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you a lot, and under different circumstances, I’d want to see where our relationship could go. But, come on. We’ve talked about this already. I have things to do before I can consider marriage, and you’re impatient to get on with your life.”

      She faced him finally. “Are you still in love with her?”

      “Of course not.”

      “Then, I don’t understand. You don’t love her, but you don’t care about us, either?” She let a beat pass, then shook her head. “So, that’s it? We’re just over? All those months of you being charming and letting the girls and me think you really cared about us meant nothing?”

      “I told you in the beginning...”

      “Right, right. Your life is all about staying single to pay off your debts. Money. It’s all about money. Well...” Her voice grew louder, further amplified in the tiny car. “I’m trying to give you thirty thousand dollars!”

      “Well, if all the situation required was money,” he shouted back, “great, but it doesn’t! I have to do this. My father worked extra shifts to help me get through college. My business was started with my parents’ retirement fund. I didn’t want to take it but they insisted because they loved me, were proud of me, and trusted me to do something great with it. When Jennifer stole from me, it was as though she took their money.”

      Again Sandy seemed at a loss for words, so he pressed on. He was now even angrier at her because she made him revisit the awfulness that had plagued his life for the past three years and would be with him for some time to come.

      “You don’t want to understand, because you’re trying to buy the life you want. But you can’t do that. You can’t just decide what to do with my life so that it fits in with your plans.”

      Her eyes widened with disbelief. “Pardon me, but aren’t you acting like all it requires is money? Money to pay your debts. Money to support a family. Money before you can decide to actually live?”

      “Sandy, I need to fulfill a personal obligation. You just want me to fall in with your blueprint. I’m sorry, but a man doesn’t let himself get into a mess, then let someone else—particularly a single mother with two little children—bail him out.”

      “I think you’re scared—” she folded her arms, her body language clear “—I am an island in shark-infested waters.”

      But her voice gentled, despite its brutal message. “You picked the wrong woman once before and you’re afraid of doing it again.”

      “You’re absolutely right. And shouldn’t you be scared? I mean, you believed in your husband when you married him and that didn’t work so well. Shouldn’t you be careful before you go to the altar again?”

      Something died in her eyes at his reminder that she’d made a major, painful mistake. He felt almost guilty about that. She sighed, then cleared her throat. “Apparently.” There was a moment of loud silence before she asked stiffly, “Would you please get out of my car?”

      She was finally pushing him away. This was what he wanted, what he needed. He hadn’t expected to hate it. “Sandy, you know where I stand. Eventually, things might be different, but for now...”

      “If you won’t accept help, won’t take that generous gift from Nate, how do you intend to make anything different?”

      He said what he knew she wouldn’t want to hear. “It’ll take time. I’ve been chipping away at the debt for a couple of years, now. It’s a slow process, but I have my self-respect.”

      “Yeah. Well, I guess there’s no arguing with that.” She pushed the passenger side door open. “I have to go.”

      Which was some kind of progress. But they still had to work together. “We have to find a way to be civil with each other,” he reminded her. “You’re the one who volunteered us to chair the opening of the Clothes Closet. We have to collect the clothes, plan some kind of event. There’ll be meetings, reports to Clatsop Community Action...” The Clothes Closet was a new arm of the Food Bank, being set up to provide warm winter clothing free of charge for those in need, and at a drastically reduced price to other shoppers.

      “I can be civil,” she said. “Just don’t ask me to be friends.”

      He opened his door, too. “Of course not,” he said before he climbed out. “That would require tolerance and respect for the other party’s opinion.”

      The moment he got to his feet, she was there to push him out of her way and slip in behind the wheel. The wind whipped up from the river and a light rain began to fall. The atmosphere was perfect for the swan song of a love gone wrong. Or, less dramatically, for a love that couldn’t be. At least for now.

      She yanked the door closed and he pulled his hand away just in time. He stepped back before she could run over his toes. She drove away in a squeal of tires.

      * * *

      HUNTER STUDIED THE new client in the chair facing his desk. He guessed the man was in his early sixties, and probably financially comfortable. When Hunter took the man’s raincoat, he noticed the exclusive label. He looked strong and fit and had lively brown eyes and white close-cropped hair.

      Studying the business card the man had given him, he read the name—Harris Connolly. There was a Fairhaven, Massachusetts, address and a cell phone number, but no business name, no lofty title, no email address.

      “I came through Astoria on a cruise ship a few years ago,” Connolly explained to Hunter as he leaned back in the chair and crossed his ankles. “I loved it here. I fell on the ship and broke my leg.” He grinned. “My own stupid fault. Nothing I could sue over, unfortunately. The ship had to go on without me, but the hospital took excellent care of me and arranged to get me a flight to Boston. They even found someone to drive me to the airport in Portland. I couldn’t believe how kind everyone was to me. I owe this town.”

      “It’s a great place. We take good care of everyone, tourists included. So, you’re back to stay?”

      “Maybe. I’m not sure.” Connolly had a warm, wide smile, but used it only briefly. He focused seriously on Hunter’s face. “I’ve scraped by for years running a little coffee shop in Fairhaven. Then I developed a new style of whoopie pie. Are you familiar with whoopie pies?”

      Hunter laughed. “Whoopie cushions, yes. Whoopie pies, no. Are they a dessert?”

      Connolly put a hand to his heart. “Oh, yes. And New Englanders love them. The dessert is basically a cream filling between two cakey chocolate cookies. Some are chocolate coated, some are rolled in nuts, all are scrumptious. But I developed one with cherries in the cream filling, and dipped half in milk chocolate, half in white chocolate.”

      “Wow.” Hunter thought of Nate’s wife, Bobbie, and her love of all things chocolate.

      “I served them à la mode in the restaurant and people came from as far away as Boston to get them ‘to go.’ I started shipping them, and caught the attention of Mrs. Walters’s Whoopie Pies. A big name among connoisseurs. She finally bought my recipe for a considerable amount of money. I’d like someone to help me manage the distribution of some of that money. I’m not good with figures, and investments just confuse me. I need help.”

      “We’ll be happy to help you, of course. But we have an investment counselor connected to the firm, Suzanne Corliss. You might prefer to talk to her.”

      Connolly shook his head. “I want you to help me. My aim right now is to give some money to Astoria. I thought you could figure out where it would do the most good.”

      Surprised, Hunter dropped the pen he held onto his yellow pad and pushed both pad and pen aside. He smiled politely. “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Connolly.” The unwritten rule was never to let a potential client go for any reason, but he couldn’t imagine how this man had found him. Any nonprofit in town would be thrilled with a contribution of any kind, but surely someone in the mayor’s office would be

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