by Shirley Jump
Will you be here, Colt, when I get back?
Of course. I’m always here for you, buddy.
A grin, then a light jab to his arm. You’re a good big brother.
You’re not so bad yourself, for a pesky little brother.
Laughter, always laughter. When Colt’s thoughts wandered to Henry, they were filled with the merry sound of Henry’s laughter. Then, just as quickly, that laughter evaporated and a hollow, aching pain filled the spaces in Colt’s heart.
Because Colt hadn’t been there. He’d broken his promise, and Henry had been the one to pay the price.
He’d thrown himself into making amends from that day forward, but it hadn’t been enough. Would never be enough. He sucked in a breath, but it didn’t ease the searing pain in his heart. Damn it, why did Daisy have to come back here? Just seeing her reopened a wound that had never healed.
“You’ve never been someone who missed a paperwork deadline, or had so much as a file folder out of place,” Nick said, dragging Colt back into the present. “How did you miss something as important as your divorce?”
Colt reached for the ball. “Come on, we gonna play or what?”
Nick circled the ball around to his back. “I think you’ve got some subconscious desire to stay with Daisy.”
The last thing he needed was Nick playing pop psychologist. “Of course not. It was a mistake, plain and simple. I was busy then. It was right after—”
Nick’s features softened. “Yeah. I forgot it was at the same time. No wonder you forgot to file.”
Colt shrugged, and let out a long, slow breath, until his chest stopped aching and he could pretend he wasn’t affected by any of it anymore. “Either way, I thought I was divorced all these years. Then I ran into her a few months ago—”
“Whoa. Hold on, cowboy. You never told me you saw her a few months ago.”
Okay, so maybe he hadn’t shared everything with his best friend. “I was at a medical convention, and she was working at a diner I stopped at. One thing led to another and . . .” Colt reached for the ball, but Nick whisked it away again. “Anyway, when I got home, I realized I never did get a copy of my final divorce decree, so I called my lawyer and found out I hadn’t filed way back when.”
“Why would seeing Daisy make you think of your divorce decree? Oh, wait, I know.” Nick held the ball out of Colt’s reach, half taunting him. “Because you were dating Maryanne.”
“And considering marrying her.” Until Maryanne had broken up with him to move back to Tulsa and date her high school sweetheart. At the time, Colt had been more relieved than disappointed, which surprised him. He’d always thought Maryanne would be the perfect doctor’s wife. Tidy, good-natured, organized.
And not a woman who lit a fire in his belly or made him forget details. Made him lose focus. Just the fact that seeing Daisy in that diner had put Maryanne far from his mind should have been a clue that the quiet, introverted insurance adjuster he’d been dating wasn’t Miss Right. Maybe that was what the night with Daisy had been about—a test for him to see if he was making the right choice with Maryanne.
When the answer was already there before he’d even walked into Nero’s and said hello to Daisy.
Nick mocked a yawn. “Maryanne is a nice woman and all, but if you ask me, it’d be like an eighteenth-century marriage. All tea and embroidery and how was your day, dear.”
“And what’s wrong with that?”
“What’s right with that? Who wants to come home and stare at each other every night? What you want is a woman who makes you break the land-speed record to get home. A woman who drives you crazy, in a good way.”
Colt snorted. “And have you met any women like that?”
“Hell no. Which is why I’m still single.” He raised his hands and gave the ball an easy push, up and over and into the net. “And still beating your ass at basketball.”
“Lucky shot.” Like the first ten shots had been. And the five before that.
Colt had a lot on his mind, that was all. With any luck, Daisy would leave town by the end of the week, and he could get back to focusing on his patients and his grandfather. On getting all those straight lines back into alignment. Uh-huh. As long as he stayed at least one state away from Daisy Barton, maybe that would work.
“Just admit it.” Nick stepped forward, retrieved the ball, gave it a bounce, and aimed at the basket again.
“Admit what?”
“That you still like Daisy.” Nick shot an easy layup that swooshed through the hoop. “Heck, maybe still love her.”
