Книга - The Marriage Recipe

The Marriage Recipe
Michele Dunaway


New York loves pastry chef Rachel Palladia's desserts, and her boss in the A-list Italian restaurant where she works is desperate to make her his wife. A country girl's dream come true–until she catches her fiancé making love to someone else. When her ex-fiancé sues her for the rights to her recipes, Rachel heads home to Morrisville, Indiana, to ask Colin Morris–the town's hotshot lawyer and her former secret crush–for help. But while they're working on an ironclad defense, their relationship really heats up!The two are concocting a recipe for the perfect marriage–except he's determined to stay small-town, and she yearns for the big city's bright lights. A dilemma, for sure, unless they can cook up a solution…








“Umm-hmm,” Rachel mumbled, determined not to open her mouth


She should stop him. Say no. Do something.

But she stood there as Colin started to spread the frosting over her top lip. She stared at him, transfixed. Even with all the time she’d spent in Marco’s kitchen, Marco had never done anything this erotic.

He’d never touched her like this, making her quiver with anticipation.

Sex had been basic. Ordinary. Bland.

Nothing like the high intensity of this moment.

This was sweeter than any dessert. This was…pure bliss.


Dear Reader,

I love to cook. Cakes, pies and pastries are my all-time favorites to bake, especially if the main ingredient is chocolate. I have dozens of cookbooks in my kitchen, and I dug out my favorites when I needed inspiration for this book. While I haven’t made the cupcakes that bring about sparks between Rachel Palladia and Colin Morris, I have made the coconut cake that Rachel brings to Easter brunch.

After her engagement to a New York City restaurateur ends, pastry chef Rachel returns to Morrisville, Indiana. Instead of being able to get legal advice from Bruce Lancaster (Legally Tender, American Romance 1100), Rachel finds that her only hope for keeping the recipes she developed out of the hands of her ex-fiancé is Colin Morris, the boy next door and her former childhood crush. She, Bruce and Colin were best friends, until Colin stood her up for the prom.

But Colin’s behavior was the result of a big misunderstanding. Rachel and Colin quickly discover that when you mix two former next-door-neighbors together and simmer over a rekindled flame, you just might have the perfect recipe for marriage.

Happy reading, and enjoy the romance. And feel free to contact me through my Web site, www.micheledunaway.com.









The Marriage Recipe

Michele Dunaway










ABOUT THE AUTHOR


In first grade Michele Dunaway knew she wanted to be a teacher when she grew up, and by second grade she knew she wanted to be an author. By third grade she was determined to be both, and before her high school class reunion, she’d succeeded. In addition to writing romance, Michele is a nationally recognized English and journalism educator who also advises both the yearbook and newspaper at her school. Born and raised in a west county suburb of St. Louis, Missouri, Michele has traveled extensively, with the cities and places she’s visited often becoming settings for her stories. Described as a woman who does too much but doesn’t ever want to stop, Michele gardens five acres in her spare time and shares her house with two young daughters and five extremely lazy house cats and one rambunctious kitten that rule the roost.


For Chris Waldo.

The sky’s the limit and you’re conquering that!

I’m proud of all you’ve accomplished.

And for Marty Smith,

my brother and chef extraordinaire;

and to my fantastic editor Beverley Sotolov,

who helped make this book one of my favorites.




Contents


About the Author

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 One


Rachel Palladia was up to her elbows in dough. Unfortunately, none of it was green—the kind she really needed. Specifically, one-hundred-dollar bills, and lots of them.

Damn it all. No, damn him. Rachel let the curse word fly as she thought of her thirty-six-year-old fiancé, Marco Alessandro. Make that ex-fiancé. A woman simply did not marry a man to whom faithfulness meant he could sample the sous chef whenever his libido demanded it.

“I’m Italian,” Marco had proclaimed when she’d caught him and the nubile sous chef buck naked and bopping like rabbits in Rachel’s bed. “Italian men take mistresses. You will always have my heart. You will be my wife.”

Rachel had uttered a few choice expletives, tossed his diamond ring at him, told him to get out of her life and her apartment—and promptly donated her bed and linens to Goodwill. She was sleeping on one of those inflatable single mattresses until she could afford something else, but at least the inflatable was pure, unsoiled.

Rachel sighed, slapped the white-flour blob on the stainless-steel worktable and used a rolling pin to smooth out the piecrust. She was out several thousand dollars in nonrefundable deposits for wedding items and there were charges on her credit cards for other nonreturnable ones.

Even worse was that she was still working for the son of—Rachel bit off the word. Her mom insisted that ever since Rachel had moved to New York City at eighteen she’d started cussing like a sailor. Rachel planned on cleaning up her language, but this fiasco with Marco wasn’t helping any.

She placed the rolled-out dough in the pie pans and began trimming the crusts. To have come this far only to come to this…Rachel resisted the urge to throw the excess dough. She’d been in food service all her life, beginning at her grandmother’s diner in Morrisville, Indiana. Instead of attending college, Rachel had graduated from the CIA—Culinary Institute of America, that is—then worked her way up in a succession of kitchen jobs until she’d landed here as head pastry chef at Alessandro’s, a fine Italian restaurant on Manhattan’s Upper West Side.

God knows how many other women had revolved in and out of Marco’s life before she’d caught him with the sous chef one week before Valentine’s Day.

She’d spent the holiday of love alone, nursing her wounds and chastising herself for missing the signs. She had to be an idiot. That mistress stuff only happened on TV, or so she’d thought. Now she was stuck in an employment contract with a noncompete clause that wouldn’t allow her to work within fifty miles of the restaurant. Which left out finding another job in New York City, a town she’d loved from the very first minute she’d stepped foot in Penn Station the summer she’d been eighteen. Unless Marco let her out of her contract she had no option but to keep on at Alessandro’s if she wanted to stay in any of the five boroughs.

New York had vibes rural Morrisville didn’t. Sure, the tall buildings hid the sun. But the neon lights and nonstop crowds generated an energy that inspired. Despite being mostly anonymous in this city of over eight million people, she’d never felt rejected, as she had during her high-school days at home.

“So, are you surviving?” Glynnis, Rachel’s second in command, took the pie pans from Rachel and began adding the rich chocolate filling.

“I’m fine,” Rachel replied. She tucked the bangs of her dark brown hair under her pink baseball cap. She preferred something less ornate than those big white chef hats. “It’s definitely been the week from hell. Thankfully, Marco took that last-minute trip to Italy. I’m finally ready to face him when he returns today.”

“You think he’s man enough to own up to what he did and still work with you?” Glynnis asked. The pies now filled, the older woman put them into the oven.

Many restaurants bought their desserts from specialty companies, but Alessandro’s baked everything on the premises. In fact, over the past two years, Rachel’s desserts had become so popular that the restaurant had now sold them to patrons and other dining establishments. When she’d dated Marco, she’d enjoyed helping him grow the family business this way. He’d told her that once they were married she’d receive half his stake in the restaurant. He’d insisted that married couples shared everything. He was lucky he hadn’t passed along some sort of STD to Rachel in his spirit of sharing.

Rachel suppressed her anger. She couldn’t believe she’d been so naive in the twenty-first century. But she’d wanted that alpha-male fairy tale. How stupid to have fallen for a lie—that his type of man was perfect for her.

She’d deal with the bas—him, she amended, when he came in to work today. She prayed she was ready.



YOU COULD TELL when Marco Alessandro was in the building. Six foot two, charismatic, he had movie-star looks that made women swoon. He arrived promptly at four, greeted his staff and then made certain everything was ready for the dinner rush, which began when the restaurant opened at five. By six, there would be an hour’s wait for a table, because unless you knew one of the Alessandro family personally or were a favored regular, Alessandro’s didn’t take reservations. Even celebrities had to wait at the bar.

“Ah, Rachel.” Marco approached as Rachel was pulling the last of tomorrow’s cakes out of the oven. Her shift would end at seven. Several heads swiveled in their direction. The sous chef was long gone, having tendered her resignation the day after Rachel had interrupted the affair. Marco leaned forward and kissed Rachel lightly on the cheek. She kept her gaze focused on the far wall, noticing that, like always, he smelled of spicy aftershave and minty breath. “You are a sight for sore eyes. I’ve missed you. Let’s go talk in my office.”

