and because she couldn’t not. Just as she hadn’t been able to turn her back on the responsibilities that should have been her mother’s all those years ago. After Tim Lawry’s suicide, the entire family had fallen apart. Unable to handle her personal devastation alone, June Lawry had turned to the church. Which had brought a semblance of peace—but also dependence—to her broken and fearful heart.
In many ways, Annie had, at thirteen, become both mother and father. Despite her own grieving and fearful heart.
But that was long ago. And she’d moved on—they all had.
“What do you need me to do?” she asked now, scrolling through a growing list of potential sperm donors, assembled from responses to the letters she’d sent out.
“I was wondering if you could write a series of human interest articles. We’d have to figure what they’d be about, but the general idea is to raise interest in the bazaar.” June’s voice gained strength as she continued to outline her idea, and Annie wondered again if there were things she was missing about her mother—changes, perhaps growth she’d been too blind to notice because of her old assumptions.
The idea made her hopeful—and uncomfortable, as well.
BLAKE FOUND HE HAD several things to take care of after Colin Warner’s departure on Friday. They just kept popping up, demanding his attention. An e-mail in-box to clean out. A list of to-do items for Marta.
There were stocks to check. A callback to make. And some figures to analyze for Monday’s meeting with the potential seller of an apartment complex he was interested in buying and renovating into luxury condominiums. Developers had been making a mint on the practice for years in California.
He’d had Marta collect contractor bids, most of which had come in within the budget he’d projected.
“It’s five o’clock, Blake. Mind if I take off? Bob and I have a dinner engagement tonight.”
Glancing up at the sharply dressed mother of three teenaged girls, Blake thanked her for her day’s work, wished her a good weekend and helped himself to a weak glass of Scotch and water.
Enough to take the edge off, but not enough to tempt him to spend the rest of the evening in a state of forgetfulness—as he’d done a time or two after he’d first opened shop again, two years before.
And then there was no further excuse for procrastinating. The workday was done.
Grabbing his cell phone, Blake hit the last number on his speed dial. For the first time ever.
He switched ears when he heard her answer. But didn’t consider hanging up.
“I’d like to stop by, if that’s okay,” he said shortly.
His request was met with silence. But then she replied, “Stop by River Bluff, thirty miles outside San Antonio—on your way where?”
“Are you going to be home tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have plans?”
There was another pause. “I was going to cut wallpaper.” And then, as if she was worried he’d feel sorry for her, alone on a Friday night, she added, “Becky’s at the game. Shane’s playing.” And high-school football was a constant in River Bluff, whether you had a kid in school or not.
“May I come over?” If anyone had told him three, four, even five years ago that he’d be asking that question of Annie, he’d have known they were crazy.
These days he wondered if he was.
“I guess.”
“Give me an hour.”
Blake rang off before she could ask him questions he wasn’t prepared to answer over the phone. Or worse, before she could change her mind. He had to get this done. He couldn’t take another day like today.
SHE TRIED TO EAT DINNER but the food stuck in her throat, so she put it outside for the stray cat, instead. The darn thing didn’t seem to realize that cats were supposed to be finicky eaters. Scrambled eggs were just fine with her.
But entering a house wasn’t. As many times as Annie had tried over the past year to coax the bedraggled thing inside, it continued to refuse her invitations.
She heard Blake’s car door and reached for the cat, wishing for something warm to hold. But it darted across the yard and into the Friday evening darkness.
Annie went back inside, locking the kitchen door behind her. Grabbing the glass of wine she’d poured, she slipped on her sandals, pulled down her T-shirt over the low-cut waistband of her jeans, and went to open the front door, flipping on the porch light.
She needed to be on the offensive, but she could handle this. Blake felt honor bound to explain, in person, why he couldn’t father her child. She understood.
He was a respectful kind of guy. And this entire strange episode between them was mostly about his relationship with Cole. It had nothing to do with her.
“Hi,” she said through the screen door, fumbling with the lock. If he talked fast, he could be done and gone before she even got it open.
Other than muttering hello, he didn’t talk at all. Finally, Annie pushed on the latch, catching her breath as she opened her home to the outside night air—and him.
Blake at any time was hard to ignore. But in a suit he was breathtaking.
And maybe a little intimidating, too. If she’d been susceptible to him emotionally, in any way. Now, however, she was only inclined to get rid of him.
When he turned, waiting for her to lead the way, she headed toward the kitchen. It was the one place where she had more than a single seat to offer.
He took the folding chair she pointed him to. “Your tastes have changed.” His voice was more teasing than judgmental—not that Blake had ever been one to point fingers at anyone.
“I wanted the house more than I wanted the furniture,” she said, pouring him a glass of the merlot he used to like, and bringing it and her own glass to the table. She didn’t plan for them to be there long enough to finish their drinks, but the wine provided them with something socially acceptable to do while they decided not to have a baby together.
It might take a moment or two for her to figure out how to handle Cole’s reaction in a way that would be gentle yet firm.
“Roger wanted the furniture worse than he wanted the house,” she continued, handing Blake a napkin to put under his glass. “I got the dishes. He got the tools.”
She sat.
Blake’s gaze settled on her as if he could see inside her just as well as he used to. She wished he wouldn’t do that.
“It sounds like it was an amicable parting,” he said.
She nodded tentatively. On paper it had been. But privately, in those conversations when they acknowledged that they had to part, there’d been nothing but disappointment. And pain. And guilt. His pain and her guilt. And in the end, her pain, too.
In marrying Roger, who’d been her friend for years, she’d hurt someone she loved. Horribly.
“I heard he left town,” Blake said, and Annie stared at him. He was a little too close to her thoughts.
“He has an uncle in Ohio with a farm equipment company. Roger’s running the place for him now.”
“Does he like it there?”
How would Annie know? She wasn’t in the habit of talking to her exes—as Blake was well aware.
“According to his sister, when I ran into her at the post office about six months ago.”
“She’s still in town?”
“They moved to San Antonio this past summer. Her daughter needed a gifted program….”