“When did I ever say I loved her?”
Nick arched a brow. “When you ran off and eloped with her?”
“That was the insane decision of a couple of teenagers. It wasn’t about love.”
“If you say so.” Nick caught the ball again. “All I know is that your game is off and your mind is somewhere else. I’d bet a year’s salary that somewhere is with a gorgeous brunette. Either way, the ball is now in your court.” He pressed the ball into Colt’s hands. “Don’t waste the last good shot you have.”
Four
“What on God’s green earth is that?”
Esther glanced up from the pile of brown yarn in her lap and gave Greta a quizzical look. Esther’s purple polka-dotted granny glasses perched at a precarious angle on the bridge of her nose, as if they wanted to swan dive into the bodice of her neon paisley housedress.
“What is what?” Esther asked.
“That.” Greta waved at the tangled, stringy mess. Esther and Greta were sitting in the morning room while Greta sipped a mug of bourbon-spiked coffee and Esther worked her one-woman craft fair. “It looks like a dog died in your lap.”
“Well, it is a dog. But he’s not dead. He’s just not finished.” Esther grinned and held up a flat four-legged knitted Frankenpupster. “It’s a knit-your-own-dog kit. Once I finish knitting Rooney here, I’ll stuff him, and voila, a pet.”
Oh Lord, Esther really was beginning to lose it. So sad to see her friends slip into early dementia. “Esther dear, it’s a stuffed animal. The kind of thing three-year-olds play with.”
Esther pouted. “Rooney is more than that. He’s a low-maintenance pet. You’ll see. As soon as I’m done with Rooney, you’re going to want one of your very own. I can make a golden retriever or a Lhasa apso or—”
“My sweet Greta doesn’t need a pet of her own. Not when she has me to keep her company.” Harold Twohig’s overly minty, hot-as-lava breath trickled down the side of Greta’s head. Lord Almighty, that man sprang out of nowhere, like a spider slithering under the floorboards. She spun around and shot him a glare.
“There’s a law against stalking, you know. And sneaking up on old ladies who were busy. Very busy.”
He just grinned, the damned fool.
“Go back to your cave, Harold.” Greta waved in the general direction of the exit. Any exit. Preferably one that led to Mars.
Harold leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. He gave Greta a long, assessing look, followed by a toothy smile. “Is that all you’ve got today? I have to say, I’m a little disappointed.”
“You want me to be meaner?”
“The harder you try to insult me, Greta dear,” Harold said, reaching down to lay a sweaty palm against her cheek for a brief second, “the more I know you care.”
She started to huff out a response, but Harold just turned on his past-Labor-Day white golf shoes and headed out of the morning room. Greta resisted the urge to throw Esther’s half-stuffed dead dog after him and let it smack Harold in the back of his oversized egg head.
“Harold sure does like you, Greta,” Esther said, her gaze on the knitting needles and giant skein of brown yarn working together in furious movements. “I don’t see why you keep resisting his attentions.”
Greta signaled to the waitstaff for a f
resh cup of coffee. Lord knew she was going to need one. Not to mention a second jigger full of the supplemental beverage tucked in the pocket of her sweater. “Esther, I do not cavort with evil, especially in human form.”
Pauline hurried up to the table in her usual cyclone of stuff. She dumped her purse, coat, and hat into a chair, followed by a set of keys, a bundle of newspapers, and a thick manila envelope. It all poured out of her arms and into a teetering mountain that dwarfed the high-backed chair. Every time Pauline entered a room, she was like a passel of clowns exploding from a VW bug.
“Who’s evil in a human form?” Pauline said.
“Harold Twohig.” The words burned past Greta’s lips. Why did the man insist on plaguing her so? She didn’t have the stomach for him. Not today. Heck, not any day.
“You say his name with such vehemence,” Pauline said. “And here I thought you two were getting along.”
Pauline slipped into a cushioned seat across from Esther and her growing bundle of furry yarn. Esther kept on knitting away, a woman on a mission to fill her tiny Golden Years apartment with a faux menagerie.
