to have their own home.
“I’ll think about it.”
Kathleen nodded.
“Logan’s boxes seemed to sell well,” Jo remarked.
“We sold out this weekend,” Helen said. “In fact, I’ve been thinking that we should be selling soap dishes, too. I saw a wire one with curlicue feet in an antique store the other day. It had been painted white and was really distinctive. I wonder if we could find someone to copy it?”
Kathleen got up to pour herself another cup of tea. “Do you think we could make them ourselves?”
Helen mulled it over and finally nodded. “I’ll try.”
They continued chatting about upcoming craft shows, a change in packaging, and Jo’s plans for the branch library she’d be taking over in a few weeks.
Eventually, inevitably, Kathleen asked again about Alec. “What’s he do for a living?”
“I have no idea,” Helen admitted. “I didn’t think to ask.”
“He must live on Queen Anne or he wouldn’t be involved in something like the fair.”
“I guess so.”
Her friends gazed at her in exasperation. “Don’t you know anything about the man?” Jo asked.
“He has an eleven-year-old daughter and a fourteen-year-old son. His wife died of leukemia. He said she felt tired one day, and six weeks later she was dead.”
“Okay, okay. It’s a start.” Jo studied Helen critically. “What are you planning to wear?”
“Nothing fancy. It’s supposed to be casual.”
“You won’t wear your hair up.” Kathleen sounded as if she were announcing an undisputed fact.
“Why not?” Feeling defensive, Helen touched her ponytail. “It doesn’t look that bad.”
“You have glorious hair,” Kathleen said. “The way you yank it back looks…”
“Repressed,” Jo finished for her.
As sulky as a teenager, Helen just about snapped, If I want to be repressed, I will be!
Instead she muttered, “I don’t like hair in my face.”
The way Kathleen scrutinized her, Helen felt like a mannequin in a store window waiting to be posed and dressed.
“If you won’t wear it loose, we can do something to it that’s still softer.”
“Maybe.” And they wondered why she was ready to move out! Deliberately she changed the subject. “You’re sure you don’t mind watching Ginny?”
“She lives here. It hardly qualifies as baby-sitting.”
“No, but it does mean you and Logan can’t go out.”
“Unless Emma is home.” But they both knew that wasn’t likely. Emma, between her junior and senior years in high school and nearly eighteen, was dating a freshman at Seattle U. She was almost never home on Friday or Saturday nights anymore. “Besides—” Kathleen had a gleam in her eye “—I have every intention of being here when he picks you up.”
“So you can quiz him about his intentions?” Helen asked with deceptive tranquility.
Kathleen flashed a grin. “So I can satisfy my curiosity.”
Helen had to laugh. So, okay, they were busybodies. They irritated her sometimes. But the two women were her closest friends. No, they were family. Way more important to her than Alec Fraser ever could be.
ALEC PARKED his Mercedes on the street a few driveways down from Helen’s place. It was a nice brick house dating from the 1920s, if he was any judge. Big leafy maples and sycamores overhung the street, buckling sidewalks, while flowers tumbled over retaining walls. The flower bed above Helen’s wall looked new, the earth dark and the rosebushes spindly.
At six in the evening, the sun still baked the un-shaded pavement and the small, dry lawns. At midsummer in Seattle, night didn’t fall until nearly ten o’clock.
It was irrational but Alec felt better leaving the kids alone with the sun still shining. As if teenage boys only did stupid things in the dark.
He rang the doorbell. A woman he didn’t know answered. Beautiful and assured, she had honey-blond hair worn in a loose French braid.
“Hi. You must be Alec Fraser?”
“That’s right. I’m here for Helen.”
“I’m Kathleen Carr.” Smiling, she held out her hand. “Her housemate.”
He shook. “The Kathleen.”
“Of Kathleen’s Soaps, you mean? The same.” She stepped back. “Come on in.”
As he followed her, a slender teenage girl with an unmistakable resemblance to Kathleen came down the stairs. Her ponytailed hair was a shade lighter, and she had the impossibly delicate build of a ballerina, but her inquisitive blue eyes could have been her mother’s.
“Oh, Emma. This is Alec Fraser. Alec, my daughter.”
“Nice to meet you.”
He could see through an archway into the living room, where a dark-haired young man slouched on the sofa with a laptop computer open on his knees. From the other direction came music; Alec recognized the voice of a singer who recorded CDs for children. A man called for Kathleen from some other part of the house.
Who were all these people?
“In a minute, Logan,” Kathleen called back. “Helen, Alec’s here!”
He was reassured to hear her voice float from above, “I’ll be right down.”
A moment later, she appeared, coming down the stairs as lightly as the teenage girl had. Something squeezed in his chest at the sight of her in linen slacks and a rust-colored, sleeveless top that he thought must be made of silk. Her hair was drawn up in two tortoiseshell clips and then flowed, like rivers of dark molten lava, over her shoulders. She was…oh, hell, not beautiful, but something better. Not so artificial. Her eyes were a warm, smiling brown, her skin the creamy pale of a true redhead—although her cheeks and shoulders were rather pink—but she lacked the freckles. Instead, her nose was peeling.
“You got sunburned.” Way to go, he congratulated himself. Surely he could have thought of a greeting that was slightly more suave. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Kathleen and Emma agreed.
But Helen only smiled. “Yup. I always get sunburned. I’m incapable of tanning. If I don’t put enough suntan lotion on, I burn, over and over, all summer long.”
“It’s not good for you.” Oh, better and better.
“I know.” She wrinkled her nose, then winced.
