would she have turned out without it?
She worried sometimes that Brian would always be missing a small, settled corner of his heart that should be filled by a father’s love. Like a quilt with one of the squares missing, he would be fine but somehow incomplete.
She shook away the thought, feeling guilty. She would only admit to herself that single parenthood was a lot harder on her than on Brian.
Trolling for a parking space, she pulled into a spot adjacent to the ball fields. The lot was filling up fast with vehicles from all over. Amazing, to think so many people were interested in this strange fund-raiser. She spotted a number of rental cars and vehicles with out-of-state plates. Plenty of these were sleek and expensive late models. The organizers of the auction—ranch owner Lindsay Duncan and director Rex Trowbridge—must be well connected.
Or maybe the brochure didn’t exaggerate the success of the various bachelors. But really—an auction?
A couple of news vans had set up, bundled cords snaking along the ground toward the arena where the auction would take place. Some of the bachelors had celebrity status, attracting local and national media. It was the fantasy angle they were after, she supposed. The idea that women were about to compete—publically—for a date with one of these guys.
She shouldn’t have been surprised when someone shoved a microphone under her chin and demanded her name as soon as she stepped out of the truck. But she was so taken aback that she blurted, “I’m Twyla McCabe.”
“What do you hope to find here today, Miss McCabe?” the reporter asked, his voice an aggressive, rapid-fire staccato.
“Men,” she said ironically. “Lots of men.”
“Would that be for a weekend fling, or are you husband-hunting?”
“What?” Lord, did he really think she was serious?
“Think you’ll find husband material here?”
She couldn’t help herself. She burst out laughing. “Oh, sure. I’m going to snag a millionaire. Or at least a hunky cowboy, one with great pecs and a tight butt.”
“Then what words would you use to describe the mood today—excited, romantic, hopeful?”
Finding her composure at last, she pushed the microphone away. “You could use them, but you’d be wrong. With a wink, she added, “Try bold and lusty.”
The busy, sweating reporter gave up and scurried away in search of a more promising scoop.
“Who was that guy, Mom?” Brian asked, getting out of the truck.
“I have no idea, but I’d better wind up on the editing room floor.” She opened the tailgate of the old pickup. “Okay, sport, you can help carry.” She handed him the raffle box and took the quilt, carefully wrapped in a dry cleaner’s bag. It was the best work ever done by the Converse County Quilt Quorum. Done in a classic log-cabin pattern and made of soft, worn, hand-me-down cottons in a rainbow of colors, it was sure to fetch a handsome number of raffle entries.
She set the quilt on the tailgate and got out the folded card table. Awkwardly, she took the table under one arm and the quilt under the other and started toward the covered pavilion. “Brian, watch where you’re going,” she called to him as a Ford Explorer with rental plates nosed into the parking lot.
The metal leg of the card table scraped her shin and she set her jaw to keep from cursing. It was hot, she was perspiring, she hadn’t made it to the arena, and she was already getting cranky.
“Can I help you carry something?”
She stopped walking and turned to see a tall man getting out of the black sport utility vehicle. For a second, a dazzle of sunlight striking the windshield made her squint painfully. Then he came toward her and her grateful smile froze on her face.
It was him. The guy from the brochure. And not just any guy, but the one in the tux with the long-stemmed rose.
He wasn’t wearing a tux and carrying a rose at the moment, though. He managed to look immaculate, casual and foolishly expensive in khaki slacks and a navy golf shirt. A gold watch gleamed on his wrist. He had black hair, white teeth and the sort of unbelievably handsome face you saw on prime-time TV.
“Um, yes, thanks. Maybe you could get this table?”
His cool, dry hand brushed her hot and sweaty one as he took the folded table from her. Brian watched, shading his eyes and staring unabashedly up at the man.
“I’m Brian. Brian McCabe. I have a loose tooth.”
“Congratulations,” the man said. “Rob Carter. Pleased to meet you, Brian. You too, ma’am.”
Twyla knew his name perfectly well. Robert Carter, M.D. He was a Leo whose favorite song was “Misty” and whose ideal woman was Grace Kelly. His idea of a great time was a round of golf at Pebble Beach.
“Twyla McCabe,” she said, falling in step with him. “And don’t call me ma’am. I’m too young to be a ma’am.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“I call you ma’am when I’m in trouble,” Brian pointed out.
“Does that mean I’m not in trouble?” Rob asked.
“Guess not.”
“Hot dog.”
Brian laughed, clearly intrigued. “Not yet, anyway.”
“I’ll mind my manners.” He was taller than he’d appeared in the brochure, with the long, lanky build of a college basketball player. And Lord, so obscenely good-looking she had to force herself not to stare. The haircut alone would run about a hundred dollars in the city. His cologne was probably something she couldn’t pronounce or afford. It was like being in the presence of an alien life-form.
“Twyla,” he said, trying out her name. “I’ve never met anyone called Twyla before.”
“My granddad named her,” Brian explained helpfully. Though he’d never known his grandfather, Gwen told him family stories each night as she stitched her quilts in her little sitting room. The stories always depicted a dreamer—and they always ended happily. Brian was too young for the truth.
Robert Carter, M.D., had a dazzling smile on his face as he looked down at her. “You don’t say.”
“I just said so!” Brian objected.
“A figure of speech.” Carter’s laugh was smooth, gentle, infectious.
Yet Twyla didn’t feel like laughing. He made her conscious that her truck’s air conditioner hadn’t worked in three years, that her cotton sundress was plastered to her back by sweat, and that she hadn’t bothered with perfume after her shower today.
Intimidating, that’s what he was. And too…everything. Too handsome, too smoothly friendly, too glib, too perfectly put-together, too male.
A pavilion had been set up for the barbecue. The smoky smells of sizzling ribs, chicken and beef filled the air. A PA system blared a
