hung the iron poker on the hearth and rose. “Want some hot chocolate?”
“No. I want to talk about this.”
The topic had him itching to pace. He wanted to help her— God, he wanted to help her. But how? He said, “We can talk while it’s brewing,” and returned to the kitchen, where he set the milk on the stove to warm. From the corner of his eye, he saw Hallie crouch beside Roach, stretched out in the mudroom doorway. As she stroked his broad head, the dog thumped its stubbed tail on the linoleum, and watched her every move with guarded eyes.
The sight prompted a memory of the Quinlan woman the moment Seth had removed the groceries from her cold arms on the shoulder of the highway. Caution: it flashed across her face before she climbed the ladder into the cab and again when he took her keys for her truck at the back door of the shop.
In the months after he’d found Roach hiding under his front porch, he often speculated on the animal’s past. Why had the dog slunk on its belly to sniff his hand, then crawled quick as a light-affected bug back into its dark cavern?
Tonight, Seth wondered what lurked in the lady’s past that had her on a speedy retreat into that little hovel of a shop. And how long would it take to coax her out…
She’s not a stray, Seth. You can’t cure her ills.
Nor did he want to. Last thing he needed to do was worry over some woman he happened to offer a ride. Irritated with his thoughts, he said briskly, “Milk’s ready.”
In the pantry, he found packages of marshmallows and Oreos, put them between the mugs on the old oak table. Easing into one of the four chairs, he said, “So, who’s the boy you wanna date?”
“I didn’t say there was a boy.”
Seth lifted his eyebrows.
“Okay,” she said, with a sheepish smile. “There’s this guy… Tristan.” She shook a few marshmallows into her mug. “He’s really cute and wants to go to the matinee tomorrow. It’s not that big a deal, but Mom wants to come, too.” Hallie raised her head. “Can you imagine what everyone would think?”
He could. Kids, ten and up, whispering for months about how Hallie Tucker was chaperoned by her mother—her mercurial, wild mother—to an afternoon movie. Yeah, he could imagine, big time. And while he wasn’t crazy about the idea of Hallie alone with a boy, he was less enthused about Melody tagging along.
In a skirt the size of a belt.
Moody lips scored in ho-red.
Give-it-to-me stilettoes hiking her petite frame.
“She won’t even listen,” Hallie continued. “All she keeps saying is, ‘I was a teenager once, too.’ Like she’s the queen diva on puberty or something.”
No surprise there. The woman had been born snapping gum. Still did, if Seth had anything to say about it. Which he didn’t.
Tread carefully, man. You don’t want Hallie storming off, believing you won’t come through for her. Damn. He stood between a rock and a hard place. “How ’bout if I talk to your mother?”
“She won’t listen to you. She doesn’t listen to anybody.”
“Maybe she will this time.”
“She won’t. It’s either her way or the highway.” Across the table, Hallie observed their reflections in the night window. “I hate her.”
“You don’t mean that, honey.”
“Yes, I do. She’s getting so weird. I hear kids giggling behind her back whenever she comes to the school. The way she acts, the way she does her hair, the way she dresses. Since she got those implants last spring, she only buys tops that show—”
“Hallie.”
“It’s true! Like she’s so ho—ot.”
“Hallie.”
“I don’t care.” She turned away, but he caught the hurt. “It’s like we’re in a contest or some dumb beauty challenge. It’s totally stupid.”
“She’s your mother, babe.”
“Yeah, well, I wished she wasn’t. The way men look at her, it’s like she’s a…a bar tramp.” Her bottom lip quaked.
A vice gripped his chest.
There was nothing more to say. She was right; they both knew it. “Drink your chocolate,” he told her.
Chapter Two
Coffee mug in hand, Breena stepped onto the front porch of Earth’s Goodness at eight-thirty the next morning. The wind from the night before had faded and, under a soft sun, the quiet spice of fall crisped the air. She didn’t miss Frisco. Didn’t miss the snarl of traffic, the bitter smog, her joyless marriage.
She’d make it in this Oregon town, yes, she would. The next twelve months would prove it in ways the last thirty-five years in California hadn’t. If worse came to worst, Misty River was still a good place to hole up until she mended her heart.
The sound of a motor turned her head. Her Blazer, the sun glinting off its maroon roof, stopped in front of the shop. A young man climbed from the driver’s side.
“G’morning,” she called.
He gave a short wave and came around the hood as she went down the steps. They met at the gate. “You people work fast.” The name Tristan and The Garage Center were stitched in orange above the left pocket of his jade coveralls.
“Yep.” Under a Red Sox ball cap, the boy—no more than eighteen—grinned. “Bill opens at seven.”
Breena studied the truck. “Does he always deliver?”
“It’s policy,” Tristan said with pride, “if we can’t give the owner a courtesy vehicle.”
Possibly it was more Seth Tucker’s policy, but she wasn’t about to argue the fact. She took the clipboard the boy offered. “What was wrong with it?”
“Busted fanbelt.”
She checked the total at the bottom of the page and her mouth opened, then closed. In the city, the tow alone would cost triple. “Did Mr. Tucker have anything to do with this?”
“Uh…which Mr. Tucker?”
“Seth. Seth Tucker.” She held out the form, pointed to the low figure. “Did he have anything to do with this?”
“Don’t think so, ma’am.” Tristan’s forehead scrunched. “Bill’s the one did the tallying. Is there a mistake?”
None. None at all. “I haven’t had such—” Generosity? Decency? “—a nice surprise in a while.”
The teenager spruced his shoulders. “Glad we were of service.”
“Would you like to come in while
