Книга - Man In A Million

Man In A Million
Muriel Jensen


Paris O'Hara is trying to find herselfAnd her hometown of Maple Hill is where she's starting the search. It turns out her mother lied to her about who her father really is, and Paris needs to know the truth. Until she comes to terms with her past, she can't allow herself to get involved with anyone.Paris tries to keep Randy Sanford at arm's length, but she can't resist turning to him when she finally finds what she's been looking for. As she struggles to accept her newfound knowledge, Paris also has to learn that the past is not nearly as important as the future….









“Just a minute,” Paris said, holding back when Randy would have run on


“You know, you’ve completely lost your cardio momentum,” he said, jogging in place.

“And you’ve lost your mind. Why did you tell your friends I was coming to the picnic when you haven’t mentioned it to me?”

“Because if I go with a woman, they won’t spend all afternoon trying to fix me up. Please, Paris. Help me out here.”

Paris gave him a dirty look and jogged off. She hated to admit that there was something delicious about the ground flying under her feet, the sweet air filling her lungs and a strong man beside her, looking wonderful in his T-shirt and shorts.

“I’ll get you for this,” she threatened so that he wouldn’t see her pleasure in the moment.

He cast her a glance, his expression curious. “I think you’ve already got me.”


Dear Reader,

As a nondriver, I take cabs a lot and have found cabdrivers to be the most interesting people. One of our local companies is owned by a woman who employs her daughter and another woman I know. I love riding with them. Not that male drivers aren’t also interesting, but it’s always nice to have a woman-to-woman conversation while watching the scenery go by.

When I was looking for a way to extend our MEN OF MAPLE HILL series, I remembered that I’d made casual mention in a previous book of two sisters who came home after their dreams were short-circuited and now owned a cab company. I had intended that little tidbit to simply give texture to that moment, but now appreciated that it held story potential. So many of our paths in life are taken because other carefully made plans fall through and we’re forced to search for a new direction. What better way to do that than with other people on a journey, sitting in the back seat of your cab?

Hope you enjoy riding with Paris and Prue.

Sincerely,

Muriel




Man in a Million

Muriel Jensen





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To Paul and Tiana and the gang at the Urban Cafe.

Thanks for the wonderful food and the even better company.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN




CHAPTER ONE


PARIS O’HARA WAS SERIOUSLY tempted to run in the other direction. This was not about being rude, she told herself. This was about taking charge of her life, clearing the decks, pulling it together. If Randy Sanford’s feelings were hurt in the process, she wasn’t to be blamed. She had to let him know where she stood.

It was all Addy Whitcomb’s fault. If she wasn’t so determined to turn every unattached man working for Whitcomb’s Wonders—her son’s formidable collective—and every single woman in Maple Hill, Massachusetts, into one half of a happy relationship, Paris wouldn’t be hiding behind her cab and mustering her courage.

She’d peeked around the corner just a moment ago and seen Randy Sanford in the driveway of the fire station, washing down the red-and-white ambulance in which he and his partner responded to emergencies.

Paris’s friend, Mariah Trent, had pointed him out at a school fund-raiser. He was short and portly and clearly the life of the party. Everyone around him had been laughing.

Had it been a year ago, and had Randy Sanford been more serious, Paris might have caved in to Addy’s insistence that they meet. But it wasn’t. It was now. And nothing in her life was funny.

Paris peeked around the corner again.

The timing was perfect. One of the fire trucks was being serviced, and the other was being used to conduct a demonstration on fire safety at the elementary school. Except for a skeleton crew of firemen shooting hoops on the other side of the building, her quarry was alone.

Russell Watson’s voice blared from inside the ambulance and Randy lip-synched “Va Pensiero” as Paris squared her shoulders, marched around the corner and stopped beside him. “Randy Sanford?” she asked.

He opened his mouth to reply, then raised his index finger in a “just-a-minute” gesture as he crossed the driveway and turned off the water. She followed him.

The moment he straightened away from the faucet, she offered her hand and what she hoped was a warm smile. “Hi, I’m Paris O’Hara,” she shouted over the music. “That’s my favorite CD, too. We’ve never been formally introduced, but Addy Whitcomb’s been trying to get us together for months. I apologize on her behalf for putting you through that. She means well, of course, but she’s so convinced that man can’t live without woman and vice versa, that she doesn’t understand ‘no’ when she hears it, and I’ve certainly said it to her enough times.”

As he studied her closely, apparently waiting for her to get to the point, she noticed that he had very nice brown eyes and a very sweet face. She wasn’t much for buzz cuts, but it seemed to suit him. She followed him back to the ambulance as he ran around the vehicle, reached through the open window and turned off the music.

He came back to her and opened his mouth again to speak, but she forestalled him, remembering that the last words she’d spoken had not been very complimentary. She was afraid he’d misinterpret the point she was trying to make.

“Not that I have anything against you, personally. I mean, I gather you’ve been resisting her efforts to bring us together, too, because there was that one time when I’d driven the fourth-grade class to Boston because the usual bus driver was sick, and I came home so exhausted, I couldn’t think of a ready excuse to turn her down when she said you were coming to her house for dinner that night. But, then, she called me a half hour later and told me you’d backed out.” She winked at him. “I think you even volunteered to take over someone else’s shift so you could avoid me.” She laughed.

When he continued to look dismayed, she cleared her throat. “Look, the truth is it’s clear you don’t want to date me any more than I want to date you.”

He blinked and folded his arms and she added quickly, “Not that you’re not perfectly…appealing and…and… But I’m just not relationship material, you know what I mean? It’s hard to…to…want to get to know someone else, particularly a man, when you’re not even sure who you are.” Then, wishing she hadn’t even let that fact surface, she tried to cover it up. “Oh, I’m Paris O’Hara, of course. We both know that. But I mean—know myself in a Zen sort of way. Do you understand?”

He looked as though she’d fried his brain. She shifted uncomfortably, hating that the strong, secure woman she’d always been turned into a chatty idiot when trying to explain herself. And she’d done that a lot lately because she really didn’t know who she was—in a Zen sort of way or any other way.

She put a hand on his arm, desperately trying to make a friend of him rather than an enemy.

“Randy, I’m sorry. I seem to be…” She stopped abruptly when she noticed something she hadn’t seen at all until this moment. Until she’d finally focused on him instead of her garbled explanation, which had seemed like such a good idea this morning when she’d been determined to get control of her life, but now seemed ill-advised and pitiful.

He was wearing a wedding ring.

She looked into those nice brown eyes. “You’re married?” she asked in disbelief. What was Addy thinking?

Then she caught a glimpse of amusement that moved from his eyes to tug at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, I am,” he replied. “But I’m not Randy Sanford.”



RANDY HAD BEEN LISTENING since he’d heard his name early in the conversation. Taking inventory in the back of the rig, he’d remained undetected, his attention captured by Paris O’Hara’s long, shapely legs and trim but nicely rounded backside clad in brown cords as she paced by the open back doors. Pale blond hair was tucked into a messy knot on top of her head, long strands like spider webbing brushed the shoulder of a rose-colored shirt.

So, this was Paris O’Hara. He listened in amusement as poor Chilly stared at her, clearly confused. Randy couldn’t imagine how this misunderstanding had occurred, but he had to admit that he was enjoying it—fully appreciating how Neanderthal that was.

Curiously, he could relate to everything she was saying. He hadn’t wanted to meet her, either, had also said a loud, clear “no” to Addy’s eager invitations. Including that one time when Evan’s wife had accepted a dinner date for him and he’d had to call and decline. That must have been the day Paris had driven the schoolkids to Boston.

He’d felt guilty about it. He never deliberately hurt anyone—physically or emotionally. But he knew in his heart there’d never be another Jenny Brewster. Even almost two years after her death and his move to Maple Hill, she was often on his mind. So, while he usually accepted Addy’s invitations, and showed her candidates a good time, he never called them again.

And Paris O’Hara looked too much like Jenny for comfort. At least at a distance. Evan Braga had pointed her out one day when they’d gone to the Breakfast Barn for lunch and she’d stopped in to get a coffee to go. Randy wasn’t dealing well with the loss of his fiancée, and anything that brought back thoughts of her—like long, blond hair—was unwelcome. Though now that he was able to inspect her more closely, he saw that she was several inches taller than Jenny, more slender, except for a nice flare to her hips. Her hair was almost platinum, not the gold Jenny’s had been.

He would have remained hidden, happy to let Chilly handle the misunderstanding, but then she noticed his partner’s wedding ring. Now Chill was stammering, trying to explain.

Randy stepped out, determined to react in a gentlemanly manner to her mistake, agree with her dismissal of the possibility of any relationship between them, then laugh it all off with Chilly when she walked away.

Until he saw her face.

Jenny had had a softly round, cute sort of face in which every sweet and lively quality she possessed shone like a candle. It had made him feel happy and loved.

Paris O’Hara’s face should have been pretty but wasn’t. She had a small, nicely shaped nose and a wide mouth with even teeth. Her perfect oval of a face glowed with a peaches-and-cream complexion. But beauty was in the eyes, and though hers were mossy green and thickly lashed, they were worried, as if she anticipated trouble. She didn’t seem afraid of it precisely, just uncertain about it.

She had doubts about herself, he guessed, and took no pains to hide it behind wiles or makeup. So the face that should have been stunning was simply interesting instead. He was surprised by how much that attracted him.

And—he was sure he wasn’t imagining this—a glimpse of sexual interest disturbed that worried look as she stared at him.

She seemed to consider him a moment before a grim sort of dismissal came into her eyes even as Randy prepared to introduce himself.

“This—” Chilly began.

“You’re Randy Sanford,” she said, sticking out her hand. He liked the way she refused to be embarrassed. He caught a whiff of jasmine.