Rachel set the cake pans down on the cooling rack and followed him as requested, noting he was impeccably dressed in a custom black Armani suit—his standard work attire.

His presence would dominate both the dining area and the kitchen. He would supervise everything, greet patrons at each table, and raise toasts to special events. He’d made Alessandro’s one of New York’s dining destinations. His brother Anthony preferred to stay behind the scenes and kept office hours, managing the operational things like payroll. Marco shut the door behind him and gestured for Rachel to sit. Unlike many restaurant offices, this one could easily suit any law firm or Fortune 100 company. The space was not as huge as his brother Anthony’s office, but the mahogany furniture gave off that air of old-money wealth and privilege, although Marco came from neither. He took his rightful place behind his desk, leaned back in his leather chair and stared at her. “Have you calmed down yet?” he asked bluntly.

She cocked her head and her brow wrinkled. “Calmed down?” she repeated, incredulous, her blood pressure rising at his insinuation that their rift was her fault.

“Yes. I assumed my week away would allow you some time to put that unfortunate incident behind you. I, too, have done some thinking, and perhaps my words were not as clear as I’d meant them to be.”

She bristled. “Not clear? What’s not clear? You were having sex with the sous chef in our bed—my bed—and then telling me that all Italian men have affairs.”

Marco adjusted his red power tie. “Yes, well, maybe that was a little inconsiderate of me.”

“You think?” Rachel retorted.

He didn’t seem too perturbed. “I forget that you have Italian blood. It’s what makes you so fiery. I dallied. I was wrong. From here forward, I will be committed. I don’t want this relationship to end.”

“Perhaps you should have thought about that before you bopped a bimbo,” Rachel snapped, her anger boiling. “Marriage is sacred. My parents were married for thirty-two years before my father’s heart attack. My grandparents’ marriage lasted over fifty. Until death do us part. Monogamy. Faithfulness. Those things are important to me. I trusted you.”

“And you can again,” Marco said, as if doing so was just that easy. “We’re well suited. My mother likes you. My brother raves about your pastries and how you’ve helped our restaurant become so in demand. My sister has never tolerated a woman in my life and yet she befriended you. We fit, Rachel. I don’t want to lose you. Please forgive me.”

She noticed he hadn’t mentioned anything about love. She was twenty-nine, but that didn’t mean she was afraid of the big three-oh when her birthday arrived in mid-April. Somehow she’d fallen for the smart image that he’d created in his attempt to rise above his middle-class Brooklyn upbringing. That was probably the true extent of his appeal. The revelation smarted. “I think the bloom is already off the rose,” she told him.

“I don’t understand,” Marco said. He reached into his jacket pocket and drew out a small black box. “Here’s your ring. I had it cleaned. I want you back by my side, where you belong.”

Rachel twisted her hands into her chef’s apron. When she’d first met Marco, he’d charmed the socks off her. He’d brought flowers, wined and dined her, giving her little pieces of Tiffany jewelry just because. He’d never skimped on his extravagance.

He was older than her by seven years; he’d just turned thirty-six. She’d found him worldly and wise. On his arm she’d felt like a princess and that New York City was her kingdom. He’d taken her to glamorous parties and theater premieres, shown her a world that was such a far cry from Morrisville, Indiana, where the most exciting thing was either cosmic bowling, bingo night at the Knights of Columbus hall or a dance at the country club.

She’d found Morrisville claustrophobic, but her parents and grandparents had loved the town. Her mother and grandmother still did and were exceedingly content. At this point in her life, Rachel was not. She’d thought that perhaps marrying Marco would change that. How wrong she’d been. Instead, he’d made her unhappiness worse.

She took off her cap and undid her ponytail, letting the dark, straight locks fall around her shoulders. She was one-quarter Italian, although she considered herself first and foremost simply an American. Heritage wasn’t really that important, except perhaps to the man sitting across from her.

“Marco, do you love me?” she asked.

He blinked. “What kind of question is that?” His tone bordered on indignant. “Of course I do. I asked you to marry me. Do you think I didn’t have an array of women to pick from? I wouldn’t have chosen you had you not been special. I love you.”

Rachel sat there, arms folded across her chest. Marco was smart enough not to approach her. Normally after a fight, he’d hug her, run his fingers through her hair and whisper words that made everything better. If he tried any of those now, she’d slug him. No, how Marco really felt was clear. She’d be a big fool if she thought Marco was marrying her for anything but to protect his bottom line and his profits.

“I can’t marry you,” she told him.

Surprised, he frowned. “What? Your ring is right here. Just slide it back on and we’ll call the priest and let him know we still need our date. Anything you’ve canceled can easily be restarted. I’ll spare no expense.”

The offer was pointless. As much as zebras couldn’t change their stripes, Marco couldn’t change, either. She sighed.

“Marco, be honest. You don’t really love me. You like that I’m convenient. I’m a great chef. Your family accepts me. But I can’t ever trust you again. I can’t even fathom touching you with a ten-foot pole. It’s better to put this behind us and move on.”

A vein twitched in his forehead. “You’ll make a fool of me,” he said, revealing the real reason he was still insistent on the marriage.

She shook her head, disagreeing. “People end engagements all the time. There might be a little press, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. You’re Marco Alessandro. You’ll spin this news into more sales of calamari and caviar.”

He tapped his fingertips, his elbows firmly planted on the desk. His mouth edged downward. “I was afraid you were going to be stubborn. Anthony worried that you might be. He suggested I see my lawyer before I left for Italy.”

“Lawyer?” Rachel said, her eyebrows arching in shock. Anthony had made a point to avoid her since the “event.” So what was Marco trying to do—get her on a breach of contract? She’d given him back the ring. She didn’t owe him one darn dime. If anything, he owed her.

“You have a contract with Alessandro’s,” Marco said, his voice level. “As long as you were my fiancée, that contract was merely a piece of paper. A formality. Now that you no longer plan on marrying me, Anthony insists that I…the restaurant, I mean…well, I suppose all of us must protect ourselves.”

“Anthony,” she said. “What is it that he wants? Are you firing me?”

“No, no,” Marco said quickly. He grabbed the ring box and tucked the diamond back into his pocket. “I have no desire for you to leave. Neither does my brother. Despite your stubbornness, I’m sure that in time you’ll come to your senses and forgive me. Then all will be well and we can stop this foolishness. Until then, Anthony just wants things on the up-and-up.”

“Meaning,” Rachel prodded. She knew that Marco was using his brother as a ploy to make Marco appear less the bad guy.

He brushed some lint off his jacket and then locked his gaze on hers as he delivered his ultimatum. “We want you to turn over your recipes. Anything you developed here while working for Alessandro’s belongs to us.”

“Are you crazy?” Rachel said, jumping to her feet so that she had some height on him. She couldn’t believe he’d demand such a thing. “Those are mine.”

“No,” Marco said with a patronizing shake of his head. “They’re my recipes. Alessandro’s. You created them as works for hire while we were paying you a salary. Since you don’t want to marry me—well, it’s all right here.” From an inside pocket of his jacket he drew out a large cream-colored envelope. He placed it on his desk and slid it toward her.

Rachel could see the law firm’s return address printed in the corner. Fingers trembling, she picked up the packet and removed the contents. There, in black ink, was a legal demand that she relinquish all recipes created or suffer being taken to civil court. She couldn’t believe Marco had been so…premeditated. “You’re giving me a demand letter?”

“It was Anthony’s idea,” Marco said, as if blaming his brother made the letter less of an evil. “This would all be so much simpler if you married me as we’d planned. We had a good thing going.”

“Until you couldn’t keep your pants zipped,” Rachel pointed out as she skimmed the appalling letter again. “I don’t understand the rationale behind this action. I work for you. I bake here. My desserts feed your customers. That won’t change just because you and I are no longer engaged.”

“But in the future, it might. What if you choose to leave?” He tapped his fingertips again.

