a piece of rope that looked inadequate. Even as Allison watched, the dog made a dive for the nearest display rack, which was hung with an assortment of baby crib quilts.
“No!” Allison’s instinctive cry was echoed by Nick, and he hauled the dog back by the rope. The animal didn’t seem to show any resentment of the handling. It sat on Nick’s foot and looked up at him with an adoring doggie expression, tongue lolling.
“Is this bring-your-dog-to-work day?” she asked tartly.
“Not my dog,” Nick replied, his face relaxing in a grin that invited her to share his amusement. “A beauty, isn’t he?”
Her expression must have spoken for her, because he chuckled.
Sarah hurried to interpose herself between them with the air of one who was used to being a buffer between fractious personalities. “I see Ruffy showed up again. Mr. Sheldon must have let him slip out of the house.”
“Who is Mr. Sheldon, and why is his dog here?” Surely, as what she supposed was provisional owner of the building, she had the right to ask.
“Randall Sheldon had an office upstairs before he retired,” Nick said.
“And Ruffy used to come to work with him every day,” Sarah contributed. “Ruffy doesn’t seem to understand retirement. He keeps trying to come to work.”
By this time the dog was sniffing at Allison’s boots, probably smelling Hector on them. She stepped back. “Wouldn’t it be a good idea to call this Mr. Sheldon to pick him up?”
“No need.” Nick hauled the animal to him, forestalling an effort to pursue Allison and the interesting smell of cat. “I’ll take him home. Sarah, I’m expecting Mr. and Mrs. Pierce in to look at cabinets. Will you tell them to start looking around? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Of course,” Sarah said. “Give my best to Mr. Sheldon.”
Nick nodded. “Heel, Ruffy.” The dog promptly sat down. “Come. Walk.” No response. Nick finally had to drag the animal across the polished marble to the front door.
Sarah had already turned back into the shop, and Allison followed her, unable to resist a comment.
“With that casual attitude toward his customers, I’m surprised Whiting has any business at all. Why didn’t he make the owner come and get the dog?”
Sarah seemed surprised. “Because that’s not the kind of person Nick is. He knows Mr. Sheldon regrets retiring, and he doesn’t want him to have to come in for the dog.” She smiled a little. “You might not know it to look at him, but Nick has a tender heart.”
Allison felt as if she’d been put in the wrong, no matter how gently. And the incident just emphasized her feeling that she’d wandered into a world she didn’t understand.
“Still, you wouldn’t leave your shop unattended, would you?”
Sarah seemed to consider. “Well, usually there would be someone else around. Sometimes my mother is here, sometimes members of the quilting group. But if I had to, I could trust Nick to keep an eye on things.”
It was a different attitude—that was all she could think. She would no more walk off and leave a shop full of valuable merchandise than she’d take flight.
“Of course, if I had a partner here, it wouldn’t be a problem.” Sarah’s smile teased her.
“I...I’m not sure that’s possible,” Allison muttered, feeling ill-equipped to cope. She’d assumed knowing more would help her decision become clear. Instead, everything she learned just seemed to make it more difficult.
SHE REALLY OUGHT to go through the building and introduce herself to the other renters, but Allison decided she needed a break from other people’s expectations. Lunch and a little time to decompress—that was the solution.
Telling Sarah goodbye and trying to ignore the trace of disappointment in her blue eyes, Allison headed across the street toward the café she’d noticed the previous night.
The Buttercup Café lived up to its name, painted inside with a yellow so sunny it made Allison blink. In that instant, she realized something else. The room had fallen completely silent at her entrance, and every single person in the café, with the exception of a toddler banging on a high chair tray, stared at her.
Feeling her cheeks warm, Allison moved forward. The middle-aged woman behind the counter, seeming to rouse herself, hurried to greet her. Amish, Allison noted. Like Sarah. There must be a lot of them in the area.
“Table for one, Ms. Standish? Right over here.” Somehow Allison wasn’t surprised that the woman knew her. Apparently, from what she’d heard so far, anonymity wasn’t an option in Laurel Ridge.
At Allison’s nod, the woman gestured to an open table and then pulled the chair out, her ample cheeks bunching with her smile. Her eyes seemed to take in every detail of Allison’s appearance from behind the wire-rimmed glasses she wore. With her white hair, rosy cheeks and round figure, she reminded Allison of a china figure of Mrs. Santa she’d once had. But the woman’s gaze was both curious and cautious, unlike the loving expression of her Mrs. Santa.
“I’m Anna Schmidt, owner, chief cook and just about everything else at the Buttercup. I’d recommend the chicken potpie. It’s the special today, and I made it fresh this morning.”
Allison had intended to order a salad, but she sensed it might be more diplomatic to agree. “That sounds lovely.” She handed the menu back. “Just water to drink.” She’d resolved to cut down on caffeine, although possibly this stressful time wasn’t the best for healthy changes.
Allison glanced up, caught an elderly man staring at her and fished in her bag for her cell phone. Maybe she’d have to resign herself to being a subject of curiosity for a time—not that she’d intended to stay long enough to become familiar to the denizens of Laurel Ridge.
Propping her arm on the bright yellow-and-white tablecloth, she checked her messages. Nothing from either Di or Greg. Maybe that was just as well. She opened a text from Leslie, her closest friend. An attorney, Leslie’s reaction to news of an unexpected legacy had been to advise caution.
Don’t sign anything without reading it thoroughly. That was the gist of it.
The text was brief. Call and tell me all about it.
Smiling, she responded. Nothing ever as it seems. Talk later, okay?
She couldn’t expect Leslie to rush to Laurel Ridge to represent her, but Leslie would be generous with legal advice. If there was a way out of this tangle, Leslie would find it.
Anna Schmidt returned a few minutes later, bearing a steaming bowl of what appeared to be a chicken stew rich with square noodles whose uneven sides declared that they were homemade. The woman lingered until Allison took a cautious first bite. At Allison’s involuntary exclamation of pleasure, she beamed.
“Never had real homemade chicken potpie, ain’t so?”
“No, I haven’t. It’s delicious.”
“Your daadi love my chicken potpie. I was certain sure you would, too.” Still smiling, Anna turned away to attend to another customer, leaving Allison bemused.
Odd, that she hadn’t even thought of her father since arriving in Laurel Ridge. The more she considered it, the stranger it seemed. Hugh Standish had walked out of her life when she was six. She’d trained herself not to dwell on him, because doing so inevitably led to pain. That was yet another good reason for not taking up a new life in this place.
Allison had just about succeeded in dismissing her father from her thoughts by the time she returned to Blackburn House later that afternoon. She’d brought Hector along in the carrier, deciding