“Yes,” he said, taking her long, slender fingers in his. They were cool and her grip was firm. He liked that, too.

“I was just explaining to—”

“Chilly,” he supplied for her. “Percival Childress. You can see why we call him Chilly.”

Chilly, who hated his pretentious first name, rolled his eyes.

She cast him a gentle smile. “I knew it had nothing to do with his personality.”

Chilly nodded modest acceptance of the compliment.

“I was starting to explain that he was pointed out to me at the spaghetti feed at the school,” she said.

He remembered the event. He and Chilly had gone together after a day of painting Chilly’s garage.

“We were sitting side by side,” Randy said, realizing what had caused her confusion.

Apparently she did, too. “When my friend pointed, I thought she was pointing to Chilly. My mistake.”

“No harm done. But even though you thought he has a warm personality,” he taunted gently, “you didn’t want to date him.”

He watched her blink, fascinated. “He’s married.”

“But before you knew that, you were giving him this big long story about—”

“I was explaining that I’m busy.” A little flicker of annoyance had appeared in her eyes and her voice. Her interest in him was definitely waning.

“No.” He didn’t know why he was taking issue with her claim. A moment ago, he’d have been grateful for the easy escape from Addy’s manipulations. Something about her was having an unusual effect on him. He didn’t know what, but it was pushing him—and there was nowhere to go but toward her. “That’s not what you said. You said you didn’t know yourself. In a Zen sort of way, whatever that means.”

She was absolutely still. He felt sure that was an indication of true annoyance.

“It’s intuition arrived at through meditation,” she said stiffly.

“Oh, I know what it is,” he replied. “I just wonder about the wisdom of meditating over one’s self. You’d miss everything going on around you.”

She expelled a breath—some safety-valve thing, he was sure. “You don’t know how to react to what’s around you,” she said with forced calm, “without self-knowledge.”

“Aren’t women supposed to have intuition without needing meditation?”

“I believe Zen implies a certain enlightenment.”

“But don’t you look for that to come from outside rather than inside?”

She dropped her arms impatiently. He felt the air stir around him. “You don’t know anything about me!” she snapped at him, as though his argument had been an accusation.

Quite accidentally, though, the argument seemed to have gotten him where he wanted to go.

“And I never will, will I, if you don’t want to go out with me.”

She stared at him. Even Chilly looked at him in surprise.

All the times he’d ever said he wanted nothing to do with women on a permanent basis echoed in his ears. Well, he didn’t want anything to do with her on a permanent basis. But he didn’t appreciate being dismissed so easily, and wondered what was going on inside her that made her look so troubled. And why it interested him.

It was scientific, he decided finally. That was it. Women were all so cool and contained these days, except for this one, who looked as though a tempest spun inside her.

He smiled. “I think you should reconsider.”



PARIS FELT NAKED. He was absolutely right; she’d told herself the same thing over and over. She was thinking this to death. She’d been focused completely on herself since she’d discovered that she wasn’t who she thought she was and retired home to Maple Hill. She knew that wasn’t healthy, but everyone had the right to the details of their parentage. How was one expected to march into the future without understanding where one came from?

And how had Randy Sanford guessed within sixty seconds of looking into her face that she was on a long personal search?

She looked into dark brown eyes in an angular face, nicely shaped eyebrows raised in question, waiting for her answer. He was tall, square-shouldered and flat-stomached in the dark pants and white shirt that were the EMTs’ uniform. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing nicely shaped arms.

For an instant, she was distracted by the impression he made of strength and solidity. He looked as though a truck could hit him and would bounce back with its hood dented, leaving him uninjured. For a woman who felt exhausted by the vagaries of life and the strain of business, the temptation to lean in his direction and test that strength was hard to resist.

But she did. She tossed her hair and smiled flatly. It didn’t matter how solid he was, her foundation was completely gone. And she suspected that all she’d done was hurt his male pride. This wasn’t serious interest, just a knee-jerk reaction to rejection.

“I don’t think I’ll reconsider,” she replied good-naturedly, then stuck out her hand. “No hard feelings?”

He considered her a moment, then took her hand. “Of course not,” he said. “Nice to finally meet you.”

“You, too.” She waved at Chilly, who’d walked away to give them privacy.

Chilly waved back. “Sorry,” he said. “If I wasn’t married, I’d make you change your mind. And if I was Randy Sanford.”

“Can’t be done,” she said.

She started to walk away, but Randy caught her arm. Certain he intended to try to charm her into going out with him, she tried to draw away. Then she noticed that his eyes were focused on hers and frowning. There was a professional air in his touch as he put a hand to her chin and turned it right, then left.

“Are you getting enough rest?” he asked.

She was surprised by the question. She worked long hours and never slept well. But she’d pinched her cheeks and carefully brushed her hair today before coming to see him. Perversely, though she didn’t want to date him or anyone, she wanted to look her best while telling him so.

She found herself fumbling for an answer. “I…I put in a twelve-hour day.”

“No time for fun?”

“No,” she said, hoping to put an end to the conversation.

His thumb rubbed gently under her left eye. “You should make time. You’re too young for dark circles.”

His touch was cool, and she was momentarily paralyzed by it. Solid. And tender. No time for that, either.

She caught his muscular wrist and yanked it away from her. “You have no idea how old I am,” she said, shocked by the annoyance she felt. Probably because she’d looked in the mirror that very morning and thought she looked matronly.

“You’re twenty-six,” he said. “You live at home with your mom and your sister, and you own the Berkshire Cab company.”

She knew she looked astonished.

“Addy told me.” He grinned. “Why? Did you think I’d hired detectives or done an Internet search on you?”

While she continued to stare, wondering why Addy hadn’t told her such details about him, he went on. “You left Maple Hill for law school about four years ago, then changed your mind and came home last year. But she didn’t tell me why.” He seemed to rethink that information, then asked with sharpened interest, “Does that have anything to do with why you’re on this soul search?”

She noticed two things simultaneously. She was still holding his wrist, which he was allowing her to do with no resistance. And she could feel his pulse under her thumb. Curiously, it seemed to be causing hers to race.

She dropped his wrist and said with all the cool hauteur she could muster, “That’s not your concern. I have to go.”

“Don’t fall asleep behind the wheel,” he cautioned, following her to the station wagon with its magnetic sign bearing the name of her company in bright yellow letters.

She gave him a dismissing look as she pulled open the door. “I’m more responsible than that.”

He held the door open for her as she slipped behind the wheel. “Exhaustion can sneak up on you,” he warned. “A dark patch of road, the hum of the motor, the warmth of—”

“Thank you,” she said, and pulled the door closed. Without hesitation, she turned the key in the ignition and drove away.

She groaned aloud, the sound filling the confined space inside her car. “You can’t get some men to give a darn that you’ve got a problem!” she grumbled. “And others come off all pompous and superior because they think they can read your mind and know what’s bothering you on five minutes’ acquaintance.” Equally annoying. She was going to have to talk to Addy about the amount of information she dispensed about her. In fact, she was going to have to get tough with her about this whole blind-date thing.

Now that she’d seen Randy Sanford, she definitely didn’t want to date him. Her life was too much of a mess already to add another untidy element. Because she was sure that despite his well-groomed good looks, there was nothing relaxed and easy about him.



“INTERESTING WOMAN.” Chilly came to stand beside Randy as he watched her car disappear down the highway.

“Yeah,” Randy agreed, trapped in the vivid memory of her standing in front of him, pale and cool and smelling of jasmine.

“You’re interested?”

Randy forced himself back to reality. He’d loved Jenny and lost her to one of life’s dirty tricks. They’d been young and hopeful, with a lifetime of plans in front of them, then she was gone within four months of a brutal diagnosis. He’d been interning at a county hospital, full of new knowledge and proud of all modern medicine had to offer. But it hadn’t been enough to help Jenny.

“No,” he said to Chilly, heading back into the ambulance bay. The shadows, he hoped, would hide the hopelessness that always overwhelmed him when he thought of her.

“You looked interested,” Chilly persisted. “And—you know—it’s time.”

“It’s never going to be time.” He went through the bay to the office, aware that their afternoon break was overdue. He needed caffeine. Badly. “And if I look interested, it’s only…scientific, you know? What gave her that troubled look coupled with that cool exterior?”

Chilly followed him. “You told her she was too young for dark circles,” he reminded him. “That sounds pretty personal. I say you’re too young to give up on marriage and family.”

“I haven’t given up,” he said, grinning at Kitty Morton, who answered the phones and did most of their paperwork. She was in her early thirties, had two little boys and an ex-husband who hadn’t paid child support since he’d walked out on her. She was blond and pretty and he was always surprised by her optimism.

“Then, why’d you let her get away?”

He turned the grin on his friend. “Because she expected me to try to stop her. You never get anywhere with a woman doing what she expects.”

Kitty looked at him with a frown. “Who told you that? That’s totally false. Particularly if she’s expecting chocolates and diamonds and stuff like that. Who are we talking about, anyway?”

“Paris, um…” Chilly began, groping for her last name.

“O’Hara,” Randy provided. “We’re going for coffee, Kitty. Want us to bring you back something?”

Kitty was still focused on the woman under discussion. Her eyes widened and she leaned toward them, her arms folded on her desk. “The cabbie? She’s something, isn’t she? Everybody wonders why she came home from school and started the cab company. She was so set on being a lawyer. Her mom was a model, you know, then an actress. She’s on a shoot in Africa right now for some new line of designer clothes for older women. And her sister was married to some senator, or something, and she found him fooling around and came back about the same time Paris did. Those women remind me of the Gabors. They’re so beautiful, and they live in that wonderful old Craftsman bungalow on this side of the lake. Well, Paris isn’t beautiful, but I think she’s mysterious and fascinating.”

Randy studied her. “How do you know all this stuff?” Kitty knew everything about everyone.

