin as she spun toward the porch railing. Standing in the moonlight, clad in a down-filled jacket, was Leif. He held a liquor bottle and two glasses.

“You scared me to death.”

His teeth flashed in the moonlight. “You look alive to me.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Checking on you.”

“Checking on me?” She stiffened, grappling with the idea that Leif cared enough to check on her.

“And bringing you a drink.”

“A drink?”

He climbed the steps, his shoes quiet on the slats as he moved toward her. “You expected something more herbal from me? I’ve heard the rumors, but I don’t smoke weed. I do, however, like a good Scotch.” His blue eyes were sparkling with warmth. He wagged the bottle.

“I could use a drink.” She sat on the swing and glanced at the spot beside her. If he were anyone else, she would have expected him to sit in the rocker a few feet away, but she wanted to feel him beside her.

Yeah. She’d gone nuts.

Leif settled beside her, twisted the lid off the bottle and poured two generous fingers of what looked to be Balvenie. He’d brought the good stuff. Handing her one, he clinked his glass to hers. “I’d make a toast but this isn’t about futures or well wishes. You just need a drink, hon.”

“No shit.”

She didn’t bothering sipping. Tonight called for a belt.

“Whoa. Slow down there, soldier.” Leif leaned back, his shoulder brushing hers.

Abigail did as he bid and took a demure sip. “Why?”

“What?”

“Why are you being nice to me? You don’t know me.”

He tilted his head. The move made him cuter. “Best way to get to know someone is over a good Scotch.”

“But why would—”

He pressed his finger against her lips. “Shh...sometimes it’s enough to be still. Just relax.”

It was the second time he’d said that to her, and she let the words sink in. She leaned against the swing, folding in on herself like a bouncy castle deflating after a kiddie birthday party. Sweet comfort.

Leif kicked the swing into motion. The clunk of the bottle hitting the porch was the last sound she heard before the night tucked them into quiet contemplation.

After several minutes, Abigail released a sigh.

“Ah, there you go. A good Scotch cures a lot of things.”

“Tonight sucked.”

“I know. Feels like getting sideswiped,” he said, his voice soft.

“Yeah, sideswiped,” she breathed, looking out into the inky darkness as if it could provide a solution to Cal showing up...a solution to her wanting to rest her head on Leif’s shoulder. “You know, you’re a decent guy for a lothario.”

“Lothario?”

“I’m sorry. That’s not fair. Just because women hurl themselves at you...”

He stuck a finger to his cheek. “It’s the dimple.”

She felt her lips twitch before she could stop herself. “Magic, huh?”

His eyes grew flirty. “Is it working on you?”

Inside, she stilled much like the darkness around them. Should she laugh it off or tell him the truth? Roll the dice or hold her cards close? “Eh, kind of.”

“Perfect.”

He settled back, kicking them into motion again, seeming content to do nothing more than sit beside her, sip liquor and enjoy the intimacy of not having to say a thing.

An owl hooted and the squeak of the swing created a soothing lullaby as the warm liquor made Abigail feel languid and heavy. After they’d been sitting there for about a quarter of an hour, Abigail stopped the swing. “I should go inside.”

“It’s late,” he agreed, rising and extending a hand. She took it, almost sighing at the warmth of his skin against her cold hand. God help her, but she wanted to feel his arms around her, to give him what she’d denied Cal earlier.

“Thank you,” she said.

His eyes stayed soft as he whispered, “That’s what neighbors are for.”

“Neighbors?”

“And friends.”

“Oh.” She glanced away, trying not to feel crushing disappointment. Stupid woman. Leif had been doing what he did best—charming anything in a skirt. Not that she wore a skirt. Too cold for that. But he probably flirted with grocery store cashiers, phlebotomists and anyone he came in contact with—including lonely, pathetic neighbors.

“And women I want to kiss.”

Abigail blinked. “You want to kiss me?”

He brought her hand to his mouth, brushing a kiss on the back of it. His whiskey breath fanned her skin, causing heat to shimmer in her stomach. “Another time, pretty Abigail.”

Abigail stared at the hand he released before snapping out of the trance he’d put her in. “Oh.”

“Night.”

“Good night, Leif. Thank you.”

He picked up the bottle and lifted a hand as he walked down the steps. “My pleasure.”

Then he left her with a smile...and a hunger she knew would keep her awake long into the night.