“Harold and I never got along,” Greta said. “I merely formed a temporary alliance with that spawn of Satan so I could work some magic between Diana and Mike. As painful as it was to be in Harold’s presence, it warms my heart to see those two engaged.”
Two happy endings already this year. Her grandson Luke and darling Olivia, set to get married next month. Now Luke’s friend Mike and Olivia’s sister Diana, engaged and setting up house together in Rescue Bay with Mike’s adorable little girls. At the end of the day, that was the kind of thing that gave Greta comfort and told her that when her time to go came, she’d be leaving a legacy of happily ever afters.
Except for Edward. Her only child had yet to do so much as glance in the direction of any of the women Greta had tried to set him up with. He’d been widowed so long, it was as if he’d forgotten how to date. She worried about her son, and about him living the rest of his days as a workaholic hermit.
Pauline cleared her throat. “Speaking of Harold—”
Greta grimaced.
“Did he say if Earl was joining the guys for their card game today?”
“I didn’t ask, Pauline. I try never to talk to Harold. Especially immediately after eating.” Greta leaned in and eyed Pauline. “Why do you care what Earl Harper is doing today?”
“No reason. I was just hoping to get a chance to pick his brain. My Cadillac is acting up a bit and I thought he might know why.”
“The man’s retired, Pauline. Let him live in peace.”
“I’ll run by the garage this afternoon instead.” Pauline retrieved the envelope from the chair, and undid the metal clasp. “Okay, girls. Time for us to get to work. I’ve got the latest letters for our Common Sense Carla column. Let me read a few and we can decide which one we’re going to tackle this week. We have several doozies in this batch. I’m thinking a secret lover would be good to spice things up.”
“I like the idea of a secret lover. Or spouse.” Greta grinned.
Pauline shuffled through the stack of letters in the envelope and pulled out a pale blue sheet. In the year the three women had been writing the local advice column, they’d covered the gamut of topics. Several local papers were carrying the Common Sense Carla column now—part of Esther’s attempt at world domination. Either way, Greta enjoyed helping with the column, if only because it provided a ready excuse for some meddling—well-meaning, of course. That gave her another reason to get out of bed in the morning, and at Greta’s age, sometimes that required the addition of a good shove and an industrial crane.
“I don’t see a secret spouse letter,” Pauline said. “I have a woman secretly in love with her irritating neighbor. What about that?”
Greta yanked the paper out of Pauline’s scrawny hand. “That would only give other people ideas.”
“Like the idea that you wrote it?” Pauline grinned.
“Lord, no.” Greta put up her hands to ward off the idea. “Why would I write such a thing?”
“Who would Greta be secretly in love with?” Esther asked.
Pauline rolled her eyes. “Esther, you really need to pay more attention.”
“I can’t. I’m knitting. There’s a lot of counting involved. Or Rooney will end up with one leg longer than the other.”
Pauline looked at Greta. “Rooney?”
“Don’t ask. Trust me, you don’t want to know.” Greta shook her head. One of the waitstaff came over with a trio of coffee mugs, deposited them in front of the ladies, then left. As soon as the nurses weren’t looking, Greta tugged the bottle of Maker’s Mark out of her pocket, unscrewed the top, and added a little sweetness to her coffee. Esther tsk-tsked. Pauline bit back a laugh.
Greta ignored them both. Her daddy had started every day with a little shot of the hard stuff, and he’d lived to ninety-seven, which made all the case Greta needed for her morning Maker’s Mark. Clearly, there were some things about longevity that Doc Harper didn’t know. “Before we get to our next letter, I think we need to discuss our next mission.”
“Mission? That sounds dangerous,” Esther said. “I’m too old for dangerous.”
“You are also too old for a stuffed dog, but that sure as sunshine isn’t stopping you today.”