“I’m in Addy Whitcomb’s quilting group. What she doesn’t know, she finds out.”

Randy rolled his eyes. “Of course. I understand even CNN goes to Addy when they want to confirm information. You want coffee? A doughnut, or something?”

Kitty shook her head. “Thanks. I’ve got a date tonight and I have to fit into my leather skirt.”

Randy and Chilly, headed for the door, stopped. “I thought we had clearance rights on all your dates,” Chilly said. “Who is this guy, and how come we don’t know about him?”

“He’s Mike Miller, the new guy on nights,” she supplied, her cheeks becoming a little pink. “And he works his days off for Whitcomb’s Wonders, just like you two. That makes him sort of preapproved.”

Hank Whitcomb, Addy’s son, had begun a sort of temp agency for craftsmen several years ago that now provided a broad variety of services for the homeowner or businessman. Whitcomb’s Wonders provided plumbing, electrical work, carpentry, gardening, furnace maintenance and a variety of other services. Randy worked with the janitorial crew on his days off. Chilly was on the gardening team. The simple work was a welcome relief from the life-and-death pressure of being a paramedic.

It was a boon for all of them to work part-time while going to school, raising children or living other dreams.

“What’s he do?” Randy asked.

“Carpentry,” she replied. “Jackie Whitcomb assures me he’s a gentleman. He redid the cabinets in their kitchen.”

Jackie was Hank’s wife and the mayor of Maple Hill. Her judgment could be trusted.

“Okay, then,” Chilly said. “But we want a full report tomorrow.”

“We’ll see.” The telephone rang and she picked it up. They waited to see if they were needed. She put a hand over the receiver. “It’s Mark and Charlie. They’re finished at the school and on their way back. Go have your coffee.”

Randy and Chilly loped across the lawn, headed for the bakery a block away. Randy glanced back in the direction of the driveway, absently wondering if the newly washed ambulance left sufficient room for the vehicle returning from the school, when he noticed a dark object on the pavement. He veered toward it and saw that it was black leather and shaped like an envelope. A light chain attached to it had a broken link on one end.

“What is that?” Chilly asked as Randy bent to pick it up. “Looks like a trucker’s wallet.”

Randy turned it over in his hand and, seeing no identification, unsnapped it and looked inside.

There were quite a few bills in it, some of small denomination, but a few twenties, and a lot of change. Glued to the inside of the flap was a business card with the Berkshire Cab telephone numbers on it.

“Ah,” Chilly said, looking over his shoulder. “It belongs to the lovely Miss O’Hara. What’s that?” He pointed to something tucked behind the bills.

Randy pulled out a foil wrapper that had been folded over. It was half of a chocolate bar. “Seems the lady has a chocolate habit.”

“Is that the first of your scientific observations?” Chilly asked with a grin.

Randy snapped the leather envelope closed. “I’ll take it back to Kitty. I’m sure the first time the lady tries to make change this afternoon, she’ll notice her missing wallet and call.”

Chilly snickered and followed as Randy hurried back to the office door, ran inside with the wallet and explained briefly to Kitty what had happened. “I don’t know,” he said when Randy reemerged. “It was weird. She stared at you as though she couldn’t believe you were real, yet she couldn’t wait to get away from you.”

“There’s money involved—she’ll call.” Randy started off again for the bakery. “And I do have this sort of mesmerizing effect on women. They can’t help but stare at me.”

Chilly responded to his teasingly conceited claim with the same matter-of-factness. “You have a similar effect on men, actually. We all thought evolution had filtered out the ugly and stupid, and yet, here you are. It makes one stare.”

“That’s it,” Randy replied. “Coffee’s on you.”




CHAPTER TWO


PARIS HAD NOTICED HER wallet was missing when she dropped off old Mr. Kubik at the senior center. He paid his fare with exact change and gave her a quarter tip—a routine he’d followed every week for eight months. She had a standing order to pick him up every Tuesday afternoon. She went to slip the money in the wallet always tucked under her right leg on the seat, but it wasn’t there.

She felt a moment’s panic. It had been a good day. She’d had that trip to Springfield, the generous Shriners on a tour of New England after their conference in Boston, and a lot of short hops from the nursing home that helped her make up in volume what the seniors couldn’t pay in tips.

She struggled to remember where she’d been, then concluded she had to have lost it at the fire station. She’d changed a twenty for Starla McAffrey and she’d had it then. Her next stop had been the fire station. Then she’d picked up Mr. Kubik.

Well. She wasn’t going back there. Prue, who drove whenever Paris needed a break, had promised to drive a few hours for her tonight while she made some phone calls. When her sister, Prue, had first returned home, she’d driven a full shift, but business was slow at night, and she’d taken a job at a dress shop instead. Paris would charm her into stopping to pick up the wallet.

Paris then remembered she was supposed to pick up her sister at the library in—she glanced at her watch—ten minutes. She would have to brace herself as she always did to deal with the misnamed Prudence. It was easier when their mother was home. Prudence took after Camille Malone with her bright beauty and her mercurial personality. They always had a lot to talk about, which left the quieter Paris to attend to the practical side of their existence. She did the grocery shopping, paid bills, kept up the checkbook.

She’d never minded that her mother and sister were beautiful and that she was simply passably pretty with a talent for steadiness and responsibility. It meant she took after her father, Jasper O’Hara, a kind and practical man who’d kept their lives together while Camille acted in New York or modeled in L.A. He’d been an accountant and he’d died of a coronary five years before.

Then that comforting sense of who she was exploded a year ago when she was taking an investigations class that involved blood testing and blood typing. She’d tested her own blood and discovered she was type A, scientifically impossible when both her parents were type O. Several years ago, her parents had given blood at a Red Cross blood drive and her father had come home joking that they were “Oh, oh,” giving it the inflection that suggested trouble. He’d said that that exclamation usually applied to everything they did.

It certainly applied at that moment when she tested her blood a second and then a third time. She couldn’t be Jasper O’Hara’s daughter.

She’d rushed home that weekend to confront her mother about it and watched the color drain from her face. Her mother had sat her on the sofa and explained that she was the result of an affair she’d had with a bit actor just before she met Jasper O’Hara.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she’d demanded.

“Because I married Jasper before you were born and he’s truly been your father. There was no need. We were happy. You were happy. It was…irrelevant.”

Irrelevant? Paris had wanted to argue but had been too shocked to find the right words, the right questions.

“You are who you are,” her mother had insisted, “and it doesn’t matter a damn who your father was. Besides,” she’d added, almost as an afterthought, “he’s dead. He was killed in a car accident right after you were born.”

Paris had insisted on a name.

“Jeffrey St. John,” her mother had finally revealed. “He’s dead, Paris. It doesn’t matter. Jasper O’Hara was your father.”

Paris had gone back to school but found herself unable to focus on her studies. She felt as though the very foundation of her life was cracked and unable to support the future she’d planned.

She’d come home, needing a dose of the stability of her old life before she could decide what to do about her future. She knew that didn’t make sense because her old life was based on her mother’s fabrication. But even though Jasper O’Hara hadn’t been her biological father, he’d been her biggest fan, and there was comfort in being where he’d been.

It saddened her to think that the steadiness that she’d always thought had come from him hadn’t. So where had it come from? A bit actor? Somehow, that seemed unlikely.

She reached instinctively for the chocolate stash in her wallet, forgetting that it was at the fire station. Great. Broke and without chocolate. Life was a cruel master.

With no pickups pending, Paris pulled into a parking spot across from the Common to wait for Prue.

The sight of the Maple Hill Square, or Common, had a grounding effect on her. Life here went on very much as it had two hundred years ago, though the Maple Hill Mirror had up-to-the-minute equipment instead of the old labor-intensive printing method that required inking by hand and rolling one sheet at a time. The early residents of the town had never heard of the mochaccinos produced at the Perk Avenue Tea Room down the way, and would have been horrified by the lengths of the skirts in the dress shop window.

Otherwise, the restored colonial buildings that framed the square looked the same, a colonial flag flew, and Caleb and Elizabeth Drake, who’d once fought the redcoats, still stood on the green, their images bronzed to remind Maple Hill of its heritage.

This was part of what she’d come home for, Paris thought. The eternity of life here, roots in the deep past, finger on the pulse of the future. To someone who felt lost, it provided a handhold on permanence.

Prue probably never felt lost. She had the temperament of an artist, but seemed always so sure of herself.

Now she was part of a committee headed by Mariah Trent to raise funds for an addition to the library and more books.

Prue met Mariah while volunteering at the Maple Hill Manor School outside of town. Mariah had once been a dorm mother there, but now had a husband and two adopted children, and was the backbone of community fund-raising.

When Prue had been living in New York with her senator husband, she’d apprenticed with Shirza Bell, a famous couturier. Prue’s life long dream had been to design clothes, and though she now helped to make a living for the three of them as Paris and their mother did, she still sketched at night and designed in her dreams.

Paris was jealous of her passion—and her face, and her body, and her wonderful ease with people.

She could see her coming from across the street. Late afternoon traffic was light, but Prue Hale stood out like a flame in the cool sunlight of late September. She was several inches shorter than Paris and attractively round without looking plump. Her hair was long and golden and always flying around her in appealing disarray. She had a penchant for long skirts and sweaters, and always looked like a social butterfly on her way home from afternoon tea.

Today, her skirt was a slim gray houndstooth, and she wore a dusty-rose sweater and a brightly colored shawl with a black-and-bright-pink pattern, which hung loosely on her shoulders. She had on black leather shoes with a small heel, a matching pouch purse, and a smile Paris could read from yards away. Paris wondered if Randy Sanford would change his mind about wanting to date her if he could see Prue.

Something good had happened to her sister. Paris would have to listen to every detail as she drove her home. God, she wished she had her chocolate.