CHAPTER SIX

THE NEXT MORNING Leif skirted the woods behind his house. Laurel Woods sprawled in the middle of twenty acres of pine, hardwoods and scrubby brush that harbored deer, raccoons and pesky squirrels who cut pinecones into his lap pool. Technically, he was trespassing, but since he’d taken Abigail a drink last night, he was sure he could get a pass for traipsing through her woods on an early-morning hike.

Of course, his real intent was to poke around the abandoned cabins that sat to the left of the huge white house.

His mother had lived in one of them.

Hell, he may have even been conceived in one of them.

All along he’d intended to get to know the owner of Laurel Woods. But he hadn’t realized the owner was the fusspot PTA president, the kind of woman who made a guy’s fellows shrink to the size of blueberries. His neighbors had told him that Abigail had petitioned against the subdivision, even going as far as to solicit the aid of the Historical Society. She’d lost. And she hadn’t been happy about it, erecting a huge fence to block the development from her sight.

Leif had practiced patience hoping to eventually befriend the woman. And finally opportunity had plopped in his lap by way of Birdie.

He glanced at the large Greek revival house standing proud and rebellious in the face of the elements determined to wear away the centuries-old edifice. It was just like its owner—defiant and guarded.

As he pushed through the bushes that encroached on the trail, he wondered if anything his mother had created remained in the former slave cabins that had been modified forty-five years ago to house traveling artists. He had little hope since the cabins had been shut up for years, but he’d wanted to see where his mother had lived. Perhaps something remained of her, some hint of who she’d been...of whom she’d fallen in love with.

At the coffeehouse where he sometimes played on Friday nights he’d run into Royal Desadier, the grandson of Simeon Harvey’s former groundskeeper. Royal lived with his grandfather Cletus, who suffered poor health but whose mind was still sharp. Leif asked to visit Cletus because the man had been around when artists populated the grounds.

Simeon Harvey had brought in artists from all over the world, including Leif’s mother, who had journeyed from her Colorado commune to a studio in one of the cabins. She’d left four short months after arriving amidst allegations of murder, taking with her what she called her one true masterpiece—Leif.

On his birth certificate, there was a suspicious blank. His mother had refused to discuss the man who’d fathered him anytime Leif brought up the subject. He’d received the last name Lively from a small Colorado town his mother had once visited. For thirty-four years, Leif had made do without a father.

And for those same thirty-four years, Leif had pretended he didn’t need to know the man who had impregnated his mother. It had been easier to pretend there wasn’t a void in his life. But underneath the happy-go-lucky hippie veneer was a small boy who longed to know who his father was.

Calliope had died holding fast to his name.

So Leif had no clue who his biological father was.

And no one in the small community of Magnolia Bend knew Leif was the son of a murderess.

Leif emerged into a clearing and saw an older woman pulling weeds in front of the first in a string of cabins.

Quickly, so as not to be seen, he ducked behind the huge magnolia tree blooming on the edge of the woods. He had no idea who the woman was, but he didn’t feel like explaining why he trespassed.

Soon he’d have to confide in someone with regard to the search for his roots. Southerners were definitely hospitable but they closed ranks fast if they knew you weren’t one of them. And it had been obvious from his first day in Magnolia Bend that he wasn’t one of them. Maybe Abigail would be the perfect person to reveal his true purpose for being here to. Her family had lived in this area forever and she could provide him with some history and help locate someone who might remember his mother.

Abigail.

She was the antithesis of overblown and easy. Her willowy frame harkened back to Jane Austen and buttoned-up dresses. That stubborn chin, dark hair and intellect were reasons to move away from her rather than inch closer. Yet he’d shown up at her house last night, liquor in hand.

Oh, he’d argued with himself about going, but reason had lost.

Why?

She intrigued him. Her edges needed rounding out. Like she needed someone to show her how to freakin’ relax, to let the woman beneath the field sergeant climb out and play.

He could do that—ply her with pretty words, treat her to a bit of romance and laughter. But why he felt like doing so was as clear as morning on the San Francisco Bay.

Maybe it was because he knew how she felt when her ex-husband had slammed back into her life. Or maybe there was no good reason. Maybe he was an eternal hopeless dumb ass looking for someone to belong to. Maybe it was a really stupid idea.

