troubling pair, especially since her sister’s latest battles with Jed the jerk, the worst boyfriend in history.
Though she and Valery were close, Julia had learned to keep her thoughts and grief to herself. No one understood. They expected her to move on and forget she’d had a son, a husband, a family. To forget she’d had a happy, almost perfect life until that horrible October morning.
Rounding into the kitchen, a late addition to the house, Julia flipped on lights and went straight for the coffee and oven dials. She might never win any chef awards but she loved to feed people.
Though her specialty was peach tea made from scratch, her coffee was good, too, a unique blend she ground herself and served French press. Guests were known to linger for hours over coffee, so she started there. The breakfast menu varied but always included a peach dish, mostly with fruit from her orchard. People expected peaches from an inn with a name like Peach Orchard.
In minutes, the ham-and-egg strata was ready for the oven, the peach-muffin batter spread among the tins, and the coffee sang its aromatic siren song. Taking a cup, Julia went out onto the front porch for her favorite time of day. With only the dog for company, she sat in one of four white wicker chairs to watch the sun break over the lawn and come sneaking through the waxy-leaved magnolias and fuchsia rhododendron. Last night’s rain glistened like tiny crystals on the verdant grass while Old Glory hung limply from the white-board porch rail.
Julia made a frustrated sound in the back of her throat. Valery had forgotten to bring in the flag again last night, a clear breach of etiquette that would have the townspeople on the phone if anyone had driven past. Hopefully, no one had. Backed by woods, Peach Orchard Inn was off the main thoroughfare on the edge of town. Mikey would have loved this place. Room to run and explore and be a little boy in safety.
But safe was a relative term.
The house was shielded from the road by a thick stand of leafy trees, including the showy pink blooms of the peach orchard that ran to the right of the front lawn and down the north side. Sometimes she heard a car go by but mostly not. The small-town peace and quiet was one of the draws of her little guesthouse.
Julia propped her heels on a neighboring chair, gazed out toward the orchard and sipped her coffee.
“Happy birthday, baby,” she whispered, and the hollow heat of grief seized up in her chest. Eyes closed, she heard his small voice, smelled his little-boy and toothpaste scent and felt the warmth of his sturdy body as she’d hugged him that final time. Her throat thickened and tears welled. She’d grieve for these few minutes alone, as she had for six years, and then she’d dust off her hostess smile and get on with her day.
Bingo padded to her knees and whined, nudging. The Aussie didn’t want anyone to be unhappy, though he had endured his share of her tears. He, too, had grieved, wandering forlorn for weeks in search of the adored boy who never came home.
Leaning forward, Julia wrapped her arms around the dog, pressed her face to his fur and wept.
“Ma’am. Are you all right?”
Julia jerked upright and dropped her feet to the porch with a thud. Her heart beat in her throat as she stared at a man standing at the bottom of the steps. She glanced behind him, saw no car and wondered where he had come from. He hadn’t been there a moment ago. Her errant thoughts of rattling carriages, talking marbles and touches in the night had her wondering if she’d imagined him, conjured him up. Was she hallucinating? He was handsome enough to be a dream but hard looking, too, as if he’d seen too much and done even more. A dark-eyed pirate in a tattered jean jacket with a day’s growth of beard, shaggy black hair and a rumpled white T-shirt.
“Who are you?” The words were breathy, harsh and out of character for a Southern hostess.
A frown formed a vee between the man’s Faustian black eyebrows. “I didn’t mean to scare you. You were crying.”
She realized then that her face was still wet. “I’m fine.” She swiped both hands across her cheeks in one quick motion. “Where did you come from?”
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “The road. My car broke down. You wouldn’t have any jumper cables, would you?”
“Sorry, no.”
He glanced toward the section of the peach orchard that ran parallel to the house. His shoulders lifted in a hopeless sigh.
“Could I use your phone?” He asked as if expecting a denial.
“Don’t you have a cell?”
His jaw flexed, hardened even more. His eyes cut to hers and just as quickly cut away. “No.”
Everyone had a cell phone these days. Where had this guy been? The moon?
She heard a slight noise from inside the kitchen and knew her guests had begun to stir.
“The phone is in the kitchen. Come in.” She turned, felt his eyes at her back as she reached for the screen door. With a silent move that could have been unsettling, he joined her, took hold of the door and held it open as she entered.
She wasn’t afraid of him. But even if he’d been an ax murderer, she’d not have been afraid. A person who was dead on the inside had no fear.
One of her frequent guests, a bespectacled sixtysomething Bob Oliver, stood at the counter helping himself to coffee. He and his wife had been here so often in the past two years, she let them have the run of the place and was glad they felt relaxed. That was the point of Peach Orchard Inn.
“Good morning, Bob,” she said. “You’re up with the birds.”
“I smelled your coffee.”
She managed a smile. “I’ll fix a carafe for Mattie too.”
“Later, maybe. Seven is too early for Mattie. When she retired from teaching she said she was never setting another alarm. And she hasn’t.”
“Can’t blame her for that,” Julia offered before turning toward the man who stood uncertainly beside the back door.
Before she could point the stranger toward the landline, Bob said in his usual candid manner, “Didn’t know you had a hired man now.”
Julia slanted the stranger a glance, wondering if he’d been insulted. His hard face remained impassive.
“Unfortunately, help, other than Valery, is still a pipe dream for Peach Orchard Inn. His car broke down up on the road.”
“Probably the battery,” the newcomer said, and then as if he’d been reprimanded for speaking too loudly, he looked down at his feet.
“Is that so? Maybe I can help.” The older man offered a hand. “Name’s Bob Oliver.”
The stranger looked at the outstretched hand for an extra beat—long enough to draw attention to the hesitation—before he reciprocated. “Eli Donovan. I’ll take you up on that, Mr. Oliver.”
“Call me Bob. Mr. Oliver sounds like a professor of physics—which I was for thirty years. Now, I’m just plain old Bob.” He chuckled and reached for the silver carafe, giving the plunger a push with the flat of one hand. “Julia here makes fine coffee.”
The