Prue pulled the front passenger door open and fell into the cab, filling the small space with the fragrance of White Diamonds.

“Hi!” Her breathy voice burst into Paris’s silence. “You’ll never guess what happened!”

Paris pushed away every other thought to talk to her sister. A conversation with Prue always took up all the space in her head. Randy Sanford resisted being pushed, but she pushed harder.

“What?” she asked.

“Mariah wants to have a fashion show for the fund-raiser, and guess what else?”

“What else?”

“Featuring my designs!”

“That’s wonderful, Prue!” Paris was sincere. Prue’s face was glowing, and Paris could only imagine how much it meant to her to finally have a place to show off her clothing line. Granted, it was just a small community function, but word had a way of getting around. And after finding her husband in flagrante delicto with an intern in his office, Prue’s ego needed the boost. Then Paris began to worry about the practical aspects of the opportunity. “But won’t it be hard to transfer the designs to the real thing? How much time do you have?”

“A little over four weeks,” Prue replied, her excitement dimming just slightly. “I thought about that. But I think I can do it. If you help me.”

Pulling away from the curb, Paris was filled with trepidation. “Prue, I can’t sew a stitch.”

“I know, I know. I can handle that part. But I need you to model.” She said those last words quickly, probably anticipating Paris’s reaction.

“What?” Paris demanded, stopping right in the middle of the narrow, tree-lined road. Someone behind her honked. She drove on to the red light at the corner. “Are you crazy? I don’t know a thing—”

“You don’t have to know anything,” Prue argued eagerly, “you just have to have the body, and you do. You’re perfect. Tall, slender, long legs, great hair. You’ll be perfect.”

Paris stared at the passing traffic and determined that God had to be paying her back for all the tricks she’d played on Prue in their youth. Her little sister had been trusting and gullible, and it had been easy to convince her that candy was poisonous and should always be tested by a big sister, that curly hair reflected dishonesty that could only be overcome if the curls were cut off, that she’d been left as a baby at the secondhand store where their mother and father had bought her for a bargain.

Curious, Paris thought now, that she might have been the one abandoned to someone else’s mercy, considering her doubtful beginning.

“Prue, I’ll only embarrass you,” she pleaded.

“You will not,” Prue insisted. “And I’ve been thinking about it. I knew you’d need incentive, so I thought we’d make a deal.”

A deal? Oh, this couldn’t be good.

“I’ll design and sew during the day,” she bargained, “then drive for you from four to midnight, if you’ll do this for me. You can make more money if Berkshire Cab is available from nine to twelve. There are all those people going home from late meetings who hate to drive after dark, or in the wind and rain.”

“But you’ll be driving after dark. And the wind and rain will be here before you know it. I don’t like it.” It would be nice to be able to expand her hours, but 6:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m. was the best she could do alone. “And what about your job at the dress shop?”

Prue sighed. “Patsy’s closing up. I’ve got my walking papers. Will’s been transferred to New Jersey and they’ll be gone in a couple of weeks. I need employment, anyway.” She hesitated a moment, then added, “And you wouldn’t deprive me of this chance, would you?” Prue’s tone contained just the right element of little-sister pleading.

Paris groaned. “Prue, I’ll model for you, but you don’t have to drive for me.”

“Yes, I do,” Prue insisted. “Nobody’s complained that I took a simple minimum-wage job so I could continue to play with my designs. Well, this is my chance to make something of them and make a bigger contribution to the household. Please don’t argue with me. I’m starting tonight, anyway, right? You have calls to make, or something?”

“Prudie…”

“You’ll have to cut back on the chocolates until after the show,” Prue said.

Paris groaned. “You could have told me that before I agreed.”

“Not if I wanted you to help me.”

“One thing.”

“Yeah?”

“I think I dropped my cab wallet at the fire station. Would you mind picking it up tonight?”

Determined to look casual, Paris stared at the road as she felt Prue turn to look at her. “What were you doing there?”

“I…had a fare.”

“A fireman called a cab when they have those great trucks to ride in?”

Paris ignored her, concentrating on the turn that would take her to Lake Road.

“Did you go to see that EMT Addy Whitcomb’s trying so hard to fix you up with?” Prue said it teasingly, but when Paris didn’t reply and her color rose instead, Prue shifted in her seat and asked excitedly, “You did?”

“Just to tell him that I wasn’t interested in dating him,” she corrected quickly, “and to assure him that I knew he didn’t want to date me, either. I’ve… I’m just clearing the decks. I’m tired of my life being this mass of confusion.”

Prue was silent for a moment. “Is this the thing about your father again?”

“I’ve just got to get some answers,” Paris said with a shrug of her shoulder, “and it’ll be easier while Mom’s gone because I know how she hates my interest in it. I know you don’t understand.” She forestalled her sister’s protest with a raised hand. “I don’t expect you to. Just let me do what I have to do without criticism, okay?”

“I wasn’t going to criticize,” Prue assured her. “I was going to tell you that I understand what motivates you. If the man I’d thought was my father my whole life turned out not to be, I’d want some answers, too. I just don’t understand why you think it’ll change anything. He’s dead.”

Paris blinked, a little surprised by Prue’s empathy. “I know. I just want to know more than Mom’s willing to tell me.”

“Okay. But a search for details about your father doesn’t mean you have to dismiss the possibility of having an interesting man in your life, does it?”

“He doesn’t want me, either. He apparently has his own reasons for avoiding Addy’s romantic maneuvers.”

Prue nodded knowingly. “His fiancée died.”

Paris glanced at her sister. “How do you know that?”

“Mariah knows him. He works for Whitcomb’s Wonders, you know. He’s on a janitorial crew that services her husband’s building. Randy and his fiancée had been through medical school together and were interning in the same hospital when she got cancer.”

“Jeez.”

“Yeah. What did you think of him?”

That was hard to simplify into words. He was handsome, annoying but oddly appealing, a little bossy, yet seemingly concerned for her welfare. She didn’t know how she felt about him—just that an image of him lingered in her mind.

“Um…” She shrugged again, trying to minimize his impact on her. “Nice-looking, thinks he knows everything, tries to be charming. You know, typical guy.”

“I don’t think he’s very typical. Mariah says she saw him save a man’s life at the gym. The man collapsed on a treadmill, wasn’t breathing, and he brought him back. The ER doctor said he wouldn’t have made it if Randy hadn’t been there. I know it’s what he’s trained to do, but Mariah thought it was pretty amazing close-up.”

Paris could imagine that that was where his confidence came from. Saving a life was pretty big stuff.

“About the wallet…” She tried to divert the conversation.

“I’ll get it. But you can search for information about your father,” Prue insisted, “and still get to know Randy.”

Paris pulled into the driveway of their home and left the motor running, turning to her sister with a firm expression. “If you pressure me and cause me stress,” she warned, “I’m liable to turn to chocolate. And if you expect me to wear that red wool thing you showed me the sketch of the other day…”

“All right, all right,” Prue said defeatedly. “I just think if you’re presented with the gift of a nice guy with romance on his mind, you should take it. But what do I know? Thanks for the lift. I’ll take over for you at four.”

“Six,” Paris corrected. “Have a good dinner, be sure to fix yourself a thermos of coffee, and I’ll turn the cab over to you. If you promise you’ll keep in touch throughout the night.”

“I promise.”

“All right. See you at six.”

“Do I get to say ten-four?”

“No.”



CHILLY HAD ALREADY GONE home to his wife, and Randy had finished restocking their vehicle and was in the office, checking out, when he noticed the leather wallet with the broken chain still sitting on Kitty’s desk. There was no note on it to indicate that Kitty had spoken to its owner, a procedure she usually followed when something was left in an ambulance.

Randy opened it, consulted the business card inside the flap and dialed the number. He would show Paris O’Hara that he could be businesslike even if she couldn’t.

A familiar voice answered. “Miss O’Hara?” he asked.

“Ah…used to be,” the voice replied. “Now I’m Mrs. Hale. Actually, that’s not quite right because I used to be that, too. But I’m not anymore.”

Good grief. Her sister? Did everyone in her family think everything to death?

“Berkshire Cab?” He tried another tack.

“Yes,” the voice replied. “Always Safe, Always Friendly.” She recited the slogan on the business card. “Can I pick you up?”

Now, there was a line a man liked to hear. Well, most men did. With his determination to have relationships on his terms, he had to be selective.

God, he was sounding just like the O’Hara sisters.

“I’m calling from the Maple Hill Fire Station,” he said. “We have your wallet.”

“Aah.” There was something speculative in the quiet way she drew out the word. “Randy Sanford?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“My sister asked me to pick it up, but I’ve been busy since I came on. I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”

He met her in the driveway so that she wouldn’t have to get out of the cab. But she seemed to want to. She leaped out from behind the wheel and offered her hand with a warm smile.

“Prudence O’Hara Hale,” she said as he shook her hand. “I guess if I just use both names, I don’t have to explain as much.” She laughed over her earlier dithering.

“You don’t have to explain at all,” he said, handing her the wallet. “I’m just a stranger, trying to return something your sister dropped.”

“Ah, but you’re not a stranger at all,” she corrected him, accepting the wallet. “Thank you. Addy makes you sound like a cross between George Clooney and the surgeon general.”

He had to laugh at that. Addy was enthusiastic about her matchmaking avocation.

“I suppose my sister came on all cool and distant,” Prudence guessed, opening the wallet and peering inside.

“She did,” he agreed.

She glanced up at him. “She’s really not like that at all. She’s usually very warm and open, but she’s got a crisis going at the moment.”

He nodded. “Don’t we all.”

“I’m sorry about your fiancée,” she said without warning. It always unsettled him when someone brought it up when he wasn’t expecting it. Often conversations led that way and he was prepared. But sometimes he wasn’t.

