not. Sarah refused to read about Mary Sutton, whose name seemed to appear in every issue these days.
“If you attended the meetings, you’d know it, too.” Melody added insult to injury by pointing out Sarah’s intentional absence.
Despite her irritation, Sarah managed a weak smile. “All right,” she muttered. “What can I do?”
“Actually, you’ve come at an opportune moment. We need someone who’s willing to pitch in on the Christmas baskets.”
Sarah was trying to figure out how she could squeeze in one more task before the holidays. “Exactly what would that entail?”
“Oh, it’ll be great fun. The ladies pooled the money they raised from the cookbook sale to buy gifts for these baskets. They’ve made up lists, and what you’d need to do is get everything on your list, arrange all the stuff inside the baskets and then deliver them to the Salvation Army by December twenty-third.”
That didn’t sound unreasonable. “I think I can do that.”
“Wonderful.” A smile lit up Melody’s face. “The woman who’s heading up the project will be grateful for some help.”
“The woman?” That sounded better already. At least she wouldn’t be stuck doing this alone.
“Mary Sutton.”
Sarah felt as though Melody had punched her. “Excuse me. For a moment I thought you said Mary Sutton.”
“I did.”
“I don’t mean to be catty here, but Mary and I have…a history.”
“I’m sure you’ll be able to work something out. You’re both adults.”
Sarah was stunned by the woman’s lack of sensitivity. She wanted to argue, to explain that this was unacceptable, but she couldn’t think of exactly what to say.
“You did want the club for June seventh, didn’t you?”
“Well, yes, of course, but—”
“Then be here tomorrow morning at ten to meet with Mary.”
Numb and speechless, Sarah slowly turned and trudged toward the door.
“Sarah,” Melody called. “Don’t forget the dance tickets.”
Dance. How could she think about the dance when she was being forced to confront a woman who detested her? The feeling might be mutual but that didn’t make it any less awkward.
One across. A four-letter word for fragrant flower. Rose, naturally. Noelle McDowell penciled in the answer and moved to the next clue. A prickly feeling crawled up her spine and she raised her head. She disliked the short commuter flights. This one, out of Portland, carried twenty-four passengers. It saved having to rent a vehicle or asking her parents to make the long drive into the big city to pick her up.
The feeling persisted and she glanced over her shoulder. She instantly jerked back and slid down in her seat as far as the constraints of the seat belt allowed. It couldn’t be. No, please, she muttered, closing her eyes. Not Thom. Not after all these years. Not now. But it was, it had to be. No one else would look at her with such complete, unadulterated antagonism. He had some nerve after what he’d done to her.
Long before she was ready, the pilot announced that the plane was preparing to land in Rose. On these flights, no carry-on bags were permitted, and Noelle hadn’t taken anything more than her purse on board. Her magazines would normally go in her briefcase, but that didn’t fit in the compact space beneath her seat, so the flight attendant had stowed it. She had a Weight Watchers magazine and a crossword puzzle book marked EASY in large letters across the top. She wasn’t going to let Thom see her with either and stuffed them in the outside pocket of her purse, folding one magazine over the other.
Her pulse thundered like crazy. The man who’d broken her heart sat only two rows behind her, looking as sophisticated as if he’d stepped off the pages of GQ. He’d always been tall, dark and handsome—like a twenty-first century Cary Grant. Classic features that were just rugged enough to be interesting and very, very masculine. Dark eyes, glossy dark hair. An impeccable sense of style. Surely he was married. But finding out would mean asking her sister or one of her friends who still lived in Rose. Coward that she was, Noelle didn’t want to know. Okay, she did, but not if it meant having to ask.
The plane touched down and Noelle braced herself against the jolt of the wheels bouncing on tarmac. As soon as they’d coasted to a stop, the Unfasten Seat Belt sign went off, and the people around her instantly leaped to their feet. Noelle took her time. Her hair was a fright. Up at three that morning to catch the 6:00 a.m. out of Dallas/Ft. Worth, she’d run a brush through the dark tangles, forgoing the usual routine of fussing with mousse. As a result, large ringlets fell like bedsprings about her face. Normally, her hair was shaped and controlled and coerced into gentle waves. But today she had the misfortune of looking like Shirley Temple in one of her 1930s movies—and in front of Thom Sutton, no less.
When it was her turn to leave her seat, she stood, looking staunchly ahead. If luck was with her, she could slip away unnoticed and pretend she hadn’t seen him. Luck, however, was on vacation and the instant she stepped into the aisle, the handle of her purse caught on the seat arm. Both magazines popped out of the outside pocket and flew into the air, only to be caught by none other than Thom Sutton. The crossword puzzle magazine tumbled to the floor and he was left holding the Weight Watchers December issue. As his gaze slid over her, she immediately sucked in her stomach.
“I read it for the fiction,” she announced, then added, “Don’t I know you?” She tried to sound indifferent—and to look thin. “It’s Tim, isn’t it?” she asked, frowning as though she couldn’t quite place him.
“Thom,” he corrected. “Good to see you again, Nadine.”
“Noelle,” she said bitterly.
He glared at her until someone from the back of the line called, “Would you two mind having your reunion when you get off the plane?”
“Sorry,” Thom said over his shoulder.
“I barely know this man.” Noelle wanted her fellow passengers to hear the truth. “I once thought I did, but I was wrong,” she explained, walking backward toward the exit.
“Whatever,” the guy behind them said loudly.
“You’re a fine one to talk,” Thom said. His eyes were as dark and cold as those of the snowman they’d built in Lions’ Park their senior year of high school—like glittering chips of coal.
“You have your nerve,” she muttered, whirling around just in time to avoid crashing into the open cockpit. She smiled sweetly at the pilot. “Thank you for a most pleasant flight.”
He returned the smile. “I hope you’ll fly with us again.”
“I will.”
“Good to see you, Thom,” the pilot said next.
Placing her hand on the railing of the steep stairs that led to the ground, Noelle did her best to keep her head high, her shoulders square—and her eyes front. The last