Esther stuck out her tongue at Greta, then went back to work on Frankenpup. Pauline mouthed stuffed dog? Greta just shook her head. Esther was a hopeless case when it came to crafts. The only plus to Esther’s knitting frenzy was that she’d forgotten all about her quilting fetish. Which kept Greta from having to pretend she liked quilting just so she could sit at quilting club and drink bourbon.
“We have a new resident in Rescue Bay,” Greta began. “And I’m thinking she should be our next project.”
“Wait. I thought we were looking for a mission.” Esther blinked. “Now we have a project, too? I have my hands full of projects, if you need one, Greta. Why there’s a cross-stitch I started back in 1982 that—”
“Mission. Project. Same thing. And the day I do cross-stitch is the day you shoot me in the head, Esther.”
“I thought you said that about the day you kiss Harold Twohig.” Pauline gave Greta a grin.
Greta’s cheeks flamed. She pressed a palm to her stomach. Just the thought of that man made her inner workings churn like a lethal case of indigestion. Okay, yes, maybe they had shared a single, solitary, almost kiss. Thankfully thwarted at the last second by Greta’s quick thinking. Didn’t change a thing about how she despised Harold Twohig and his overzealous stalking. Even if he did seem to be growing on her, like invasive ivy on a brick facade. “You have a way of making even my morning coffee taste horrible, Pauline.”
Pauline’s gaze narrowed. “I’ll bet dollars to donuts that you have an ulterior motive in this little project.”
“My only ulterior motive is to keep our little local economy rolling along. I’m just doing my part.”
Pauline snorted, a sound that was just south of a curse. “Okay, so what’s your mission? And how exactly does it help the ‘local economy’?” She put air quotes around the last two words.
Greta took a long sip of coffee while she weighed her next words. She was in possession of some very interesting information—information that Doc Harper definitely didn’t want shared—and she wanted to be smart about when or if she used it. Perhaps the next time the man prescribed vegetables, she’d remind him of what a good friend she’d been, not telling about his secret wife. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t hint at the truth. “I think our new resident knows Doc Harper, from way back. And that means that maybe our next happy ending could be his. Which means we get a new taxpayer in town, and maybe some future taxpayers in another nine months or so.”
“I thought you hated Doc Harper,” Pauline said. “I’ve always liked him, personally. He’s a smart cookie.
And after all he and his family have been through, too. I don’t blame his parents for moving away. Where’d they go again?”
“Arizona, I think,” Esther said. “To live with the cactuses. Or is it cacti?”
Greta waved off Esther’s plural debate. “What are you talking about, Pauline?”
“Don’t you remember? When Doc Harper was just a kid himself, his little brother died. Some kind of tragic accident, though I don’t recall what. Six months later, the Harpers up and moved to—”
“Tucson,” Esther cut in. “With the cacti.”
“And Doc was here by himself,” Pauline said. “I guess that’s when he went to college, got his degree, all that business.”
Greta had forgotten about that. Used to be, she knew every single thing that happened in this town. Now, her brain had become a sieve, sprouting more holes every day. “That must have been a long time ago.”
Pauline nodded. “At least twelve years, maybe more.”
“Poor Doc Harper,” Esther chimed in. “That’s probably why he has such a lovely bedside manner. Plus he has the sweetest eyes, don’t you think?”
“I think if he’s happy, then he’s not going to be such a fussbudget when it comes time for my checkups,” Greta said. Maybe all this past history explained why Doc Harper was such a stickler for healthy living. Either way, it would be a good idea to keep him smiling. “And in the end, a happy ending for Doc Harper is really . . .”
“A happy ending for you,” Pauline finished. She sat back in her chair and laughed. “Why would I expect anything else from you, Greta dear?”
“I’m just trying to be neighborly, Pauline. If I happen to benefit out of all this . . .” She sipped her coffee and thought of her daddy for a moment and how he had always been the first to offer a helping hand, a listening ear, or just an ice-cold beer when a neighbor was in trouble. She hoped he’d be proud of her, continuing a legacy of helping others, in her own little way. “Well, that’s just a bow tie on the package of life, isn’t it?”