“I have a six-month noncompete clause,” she reminded him.

“Yes, and six months is a mere drop in the ocean of time. If you go, all the money Alessandro’s has invested in you flies out the window. We run a business here, and as much as I’d like to be generous, Anthony’s right. We can’t let you take our property with you.”

Now he was talking way over her head. She planted her hands on her hips. “Let me see. Either I marry you, or I turn over my recipes?”

“Marriage to me wouldn’t be that bad,” Marco said with a smile. “At least you’d get something permanent in return.”

“Who says I’d turn over my recipes then?” she demanded. The gall of the man.

He seemed taken aback by her outburst. “As I’ve always said, husbands and wives share everything. And when you became pregnant and stayed home to raise our children, your replacement would continue your work. I don’t see what the big deal is.”

Pregnant? Stay home and be barefoot in the kitchen? What had she seen in him? “You are archaic.”

“Tradition is part of my heritage.”

“Oh, please,” Rachel scoffed. She was sick of the charade. “Enough of this. You’re a third-generation Brooklynite whose trips to Italy are all for show. Give me a break. You’re not getting my recipes, which by the way originated from my grandmother’s cookbook. Not your kitchen.”

“Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be,” Marco said. He stood and gestured. “You’re overwrought. Perhaps I shouldn’t have gone to Italy. I should have wooed you more. Made amends. I’ll call Anthony and have him cover for me tonight. We’ll go out. See a show. You can pick out a new piece of jewelry.”

“No.” Rachel placed both hands on his desk and leaned forward. “This is over. You and I are through. T-H-R-O-U-G-H.”

He stepped around the desk, as if sensing the situation was spiraling out of his control. “Rachel, please calm down. Be sensible. I’m not your enemy.”

“No, Anthony is.” Rachel waved the letter in front of Marco. “Well, we’re not playing this game. You will not steal my recipes.” She got up and stalked to the door.

“Rachel, this will get ugly,” he warned.

She whirled around. “It already has,” she told him. “You’re an egotistical creep. The worst kind of human. I don’t want to be around you. I quit.”

His indignation was immediate. “You can’t quit. Who will bake your cakes? And you won’t work anywhere. I’ll see to it.”

She couldn’t contain herself. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Don’t kick a sleeping snake.”

“You and your stupid quotations. I always hated those. You’re like a walking Bartlett’s.”

“Good, then hate this. You can’t threaten me. You have no hold over me. None. You won’t get my recipes, so just leave me alone, Marco. I’m out of your life.”

She stormed out of his office, and didn’t realize he’d followed her to the kitchen until she heard his footsteps behind her.

“You will not walk out of here until you give me your recipes,” he shouted. “That letter says you must.”

Faces appeared around stainless-steel pots and pans. The kitchen, normally a crescendo of clattering, quieted as spectators watched the show.

“You can’t demand anything from me. I just quit,” Rachel said, her voice notching upward.

“I can and I will,” Marco warned. “You’ll deal with my lawyers. Anthony’s lawyers.”

She rolled her eyes. “Please. Neither you nor your brother scares me. This isn’t some silly TV show. It’s real life. In fact—” her gaze lighted on the chocolate cakes she’d left out to cool “—you want my recipes?”

“They are Alessandro’s property,” he reiterated.

Rachel smiled. “Fine. Have them.” She dug her hand into the nearest nine-inch cake pan and drew out a still-warm chunk of moist chocolate cake. Within seconds, the huge mass had found a new home on the front of Marco’s suit. She stood there, defiant. Marco took one step forward, then stopped, aware of the avid audience. “Replacing my suit will come out of your final check,” he said.

“In that case…” Rachel shrugged, reached into another cake pan and hurled another gob at him, this time nailing him on the neck. Brown crumbs clung to his jaw, catching on the evening stubble. “Now, that’s worth every penny.”

Marco glared at her but didn’t say another word. Instead he turned, retreated, and moments later the door to his office slammed, the sound resonating throughout the kitchen.

The staff looked at Rachel in obvious appreciation before quickly returning to work. Only Glynnis followed Rachel to her locker. “Never would have believed that if I hadn’t seen it. You’ll be the talk of the crew for days. Can’t say he didn’t have it coming to him.”

“You’ve been great to work with,” Rachel said, her adrenaline beginning to ebb as the reality of what she’d done crept in. She removed her Alessandro’s apron and tossed it on a table.

“Call me if you ever need me,” Glynnis said. “I’d come work for you anyday.”

“Thanks, but I’ll have to let you know. I’m somewhat unemployable at the moment.” Rachel tugged her coat from her locker and grabbed her purse. She dumped the padlock and key into her bag, then she reached up to the top shelf and took down the only other item in the locker. She kept most of her recipes at her apartment, but she’d made copies of the desserts she baked for Alessandro’s and stored them here in a small notebook.

“You’re giving him those?” Glynnis asked.

“Hell, no,” Rachel said with a wry laugh. “He’s not going to sue me, and he can rot somewhere hot if he does.”

“So what will you do? You don’t have the money to fight him if you can’t work,” Glynnis said, obviously concerned.

“Oh, I’ve got a job waiting for me,” Rachel declared, not wanting Glynnis to worry. Rachel would have to put her tail between her legs to ask for the position, but once she walked in the door, she knew the owners wouldn’t turn her away.

“You got a job? Where?” Glynnis asked.

“Kim’s Diner,” Rachel said, the idea taking hold.

Glynnis appeared confused. “Kim’s? Is it in Jersey?”

“No. Morrisville.” Rachel saw her expression. “Indiana.”

“Never heard of it,” Glynnis admitted.

That was the kicker. “No one has.” The adrenaline of the moment had worn off completely and Rachel trembled as she digested the implications of her rash decision. She’d hate leaving New York. She loved the city. She vowed to make her exile only temporary. She plastered a brave smile on her face.

“You know what the tough do when the going gets rough?” she asked.

Glynnis shook her head.

Rachel picked up her bag and gave Glynnis a hug. Hopefully, she’d see her friend soon. “The tough go home.”




Chapter Two


“Who would have thought coming home would cause this much stir,” Rachel said as she put away the last of the clean dishes.

“Now, don’t let all the gossips get you down.” Her grandmother Kim said as she handed Rachel one last plate. The diner was only open for breakfast and lunch, and as soon as longtime patron Harold Robison finished his last cup of coffee, the workday would be over. Harold liked to linger, and for years had ignored the sign indicating that Kim’s closed at precisely three o’clock. “Everyone’s just glad to see you, that’s all.”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Rachel told her grandmother. She’d been back in Morrisville for two full days now. Once she’d stormed out of Alessandro’s, she’d been a woman of action. One day and two phone calls later and she’d had her place sublet. One more phone call had gotten her car out of its Queens storage lot. A week after tossing cake on her former fiancé, Rachel had been on the road, driving from New York to Indiana with her personal possessions loaded in the trunk.

Unfortunately, she hadn’t escaped town quickly enough to avoid a courier-delivered envelope from Anthony and Marco Alessandro’s lawyer. Not only had they docked her final paycheck for the cost of replacing Marco’s suit, leaving her with a mere six dollars and ten cents, but they’d also given her thirty days to turn over her recipes or face civil action.

The amount they’d valued her recipes at had been astronomical. The morning after the cake flinging, Rachel had prayed that Marco would see how stupid and silly they were both being, but apparently, he was determined to punish her.

She no longer had rent expense, but she did have credit card debt. Now she was about to add legal bills to an already stretched budget. She refused to take charity from her mother and grandmother—it was bad enough she was back in her childhood bedroom, which had pretty much remained unchanged since the day she’d left for New York City. Her window still faced the Morris house; the only difference was that Colin Morris, her friend since childhood, no longer occupied the room across the way. As youngsters, they’d used flashlights and Morse code—get it? Morse/Morris code, they’d laugh—and sent messages to each other until late at night.

For income, Rachel had negotiated eleven dollars an hour to work at Kim’s. Her grandmother had wanted to pay her more, but Rachel knew that any money for a higher salary would come from her grandmother’s pocket and not the restaurant’s cash register. Kim Palladia lived comfortably, but Rachel didn’t want to be in debt to her family. It was time she faced the music.

