that much, huh?”
“Honey, if it makes you feel any better, I’ve carried the same purse.”
“You? But you’re…”
“A granny? Doesn’t mean I haven’t had my share of man ache. Ought to be man-iac, if you ask me.”
Breena laughed. “From a woman who understands.”
“You got it. Birds of a feather and all. Anything else I can get you, hon?”
“Yes. A contractor.”
“Planning to build something?”
Breena pushed aside her half-eaten toast. “I’m trying to win over Aunt Paige and get her to fix the shop’s walkway.”
“You go, girl,” Kat said, gray curls bouncing. “I’ve been nagging her about it for the last five years.”
Breena didn’t doubt it. Kat made sun-catchers in her spare time for Earth’s Goodness. A special bond existed between the waitress and Aunt Paige.
“There are some in this town,” Kat bent to Breena’s level, voice soft, “who’d love to see that little place torn down. They think it’s dozer bait and a fire hazard.”
Delwood Owens. Breena had heard him heckle Paige about retiring, about selling the house to a “real resident.” The old toad. Wait until he learned of her stake in the place.
Still, the walkway was a mess. Someone could get hurt, someone like Delwood Owens. Breena pictured pudgy legs flying, wide rump landing hard. She could envision the headlines in the Misty River Times: Shop Owner Takes Chev Olds Owner For A Loop.
She said, “The place is not going anywhere, Kat. So if you know a good contractor, one who won’t rip Paige off, I’d appreciate it.”
“Leave it with me.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s what I’m here for.” A pat to Breena’s shoulder and she was gone.
No, it’s not, but I’m glad you are. Twenty-eight days ago, the waitress had served Breena her first Misty River breakfast and had since spread her ample goodwill wing over her whenever Paige wasn’t available.
Sipping her coffee, Breena admired the world outside the window. Wednesday’s dawn crept across the thick timber range west of the river. Several dusty, work-worn pickups were angle parked in front of the café. First Street, she realized, sponsored a variety of local merchants. At this hour, traffic was spotty. Ah, such a prize, this sleepy-eyed ambience of Misty River.
She’d recognized its goodness that initial morning, after falling into bed at the Sleep Inn Motel, exhausted from the weighty war of Leo’s betrayal. And discovering he’d filched a portion of their accounts the day after she’d kicked him out….
How stupid she’d been.
For seven years, she’d loved him. And for seven months hated him. Now, shame ate her because, God forgive her stupidity, she hadn’t detected the nuances of those nonspeaking, nonsharing, nonneeding moments. While warding off the failings of others— Joan of Arc wielding the sword and shield of therapy—she hadn’t the sharpness or cleverness or astuteness to see the ashes of her own marriage.
Dr. Breena Quinlan, Crackerjack Counselor.
How callow she’d been.
Thank goodness for the trust fund her dad had opened on her eighteenth birthday, money to which she’d added over the years.
Money Leo couldn’t touch.
Forty-three thousand dollars.
Enough to keep the howlers at bay.
Enough to put a portion into another business.
And, quite possibly, into her dream of rambling roses around a deep porch. Of baked bread. Of homegrown vegetables.
Her rose-colored bubble dream—-the one of a loving man and sweet-faced children—-Breena had waved goodbye to long ago.
A smile to greet her at the end of the day was pure fantasy.
As were gummy, little hands and chubby cheeks and pug noses to kiss. Bedtime stories, homework, proms. Father of the bride, mother of the groom. All of it, fantasy.
Four years they had tried, she and Leo.
And then?
Then Leo defected to her sister.
Lizbeth, who already had a child from a previous relationship. Lizbeth, who was spontaneous, funny, beautiful, unattached, fertile.
Whose morals, when it came to her little sis, qualified a shrug of the shoulder. “He doesn’t love you, Bree,” she said over the phone a month after that hideous night seven months ago. “Let him go. Let him be happy.”
God. Such an unconditional gift, her sister’s love. And so typical. Whatever Lizbeth wanted, Lizbeth got and damn the messy aftermath—or that it was Breena’s husband.
How could you cross that line, Lizbeth? How?
Considering her wasteland womb and her skill in keeping a man’s interest and love, Breena’s second chances were over. Not that she wished for a man—hell could freeze like a frappé before she’d offer her trust again—but still…
“Got your contractor.”
Breena jerked around. “What?”
“Renovations, girl,” Kat said. “The walkway.”
“Oh!” She straightened.
With a wink, Kat hiked her chin at Breena’s sunny window. “Don’t blame you, doing a bit of daydreaming. Be raining like a monsoon before long. Hold on.”
She headed down the aisle, to three men in a booth four up from Breena. A policeman and a suit faced her. A big-shouldered worker type in red and gray plaid faced them. She studied his profile as he listened to Kat.
Seth Tucker? Who drove her home last week?
And, here she sat, by a day-lit window, in a gray hoodie, navy sweats, sneakers…sans makeup. Wonderful.
The worker stood, and followed Kat down the aisle.
“Breena Quinlan. Seth Tucker,” the tiny grandma said. “He built communities in the sandbox, and today is the master.”
Amusement shaded his eyes. “Now, Kat.”
“Now, Seth.” She patted his arm and left.
“So,” he said when they were alone. “We meet again.”
His voice, deep as a Nevada crater.
“Yes. Again.”
He slid into the booth, set the sheepskin vest he carried on the bench. A whiff of aftershave passed her nose. Like autumn air. He regarded the window—her. A smile flickered.
He’s shy, she thought. The man who drove King Kong trucks was shy. A ripple hit her heart. Leo had never been bashful.
They both spoke at once.
“Your truck’s—”
“Did you—”
She said, “You first.”
“I see your Blazer’s up and running.”
“The Garage Center did a great job. Thank you for recommending them.”
Kat returned with a fresh carafe of coffee. When she left again, he toyed tough, brown fingers along the mug’s handle. His nails were cut straight, his hands scar-pocked. A Band-Aid was wrapped around one forefinger.
“Kat said you’re looking for a contractor.”
“I am. The shop’s walkway and back steps need replacing.”
“Likewise