“Thank you,” he replied, wondering where she’d learned that information. Addy?

“Mariah Trent is a friend of mine, too,” she explained. “She’s also hoping you and Paris give each other a chance.”

“Your sister was pretty adamant that she wasn’t interested.”

“She lied,” Prue said as though completely convinced that was true. “She was a little flustered after she left here. Paris is never flustered.”

“Really.”

“Yes. She thought you were handsome and charming. She tried not to make it sound as though those were good things, but I think they made an impact on her. And she’s trying to ignore it because she’s struggling right now.”

He wasn’t sure if it was okay to ask what she was struggling with. Then deciding honesty had always served him better than calculation, he asked, “A man?”

She smiled, but there was curiously little humor in it. “Yes, but not in the way you’d think. She could use a friend. Sometimes a man understands what a devoted mother and sister just don’t get.”

That was cryptic. He wasn’t really into mysterious women. He liked them openhearted and easy to understand. Still, this woman was warm yet distant—a contradiction in terms. There was that scientific element that fascinated him despite his usual preferences to the contrary.

“You didn’t eat the chocolate,” Prue noted, closing the wallet.

“I thought it was probably as important to her as the money.”

Prue grinned. “Even more so at the moment. I’m a dress designer on the side, and she’s going to model for me at a library benefit. I made her promise to cut way back on chocolate.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I thought she looked pretty great.”

“I’ll tell her you said that.” She offered her hand again. “I have to tell you I’m now officially on Addy’s side. Nice to meet you, Randy Sanford.”

“Nice to meet you,” he replied. Though the experience was a little like being mowed down by a runaway train.

He waved her off as she drove away, then went to his car, smiling at the thought that Paris O’Hara had been flustered.

By him.




CHAPTER THREE


“THE MIRANDA POOLE AGENCY.” A slightly bored voice with a pseudo British accent answered the telephone. Paris felt her courage wane. Her mother had often talked about her very first agent, and Paris had looked her up on the Internet, somewhat surprised to see that she was still in business. But would her mother’s agent know about Paris’s father?

She might very well know something, Paris answered herself with a fortifying toss of her hair. One of the few bits of information her mother had given her was that they’d been represented by the same agent. That was how they’d met.

Paris assumed a tone of voice a shade deeper and more authoritative than her usual courteous manner. “May I speak to Ms. Poole, please? This is Paris O’Hara calling.”

There was a momentary pause. “Does Miss Poole represent you?”

“No, but she represented my mother some time ago.”

That was almost a non sequitur, but not quite. The voice didn’t seem to know what to make of it.

“Who was your mother?”

“Camille Malone.”

“Hold on a moment,” she advised.

A cheerful New York voice came on the line almost immediately. “Miranda Poole,” she said. “Camille, is that you?”

“No,” Paris replied, sitting up straight at the kitchen table to sustain her woman-in-charge attitude. It was threatening to bail on her. “This is Camille’s daughter, Paris. I was wondering if you could answer a few questions for me.”

“About Camille?”

“About…another actor you represented at the same time. Jeffrey St. John.”

“Ah, yes,” Miranda replied. “He and Camille were in the chorus of Damn Yankees together as I recall.”

“That’s him.” Paris’s heart thudded against her ribs. Now came the tricky part. She had to make her willing to share information without revealing that he’d gotten her mother pregnant, something her mother claimed no one had known. If she could at least confirm where he’d come from, she’d have somewhere to start in an effort to find out what kind of man he’d been. “I understand he was from Florida.”

“That’s right,” Miranda replied. “Still is, last I heard. Got one of those photo cards from him at Christmas. He and his sons have formed a band and they’re working clubs from Daytona to Miami Beach.”

Still is. The words rang over and over in Paris’s ears. For a moment she couldn’t speak.

“Paris?” Miranda asked.

“He’s…” Paris had to clear her throat and try again. “He’s alive?”

“Of course he’s alive. You kids, honestly. A person turns sixty and you think the warranty automatically runs out. I’m eighty-three and still placing the best talent in New York.” Paris heard the sound of paper being shuffled on the other end of the line. “I don’t seem to have kept his number,” Miranda said, “but he shouldn’t be hard to find if he’s working clubs. Performers like privacy off duty, but they can’t make themselves too hard to find or they won’t get work. I think it was a Fort Lauderdale address.”

Paris was still speechless.

“How is your mother?” Miranda asked. “She was such a game girl. Once played a pickle in one of the first commercials for Burger Bungalow. A lot of actors won’t take those roles, but your mother paid her rent with whatever came her way. Not too many actors like that today.”

“She’s fine,” Paris replied, finally regaining a fraction of her composure. “She’s in Africa on a fashion shoot right now.”

“She was a beautiful girl. I suppose she’s matured into a handsome matron.”

“She has,” Paris confirmed, then thanked Miranda for her cooperation. She hung up the phone, thinking that it was a good thing her mother had experience playing a pickle, because she was going to find herself in one the moment Paris got a hold of her.

Paris paced the living room with its unobstructed view of the lake, but failed to notice the setting sun, the ducks sheltering in the reeds, the lone sailboat dawdling across the middle of the lake, its running lights streaking a pattern across the water as it moved. She usually took such pleasure in the beautiful, quiet moments when she was alone in the house without her charming but chattering mother and sister.

Tonight, all she could think about was that her mother had lied to her. Twice! First, she hadn’t bothered to tell her that Jasper O’Hara was not her biological father, then, when confronted with Paris’s evidence to that effect, she’d lied again, and told her her father was dead.

To think Paris had waited a year, trying to respect her mother’s sensitive feelings on the subject. Only the need to pull her life together after a year of floundering had made her desperate for more information.

She couldn’t believe it. What had motivated her mother to do such a thing? It wasn’t as though Jeffrey St. John had been some demented villain. Certainly, the plain-spoken Miranda Poole would have said something about that.

Paris guessed that her mother decided life would be simpler without an ex-lover’s involvement in it, so she’d lied.

Then she paced a little more and realized that probably wasn’t true. While her mother often had the quality of a diva about her, she wasn’t prone to selfish decisions.

Camille Malone O’Hara had been a beauty queen, then a model, then an actress, and a beautiful face and body were still very much a priority with her. She ate only healthy foods, worked out every day at the gym and chose her wardrobe with skill and care. And she was always after Paris and Prue to do the same.

Prue had a natural inclination to fall into step, but for Paris, all her mother’s encouragement had done was remind her that she took after her father and would never be gorgeous.

So, her mother could be…superficial. But, usually, when it came to her daughters, she did everything in her power to be supportive.

Still—she’d lied twice, so maybe in regard to this particular issue, her maternal instincts could not be relied upon.

Angry and exasperated after hours of thinking about her situation and her mother, Paris tried to call her. She stopped first to try to figure out what time it was in Morocco. Five hours ahead of Boston. She glanced at her watch. It was 11:00 p.m. It would be 4:00 a.m. She didn’t care and called anyway.

She sympathized for just a moment with the sleepy sound of the voice that answered the phone. Camille, she was told, had taken off with a photographer and two other models. They would be back in several days. Until then, there was no way to reach them.

“You’re telling me,” she asked, “that in an age of cell phones, e-mail, faxes and global positioning, they’re out of touch?”

The foggy voice sighed. “Is it an emergency?”

Yes, it’s an emergency! she wanted to shout. Who the hell am I? I need to know. But she understood that while it was important to her, it didn’t warrant sending out a search party or otherwise alarming everyone on the shoot.

“No,” she replied finally. “I’m sorry I bothered you.”

“Shall I have her call you when she comes in?”

“No,” she replied. “Never mind. Thank you.” She could pursue this herself without her mother’s help.

Prue came home an hour later and sympathized while she made tea.

“Why would Mom have lied to me again?” Paris demanded.

Prue took the boiling kettle off the stove and poured water into a fat brown teapot she’d already warmed with hot water and fitted with a loose tea infuser. Had Paris been doing it, she’d have simply poured hot water into two mugs and dunked a tea bag, but Prue was into ritual. She carried the pot to the table, put a calico cozy on it, then went back to the cupboard for china cups and saucers.

“It’s pretty obvious she doesn’t want you to meet him, whoever he is,” Prue said frankly.

“I have a right to know who he is.”

“Not if he’s going to hurt you.”

Paris gasped impatiently. “Prue, life isn’t all about hair and makeup and cups that match the teapot! Sometimes it’s messy, and if that’s my life, I have a right to know.”

Prue frowned at her testy remark. “Yes. I’m not telling you you don’t have a right to know, I’m just speculating on why Mom won’t tell you.”

“Well, I’m going to call him.” Paris whipped the cozy off the pot and poured the weak but steaming tea into Prue’s cup, feeling guilty for snapping at her. Then she poured her own. “First thing in the morning.”

“What if you get his wife, who doesn’t know he fathered a child that isn’t hers? Or one of his boys?”

“I’ll be careful. I won’t talk to anyone but him.”

“Okay.” Prue dipped her spoon into the sugar bowl. “Want me to drive for you in the morning so you can make the call? I’m not sure it’s a good idea, but I know you’ll do what you want to do, anyway.”

“The truth,” Paris said loftily, “is always the right thing.”

“Noble,” Prue acknowledged, “but probably not always right.”

“You can’t pick and choose with it,” Paris countered.

Prue stirred the sugar into her tea. “You should go back to law school. You certainly sound like a lawyer. All black and white, right and wrong.”

“Before I can do anything relating to my future,” Paris insisted, “I have to settle this. Good or bad, I have to know. And then I can go on.”

“What if it’s harder than you think?”

“I can handle it.” At least, that was her plan.

Prue sighed. “Well, you’re a better woman than I am. I’d be happy knowing Jasper loved me like his own.”