Starting with heading to the law office of Lancaster and Morris, which had provided legal expertise to the town of Morrisville for over fifty years.

Rachel tugged on her coat. She’d walk across Main Street, through the parking lot, and be in the law-office lobby before her bravado deserted her. She dreaded hearing what Bruce Lancaster would have to say. He was one of the sharpest legal minds in the state and a former childhood playmate, but she had to admit she was petrified he’d tell her that Marco had a legitimate claim to her recipes and she’d have to turn them over.

“I’m leaving,” she called.

Her grandmother waved. “See you at home tonight,” she said. She’d moved in eight years ago, adding another body to the Palladia homestead. The century-old Victorian home, which stood on a half-acre lot, was really too big for just two people. But it had been in Rachel’s father’s family for two generations, and Rachel’s mother simply couldn’t bear to part with it. Rachel knew that her mother hoped she’d eventually move home and raise a family in the old place. She hated disappointing her, but figured all those years in New York City were a clue that she didn’t want to be a small-town girl.

The blustery March wind whipped down the street, causing the Easter decorations hanging from light poles to sway. Morrisville had signs for every holiday. The current ones displayed a white bunny carrying an egg-filled basket and advertised the annual Knights of Columbus Easter-egg event the middle of the month.

Rachel gathered her coat closer, and soon was inside the first set of huge wooden doors. She crossed the black-and-white tile floor and pulled on the next set. Lancaster and Morris was situated in the former county seat, an old court-houselike, three-story building complete with a rotunda. Colin Morris used to say there were two coveted offices in the place: the Morris office, which overlooked Main Street, and the Lancaster office, which overlooked the town park. Rachel strode over to the receptionist, seated behind a huge desk.

“May I help you?” the girl asked.

“I’m here to see Bruce Lancaster. If he’s available,” Rachel added hastily.

“Do you have an appointment?” She had to be about twenty, Rachel decided, and already she had a wedding ring on her finger.

“No.” Gosh, she really was an idiot. “I’m Rachel Palladia. My grandmother owns Kim’s Diner. She’s a client here.” Rachel had no idea whose, but Lancaster and Morris had handled both her father’s and her grandfather’s estates.

“Mr. Lancaster is out of town for the next two weeks,” the receptionist said politely. “He and his wife—”

“Oh, yes, Christina. I didn’t attend their wedding, but my mother and grandmother went.” Rachel smiled helpfully. “Is she available?”

“No, she’s out of town, as well. I can see who else could meet with you, if you’d like. If no one is available today, I’d be more than happy to set up an appointment for some other time.”

Rachel sighed with frustration. She’d have better luck just walking next door this evening, bringing Reginald Morris an apple pie and asking for his advice after dinner. “No, that’s okay. I’ll take care of it.”

She turned and began the trek back across the marble floor, the rubber soles of her tennis shoes squeaking. She’d just reached the outer set of doors when one of them opened as if of its own volition. The motion threw her off balance, and she plowed right into the man walking in.

“Careful there,” he said, his bare hand catching her arm in an attempt to steady her. His wool overcoat slapped around his legs and his briefcase banged his knee. “Gotta look where you’re going,” he chastised her lightly.

“I was,” Rachel replied, her patience a tad on the thin side.

“As long as you’re okay,” he said. It was then that they both took a good look at each other. “Rachel?” the man said. “It is you.”

Colin Morris stood in front of her, blocking her escape. “Hi, Colin,” she replied.

He smiled. They were still in the vestibule, and he let the outer door close behind him with a thud. “It’s good to see you. I heard you were in town.” His blue eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here?”

“What, in town?” He hadn’t grown dense over the years, had he?

He frowned. “No. Here. Where I work.”

“Oh. I wanted to catch Bruce, but he’s away.”

“Yeah, his wife’s pregnant and soon she won’t be able to travel with Bella, her little girl. Christina and Bruce decided to visit her side of the family now, while she’s still mobile.

“So, you’re home for a while?” he asked conversationally.

“Yes. You know, I do come home occasionally. In fact, I was home this past Christmas,” she said, chafing. “I met Christina then. She came briefly into Kim’s to pick up some of my mom’s chicken salad. I’m in and out so quickly that I don’t have time to see everyone. Most of my friends are all married and busy with their own lives. I have managed to keep in touch with Heather.”

“Yeah, but not with me or Bruce. You didn’t attend his wedding. I thought I’d run into you there. We haven’t caught up in years.”

“I was in the Hamptons that weekend with a prior commitment.”

“Oh.” He arched his eyebrows disapprovingly, as if he found hobnobbing a poor excuse for missing a friend’s nuptials.

Rachel exhaled, blowing a strand of wind-tossed hair off her face. She didn’t want to get into any discussion with Colin here, in between doorways. The man had no right to judge her. She might be back in Morrisville, but the friendship they’d shared was long past. She was all grown-up now, and not so enamored with Colin’s playboy ways.

“It’s been great catching up, Colin, but I’ve really got to get back. Kim’s closes at three, but there’s always cleaning to do. I said I’d help.”

“You’re working there now?” he asked.

She gritted her teeth. “Temporarily. I have a few matters to take care of, which is why I came by to consult Bruce. I’ll just visit your dad tonight. Take him and your mom a pie.”

“He always had a sweet spot for you and your desserts,” Colin said with a laugh. When he grinned, the harsh angles of his face softened. He could frown and remain drop-dead attractive; smiling made him a heartthrob. Sadly, even after all the years away, Rachel found herself not immune. He had been her secret crush for so long. That had to be the reason she experienced a tingle in her toes and a shiver along her spine. The man was simply magnetic. Like Marco, Colin probably affected a lot of other women this way.

“So what do you want to talk to Dad about?” he asked, pushing the inner door open. “I’ve got some time and we’re blocking the exit. We need to either go one way or the other. Why don’t you tell me about it.”

“Really, I’m not going to be here in Morrisville that long and—”

He stopped, his foot holding open the lobby door. “Look, Rachel, if it’s something legal, my father has a pretty tight schedule for the next few weeks. He’s due in court two days from now as the defense counsel in what’s shaping up to be a huge and long trial. If you want some advice, I’ll help. We are still friends, aren’t we?”

She wavered. Friends. That was all they’d been until her heart had gotten in the way. Even afterward, the feelings had been one-sided. Hers.

Oh, she’d once made the mistake of thinking that he’d asked her out, but it had been only one of those “in passing” things that people say to be polite. She and Colin had snuck outside with a half-size bottle of pink champagne. The liquor had made her fuzzy, and they’d kissed, but that had been it. Nothing more.

The next day, life had returned to normal and she hadn’t needed a prom dress after all—at least, not until her senior year. By then, Colin and Bruce were college sophomores at Indiana University. The girl next door could never compete with the sophisticated girls the two dated. After her high-school graduation, Rachel had turned her back on Morrisville and headed east.

“Are you coming?” Colin asked.

Rachel stared at him. Same blond hair, blue eyes. Same sexy-as-all-get-out grin. But she was older. Wiser. Colin no longer meant anything to her. All she wanted was her recipes and Marco Alessandro put in his place. Bruce wasn’t available, and Colin could help her. She’d at least listen to what the man had to say. That didn’t cost a thing.



AS COLIN PUSHED the elevator button for the third floor, he remained extremely aware of Rachel. Even though they hadn’t spoken walking across the lobby, he’d sensed exactly where she was behind him. He’d heard during a partner meeting yesterday that she’d returned—gossip in Morrisville traveled faster than lightning. Tongues had wagged about how Rachel had been engaged to some hotshot restaurateur in New York and she’d said good riddance to him.

“I’m down here,” he said as the elevator doors opened. His corner suite was on the Morris side of the building and had a bird’s-eye view of Main Street, including Kim’s Diner. Two years ago faulty wiring had caused the diner to burn to the ground, leaving little but a large pile of ashes. He’d expected Rachel to come home then, but she hadn’t. Thus he suspected there was more behind her current relocation. Colin hung up his jacket.

