LITMIR.BIZ

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bed. He turned from the window with a frown. He’d always sworn he wouldn’t resort to answering his kids’ questions with just because. As a boy he’d had an inquisitive mind. His parents, who fought constantly, never gave straight answers. Their bitterness had led to their eventual breakup and to his estrangement from them. Which was another reason this house and Briarwood held such fond memories for him. Iva and her good friends, Bill and Mary Shea, had nothing but time to lavish on a lonely, neglected boy. Joel’s folks had finally split the year he’d turned fifteen. His dad, a career Army man, went on to a new duty station in Hawaii. He’d remarried ASAP, and his new wife had given birth to a son. Joel’s dad seemed to forget he had an older son from his first marriage. He retired in Hilo, so Joel had never met his stepbrother. And his mom had continued with her job in Atlanta until she, too, met and married a new man. Seventeen by then, Joel elected to stay behind. His high school teachers and counselors secured him an art scholarship, for which he’d always be grateful. As a lonely child, he’d coped with moving from one army base to the next by drawing funny caricatures of the people around him. His drawing ability, combined with observational skills and a dry wit made him a good living from the time he’d hired on to create political cartoons a decade ago, to now. After a few years, the paper had offered him his own, more lucrative, weekly strip, which went into syndication a while ago.

      “I’m going to have the movers bring in the posts for your bed, Rianne. How about if, after they go, you help me by handing over the bolts, nuts and wrenches I need? Then I’ll assemble my bed. After I finish that, I’ll fix us something to eat.”

      “What?”

      “Whatever I find in the first food box I open. Tomorrow, early, we’ll go grocery shopping.”

      Putting together beds soon became a chore that was next to impossible to complete. But by then, what to fix for supper was no longer an issue. Within minutes of the moving van’s departure, a steady stream of Briarwood matrons started bringing in so much food Joel was astonished—and wary. Especially after the first talkative stranger, a woman named Millie McDaniel, informed Joel that she owned the only hair salon in town, and he realized that along with casseroles came questions. Briarwood’s self-appointed welcoming committee was determined to find out the intimate details of his life. But ever since his very public divorce from a prominent newschaser, Joel had learned how to smile politely and say nothing personal.

      Seconds after he shut the door on a very persistent shopkeeper, Joel noticed his next-door neighbor striding down her lane. Where earlier she’d worn raggedy cutoffs, she now had on a floaty pink sundress. Joel hesitated just inside his door, juggling a layer cake in one hand and a macaroni-and-beef casserole in the other. Because she carried a covered metal pan, he assumed she was about to be his next inquisitor. Joel vacillated between meeting her head-on and pretending not to hear his doorbell.

      Instead of escaping, he edged out onto the porch, admiring the change a dress made in her appearance. A full skirt swished appealingly around her slender ankles. On one ankle he identified a circle of gemstones winking in the setting sun. A minute or so passed while he enumerated her other attributes. Then two things dawned on Joel. One, she’d noticed him ogling her. Two, she wasn’t going to his house. A car had pulled into her lane, and a spiffily dressed man emerged from the sleek black Mercedes coupe. He whipped open his passenger door and relieved the woman of her pan of goodies, then waited while she folded her full skirt inside the car. The man watched Joel, too.

      Joel had barely darted inside before the driver handed the pan to his passenger and bent to say something that made her glance toward Joel’s open door. He abruptly slammed it shut.

      Big deal! So, the country mouse had a boyfriend with a few bucks. It was just as well. Joel hadn’t come to Briarwood in search of dates. One mistake of the kind he’d made in marrying Lynn was all a man needed. Lynn had turned out to have a greater interest in skyrocketing to fame as a foreign correspondent, which had led to this new job as a high-profile TV anchor, than she’d ever had in staying in one place building a home with him.

      “That cake is lopsided, Daddy,” Rianne announced as Joel carried the last gift into the big, country-style kitchen. “It sorta looks like the one you made for my last birthday, ’cept that one had my fav’rite chocolate frosting.”

      A stab of something like nostalgia had struck Joel as he’d watched the couple drive off in the hot car, but it faded instantly. Bending, he swung his daughter into his arms for a hug. If he hadn’t met and married Lynn Severson, he wouldn’t have Rianne. She was the best thing in his life.

      “Can we eat the ’sketti the woman with the bright red hair brought?”

      Joel grinned. “Bright red is accurate. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that shade.” As Rianne’s blue eyes widened, Joel laughed and set her down. “If I let you, kid, you’d eat ’sketti every night. And it’s spaghetti. Tell you what. I’ll turn the oven on low and put this in to warm while we finish raising the canopy over your bed. I swear, we’re not moving again until you’re twenty-one. I’m not ever wrestling with that canopy again. I’d sure like to have a talk with the masochist who engineered that.”

      “What’s a mas…maso—that word you said, Daddy? What is that?”

      Joel nearly swallowed his tongue. “Never mind, honey. It’s not a word you’ll need to know in first grade—if ever,” he muttered, taking the stairs two at a time to the first broad landing.

      Chapter Two

      Across town at her parents’ home, Sylvie divided the time before dinner between sidestepping the issue of her new neighbor, and avoiding too much chumminess with the man her sister, Dory, had sent to collect her. Where did her family dig up these guys? Chet Bellamy’s company had apparently sold Dory’s insurance agency a new computer system, and he was in town for a week to see that it got up and running. Thank heaven the man had no desire to leave his thriving business in Asheville. And as he’d said he was on the road a lot, Sylvie couldn’t really begrudge him this one evening in the company of her lively family.

      Dory and Carline, twenty-five and twenty-four respectively, cornered their older sister in the rambling family kitchen.

      Carline, eight and a half months pregnant and always focused on food lately, snitched several slices of cheese from a platter Sylvie was arranging. “I can’t believe you sat and watched brand-new people move into the Whitaker place and don’t have a thing to say about them.”

      Sylvie slapped her sister’s hand as she polished off the two pieces of cheese she’d taken and reached for more. “Mom asked me to fix this to take out on the porch as an appetizer. If you keep grabbing everything I cut, Carline, the tray will look like a mouse got into it.”

      Dory cut a chunk of pepper jack for herself and nibbled on it. “Jane Bateman passed the word at our insurance agency. She’d gone to the post office at noon and saw the moving truck, and knew they turned down Blackberry Road. She figured out they were headed to Iva’s. I left work late, or I’d have gone by there with something from my freezer they can reheat in a microwave. I wonder if the Mercers play bridge,” she said, glancing at her sisters. “Peggy at the post office told Jane that’s their name, Mercer. Peggy said their mail’s being transferred from Atlanta. City people are more likely to play bridge, don’t you think?” she asked hopefully.

      Sylvie bumped against the refrigerator as she moved around the counter. The dull ache reminded her of her earlier fall from the tree. “They have at least one child, a little girl. And a cat,” she added in afterthought.

      “A girl? Great,” Dory said, suddenly smiling. “How old? Kendra’s age, I hope. They could play together when Kendra stays with you.”

      “This child, Rianne’s her name, is probably a year or so older than Kendra. She asked me about the school here. I’d say she’s in first or second grade.” Sylvie looked out and saw her niece and nephew playing on the swing set outside. Kendra was an advanced four, and Roy a sturdy, delightful toddler.

      “What did the girl have to say

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