Doubling back toward his house, he tried to talk himself out of any further romantic interactions with Abigail Beauchamp Orgeron. But by the time he stepped onto his porch, he’d decided to not worry so much about the reasons he shouldn’t and embrace the reasons he should.

If there was one thing Leif always did, it was listen to what the universe told him.

And the wind whispered her name.

* * *

“JOHN OFFICIALLY PROPOSED to Shelby,” Francesca “Fancy” Beauchamp said, handing Abigail the scissors so she could trim the ribbon on the pillow she held.

Abigail looked at her mother, eyeing her handiwork critically. Thankfully, the pillows looked custom-made, something she could no longer afford. “I thought he’d already asked her? When did this happen?”

“Last night. Your brother drove her out to Boots Grocery, got down on a knee in the middle of the bar and told her he was glad he’d gotten drunk and knocked her up in the bathroom. And then he asked her to become his wife. Can you believe it? Our John?”

“No, the way he grieved Rebecca, I didn’t think it possible.”

Fancy shrugged. “Me neither, but I’m happy for him. Your father’s a bit appalled at the proposal locale.”

A bar wasn’t exactly the kind of place Reverend Dan Beauchamp frequented but it was where her brother had met Shelby...and where they’d made a mistake that set fate on its ear. “Well, it’s hard growing up a preacher’s kid. We constantly disappoint.”

Fancy smacked her hand, making her drop the scissors. “Don’t say that. Your father and I worked hard to raise you as regular kids, to be able to make mistakes without being judged by a ridiculous standard.”

Abigail picked up the scissors. “I’m not criticizing you and Dad. It’s just how it is. We accept it, but sometimes it’s hard. Take John. Who could have imagined someone so steady would topple head-over-boots for someone like Shelby? Never in a million years would I have put those two together.” She snipped the ragged threads that had not been sewn down. The ribbon made a perfect square in the middle of the flowered fabric. A pretty monogram sat in the center.

Fancy rose from the breakfast table and carried her empty mug to the sink. The large farmhouse sink anchored a generous slab of marble in the bright kitchen. Her mother’s kitchen reflected her personality—cheerful, with clean lines and purpose. Yes, it was an optimistic kitchen if there were such a thing.

“I like Shelby, and sometimes a person needs to be balanced out by someone who is their opposite,” Fancy said.

“I like Shelby, too. But they don’t look like they’d fit.”

Fancy returned to tug at a wayward thread, rolling it into a ball. “Can’t go on what we see. Scripture tells us man sees what is on the outside, but God sees a man’s heart. Perhaps John—”

“Oh, you can bet he was attracted to that outside.” Abigail bounced big pretend breasts against her chest.

“Hush,” Fancy said, but laughing anyway. “Speaking of not judging a book by its cover, how are the art lessons going?”

Abigail stilled, her mind flipping to the intimacy between her and her instructor the other night. “We’ve only had one lesson. I suck at drawing.”

“Language,” her mother warned.

“Oh, please. Suck is a perfectly good word. Don’t act like you don’t use it.”

“Me? I’d never use language unsuitable for a preacher’s wife,” Fancy said, a twinkle in her eye. Abigail knew very well her mother dropped the occasional curse word, but that was what made Fancy Beauchamp one of Magnolia Bend’s most-liked women. She could bake a mean pie and dance the tango, and believed a well-placed curse word was effective.

“The class is filled with women.”

“He’s a good-lookin’ man.”

“But odd. He wears sandals with pants and has a ponytail.”

“So did Jesus.”

Abigail rolled her eyes. “Only you would compare Leif Lively to Jesus.”

“Why not? Both have magnetic personalities and woman kneeling at their feet.”

“Would you be serious?”

Fancy reached out and tweaked Abigail’s nose. “Lighten up, Francis.”

“You’re quoting Stripes? Nice.” Abigail stacked the three pillows at the end of the scarred wooden table. “So are you going to get around to what you really want to ask me?”

“You mean something besides how your art lessons with Mr. Yummy Yoga Pants have been going?”

Abigail couldn’t help herself. She chuckled.

Her mother brushed her wispy red hair from her face. “Now, that’s the Abi I love. Big laugh. Fun girl.”

Abigail snorted. Yeah, right. Her mother remembered things differently than she did. “I still laugh.”

“Not often enough.”

“Yeah, well, life sucks sometimes.”