“Can I get that?” he asked.

“No, I’m fine,” Rachel said, removing her coat and sitting in the wingback chair across from his desk.

So she was still stubborn. That hadn’t changed.

“I like your office,” she said.

“Thanks,” he said politely, drinking in the changes to her appearance. Growing up, she’d always worn her hair in a bob. Now it had grown out to past her shoulders, and she’d swept her bangs off her face. The longer style suited her. She’d filled out nicely, as well, he noticed. The red, long-sleeved Henley fit like a glove.

“Do Bruce and Christina have offices up here, too?” Rachel asked, bringing her attention from the surroundings to him.

Always Bruce, Colin thought. Rachel’s hair was different, but her fascination with his friend hadn’t changed. Bruce would visit the Morris household and within five minutes Rachel would be knocking on the back door. Not that he or Bruce had minded. For years, she’d simply been one of the boys, but eventually they’d reached their teens and nature had interfered. Rachel had developed the biggest crush on Bruce.

Rather inconvenient, playing second fiddle. Only in college had Colin stepped out of Bruce’s shadow, at least with the ladies. As a lawyer, he’d never have the great legal mind his friend possessed, but Colin had made his peace with that and had carved out a decent career. Bruce actually had been passed over for a senior partnership when the firm had hired Christina, and now that Bruce had been promoted, Colin knew he was finally next in line.

“Their offices are in the south wing. The Lancaster end. So,” he said with a deliberate cough to clear his tight throat, “what’s going on?”

Rachel twisted around, the material of her sweater stretching tight. Colin swallowed and shifted. Darn, but this grown-up version of his childhood buddy had his libido roaring to life, and somehow his immediate reaction was profound and, darn it, uncomfortable. She wasn’t even sending him signals, and here he was, grateful that he was safely sitting behind his desk.

She removed a wadded-up envelope from her purse, leaned over the edge of his desk and pushed the paper toward him as if touching it had burned her fingertips. Bright red polish, Colin saw. She’d worn pale pink in the past, and he wondered if her toenails were the same shade of red.

“You probably heard I was engaged,” Rachel said, and he lifted his gaze to her brown eyes. That was a mistake. Anger mixed with hurt radiated there, and Colin had the immediate urge to kill the guy who had wronged her. He retrieved the envelope and removed its contents.

“Go on,” he prodded when she stopped speaking. “I’m listening and skimming this at the same time.”

“Airing this is awkward. Marco Alessandro, my ex-fiancé and former employer, is demanding my recipes. He says he’s going to sue me for them. He’s claiming they’re rightfully his. The bastard didn’t even give me the letter until after I refused to marry him. As if.”

Colin waited. Rachel had always been like a shadow. Present yet unnoticed. Her New York experience had her cursing, and as visible as the neon in Times Square. The change was mesmerizing and worth study.

“Sorry,” Rachel said with a dismissive wave. “My language has taken a turn for the gutter since leaving Morrisville. Both my mother and grandmother want to wash my mouth out, but I’m too big now for them to hold down. They’d try if they could, because my mother says I swear like a sailor. I’m working on it. I’ve just been so agitated lately.”

“It’s okay,” Colin said, smoothing out the demand letter and setting the legal missive aside. “I can understand. You said Marco was your fiancé.”

“Yes.”

“And you broke off the engagement,” he went on.

“Yes.”

He sat still and waited for her to elaborate. She held his gaze for a moment, blinked, then turned her head so she could study the bookcase. He didn’t think she was really interested in any of the legal titles shelved there. “Rachel,” he prompted. “You have to be honest with me. If I’m to help you, I’ve got to know everything.”

“I broke off my engagement because he, he…” Her entire body shook as she relived the horror of that moment. “I caught him.”

Experience had taught him patience. He waited.

She stared at him, her brown eyes imploring him not to make her do this. “Do I have to say it? Are you that much of a sadist? I caught him—in my bed—with another woman.”

Had Marco Alessandro been sitting in his office, Colin would have leaped across the desk and throttled the guy with his bare hands. How dare anyone do this to Rachel? The fact that he cared this much after all these years shook him a little. And unlike those wannabe black belts, Colin legitimately was one. He’d found martial-arts training a great way to stay fit and hone both his mind and body.

Lawyers weren’t supposed to be emotionally involved, but they could be empathetic. “I’m sorry,” he said finally.

“Thank you,” Rachel replied, the quiver of her jaw almost unnoticeable. “I have bills to pay from the canceled wedding. I returned the ring. He’s not getting any more of my future. Those were my grandmother’s recipes before I got them. Sure, I modified them using the restaurant’s kitchen, but that doesn’t mean he can take them. I need those. If I’m ever going to open my own place.”

“I’ll take the case,” Colin said. “If he’s serious about taking you to court, we may have to pull in a co-counsel licensed in New York, but your situation won’t escalate that far.”

He didn’t know that for certain, but he had a strong suspicion. He’d never really wanted to be a lawyer and hadn’t passed the bar exam with a high score, but once Colin had embraced the family profession, he had discovered that he could help people solve their problems. He’d become good at reading people and finding their weakness.

“Men like Marco Alessandro are often simply big bullies who expect the weak to roll over and give them what they want,” he told her.

“What he really wants is to marry me and avoid the scandal,” Rachel said, twisting her hands together in her lap.

Colin couldn’t help himself. An incredulous expression registered on his face. “Is the man nuts?”

He realized his mistake the moment the words passed his lips. “Oh, Rachel. I didn’t mean…I’m sorry.” He’d meant the scandal part being crazy. This wasn’t the Regency era. People dissolved their relationships all the time.

But his apology was too late. Her features contorted and her skin whitened. Oh, she wouldn’t. He hated tears. The Rachel of old would chew off her finger before she’d ever let him see her cry.

As her tears fell, Colin suddenly realized that perhaps he’d never known the woman sitting across from him at all.



SHE WAS CRYING. Sobbing, actually. She’d gone through at least three tissues—she figured having a box around was standard procedure in a legal office—and she was about to go through her fourth as she blew her nose and sounded like a deranged goose.

Why did she have to break down here of all places? Sure she’d cried. But in private. When she’d called her good friends, she’d been tough and unyielding. She’d swallowed her pride and moved home, dealing with the endless pity and sympathy of both her family and townsfolk. Poor Rachel. How terrible a thing to have happened to her. Through it all, she’d held her head high.

Until Colin Morris. He was as insensitive as ever. And darn him, he was the only one who’d pierced the armor shielding her bruised dignity and wounded dreams.

He’d moved around his desk and squatted on the floor beside her. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I meant the scandal. Not marrying you. Of course any man would want to marry you.”

“Yeah, which is why he was sleeping around!” Rachel shouted, needing to vent. “Do you know what that’s like? Finding out that everything you believed to be true is a big fat lie? That you aren’t good enough? Never were? That while you thought you had passion, it obviously wasn’t enough to keep a man from straying? You wouldn’t understand. You’re never in a relationship long enough to have your heart smashed into smithereens.”

“I’ll do what I can to help,” Colin promised. He placed his hand reassuringly on her jean-covered thigh. “You’ll get through this. You’re one of the bravest and toughest people I know.”

“Ha!” She sniffled. “That’s why I fell apart here. I don’t see you for years and first thing I do is bawl my eyes out and sob like a freak. This is why I wanted to see Bruce.”

Colin straightened, placing some distance between Rachel and him. “He’s not available—I am. Do you want me to handle this for you or not?”

She sniffled again, frowned at his abrupt change in tone and stared at him through what had to be red eyes. “You already know everything. You might as well take the case on. How much will it cost? I’ll be honest. I’m close to broke. All my savings went to paying my credit cards. I’ve put the jewelry Marco gave me in a safe-deposit box just in case he starts demanding that back.”

“I’ll talk to my father and get back to you about the fees. You’re practically family to him, so I’m sure it won’t be much. Don’t stress over fees. Let me work up a response to this demand letter. Do you have copies of all the expenses you incurred preparing for your wedding?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“I’ll need those,” Colin said.

