the floor. The dog instantly ran to the door of the room, pawing to be let out. She reattached his leash to his collar.
“I’ll take him out,” Alec said, taking the leash from her hand. “Your shift’s nearly over.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The roses, resting in a glass vase on the reception counter, were beautiful and just about to open fully. Ordinarily, she would stop at a restaurant, usually Sam and Omie’s, for lunch between her morning at the animal hospital and her afternoon in her studio, but she wanted to take the roses home with her and they would bake in the car while she was eating. So, instead, she bought a sandwich from the Subway around the corner and settled into the small kitchen at the animal hospital to eat and read.
The book she was reading was titled Making Good Choices: A Woman’s Guide to Relationships, and was one of a half dozen her therapist had recommended to her. Most of the books, filled with psychobabble, had not spoken to her, but this one did. She could see herself in the anecdotes the author used to illustrate her points. And this author was forward-looking rather than focusing on the past. Lacey appreciated that. She did not want to be analyzed. She didn’t want to look at how, in some bizarre way, she had followed her mother’s promiscuous footsteps without even knowing about them. She just wanted to stop. This author made sense. It’s so much easier to stop an old behavior when you have a new behavior to take its place, she suggested. The author was big on relationships that started as friendships, that did not rush toward physical intimacy, that involved deep and open communication. The person selected for that relationship should be someone different from the type of person the reader was ordinarily drawn to, the author advised. Someone who would not trigger those old behaviors. Someone, Lacey knew, like Rick.
He had kissed her for the first time last night. She doubted she had ever been on three dates before without kissing. In truth, she had not been on three dates before without going to bed with the guy. Last night’s kiss had been chaste, closed-mouthed, and that had been fine with her. She’d wanted nothing more than that. She was a bit worried she had permanently frightened the libido out of herself, but maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. She knew she should be thrilled that Rick had come along at this point in her life. Someone decent, who listened to her when she said she needed to move slowly, who made no demands on her. It felt like a gift, like some greater power was telling her, “You’ve been a good girl for a whole year, Lacey. Now you have earned this truly decent man.” And yet, something was missing.
She was now reading a chapter she desperately needed: Discovering Attraction Where There Is None. “Often,” the author wrote, “women are attracted to ‘bad boys,’ those men who are a challenge or who are in need of ‘fixing.’ The ‘good boys’ are uninteresting and unattractive to these women. But feelings follow behavior. If the man seems right, but the chemistry is lacking, stop focusing on that point. Instead, talk to yourself about his good qualities. I promise, if it was meant to be, loving feelings will follow.”
This was perfect timing, Lacey thought. She had the man. The good boy. And he was even attractive. Feelings follow behavior. Standing up from the table, she reached for the phone on the wall. She would call to thank him for the roses.
7
EVEN AS HE PULLED INTO THE PARKING LOT IN front of Lacey’s studio, Rick could see the roses through the broad front windows. She had brought them with her from the animal hospital. They meant something to her, and that could either be good or bad.
He was not exactly sure how to proceed with Lacey. All he knew was that he needed to move carefully. It was unusual for a woman not to fawn all over him. He was undeniably handsome. He was an attorney. He drove a BMW. But it was clear that superficial trappings didn’t matter to Lacey, and that frankly intrigued him. She couldn’t handle too much of him at once, though. Of that he was certain.
He turned off the ignition and picked up a book from the passenger seat, resting it on his lap. He wondered if stopping in to see her after sending her roses and after speaking to her on the phone only an hour before—and now bringing her yet another gift—would qualify as too much. He was willing to take the risk, though. The roses in the window gave him courage.
He’d learned to time his visits to the studio when Tom Nestor wasn’t present. He’d actually been relieved to learn that Tom was Lacey’s biological father, because it explained the extreme interest the man seemed to take in her affairs. Still, he would just as soon visit with her alone.
He walked into the studio, the book in his hand, and was surprised when Lacey stood up, walked over to him, and gave him a quick hug.
“It’s good to see you,” she said.
“You, too.”
This was a rare welcome from Lacey. He must have turned a corner with her with those flowers. The vase rested on the table next to the kaleidoscopes, and the afternoon light shone through the fragile petals.
“What a perfect spot for the roses,” he said. “They nearly look like they’re made of stained glass sitting there.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” she said, taking her seat behind her worktable again. She was so pretty in her pale, freckled way. So delicate looking. He hoped he would not hurt her. “They’re inspiring me, actually,” she continued. “I think my next piece will be yellow roses.”
He sat down on the chair adjacent to the table. “Glad I could tweak your artistic sense a bit,” he said, then added, “You act like you don’t receive flowers very often.”
“I don’t think I ever have,” she admitted. “At least not from a man. Well, other than my father or Tom.”
“Hard to believe,” he said. “A woman like you deserves flowers.”
She shrugged off the compliment, and he thought he might have taken things a bit too far with it.
Two customers, a man and a woman, walked into the studio and began wandering among the glass and photographs. Rick lowered his voice to avoid being heard by them.
“Listen,” he said. “I wanted to tell you that I spoke with a friend of mine who’s more familiar with criminal law than I am. He had some suggestions for you on how to protest that guy’s parole.”
She was suddenly all ears. “What did he say?”
“You’ll need to contact the members of the parole commission,” he said. “They’re the people who decide whether this guy … what’s his name again?”
“Zachary Pointer.”
“Whether he should be paroled or not. They’ll take into account his previous criminal record and his behavior in prison. Do you know anything about that?”
Lacey glanced over at the man and woman, who were standing in front of a glass panel, talking about its colors.
“I don’t think he had a criminal record,” she said, looking as though that fact disappointed her. “And I have no idea what he’s been like in prison.”
“Well, here’s where you have some input,” he said. “The commission has to take into account any information they get from you or from other people who knew your mother and were impacted by her death. You’ll need to write what they call a victim impact statement. How his crime has impacted your life.
