Summer Kisses. Melinda Curtis

Joey Harris embodied stress and upheaval.

      “Fire him. He’s only there for your money.”

      It was Flynn’s fear, as well. “I’m not firing him.”

      “Flynn—”

      “It’s what he’d do. Fire someone he didn’t like. I’m not sinking to Joey’s level.” Flynn lowered his voice, tried to sound upbeat. “Letting Joey work there proves he means nothing to me.”

      “But what if he tries to talk to you? What if he comes here?” Panic noosed about Grandpa Ed’s words, as if the old man had something to fear from his son-in-law.

      “He won’t.” Flynn wouldn’t let him.

      “But—”

      “He won’t dare show his face at the house.” But the only way Flynn could make sure he didn’t was to tell Joey he wasn’t welcome here. Face-to-face. Man to man. Boss to hired help.

      Flynn had every reason to expect his command would be obeyed.

      If he didn’t factor in things like history or experience.

      * * *

      BECCA HAD TO be more careful what she wished for. She’d wished for the perfect job.

      The perfect job was one where she never had to care for someone who was dying, where she could earn a great character reference, where she could walk away without saying goodbye in a cemetery.

      She should have specified to God and the Universe that the perfect job also entailed a No Hottie Zone.

      Becca slouched into the dinette couch in her motorhome and stared at the two pictures beneath the kitchen cupboards. Terry hugging a buddy after making it through an obstacle course during training, his face striped in camouflage paint. But no amount of camouflage could disguise his grin. He’d loved the marines. He’d loved the action and the hardship and the honor. He’d loved her. If she lost the lawsuit, Terry would be disappointed.

      Abby jumped into the shotgun seat of the motorhome, looked out the window and barked.

      Something thumped against the door. “Becca, there’s a phone call for you.” It was Agnes, whose hospitality was a bright note amid the stress.

      The only person Becca had given Agnes’s number to was her lawyer. Her heart didn’t leap with anticipation or hope. It did a slow slide toward her toes.

      “I brought dinner.” Agnes held a tray with two plates of chicken and vegetables. Her cordless phone was wedged in between the plates, at risk of being ambushed by the broccoli.

      Becca relieved Agnes of the tray, placed it on the motorhome’s dining table and picked up the cordless phone.

      Agnes followed her up the stairs. Her sweet, short self looked more fitting in the motorhome than Becca felt most days.

      “I’ve been talking to your landlady. I hear you got a job.” Hank Weinstein’s pack-a-day, deliberate cadence was meant to intimidate clients and foes alike. “I want you to treat this client with kid gloves. I want more than a character reference as an exhibit. I want to put this client of yours on the stand.”

      Becca tried to imagine out-of-breath Edwin being cross-examined by a hostile attorney. It was easier to picture Flynn in the attorney’s face, his temper as fiery as his hair. “I’m not sure he’s going to be up to it.”

      Agnes rummaged in the kitchen drawers for cutlery.

      Hank swore. “Is the old guy dying?”

      “No.” Becca wanted to explain, but she was very much aware of Agnes setting the table and listening. If she’d learned anything about Harmony Valley over the past few days, it was that the elderly residents loved to gossip.

      “Then he’ll testify. I bumped into opposing counsel in court today and they sounded too excited, like they’ve got something unpleasant planned.”

      “Really.” Becca didn’t like unpleasant surprises. She glanced at the ruby ring on Agnes’s finger.

      Hank reminded her not to take any gifts—monetary or otherwise—from clients, harped on her about her court date and then hung up.

      “Problems?” Agnes asked sweetly, pouring two glasses of milk.

      Becca forced a light-hearted response. “Nothing a good lawyer can’t handle.” After filling Abby’s bowl with kibble, Becca sat across from Agnes and cut a piece of chicken. “This is sweet. But I don’t expect you to make dinner for me. I’m parked in your driveway, not your guest bedroom.”

      “I love to cook and I hate eating alone.” Agnes looked around the motorhome with undisguised curiosity as she speared broccoli. “This is cozy.”

      “We like it.” It had everything Becca needed—kitchen, bathroom, shower, wheels to move on with. All that was missing was a laundry room.

      “Is that your husband?” Agnes pointed to the picture of Terry. “He looks handsome.”

      The chicken suddenly seemed very dry. Becca swallowed. “He was, although how you can tell beneath all that war paint is beyond me.”

      “Anyone who can smile like that is handsome in my book.” Agnes’s gaze moved on to the other picture. “Who are the women?”

      “My mom and grandmother. That was taken at Mom’s college graduation.” The Polaroid shot had faded, even the orange in her grandmother’s dress, but their smiles still felt bright.

      Abby finished her dinner and went to sit at the steps leading outside, ready for her walk.

      “Feel free to park here as long as you like. It’s the least I can do, along with a couple of dinners to repay you for bringing me Harold’s ring.” Agnes gazed at it fondly.

      “He told me about your struggles.” A widow who wasn’t a widow and had chosen to honor her marriage vows, rather than follow her second love.

      Agnes glanced furtively around, as if checking to see if anyone was listening at the windows. “No one in Harmony Valley knows. They would have said it was too soon after Manny passed away.”