Rachel shifted. She’d never viewed the professional, go-get-them persona of her former next-door neighbor. She found the change fascinating. Colin was assured and confident, a man in control. He had a plan, which was more than she could say. All she’d really done was move home. Everything else she’d put on hold until she got this straightened out. “Okay, but can I ask why?”

“Absolutely. Anytime you have a question or comment you have to speak up. That’s important if we’re going to get the results we want. The way I see it, engagements are oral contracts. He promised to be faithful and marry you. He broke that contract. You have the right to demand that he compensate you for your mental anguish and your expenses.”

“That’s legal?” she asked. “There’s a law regulating fidelity?”

Colin smiled. “A lot of legal maneuvering is just strategy. He demands—we demand. We negotiate a truce. If he’s so worried about scandal, I doubt he wants to take this to court, where one, the suit becomes public record, and two, he risks getting an unfavorable judge, one who might have had her husband cheat on her, or a boyfriend on her daughter, or something like that.”

“Ah,” Rachel said, although she still didn’t quite understand. Still, Colin seemed certain, and she’d always been able to trust him. “So you don’t expect them to really file anything?”

He shook his head, a strand of blond hair falling across his right eye. He brushed it back, and a gold cuff link twinkled. “I don’t think they will. Once court is involved, things get pricey and everyone’s out a lot of money.”

“Except the lawyers. I guess this is why only the lawyers get rich,” Rachel said.

“Yeah, Marco’s lawyer will bill for his time no matter where this goes. At this stage the case is easy money. Write a letter and send the client a bill.”

“Sounds mercenary,” Rachel said. “No wonder Shakespeare wrote, ‘First thing we do is kill all the lawyers.’”

He shot her a look that said, Give me a break. “Gee, thanks. I’ll save your recipes, maybe get you some money in the process, and I’ll still be in a scummy profession.”

“I didn’t say that. You know me. I was just quoting.” Rachel reached for her coat, her sobbing fit concluded. Back in place was the strong woman of action who refused to be defeated. The pity party was over. Colin would not see her as a weakling again.

“By the way, that wasn’t what Shakespeare meant. You used the words out of context. Characters in the play were trying to plan a rebellion and figured they needed to take down the legal system to do it. You and your quotations.” Colin grinned. “It’s good to know some things haven’t changed. Do you remember that night we had the champagne? I’ve never had anyone spout as many quotations in my ear as you did. That’s how I knew you were tipsy.”

“I was young. It didn’t take much alcohol to make me drunk,” Rachel said brusquely. They’d kissed, and now was not the time to rehash how memorable that had been—not. “I’m no longer a lightweight. One thing about working at an Italian restaurant, I drank a lot of wine.”

“Maybe we’ll have to discover what type of stuff you’re made of one night when neither of us is driving,” Colin said. His phone rang, and he picked it up and listened to his paralegal. “Just have her hold for a moment. I’m wrapping up now.”

Rachel couldn’t help herself. “Girlfriend?”

“Client,” Colin said. He shot her a wicked grin. “Why? Interested?”

She shrugged, cool and composed. “Only for the sake of having some fresh gossip to toss about the diner. It might take everyone’s attention off me.”

“Ah.” He nodded, as if not buying her explanation in the slightest. “I’ll stop by tomorrow and let you know about fees. I usually do lunch at Kim’s on Thursdays.”

“Prime-rib special,” Rachel said. “Been that way every week for at least twenty years.”

“And I try not to miss it. Tomorrow every seat will be full. Your mom and grandmother serve the best prime rib in town, even better than the stuff at the Sherman House in Batesville, and that’s fantastic. Do you want me to walk you out?”

She turned her head to ascertain if he was serious. She was used to walking the streets of New York at night. She could handle small-town Morrisville, one of the safest places on the planet. “No,” she said. “I’m not that bad off. Attend to your call. I can find the way.”

He sent her an appreciative smile. “Great. Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She’d just reached the door, when his voice had her glancing around. “Rachel?”

He held the phone, his hand covering the mouthpiece. “Yes?” she said.

“In case I forget to tell you this later, it’s good to have you back. And don’t worry, we’ll get him.” He stood there at his desk, impeccable in his blue broadcloth shirt, matching tie and dress pants.

“Don’t keep your caller waiting,” she chided, trying to tame her racing heart. She tugged her purse strap higher on her shoulder.

She did not need to start entertaining any silly notions about Colin. Her time in Morrisville was temporary. Not a life sentence. Just a quick hit before she went back to New York, even if she had to stay the full six months before her noncompete clause expired. She gave Colin one last glance. He was silhouetted against the windows, a man secure in his element and this small provincial town.

One she’d left long ago.




Chapter Three


“Hi, honey. I’m glad you’re here,” Colin’s mother, Loretta, said when he arrived at his parents’ place later that evening. She accepted the kiss he planted on her cheek. “Your father’s in the library. Dinner will be ready in about twenty-five minutes. Kristin’s bringing the twins. She’s running about ten minutes late.”

“Is Jack working?” Colin asked. His older sister’s husband was a psychologist. They had two seven-year-old identical twin girls, who, while adorable, were a handful.

“He’s got patients scheduled until nine, I think Kristin said. Now, shoo. No men here in the kitchen while I cook.”

Colin snagged a crouton from atop a plate of salad and laughed as he left the enormous kitchen, remodeled long ago. His mother loved to cook and her pantry was the size of a bedroom, and she kept it well stocked. When Colin and his three sisters had all lived at home, his mother had fed them and their friends.

She still fed her family, which now included spouses and a horde of grandchildren that multiplied every year. This time it was older sister Amanda who was incubating baby number three. His other sister, Anne Louise, already had four kids. She’d had one boy, then a set of twins and then another girl, who’d turned two in June. Her husband was currently Indiana’s junior senator, and they were talking a total of six. Colin had always told his younger sister she was nuts, but she’d only laughed at him and told him to get a life.

Besides get-togethers, his mother cooked every year for the Morris family annual Thanksgiving celebration, which had over thirty people for the traditional turkey dinner and at least a hundred friends, associates and townsfolk stopping by the house throughout the day. Easter was coming in mid-March this year, and that holiday would be almost as crazy. The only difference was that the townspeople wouldn’t stop by.

“Hey, Dad,” Colin greeted his father, entering the library. Whereas the kitchen was totally a woman’s area, the library was a man’s room. Reginald and Loretta Morris had always joked that their marriage worked because they kept certain rooms “one sex only.” They’d celebrated their thirty-eighth wedding anniversary last year, so Colin figured that whatever household arrangement they had was a good one. He’d never doubted the bond his parents shared.

“Hi, Colin,” Reginald said. He lifted his Scotch-and-water in salute. “Shall I pour you one?”

Colin shook his head. “Not tonight.” Ever since one of his and Bruce’s friends had died during high school, driving under the influence, he and Bruce hardly touched alcohol, especially if either would be behind the wheel later.

“Ah,” Reginald said, nodding his understanding. “So tell me, how’s the plane search going?”

Colin grinned. When he’d turned eighteen, his parents had given him a present of six flying lessons. The hobby had stuck. “We found one we like and we’re buying it.”

Reginald tapped a forefinger on the glass. “Really?”

Colin’s grin widened. It wasn’t every day your son announced he was buying a half-million-dollar Cessna with a group of friends. “Yeah. We’re drawing up the legal contracts now as to shares, usage, payments, insurance, etcetera. We’ll keep the plane at the airport here.”

The Morrisville Airport was unmanned and uncontrolled. Colin had learned to fly at a regional airport with a control tower, but he’d become adept at flying in and out of an airport without towers.

“Your mother won’t like this,” Reginald tried.

“She’s finally promised to fly with me—this spring,” Colin said. “I’m good, Dad, and I’m safe. It’s Bruce who got hurt, remember?”

“Hmph.” His father exhaled. In addition to being a lawyer, Bruce had volunteered as a firefighter, until the ceiling of Kim’s Diner had collapsed on him. He’d suffered a broken arm but otherwise had been fine. He’d retired from the fire department right after the accident and married Christina. Colin had never had the urge to fight fires. Instead, his rush came from piloting. He could remember his first solo as if it were yesterday.