“I do love knowing that,” Paris said defensively. “I just also need to know who my biological father is. Then I can reorganize my life and get somewhere with it.”

“I thought you were doing pretty well. You provide a much-needed service in this town.”

Paris sipped at her tea. “I like the work, but anybody could do it.”

“I don’t think so,” Prue argued. “Not everyone would let the old folks run a tab, or keep an eye out for runaways, or take the homeless to the clinic as a service to the community.”

“It’s a custodial world. We’re supposed to take care of one another.”

Prue shook her head at her. “That’s radical thinking in today’s world. Well, maybe not in Maple Hill, but almost anywhere else. You certainly don’t hear that kind of talk in political circles, I assure you. Except for Gideon, and that apparently was just a front.”

Paris decided they’d talked enough about her problems. Prue was doing her best to be supportive, and the least she could do was return the favor. “Do you miss that life?” she asked. “The politics and the power parties?”

“Sometimes.” Prue pushed away from the table and went to the cupboard for a box of thin ginger cookies she claimed were a safe indulgence. Paris thought it a crime to waste valuable calories on something that wasn’t chocolate or cream-filled, but she was determined to be cooperative. She took a cookie when Prue offered her the box.

Prue fell back into her chair. “Then I remember all the nights Gideon came home after midnight, all the plans we had to cancel at the last minute, all the things we planned to do but never got to because something more important had to be taken care of. I accepted it at the time, but now that I don’t have to, I’m happy to live for me.”

“It’s hard to believe,” Paris said quietly, “that Gideon would have done that to you. The intern, I mean.”

Prue grew defensive. She always did when Paris suggested that fooling around with an intern in their summer home in Maine was unlike her brother-in-law’s straight-arrow approach to life and politics. “You always take his side, but I saw it with my own eyes. They were on the sofa, and she was in her underwear. How else would you explain that?”

“I don’t know,” Paris replied, “but I think I’d have asked that he try.”

“He’s a politician.” Prue’s eyes filled with turbulence, and her cheeks with color—other effects Gideon’s name always had on her. “He can explain away anything. I know what I saw, and no one’s going to make me believe that it wasn’t what it looked like.” She leaned back in her chair and sighed. “Washington does that to you. The success of your cause is worth whatever it takes to accomplish it. Men wheel and deal, gain power, make life-and-death decisions for millions of people and finally come to believe that they deserve whatever they want in recompense.”

Again, that didn’t sound like Gideon. Paris remembered him when he was an alderman in Finchbury, a town on the other side of Springfield, and fought big money and the almost rabid historic conservationists who wanted to oust every resident and retailer in a block of old buildings downtown and turn the area into an interpretive center. He’d slaved for a year to get the funding to restore the buildings, maintain the businesses and the residences, and turn a large upstairs room into a sort of miniconvention center. Everyone praised his efforts as the perfect combination of conservation and commerce.

But Paris kept that to herself. Prue’s ignition switch was always hot where her soon-to-be ex-husband was concerned.

“Well, the best revenge is living well, they say.” She reached across the table to pat Prue’s hand. “And you’re about to become a brilliant designer.” She gave her sister a small grin. “And if I’m going to have to eat these ginger things until the fashion show, you’d better move up the date.”



“SAINTS AND SINNERS!” A smooth voice answered the phone just after nine the following morning. Paris had stared at the phone for a full hour before mustering the courage to dial. She’d told Prue she’d make her call at 8:00 a.m.

At eight-fifteen, Prue had anxiously checked with her. “What did he say?”

“I haven’t called yet,” Paris had admitted.

“I’m sorry. I’m not rushing you.”

“It’s all right. I’m calling now.”

Prue checked again at eight-thirty.

“I still haven’t done it. But I’m going to. Now.”

“You’re sure you want to know?”

“I’m sure.”

The voice was younger than Jeffrey St. John would be, Paris felt sure. She tried to sound like a prospective client.

“I’d like to speak to Jeffrey St. John, please,” she said.

“This is Jeffrey St. John,” the voice replied. “Did you want to make a booking?”

“Jeffrey St. John,” she asked carefully, “who was in the chorus of Damn Yankees?”

The voice laughed. “That was my father. But I’m in charge of our scheduling.”

“I need to speak with him please,” she said pleasantly, but as though she would brook no argument.

He hesitated an instant. “Well…he’s on the golf course. But I can page him and have him call you.”

“That would be nice, thank you,” she said, and passed on the pertinent information. Then she paced and trembled for ten minutes while waiting for the return call.

Jeffrey St. John Sr.’s voice was a little gravelly and reminded her of Tony Bennett. She imagined him in her mind’s eye when she introduced herself. “I’m Paris O’Hara,” she said, sounding far more confident than she felt. “I’m Camille Malone’s daughter.”

“Camille Malone…” St. John repeated, as though having to think about it. Paris was immediately alarmed. Would a man have to think twice about the name of a woman he’d impregnated? Of course, her mother had said she hadn’t told anyone. It had never occurred to her that she might not have told him.

“You were in the chorus of Damn Yankees together,” Paris reminded him. “Miranda Poole represented both of you.”

“I remember her,” he said finally. “She was small and blond with a voice like Ethel Merman’s! How is she?”

“Oh, fine,” Paris replied, whipping up her courage. “She’s modeling in Morocco at the moment and I’m…I’m sort of…on a search for my father.”

“Ah,” he said, as though he understood and was waiting for more.

She wanted him to volunteer it without her having to ask. But that didn’t seem to be happening.

“Are you…?” she began, and stopped short when she heard his intake of breath.

“Now, wait a minute,” he said, his voice a gasp. “You aren’t thinking that’s me?”

“I was, yes,” she admitted. Then she asked candidly, “Are you?”

“No!” he insisted, his voice rising a decibel. Then he lowered it and repeated, “No. Your mother and I were friends, we hung out together in a group and enjoyed each other’s company, but we were never intimate. I was married.”

“Mr. St. John, I don’t want anything from you,” she said, certain he had to be lying to protect his family. “And I promise I won’t tell a soul. Your family doesn’t have to know. It’s just that I need to know. Please. Tell me the truth.”

“Miss O’Hara.” A strain of sympathy mingled with the denial in his voice. “I’m telling you the truth. I understand your need to find your father, but…I promise you it isn’t me. Wouldn’t you do a better job of this if you asked Camille? What made you believe it’s me?”

She didn’t want to tell him that her mother had given her his name. It seemed like a betrayal, though this apparent third lie was seriously battering Paris’s loyalty.

“I’ve been doing some investigating on my own while my mother’s out of the country,” she replied. “I…may have taken a wrong turn.”

“What’s your birthdate?” he asked.

“March 20,” she answered, “1977.”

“Okay, so…” He was apparently calculating. “I did HMS Pinafore in London from April through November 1976. Miranda Poole can verify that. I wasn’t even around. If memory serves, your mother was playing Martha Jefferson in 1776 on Broadway.”

If that was all true, it was convincing proof of her misdirected data.

“You are mistaken,” he said gently. “I’m sorry. Your mother was a wonderful friend and had I met her when I was still single…” His voice trailed off, silenced by the possibilities. Then he went on. “Dora is the mother of my sons. I wouldn’t have done that to her, rest her soul.”

Paris heaved an accepting sigh. “All right. I’m so sorry I bothered you.” She talked over him as he apologized again. “No, no, it’s not your fault. I just got my clues a little twisted.”

“You should ask your mother.”

He was absolutely right. “I should. Thank you for calling me back. Good luck with your career and your family.”

“Good luck to you, young lady. And…if you can’t find him, I wouldn’t mind standing in for him if you need your car tinkered with, rude clerks leaned on or sage romantic advice.”

She had to smile at that. And feel a little regret that he wasn’t her father.

“Thank you,” she said sincerely. “I’ll remember that.”

Paris hung up the phone and called Miranda immediately. She was clearly mystified by Paris’s questions, but looked through her files and corroborated everything Jeffrey St. John had told Paris.

She felt as though she was going to explode. She reached for a cup of coffee, then changed her mind. She was so enervated, coffee would only make matters worse. And she couldn’t reach for wine because she had to relieve Prue.

Chocolate! she thought. That contained caffeine, too, but it was charged also with serotonin, a mood booster. And her frame of mind was now somewhere below sea level. As she dialed Prue, she praised the scientists who’d made that discovery. Slender hips for Prue’s fashion show would have to take a back seat—no pun intended—to her sanity.

“What do you mean, it’s not him?” Prue asked as they stood in the driveway, the driver’s side door of the cab open, the motor idling.

“I mean Mom lied to me again,” Paris said calmly, doing her best to prevent her anger and disappointment from boiling over. “I mean Jeffrey St. John is not my father.”

Prue studied her worriedly. “Maybe he lied, Paris. Certainly someone presented with that question and unprepared for—”

“He was in London when Mom got pregnant with me. Their agent confirmed that.”

Prue wrapped her arms around Paris. “I’m sorry.”

Paris held on for a moment, then pushed her gently away. “It’s all right. I’ll be fine. You get to work on your designs.” She jingled the car keys. “I’m off.”

“I could work until four. Give you time to…adjust.”

Paris shook her head and slipped behind the wheel. “I’m okay. I’ll probably work late, but if I get tired, I’ll call you.”

“Paris…”

“Thanks for this morning. You get to work. I’m going to drive and think about things.”

“You should drive and think about driving!” Prue shouted over the sound of the motor.

“I will!” Paris promised as she drove away. “But, first,” she said to herself. “I’m buying chocolate.”



RANDY AND CHILLY WERE helping shred lettuce for Paul Balducci’s famous taco salad when Kitty came into the firehouse kitchen with the call.

“Berkshire Cab was T-boned at the northwest intersection of the Common,” she said urgently. “Single occupant, female. Caller says she’s conscious but a little incoherent.”