Fancy sank into the fluffy armchair. “Come sit and tell me about Calhoun.”

Abigail took the opposite chair, releasing a huge sigh. “Well, he’s back. He says he’s home to stay.”

Fancy’s gaze dissected Abigail’s face. “You think he’s serious about staying?”

“He says so. Morgan left him, presumably for another man. Quite frankly I’m surprised she lasted five years with him. She saw him as her ticket out of the bayou, but no one could have told Cal that. He was so certain he’d missed out on the life he was supposed to live.”

“What a dumb ass,” Fancy said.

Abigail trilled, “Language.”

“Yeah, yeah. I grew up a Burnside. My papa could make a sailor blush. Apple, tree and all that. Besides, I say my prayers every night. The Good Lord knows Calhoun is a dumb ass, so forgiveness should be forthcoming.”

“True. So Cal’s living with his parents and says Buster gave him his old job at the plant. That surprised me—Buster was furious at him for abandoning us to go chasing fame and fortune.”

“Time has a way of healing anger for some folks. Buster loves Calhoun and the man isn’t getting any younger. He needs someone to take over the business when he retires.”

“Buster will never retire.”

“Don’t be too sure. Diabetes is tough on the body and he’s been having issues with his legs.” Fancy stared out at the winter-weary branches of the roses she loved to tend. “So what are you going to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve known Calhoun Everett Orgeron ever since he drank his first sip of milk. He’s the kind of man who leans on people to get what he wants.” Her mother looked at her, eyes soft and sympathetic.

“What?”

“He wants you back?”

Abigail clutched the arms of the chair, worry clawing her insides. “Why would you think he wants me back?”

“I just told you. I know Calhoun. He’ll want his old life. He thinks he deserves it because he’s an Orgeron...and because he has a pretty smile. He blew through his savings living in California, played footsie on the beach with a veritable child and now he’s home. He’s not going to sign up for eHarmony, so he’ll be over at Laurel Woods sweet-talkin’ you.”

“Well, he can bark up another tree.”

Fancy reached over and patted her hand. “You never could resist Calhoun.”

“The hell I can’t.” Abigail sat up straight. “He broke my heart. I spent years with my self-worth pancaked, so I’m done with Cal. His smile doesn’t work on me anymore.”

“Good girl. I’ve been worried. I saw Birdie yesterday and I swear that child could not stop talking about Daddy this and Daddy that. She’s going to make it harder to say no to Calhoun. Birdie will want to be a family again.”

“We are a family...just not a family who lives together. Birdie understands that. I just need to come up with some guidelines.”

“It won’t be just Birdie who’ll press this. Be prepared, daughter of mine. Be prepared.”

Abigail nodded as her cell phone rang. The clanging bells signaled the ringtone for St. George’s. “That’s the school. Hope Birdie’s sore throat hasn’t turned into strep again.”

Abigail stood, answering her phone. “Hey, Lelah, don’t tell me Birdie’s running a fever.”

Lelah Carter, the most efficient school secretary this side of the Mississippi said, “Oh, no. She’s good. Just thought you should know Cal checked her out thirty minutes ago. Said he was taking her to the Dairy Maid. He’s on the checkout list so I let her go with him, but after I thought about it, I figured you should know.”

Abigail closed her eyes. This was why she needed to clear her head of fluff and attend to Cal and what his return meant for their lives. “Thanks, Lelah. I don’t want her to miss any instructional time, so I’ll have a word with Cal.” She clicked the end button and collapsed into her chair.

“Everything okay with Birdie?” her mother asked.

“Yeah, she’s fine. Cal checked her out to take her to lunch. The man didn’t even bother to call and tell me. I would have told him no.”

Her mother made a face. “Well, he is her father. But this confirms what I said earlier. Things are about to get complicated.”

“Yeah,” Abigail said in monotone, knowing it was important she sit down with Cal to create some rules regarding Birdie. Having Cal in town, something she’d wanted years ago, felt like being shit on by a bird. She didn’t want him here, throwing her life into chaos. She didn’t need him bribing Birdie with hamburgers and ice cream and suggesting he could make up to her what he’d destroyed so long ago.

She was tempted to call Morgan and beg her to take Cal back...for the good of everyone.

“I’ve been praying for a little excitement in your life, but I don’t think you want Calhoun Orgeron to give it to you,” Fancy said.