Sensing now was a good time to change the subject, he said, “I saw Rachel Palladia today.”

His father swirled the liquid in his glass. “I heard Rachel broke off with her young man.”

Colin glanced out the library window. Night had fallen, and because of the dense trees, he couldn’t tell if any lights were on at the Palladia house next door. “That’s true. Rachel told me the whole story. Did you hear that he’s threatening to sue her for her recipes? Says they belong to him.”

“Hadn’t heard that part,” Reginald said, setting his Scotch down. “What a damn shame. Is that what you and she talked about today?”

“Yeah. She says the recipes came from Kim. Since there’s no specific work-for-hire contract regarding her recipes, meaning they didn’t have a payment plan for those, I’m pretty convinced he’s just bullying her. He’s not happy she broke off the engagement and is probably smarting from having to change his menu.”

“Maybe he should have kept his pants up,” Reginald said sharply. He caught Colin’s shocked expression. “What? Told you I knew everything.”

“Well…” Colin felt embarrassed. Sometimes being man-to-man with your dad was awkward, even if you did work with him. He regained his composure. “I’d like to take on Rachel’s case. I told her I’d discuss it with you first. I don’t think he’ll go as far as a court filing.”

“Okay,” Reginald said easily. “We’ve been handling the Palladia family’s legal matters for years. Adding Rachel as a client is only logical.”

“There’s one little catch.” Colin paused and rubbed the back of his neck. “Rachel doesn’t have a lot of money. She says she’s pretty close to broke, which is why she’s back living at home.”

“I’d heard that, too,” Reginald said. “Kim told me Rachel won’t accept anything from either her mother or grandmother. Kim offered her an outrageous salary and Rachel said no. She’s a Palladia, all right. Take nothing from anybody if you don’t know you can repay it.”

Colin’s chin itched and he scratched the stubble. His five-o’clock shadow was arriving. “Could I lower my hourly rate for her? Do some of her case pro bono? You’re always saying the firm should do more of that, give back to the community.”

Reginald paced for a minute. “I’d have to discuss this with the partners, but as longtime clients, I don’t foresee a problem waiving some billable hours.”

Colin poured himself a glass of water from the small bar sink. “I told her I’d go over at lunchtime tomorrow and let her know.”

“Then I’ll work on getting an answer first thing in the day and give it to you by noon. I’m not missing prime rib, either.”

“Great. I can put in something myself, if that helps,” Colin said, meaning taking a cut in salary on this case. His bungalow was almost paid for. His car was paid in full. Except for the really expensive plane he would be a quarter owner of, he didn’t have any superhuge monthly bills.

Reginald’s eyes narrowed, wrinkling the skin at the corner. “I do have one question before you accept Rachel as a client. Will you be able to maintain your professional objectivity?”

The question caught Colin off guard and his heart seemed to stop. “What do you mean by that?”

Reginald coughed, as was his habit when addressing a delicate matter. “You and Rachel were always good friends. She practically lived over here. She’s like a fourth daughter to your mother and me. Since you two were so close, it’s natural that you want to rush to her defense and be her knight in shining armor.”

Colin stared at his father for a moment, processing his words. He had wanted to throttle her ex this afternoon. But that didn’t mean he would be reactive. He and Rachel weren’t…Then Colin understood his father’s concern.

“Oh, I get it,” he said. “You think I…She. No. No, it’s not like that. She was always over here because she had a crush on Bruce, not me. If you’re like a parent to her, I’m like her brother. She never thought of me as anything else, or as anything more than a buddy.”

Reginald arched his left eyebrow. “Even if you did?”

Colin shifted his weight, crossed his arms and simply waited, as if doing so would deny the truth. He’d always liked Rachel, and now a beautiful and intriguing woman had replaced the gangly girl of his childhood.

“Son, it was so obvious to your mother and me that you had the biggest crush on her,” Reginald said quietly. “Kim, Rachel’s mother—Adrienne—your mother and I would joke that someday the two of you should get married, you were so like peas in a pod. You even finished each other’s sentences. We said it would finally unite our families. After all, we’ve been living next door to each other for generations. Your mother had the whole thing thought out.”

Colin sputtered on the water he’d been sipping. “That’s morbid.”

Reginald waved dismissively. “Oh, it’s a thing parents who are friends do. You’ll understand someday. You like to pretend you can somehow predestine your child’s future. You do it although you know your plans won’t come true. You went to college, she went to cooking school, and each of you moved on with your lives. That’s just how things go.”

Reginald set his empty glass on the side bar. “As much as your mother and I would love for you to settle down, we know you’ll do that when the time’s right. I just want to be sure you’ll be objective in Rachel’s case.”

Colin forced himself not to cross his arms across his chest after he placed his glass in the sink. “As you said, we’ve both moved on. She’s planning on going back to New York. Her life isn’t in Morrisville anymore. And I’m not going to be anyone’s rebound guy, so even if she did choose me, which, may I remind you, she never has and won’t because she’s never thought of me as anything more than a friend, nothing’s going to happen. Client relationship only.”

“If you’re sure,” Reginald said. Colin didn’t have a chance to further refute his father’s doubt, because his sister Kristin arrived and seven-year-old twins bounded in with yells of “Hi, Grandpa! We’re here. Can you tell us apart today?” To which Reginald promptly said Libby was the one with the red bow and Maggie was the one with the blue. He was right, of course, and within minutes all had taken their seats at the breakfast-room table, a more comfortable venue than the massive dining-room table, which sat sixteen.

“So, Uncle Colin, will you be there?” Libby asked, and Colin focused on his niece.

“Be there for what?” he asked.

“We’re doing a St. Patrick’s Day feast at our school. St. Paddy’s Day is on Monday this year. We’ve already started making our leprechaun traps. Anyways, we get to invite someone special. I have to bring cupcakes. They have to be from a bakery. Something about hepa something.” Libby said.

“Hepatitis,” her sister finished.

“What about your mom and dad?” Colin asked. He didn’t want to be usurping anyone’s invitation.

“Dad’s got patients and Mom’s already volunteering, so she doesn’t count. I thought I’d bring you. I keep telling my friends you have a plane.”

“Not yet,” Colin said.

Libby frowned. “But you fly a lot. Remember, you took us up. That wasn’t your plane?”

“I rented it,” he said. He’d flown both twins and Kristin, providing them an aerial view of the town and their house. Colin smiled. “But that doesn’t matter. You name me the dates, and if I’m not required in court, we’ll go flying. And I will definitely be at your feast.”

“Good.” Libby seemed satisfied, and dinner continued. Afterward everyone hung out in the family room for a while before Kristin took the girls home around seven-thirty.

“Hey, Mom, do you still have my high-school yearbook?” Colin asked, walking into the kitchen. “I was looking for it at my place the other day and couldn’t find it.”

“If I do, it’s in your old bedroom,” she said. She loaded the plates into the dishwasher.

“You know I would have helped with that,” Colin said.

“Yes, but I told you I had it.” She straightened. “What do you want your yearbook for?”

“I realized I had the other three but not my senior year’s,” he said. “Thought I’d just grab it while I was here.”

His mom wiped her hands on her apron. “I think it’s on your bookshelf.”

Colin climbed the back stairs two at a time to the second floor. The house had a third floor, but that was mainly a big playroom that only the grandchildren now used.

His mom had redecorated some of the other rooms, making them more kid friendly for the grandchildren, who stayed over on occasion, but Colin’s room remained largely untouched. He’d left behind his old childhood furniture, opting to buy a new king-size bed instead of keeping the twin he’d grown up on. He had removed most of his childhood mementos from the room, although they were stored in a box in his basement instead of holding a place of prominence in his own home.

Since his old room was located on the east side of the house and faced the side yard, he had one four-foot-wide window instead of two or more like many of the Victorians. He flipped the light switch, activating the lamp, and moved toward the bookcase, situated near the window and still lined with high-school and college texts. The shelves also still held aviation magazines, a golf trophy from a charity match and, on the bottom shelf, his yearbook. He leaned down, removed it and straightened. As he did, a flash of light caught his eye. He stood there in the window, clearly in view, before reaching down and turning off the lamp.

