LITMIR.BIZ

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friendly,” Ruth Ann said. “He was at the house today for lunch. He came by with my girls and their friend Missy after exams. I think my youngest has a major crush on him. And God knows he’d be a wonderful influence on her. I’m afraid Felicity is going through a rebellious stage.”

      “Good for her.”

      Cathy didn’t realize she had spoken out loud until she saw the surprised expression on Ruth Ann’s face. Her dark eyes widened, and her mouth opened in a half-smile/half-frown, as if she was uncertain how to take Cathy’s comment.

      “I’m sure you don’t have anything to worry about with either of your girls, not with the wonderful example you and John Earl have always set for them. I just think it’s good to allow teenagers to think for themselves and for them not to always be expected to do everything their parents want them to do.”

      “Actually, I agree with you. Despite the slight embarrassment Felicity’s tattoos, outlandish makeup and black attire cause us, John Earl and I believe that allowing her the freedom to express herself will help her grow up to be her own person, a young woman we’ll be quite proud of.”

      “You’re very wise. Your girls are so lucky to have a mother like you.” Cathy took the car keys out of her purse, hung the strap over her shoulder and headed for the back door. “See you tomorrow.”

      Ruth Ann waved as Cathy left the shop.

      She paused beneath the metal canopy over the door and looked up at the gray sky. The morning’s heavy rain had left puddles of standing water. The light drizzle falling now wasn’t discernible to the eye, but when she walked toward her parked SUV, she felt the light moisture misting her face.

      With her consent, her in-laws had sold Mark’s Lexus and put the money in Seth’s college fund, and they had given Cathy’s ten-year-old Jeep Cherokee to Elaine, who had stored it in her garage.

      “I had it serviced for you when I found out you were coming home,” her mother had told her. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be driving, but I assumed you would. After all, you wouldn’t have left that place if you weren’t completely well, would you?”

      Ignoring the comment about her mental health, Cathy had simply said “Thank you, Mother,” taken the keys and left. One of the many truths she had accepted while at Haven Home was the fact that Elaine Nelson would never change. She couldn’t change her mother, but she could change the way she reacted to her.

      Cathy slid behind the wheel, started the engine and sat there in the alley behind the antique shop. During the eight days she had been back in Dunmore, she had met and survived several challenges. Not allowing her mother to intimidate her had actually been easier than she’d thought it would be. But facing her in-laws had not been easy, nor had accepting the fact that she would have to regain her son’s trust before she could fight the Cantrells for custody. One of the lesser challenges had been forcing herself to pretend she didn’t hear the whispers or notice the curious stares when she attended Sunday morning services yesterday. And whenever a customer commented about her year away and how horrible it must have been in that place, she simply forced a smile and told them it was wonderful to be home and back at work.

      Of all the challenges that she had known she would face and could deal with, helping the new owner decorate the old Perdue house had not been one of them.

      You can do this. It’s just a house. Mr. and Mrs. Reaves are both dead. Maleah lives somewhere in the Knoxville area. And Jack…

      She gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled strength.

      “Jackson Perdue.” There, she’d said his name aloud, and the earth hadn’t opened up and swallowed her. God hadn’t struck her dead. “Jack.” She spoke his name softly.

      Cathy wasn’t surprised that Jack and Maleah had sold their mother’s house, considering how much they had both hated their stepfather and how quickly they had both left home when each had turned eighteen. They had returned briefly for their mother’s funeral five years ago. She had caught a glimpse of them, from the back of the church, when she had slipped in and sat in the very last pew. She hadn’t spoken to either of them at the church and hadn’t gone to the cemetery or to the house.

      Cathy put the SUV in reverse, backed up and drove down the alley to the side street. On the short drive from Main Street, where their shop was located, to West Fourth, she wondered about the people who had bought the old house. Were they a young couple, middle-aged or elderly? Were they locals or people from another town or even another state?

      When she parked in the gravel drive at 121 West Fourth, she noticed the door to the carriage house stood wide open. The interior of the in-need-of-repair structure was bare to the bones. Apparently the new owners had already started clearing out things in preparation for the renovations. She got out of the Jeep and searched for the owner’s vehicle, but didn’t see one. Was it possible the potential client had forgotten about their appointment? If no one was here, she could wait for them, but not for long. Seth was coming to Lorie’s tonight for dinner. Nothing, not even a rich client, was more important.

      As she made her way to the sidewalk, her leather high heels marring up in the wet ground, she inspected the three-story house, one of several Victorian painted ladies that still graced the downtown streets of Dunmore. How dark and dreary this place looked, the gray paint peeling, the faded white shutters in need of repair, the wide porch empty. She rang the doorbell.

      Seconds ticked by and quickly turned into minutes.

      She rang the doorbell again.

      Silence.

      Apparently no one was at home. Should she go or should she wait?

      Before she could decide, a sheriff’s car zipped into the drive and pulled up alongside her SUV. She turned and watched as the tall, muscular man in uniform emerged from the Crown Victoria.

      As he approached the front porch, Cathy’s chest tightened. Her heartbeat accelerated. With slow, easy strides, he came up the walkway. His hair was darker now, a rich sandy blond, and just a tad longer than a regulation military cut. When he stepped up on the porch, he removed his sunglasses, squinted and stared at her.

      “Sorry I’m a few minutes late,” he said, then stopped dead still when less than six feet separated them.

      He was the same and yet different. Older, broader shouldered, harder. And battle scarred. The boyish smoothness of his handsome face was gone, replaced with an imperfect roughness.

      “Hello, Jack.”

      He stood there speechless, staring at Cathy Nelson. No, not Cathy Nelson—Cathy Cantrell, Mark Cantrell’s widow. He had figured that sooner or later he’d run into her, considering that Dunmore was a small town. But he sure as hell hadn’t expected to react this way—as if he’d been hit between the eyes with a two-by-four.

      As a teenager, Cathy had been a pretty girl in her own shy, sweet way. But the woman standing there, her blue-green eyes fixed on his face, her mouth open in shock as if she’d seen a ghost, was more than pretty. She was beautiful. Her long brown hair, flowing freely around her shoulders, shimmered with damp highlights caused by the misty rain. Her body had matured. Her breasts were fuller than he remembered, and she was slimmer. Not skinny, just trim.

      “Hello, Cathy.”

      She surveyed him from head to toe, taking in his deputy’s uniform. “I—I wasn’t expecting to see you. I thought you and Maleah had probably sold the house.”

      “I thought I left my name when I called. Maybe I didn’t. I guess you hadn’t heard that Mike Birkett hired me as a deputy. I’ve moved back to Dunmore.”

      “Permanently?”

      He nodded. “Possibly. Depends.”

      “Depends on what?”

      “If the deputy job works out.”

      “Yes, of course. You’ve left the army?”

      “Yeah.”

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