front tooth. “See you at five,” he said. Vest in hand, he slid from the bench.
She watched him walk away, long legs, lanky hips, trucker shoulders. Incredible. “Yeah,” she mumbled, trying hard to ignore her thumping heart and not succeeding. “Five.”
Seth stepped out of Kat’s Kafé into hazy sunshine and walked eight feet across the sidewalk to where his pickup was angle-parked. He set the heavy thermos of fresh coffee beside the lunch bucket on the seat, then climbed behind the wheel.
Through the country-paned window of Kat’s, he observed Breena paying her bill. One minute, a stranger bumming a ride, the next, his employer.
He reached for the metal clipboard, scanned the day’s jobs. Put the truck in gear, fool. Get the hell out of Dodge.
He had no business mooning over a woman running from a bad marriage. Not quite mooning, more like unable to stop dreaming about those eyes. Why hadn’t he noticed the other night? They were damn near purple, like the tiny pansies growing alongside his house. Brave things striving to stave off the approach of winter.
So, why didn’t he start the truck and drive away, instead of spying like a dumbass jock?
Did she dump the husband? Or vice versa? What about kids? So far, gossip said she’d arrived alone.
So was she divorced?
Oh, yeah. Her eyes told him before her words. “A regular carousel ride.” God help him, but he’d felt a pang in his heart at that moment. Hadn’t his own carousel sported fire-breathing dragons?
Oddly, he hoped she would make it in Misty River. Okay, she spelled Big City. Possibly old money. Elite education. Family therapist.
But her face was honest, her smile sweet.
She’d worked with Social Services.
“Find yourself a different woman to drool over, Seth,” he muttered, tossing the orders. A local woman like…
His mind blanked.
A rap on the window had him jerking around. A black-haired devil smirked through the glass. Seth rolled it down.
“Stick to trucking, bud,” his brother advised. “Surveillance isn’t your gig. She’ll make you the minute she steps out outside.”
“Go ’way.”
Jon threw back his head and laughed.
“Goof,” Seth muttered without offense as his brother sauntered down the sidewalk, the khaki police chief’s uniform impressive on his tall, rangy frame. Seth’s mouth worked up a half grin. There, with the love of a damn fine woman went a damn happy man. All the power to you, Jonny.
Rolling up the window, he contemplated the café again. Dammit. This was his town. Where he’d been born, married, had his child, divorced. Established his company. Culture and adventure he gleaned from the PBS or Discovery channels. Tending his own house, his own lifestyle was what he enjoyed.
He’d part with it all if it would give him back every missed year with Hallie.
Through the café’s windows, he saw Kat laugh with the Quinlan woman. As a Ph.D. in San Francisco, her nails would be clean and filed, even polished, her clothes fashionable, her hair styled.
Sighing, he reached for the ignition. He had to be hard up, squandering priceless time on a woman like Breena Quinlan. If he wanted a woman, why not someone like Peggy Whatshername? Or was it Kathy? No, Katie.
He couldn’t remember. Two, three years loomed as a century when it came to placing a woman he’d walked home once or twice.
For reasons he’d rather not contemplate, he knew he wouldn’t forget Breena’s face so easily.
He shoved in the clutch and maneuvered the stick shift to Reverse. She stepped through the door of Kat’s. Immediately, the sun sneaked into the blue-black curls of her hair.
Holding his breath, he watched as she slipped the receipt into the small athletic bag at her waist. She zipped it closed and lifted her head. Wide, violet eyes pinned him where he sat behind the windshield. Then she smiled.
Inside his chest, his heart did a goofy, schoolboy somersault. Ah, hell.
A brief clip of his head and he released both clutch and breath. Fast as the speed limit allowed, he fled Main.
Chapter Three
Memo To Self:
Memories are not always what you want them to be.
Sometimes you have to improvise for survival.
Breena studied the note she’d written in her personal agenda prior to dialing her father this Sunday afternoon.
“Good God, child,” Arthur Quinlan boomed. “I’ve been worried sick. You tell me you’re leaving town, but won’t say where. They tell me at your office you’ve taken a leave of absence. A month goes by—”
“I’m fine, Daddy. Honest.” Cradling the receiver against her neck, she sank onto the lumpy cot that served as her bed and relieved her sore feet of their Reebok Classics. Four hours of walking, of checking out apartment ads from the Misty River Times. Paige would scold her if she knew—and double the argument about sharing her tiny house. Breena shoved aside weariness, offered truth. “I needed some time alone.”
His sigh rattled the air waves. “I suppose you’re right. So…where are you?”
“In Misty River.”
Pause. “I’ll be damned. It’s been years since—well. Misty River, huh? Why there, honey?”
Because it’s the one place we were a true family. “I remembered the bullfrogs at night.”
“The bullfrogs.” She visualized his grin. “They could croak up a storm there, couldn’t they?”
In peaceful, star-scattered nights.
“You seen Aunt Paige, yet?” he asked.
“I’ve seen her.” And bought part of her business.
“How is the old girl? Must be pushing ninety, if a day.”
“Eighty-four.” Why haven’t you been back to visit, Daddy? You could have phoned once in a while over the years.
The brother Paige lost two and a half decades ago had been Arthur’s dad.
For five days Breena, Arthur and Lizbeth had stayed in the old man’s house. Five days, while birds chirped in Grandpa’s backyard and ten-year-old Breena walked each morning to Aunt Paige’s little country shop. While balmy evenings met the night and Arthur sat in the willow rocker on the porch, smoking his one cigarette of the day.
Remembering boyhood days.
A real family in real grief.
Among casseroles and condolences, Paige had taken charge of Breena and Lizbeth, made cookies, walked to the little post office each day and concealed her pain.
Breena cried at night for the grandpa she would never see again. Even sixteen-year-old Lizbeth spent a night secreting tears under the covers. For Paige it had been longer. A quarter century of no family visits.
“She remember you?” Arthur asked, shooing off the memories.
“I’ve phoned her off and on over the years.”
“You have? Why didn’t you say?”
“I didn’t think you were interested, Daddy.”
“Aw, Bree…”
“Anyway, she recognized Great-Granny’s black hair.” Breena freed its likeness from a scunchie.
“And likely her violet eyes.”
Her heart warmed. “Yeah.”
“Hmmph.