Rachel was in her room. He couldn’t see her clearly without binoculars, something they’d both used until their teen years. But behind the sheer curtains he could see her silhouette as she stood there, staring across the way—right at him.

When he was a child, none of this was forbidden. He’d take his flashlight, let her know he was there, and they’d send Morse code messages across their yards until one of their parents would discover they were still awake and yell at them to go to sleep. Never once had there been anything sexual about their communication, even when he’d been in high school and realized his feelings for Rachel went beyond friendship.

So why did he have the impression that unlike when they were children, he was somehow a voyeur, a Peeping Tom? And as he saw Rachel lift her arms as if removing a T-shirt, try as he might, he couldn’t get his feet to move one inch or his head to turn.

A light flashed across the way, a small circular beam like from a flashlight’s. He froze. Had she spotted him? He hadn’t been in his room long. He’d turned off the light and was hidden in the darkness and the blinds were only open a sliver. The beam flashed two short, then one long. Then a pause with no light, then one long flash before the light went off again. She’d communicated two letters. U then T. Their code for You there?

She must have seen him moving around earlier. His silhouette certainly didn’t match his mother’s. If Rachel had watched him walk in, she would have recognized him. Is that why she’d signaled?

His eyes, accustomed to the room’s darkness, sought the flashlight that had lived on the bookshelf. His fingers reached for it, but found nothing. His mother might have removed it.

Across the way, Rachel’s flashlight had fallen silent. He could use lamplight to answer, but that would illuminate him. They’d never done that to communicate.

His cell phone would have to do. He drew the blinds, flipped the device open and held it open for a long, then short, then two long flashes. The letter Y.

Yes. I’m here.

Funny, how easily the knowledge returned. When he’d first learned Morse code, he’d had to glance at a sheet of paper to spell out words. He hadn’t used the code in thirteen years, yet the dots and dashes came easily as he and Rachel began to “talk.”

What did he say? she asked.

Ninety percent yes, Colin flashed back. Will know for sure by noon.

How was dinner? she sent him.

Great. Nieces here. Been invited to a school feast. This is like old times. Fun.

Agreed, she returned.

Colin stood there for a second, trying to figure out what to say next. He was supposed to be a professional, and here he was acting like a child and sending messages with his cell phone’s display light. Heck, years ago they hadn’t had cell phones. Now he could just dial Rachel up and talk to her that way. But here he remained, in the dark, enjoying the illicit thrill of communicating this way.

“Colin? Are you up there still? Did you find it? Do you need some help?” his mother called.

Colin quickly flashed three letters, G-T-G, his and Rachel’s code for Got to go, which usually indicated one of their parents was about to bust them.

He shoved his phone back in his pocket. He was thirty-one years old, and his mom was about to discover him in his old bedroom, flashing his phone at the girl next door. She wouldn’t understand. He grabbed the yearbook off the bed, and as he left his bedroom, he ran into his mother as she rounded the corner. “I found it,” he told her, taking four steps down the hall.

“Oh,” she said. “I was starting to wonder what was keeping you. I mean, I thought I’d seen your yearbook last on the bookshelf.”

“It was in my closet,” Colin fibbed, glad he was behind his mother, who’d already turned toward the stairway. He clutched the book to his chest and followed her down into the kitchen. “I’ve got to get going. It’s getting late,” he told her.

“Okay,” she said. She gave him a quick hug. “Stay safe.”

“I will.” With that and a quick goodbye to his father, Colin was soon outside and climbing into his sedan. The driveway was on the opposite side of the house from Rachel’s window, so he couldn’t see if she was still in her bedroom. Once he backed out, a maze of tree branches should block any clear view.

But somehow, he saw her standing in the window as he drove by.



RACHEL SIGHED and set her flashlight down on the bed. Her mother was one of those home-safety types who had flashlights that also served as night-lights plugged into at least one outlet in every bedroom. Rachel had grown up knowing an evacuation plan for fire, tornado and earthquake. Considering that fire had destroyed the diner, maybe her mother’s better-safe-than-sorry attitude wasn’t so hard to understand.

She glanced around her bedroom. Little had changed since high school. The antique white canopy bed had been in the room for years. The wallpaper was Victorian—faded cabbage-rose wallpaper that had become cream colored with age. Only the white lacy bedspread was new.

Growing up, Rachel had always wanted something more modern. Her apartment decor had leaned toward black and chrome, befitting a New York City studio whose only view was the building next door.

A knock sounded, and her mother entered. Rachel stood five-seven; Adrienne Palladia topped out at five-two. “I brought your laundry,” she said.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Rachel said, rising from where she’d been flopped on the bed.

“It was no problem,” her mom insisted, setting the white circular basket on a small, upholstered chair and walking back to the doorway. As she did, she noticed the flashlight on the bedspread. “What’s that doing out?”

“Uh…” Rachel stammered.

Her mother frowned. “Were you flashing Colin again? He doesn’t even live there anymore.”

“Um…” Rachel fought to think of something plausible. Although she’d never told Colin, on a long-ago visit home from New York City she’d confessed her nocturnal childhood activities. “I was just trying to see if I could peer into his room the way I used to do. Call it curiosity. I saw him today when I went to catch Bruce.”

That was safe and reasonable.

“You saw Colin?” Her mother had moved to the doorway and she paused.

“Yes, he was walking into the law office as I was walking out. He asked me what I was doing there, so I told him. Bruce is in Houston with Christina.”

“And…” her mother prompted.

“He’ll let me know tomorrow if Lancaster and Morris will take on my case. He’s meeting me at the diner around noon.”

“Then I’ll keep my fingers crossed for good news. I hope it all works out, especially since you won’t let us help you.”

Rachel shook her head. “You and Grandma are already doing enough, although there is one thing I want to talk about with both of you. I’d like to maybe use the kitchen.”

Adrienne’s brow creased, as if she was confused about why her daughter would ask a question with such an obvious answer. “Of course you can. This house is too big for the three of us, but it’s been in the family forever. Who knows, maybe one of these days I’ll move in with you the way Kim did with me.”

“I guess you’re lucky that you get along so well with Dad’s mother.” Marco’s mother had accepted Rachel, but she hadn’t been overly friendly.

“We’re best friends,” Adrienne said, and Rachel knew her mother meant it. “I’m closer to her than I was to my mom, God rest her soul.”

Rachel smiled. One of her mother’s foibles was to add God rest her soul when speaking of the dead, as if not doing so might bring someone back to haunt her. “Amen,” Rachel quipped. “But back to the kitchen. I wasn’t talking about here. I’d like to use the one at the diner after it closes. I’d like to begin baking. Maybe fill up the display case in the front. My dream is to get a small Internet bakery business going, although I haven’t pursued that yet. This could help me begin. I’ll pay you both for the usage.”

Her mom leaned her hip against the doorjamb. “If you’re a little strapped for cash, we could do an exchange. You give us some desserts to sell during our business hours and I’ll give you use of the kitchen. That’s probably a fair trade. I doubt Kim will mind.”

“Mind what? I’m hearing my name. Is this a meeting?” Kim slid by Adrienne and entered Rachel’s bedroom. It always amazed Rachel how thin and spry her grandmother was. Turning seventy hadn’t slowed her down at all. Her grandmother still did yoga and tai chi to keep her five-foot-four body flexible.

“Rachel wants to use the diner’s kitchen in exchange for giving us some goodies to sell in the front display case,” Adrienne said.

“Can you make my bear claws?” Kim said, peering at her granddaughter.

“Actually, yes,” Rachel confirmed. “And cakes, pies and other pastries. I thought I’d test some new recipes, and look into what it would take to open a cyber bakery.”

“Don’t know what the world’s coming to.” Kim shook her head in disbelief. “Still don’t understand why anyone wouldn’t just go to their local store for something fresh baked. Heck, you can get cakes decorated in Wal-Mart and they’re quite tasty. The girls at the diner bought me one for my last birthday. Not as good as mine, but not half-bad, either.”





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