Randy and Chilly were already running toward the rig.

She drove for a living, Randy thought, edgy and anxious as he raced the rig to the scene. You’d think she’d be careful at intersections. And why was his heart thumping? He was always steady as a rock.

Because he was a compassionate human being, that’s why, and he knew this woman. That was all it was.

But he felt a great jolt in his chest when they arrived on the scene and found the Berkshire Cab crunched. Fortunately, it was on the passenger side. But he couldn’t see Paris for the people crowded around her. Chilly ran interference for him while Randy got their gear.

“How you doing, Miss O’Hara?” Chilly asked as he opened the door. Randy knelt on one knee and took her pulse. She was pale and her voice was strained when she tried to grin and said, “I’ll bet the car that hit me was Addy’s. She’ll do…anything to get us together.”

She sounded as though she was gasping for air, but her vitals were good. Her pulse was a little fast, but her heartbeat was steady and she was awake and responsive.

“Did you hit your chest against the steering wheel?” he asked as he worked over her arms, feeling for breaks.

“No,” she replied. “The collision just…jarred me.”

“Legs hurt?”

“No.”

“Can you move them?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know your name?”

The look she gave him was enough to tell him she hadn’t sustained a blow to the head. “I’m the woman who refuses to date you, remember?”

“Is she okay?” A worried older woman clutching a quilted handbag stood on the other side of the open door. “I thought she saw me. She looked at me, but she kept on going. I couldn’t stop in time.”

“I think it was my fault,” Paris said to Randy, that tight sound in her whisper. “The stop was on my side. I stopped, but…I didn’t see her.”

“That’s right,” a young man standing behind the older woman confirmed. “I saw it all. She stopped, but she mustn’t have seen the car coming ’cause she took off again.”

A police officer had arrived on the scene and was making notes.

“I’m fine. Really.” Paris used the side of the door to pull herself to her feet.

Randy reached out to steady her, suddenly understanding the pained voice with no corroborating physical evidence of injury. It didn’t reflect pain, but a strong effort to hold back tears.

“Chilly’s gone for the gurney,” he said, still holding on to her. “You seem fine, but we’re going to take you to the ER and let them look you over to make sure.”

“No, I’m…”

“Rules, Paris,” he said, ignoring her protests. “Just relax. Here’s the gurney. Just sit down and I’ll swing your legs up. Tell me if anything hurts.”

“Just my insurance premium,” she joked thinly.

“Well, that’s lucky,” he said as Chilly drew the light blanket over her. “Because we can fix that without surgery.”

He sat in the back with her while Chilly drove.



MAYBE IT WASN’T THE WORST day of her life, Paris thought, her head throbbing and her ears ringing as she held her breath, but it was running a close second.

Randy, leaning over her, frowned worriedly. “Relax, Paris,” he advised, watching monitors. “Breathe. You’re okay. Just breathe.”

She expelled a breath because she just couldn’t hold it anymore, and as she suspected, a loud sob erupted from her. She burst into tears.

She’d always scorned weakness in people. She’d loved her mother and her sister, but considered them a little frivolous according to the standards she’d set for herself. She was going to do big things. Go to law school. Defend the friendless.

Then one piece of bad news had thrown her for a loop. She’d been unable to go back to school, unable to pursue her dream. She’d started Berkshire Cab in an attempt to keep going, to help support the household. But now she’d run a stop sign, hit the car of a poor little old lady and probably damaged her driving record. Not to mention the cab.

She felt a gentle hand on her cheek.

“Hey,” Randy said quietly. “It’s going to be all right. I don’t think you’re hurt, and the woman you hit isn’t hurt. That’s about the best outcome you can hope for. There’s no reason to cry.”

For reasons she couldn’t explain, she began to cry harder.

“My car!” she wailed.

“You had a good dent in the passenger side,” he said, that gentle hand stroking her hair. “But it looked like just body work to me. It’s expensive, but I presume you’re insured.”

“I am.” She sniffled and coughed. “But they’ll probably drop me now. And I’ll have to find something to drive until my car’s fixed.”

“Doesn’t your sister have a car?”

She shook her head. “She had a Porsche she sold when she came back home. Mom’s car is at the airport.”

“Well, I’m sure there’s a solution. You have to look at the bright side. None of the terrible things that could have happened did. You got off easy. And a couple of days’ rest will do you good, I’m sure. When you’re overworked, it’s easy to be distracted.”

She wanted to take offense, but her attention was diverted by the soothing hand in her hair, the thumb sweeping tears from her cheek.

“I wasn’t distracted, I was…upset.” She sounded petulant. She hated that. She drew a deep breath and tried to pull herself together.

“Is it something you need to talk about?”

She looked into his concerned eyes and considered sharing the strange stuff about her mother and how she kept lying about Paris’s father. But he had his own problems. Also, she’d been trying to get rid of the distracting annoyances in her life. And he was one of them.

Though it didn’t seem like that at the moment.

She closed her eyes. “No, thank you,” she said. “It was all my fault because I was going for chocolate and I’m supposed to have sworn off it.”

She opened her eyes again to see that he was smiling.

“Right,” he said. “The fashion show.”

She looked surprised. She tried to sit up but he pushed her gently back. “Stay quiet,” he urged. “Prue told me when she picked up your wallet.”

Of course. Trust Prue to tell a handsome man her whole life’s story—and Paris’s as well.

“Chocolate’s better when you’re upset than a cigarette,” he said, putting a hand on her waist to steady her as the ambulance made a turn. “Here we are. The nurse can call your sister for you.”

“No,” she said as he tightened the belt that held her to the gurney. “I don’t want to bother her.”

He grinned. “You can’t take a cab home when you’re released now, can you? You’re the only service in town.”

That was a problem she hadn’t considered. “I’ll get home,” she said. Then the ambulance doors opened, and in a sudden hubbub of activity, she was hauled out of the ambulance and into the emergency room.

It took several hours to determine that she was fine. No bones broken, no muscles pulled, no impact injury to her head or stomach.

The only other good thing to come out of that morning was that the officer told her she wouldn’t be charged with reckless driving. Her insurance agent had appeared, assessed the damage to the cab and the other woman’s car, and assured her that she was covered. She thanked heaven for life in a small town.

She was released shortly after two in the afternoon. She was trying to decide who she could call to take her home when she noticed Randy walking into the ER in civilian clothes—a pair of snug jeans and a Maple Hill Marathon T-shirt stretched over muscular shoulders and tucked in at the flat waist of his jeans.

She felt a powerful jolt of physical awareness.

He strode toward her, intercepting her as she headed for the public telephone.

“You’re looking good,” he said with a smile and a somewhat clinical scan of her body from head to toe. “How do you feel?”

She nodded, embarrassed at the memory that she’d cried all over him. “Fine. I’m fine. I’m…going home. Are you still working?”

“No. I asked Julie to let me know when you were released.”

“Julie?” she asked.

He pointed to the nurse who’d assisted the doctor.

Julie looked up from a computer screen as he said her name and winked at him.

He took Paris’s arm and led her toward the door. “I’ll take you home.”

“I thought your shift didn’t end until four.”

“That’s right. But I got somebody to cover my last two hours so I could take you home and show you what you’re missing by not going out with me.”

She rolled her eyes at him, knowing she should refuse but feeling very halfhearted about it.

He put an arm around her shoulders and continued toward the door. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said in a cavalier voice. “You’re vulnerable, I’m charming, and I’m going to choose this moment to demonstrate my sexual prowess and make you incapable of resisting me. Am I right?”

She had to smile. “Not even close. I would never be incapable of resisting you.”

He pushed the doors open and they stepped out into the warm and breezy mid-September afternoon. He challenged her with a look. “Well, that sounded pretty confident. Is that why you’re afraid to date me? You don’t want to be wrong about that?”

“I’m not afraid to date you,” she corrected him, following as he pointed to a dark green LeBaron and led the way. She stopped in her tracks when she saw the Berkshire Cab sign on the driver’s door. “What…?” she gasped.

He caught her arm and drew her toward the car.

“I had your car towed to the body shop but salvaged the magnetic sign. You said you needed something else to drive while yours was laid up.”

“But whose…?”

“It’s mine.” He opened the passenger-side door and urged her inside. It had beige leather upholstery and had apparently just been vacuumed out. She could smell carpet freshener. “I have an old pickup I can use until you get the cab back.”

He walked around the car, slid behind the wheel, then grinned at her as he started the motor. It purred with a strong, healthy sound. While she continued to stare at him, openmouthed, he reached a long arm into the back seat and handed her a white oblong box tied with a gold ribbon. Gold lettering on the lid of the box said it was a pound of Fanny Farmer chocolates.

She didn’t even have a gasp left.

“Come on, now,” he said with a smile into her eyes. “Tell me you’re not just a little bit in love with me.”

She knew the admission would upset everything, particularly her determination to keep her distance. But there were too many lies in her life to add another one.

“Maybe just a little,” she conceded, returning the smile.




CHAPTER FOUR


“BUT IT MAY BE ONLY temporary,” Paris qualified quickly, slipping the ribbon off, then removing the lid. “Chocolate’s only a temporary gratification, you know.” Then she sighed and he felt her turn to look at him as he left the hospital parking lot and headed for the road that would take them to the lake. A sudden quiet filled the car.

“Although, the thoughtfulness of lending me your car,” she said in a slightly husky voice, “inspires a very permanent gratitude. I can’t believe you’d do that for me.”

He glanced at her, discovered that she looked worried about it, and didn’t want that. “It’s not a hardship,” he said. “I assure you.”

“But it’s very sweet, all the same.”

That wasn’t entirely true, but he wasn’t about to admit to that. He’d keep his ulterior motives to himself.