“Lord, no,” Abigail said. “It’s like he’s trying to rattle me. Provoke me. That’s not the excitement I need.”

“Calhoun’s a man obsessed with himself, so don’t make this about you. He wanted to spend some time with his daughter today and didn’t think about how it might affect anyone else. He’s all about treats and giggles. Always has been.”

“Maybe he didn’t mean to ruffle my feathers, but it was irresponsible of him. And what is he teaching Birdie? That it’s okay to shirk school for a root-beer float?”

Fancy chuckled. “Oh, come on, Abigail. You’re mad because you didn’t give your permission. I’ve sat by for several years watching you exercise such firm control over your life that wiggle room is nonexistent.”

“Oh, God, Mom. Please don’t start this now. Not when I have to go deal with Cal and Birdie.”

Fancy crossed her legs Buddha-style and shrugged. “Maybe that’s why I mentioned it. Yes, you and Cal need to lay some ground rules, but he hasn’t seen his daughter since last summer. Missing a few hours of school won’t hurt her. Birdie needs you to give her a break every now and then.”

Abigail looked at her mother, at the woman who never let her or her brothers miss school unless vomit or a high fever were involved. As a former teacher, Fancy had declared that personal days were for other people. Beauchamps didn’t miss school for no reason. “Who are you?”

“A woman who has stared cancer in the face and known fear. A woman who realizes that doing the right thing is not always the best thing. A woman who has been watching her daughter hold on tighter and tighter to life, thinking she can control every aspect. Birdie needs breathing room, honey.”

“Why do our conversations always turn to my mothering skills?” Abigail shoved her phone into her purse and gathered up the pillows.

“I’m not trying to be critical.”

“Yeah, you are,” Abigail said, attempting to stuff the damn pillow into the bag it fit in moments before but was now refusing to go in. “Get in.”

“Calm down,” her mother said in that voice that made Abigail feel anything but calm.

Aggravation exploded inside her. Screw everyone. She was doing the best she could to raise Birdie. So she liked schedules and rules. People functioned better when they had them. And one of the rules she had was her ex-husband wasn’t allowed to check their daughter out of school for a cheeseburger. “I know I’m not perfect, but I try really hard to give Birdie parameters. That’s my job. To keep her safe and help her make good decisions.”

“Sure, but—”

“No. No buts, Mother. I have to go. Thanks for the pillows.” Abigail didn’t give her mother the opportunity to say anything further. She headed for the front of the house. Her mother called out to her, but she ignored her.

Fancy had become increasingly meddlesome when it came to Birdie, constantly bringing up the way Abigail parented. Her mother’s well-placed suggestions wore on Abigail. She loved Fancy and certainly valued her mother’s opinion, but that didn’t mean she agreed with her.

“Birdie needs some breathing room,” Abigail mimicked under her breath. “Breathing room, my ass. She needs to straighten the hell up is what she needs to do. And Cal needs to learn there are parameters.”

Abigail tossed the bag with the pillows in the back of her Volvo wagon and climbed inside, aware she’d been muttering to herself like an old woman. As she put the key in the ignition, she glanced at her loafers.

The ones she’d picked up at Talbots.

The ones that were like Marcie’s mother’s.

She pulled down the visor and clicked open the mirror. Her brow had knitted into four lines so that when she relaxed, her forehead remained wrinkled. She rubbed at the lines, noticing the dark circles under her eyes and the ever-present swoop of silver that fell over the right side of her hair. The stripe had appeared almost overnight five years ago—a month after Cal left her.

She wore her life on her face and the look wasn’t becoming. She stared at her hands that gripped the steering wheel. Slowly, she unfurled her fingers, wondering why she held on so tightly. Her insides felt just as tense. As if she might snap any moment.

She glanced into her own green eyes and sighed.

Who had she become?

If she stood back and observed herself, what would she see? A thin woman who wore buttoned-up cardigans with old-lady shoes. A woman who drove the safest car available. A woman who organized her calendar with colored tabs. Who wore dark colors. Who didn’t date because it was too much of a hassle. A woman who hadn’t had sex in one year, four months and a handful of days...with another person, that is. And even going to the trouble of picking up her vibrator had become too big a commitment. She didn’t have the energy for invoking fantasies that turned her on enough to go there.

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