so Robbie can make his arrangements.”
“Arrangements?” he asked stupidly.
“For your date.”
Oh, man. “And this date would be…?” he asked cautiously.
“Land sakes, not with us.” Mrs. Spinelli laughed. “Did you hear that, Theda? Isn’t he precious?” She took his other arm. “Dear boy, you’re charming, but not our type. This date is with someone else. Someone very special.”
His imagination went into overdrive. Maybe she had a psychotic daughter who’d been through a string of husbands. Or a loony niece desperate for a man….
“I’m listening,” he said, trying to look calm.
“You’re going on a dream date,” Mrs. Duckworth said.
“It’s all arranged,” Mrs. Spinelli added. “Right down to the last detail.”
He began to feel a little better, conjuring pictures of an ocean cruise, a night of dinner and theater in the city, a round of golf at a country club—
“To a high school reunion,” Mrs. Spinelli added.
The pictures crumbled to dust in his mind. Swaying palm trees gave way to crepe paper garlands draping some smelly gym. “Okay, let me get this straight. I’m taking somebody to her high school reunion.”
“Next weekend,” said Mrs. Duckworth. “It will be quite marvelous, you see. It’s being held at a town near Jackson, so you’ll have to fly there, but that won’t be a problem. We’ve already reserved seats on the commuter flight and we’ve booked the accommodations.”
“But you just…bought me,” he objected, feeling suspicious.
“Oh, dear, there was never any question that you would be the one. We read all about you in the catalog,” said Mrs. Spinelli. “She picked you out right away. I think it was that Armani tux.”
“No, the rose,” Mrs. Duckworth said. “The single red rose he was holding, Sugar. Don’t you think that was what pushed her over the edge?”
Lauren, he thought, hope soaring. Lauren had set this up as some sort of weird practical joke. She had been the one who insisted on the tux and the rose for his catalog picture. She knew Mrs. Spinelli. She was having fun with him, putting these ladies up to this.
“Now, there’s something we should clarify right off.” Mrs. Spinelli aimed a stern look at him. “This is important. You have to pretend to be engaged.”
Rob laughed. It really was Lauren, then. Maybe she wasn’t as indifferent about marriage as he thought she was. Maybe she wanted to move their relationship to the next level. “Engaged, huh?”
“Oh, certainly.”
Enough of the dancing around. “All right, so Lauren put you up to this.”
The ladies exchanged a glance. Mrs. Duckworth scowled. “We don’t know anything about anyone called Lauren. We have no idea what you are talking about.”
Something told him they weren’t pulling his leg. Did they really mean to send him off to some stranger’s high school reunion?
He studied their guileless, church-lady faces. Damn straight they did.
“Sorry, ladies. I don’t think that’s part of the deal. This was supposed to be a date, not a deception.”
“Don’t be such a spoilsport,” Mrs. Duckworth said in a scolding voice. “You never were any fun as a third-grader. I still remember how you used to hide in the cloakroom during make-believe time.”
“This date’s all arranged,” Mrs. Spinelli added, sounding miffed.
“I don’t think it would work out, ma’am.” He hadn’t meant to call her ma’am, just as he hadn’t meant to call Twyla ma’am earlier. It simply slipped out. It was odd, but he felt comfortable and at home with these well-meaning but wrongheaded little old ladies. He didn’t want to feel at home with them, didn’t want to feel the quiet, cozy unity of this small town. The friendly atmosphere of Lightning Creek had nothing to do with the life he had planned out for himself. The sooner he got back to Denver, the better.
“Look,” he said, reaching into his back pocket. “I’ll write you a check to cover what you spent today, and we’ll call things even.”
The older ladies sputtered in protest. As he was looking for a pen, he saw Twyla McCabe coming toward him, the folded quilt draped over her arm. “Good news,” she said, holding it out.
“Yeah? I could use some.”
“We just did the draw, and you won.”
So the day wasn’t a total loss. At least he had the quilt to show for it. “Thanks, Twyla.”
“You know each other already?” Mrs. Spinelli asked, clasping her hands. “Why, that’s perfect. Just perfect.”
Rob narrowed his eyes. These ladies might look like Betty Crocker, but they sure as hell weren’t all sugar and spice. “What’s perfect?”
“That you know each other.” Mrs. Duckworth spoke slowly and clearly in her teacher voice. “You can get started right away with your plans.”
Rob stared at Twyla McCabe. The silky red hair. Big, soft eyes. Light dusting of freckles. A weary, workaday prettiness and a knockout figure to die for. Everything about her screamed small-town girl.
“It’s you then,” he said in amazement. “It’s your reunion.”
“Twyla’s ten-year reunion,” Mrs. Duckworth proclaimed. “You two are going to have such a marvelous weekend.”
“That’s the other thing I came to talk about,” Twyla said, clearly exasperated.
Rob was stunned. Yet at the same time, without quite knowing why, he put his checkbook away.
THE SUN WAS GOING DOWN as Twyla carried the quilt table to her truck, Brian trotting along beside her. An evening chill sharpened the air, bringing with it a low warble of birdsong and the green scent of fresh-cut grass. She had avoided Rob Carter all the rest of the day, watching the festivities with a sense of nervous energy and impending disaster. Each time he seemed inclined to approach her, she busied herself with some chore or other, even volunteering for a stint at the lemonade booth. Finally, when the last bachelor had been auctioned off, it was time to go.
Brian, who had made a full recovery from the motion sickness, had spent the day playing, eating, shouting and throwing things with his friends. He’d ignored the auction itself, showing no interest or understanding of its purpose. He didn’t know what Mrs. Duckworth and Mrs. Spinelli had done. That was fine with Twyla, since she wasn’t going to make Rob Carter go through with it, anyway.
Near the end of the auction, Brian had caught an inkling of what was going on. Visiting her at the lemonade booth, he’d asked her, “If someone buys one of these guys, does the guy have to do whatever she says?”
Twyla had smiled. “Within reason.”
“For how long?”
“I imagine they work that out between them.”
“So they should make the guys stay here and be the dads, right?”
A six-year-old’s logic was hard to contradict. She shouldn’t have asked Brian, but she did. “You think these boys all need a dad?”
“Yeah.”
She hadn’t dared to ask the next obvious question: What about you, Brian? Do you need a dad?
She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer to that.
“Sammy Crowe says Mrs. Spinelli bought that guy named Rob, and that he’s supposed to do whatever you want.”
“Lucky