“Thank you,” he accepted modestly. “So, you aren’t as immune to my charms as you thought you were.”

“Apparently not,” she whispered.

“What was that?” he teased, holding a hand to his ear.

“Apparently not!” she repeated in a louder tone. “Do you want a piece of chocolate?”

“Please.”

“Nut or soft center?”

“Surprise me.”

He held his right hand out and she placed a peanut cluster in it.

“Enjoy that,” she said, “because I’m not sharing any more.” She selected a chocolate, bit it in half and made a soft sound of pleasure. “Oohh.” There was a moment’s silence while she finished the morsel, then she seemed to suffer eater’s remorse.

She hit his arm with the box lid, then covered the chocolates. “This is going to set me back five or six pounds, at least!” she complained. “I’ll never fit into the red dress, and Prue’s going to be filled with recriminations! I mean, we’re just starting to get along, and this is one thing I can do for her, though I’d rather be shaved bald than walk down a runway in front of hundreds of people! And she’s going to be furious with me because I’m going to look lumpy in her clothes! It’s going to be like high school all over again!”

“What about high school?”

“We hated each other,” she said, reaching over the seat to put the chocolates in the back. The action brought them into fairly close contact as she braced her hand on his shoulder to reach the back seat. He felt the softness of her breast against his arm and caught a whiff of jasmine.

Her eyes met his, just inches away, and he forgot completely about the road ahead.

She sat back quickly.

He was grateful that the road was straight, and that there was nothing in front of him.

“She was beautiful and I was…more cerebral. I hated her because every boy who came to our home noticed her and not me, and she hated me because I got the grades and she was always having to explain to our parents why hers were so low.”

“That’s just the usual kid stuff, isn’t it?”

“It would be,” she said, sounding distracted, “if the father we both adored growing up hadn’t turned out to be her father, but not mine.”

“That’s what you were thinking about this morning,” he guessed, “when you didn’t see the oncoming car.”

She nodded regretfully, then folded her arms, clearly upset with herself that she’d shared that. “I can’t believe I didn’t see that car. Well, I must have seen it, but somehow it just didn’t register.”

“I’m sure discovering that your parent isn’t really your parent is pretty heavy stuff. You just found out?”

She told him how she accidentally learned in a college class that her father could not be hers biologically. About coming back to Maple Hill to confront her mother, who seemed to have explained away the situation with a series of lies.

“My mother left for a photo shoot in Africa a few days ago,” Paris said. “And I determined that while she was gone, I was going to find out for myself who my father was.”

“But…you said she told you he was dead.”

“Yes, but she lied. Well, at least the man whose name she gave me is very much alive. And he denies being my father.”

“He could be lying, too.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then…I guess you have to somehow convince your mother that you can take the truth.”

“Take the truth.” She leaned back against the headrest. “Why would she think I can’t take it? Certainly she wouldn’t be the first unwed mother, if that’s the case. Anyway, I’d just talked to Jeffrey St. John this morning—that’s the man she told me was my father—and I was a little upset and on my way to the market to buy a giant candy bar.”

“There was half of one in your wallet,” he said, turning onto Lake Road.

She made a face at him. “Prue ate it when she drove last night.”

He laughed. “You mean, she denies you but eats it herself?”

“She can,” she said. “She’s very petite. It’s that yellow house.”

She pointed to a big bungalow with a private dock and a considerable amount of lakefront. He pulled into a short driveway with yellow chrysanthemums on both sides.

Prue, wearing overalls and a broad-brimmed sun hat, was weeding the beds. She looked up in surprise, then stood as he pulled up to the rear steps.

“Isn’t she like a cover of Better Homes and Gardens magazine?” Paris asked. “Dressed in grubbies and somehow still a picture.”

He had to agree. “She’s a very attractive woman. But so are you. And while confidence is sexy, there’s something about vulnerability that’s very appealing.”

She looked at him in surprise.

“What happened?” Prue asked, putting the basket and scissors down at the sight of Paris’s pale face. Then she noticed the Berkshire Cab sign on the strange car. “Where’s the wagon?”

Paris explained briefly about the accident. “The wagon’s going to be in the shop for a couple of days, so Randy’s lending us his car.”

“That’s very kind of you.” She gave Randy a knowing look, as though suspecting his interest in her sister motivated his kindness. Then she returned her attention to Paris. “But are you okay? Have you seen a doctor?”

Paris started for the house, telling her sister about the trip to the emergency room. Then she seemed to remember him.

He was wondering if he was going to have to walk home when she studied him consideringly, then drew a deep breath. “I’m going to make him a sandwich, then you can take him home when you start your shift.”

She glanced at her watch. “I’d better start early. We have a Wednesday afternoon regular, don’t we? Two-thirty?”

Paris put a hand to her forehead and groaned. “I forgot! The Lightfoot sisters and their weekly tea party with Mariah at Perk Avenue.” The Lightfoot sisters ran the Maple Hill Manor School where Mariah once worked. “And I was congratulating myself on having picked a slow afternoon to have an accident. No calls backed up on the cell phone.”

“Not a problem.” Prue snatched the phone and whipped the sun hat off her head. “I’ll take over now, then you can call me when Randy’s ready to go home. I like it when you owe me.” Then she used her hat to point at the box in Paris’s hands. “Is that chocolate?”

Paris clutched it to her and her expression grew firm. “They were a gift from Randy when he picked me up at the hospital. You can trust me with them. We made a deal.”

Prue nodded, looking unconvinced. “All I ask is that you remember the red dress.”

“I will, I will,” Paris promised.

With a doubtful look back at her sister, and a scolding look for Randy, Prue hurried off to the house.

Paris beckoned him to follow her.

The house looked like a place occupied by three women, though it had none of the colonial or sometimes Victorian air with which many of the locals decorated their homes. It was all bright colors and floral patterns in the upholstery and the curtains, lending it a sort of patio flavor. He wondered if the women’s mother had tried to bring Southern California with her when she followed her husband here.

They walked into a living room that was painted bright red with white farm-style furniture upholstered in a slate-blue fabric covered with red-and-cream flowers. A coordinating plaid covered a fainting couch and another chair.

He heard Prue run up the stairs while Paris led the way into a huge cream-colored kitchen that looked very up-to-date. The cupboards had wire-mesh fronts, and several bottom ones were fitted with basket bins for produce. An old-fashioned iron stove attracted his attention, but upon closer inspection, he noticed that what appeared to be a wood box was really just an extension of a very large oven, and it wasn’t iron at all, just designed to appear to be. The refrigerator and the dishwasher matched with the same convex black panels and gold filigree trim.

A long work island in the middle of the room boasted a small sink on one end and stools on the far side.

This made his Spartan apartment look even more basic, and muddled his impression of Paris and her mother and sister as three women struggling to get by.

“Wow,” he said simply.

She had opened the refrigerator door and turned to peer at him in question.

He spread his arms to indicate the room. “I have a corridor kitchen that’s about eight feet long with barely room to turn around. This is very elegant.”

She nodded. “My dad was very handy,” she said, then with a quick frown, corrected herself. “You know. Jasper. Prue’s dad. My…stepdad, I guess.” Then she seemed to tire of deciding what to call him and just went on. “He loved to putter in his spare time and Mom always had an idea of how to make things more useful and more beautiful. She has a real gift for decorating.”

“I’ll say.”

“Turkey and Swiss, or ham and cheddar?” She held up deli packs of lunch meat.

He went toward her. “Is ham and Swiss out of the question?”

“Unorthodox,” she replied, selecting those from her collection, “but not out of the question. Whole wheat or sourdough?”

“Whole wheat.”

“Grilled or cold?”

“Cold. Can I do anything to help?”

She pointed to the work island. “Just pull up a stool and relax. We can eat out on the deck. It’s my favorite place.”

He obeyed. She seemed to be relaxing and he didn’t want to do anything to interrupt the process.

She made the sandwiches quickly and efficiently while standing opposite him at the work island. She added a bread-and-butter pickle to each plate, then pulled a face at him. “Ordinarily, I’d add potato chips to this, but in view of the red dress, we’d better make it carrot sticks.”

“I’m not wearing the red dress,” he teased.

She raised an eyebrow at him. “You mean, you’d make me watch you eat chips while I have to eat carrot sticks?”

“Depends.” He was suddenly aware of an angle he could work. “Do I have some sort of stake in this dress?”

She looked confused. “I don’t understand.”

“Well, it occurs to me that I could support your effort to get in shape for this notorious red dress,” he bargained, “if you’ll go somewhere with me while you’re wearing it. Bearing in mind that I don’t think training’s really necessary. I think you look pretty terrific already.”

She tried to withhold a smile at the compliment but didn’t quite succeed. She pretended to concentrate on cutting the sandwiches at an angle. “It’s for the fashion show,” she said.

He nodded. “I understand that. But we could go somewhere after the show.”

She put the knife down and frowned at him. “Why are you doing this,” she asked, “when you were so determined to avoid me while Addy was trying to get us together?”

“Simple,” he answered. “I hadn’t met you then.”

She handed him two cans of diet soda, then, carrying the plate, led the way onto the deck.

It had a magnificent view of Maple Hill Lake. It was absolutely quiet at the moment, nothing moving on it but a family of mallards several yards away. The afternoon sun shone brightly on it, bees hummed, and water lapped against the dock with a sound he’d always found quieting. The breeze was a little cool as fall took hold.

They settled onto a canopied glider fitted with cup holders. He put a soda can in each hole, and she placed the plate between them on the blue-and-yellow upholstered seat.

“But everyone who knows you,” she went on, continuing their conversation from the kitchen, “says you’re not interested in a relationship.”

She took half a sandwich and gestured him to do the same. He did. “People always think they know what other people are thinking.”

She leaned into a corner of the glider and met his gaze. He could tell she was going to ask him something difficult.





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