DeVries family itself was well-known in New Skye, of course, with a history dating back to before the Civil War. Preston DeVries, Adam’s father, was a respected surgeon at the local hospital, while Cynthia, his mother, worked with the most prominent charity and volunteer groups. Phoebe had moved to North Carolina only a year ago, but she’d seen the DeVries name in the newspaper often enough to be curious. Her friends who’d grown up in town had filled her in on the details, which made Adam less of a stranger, surely. Less of a risk.
Then her first glimpse of him across the waiting room this morning had set her pulse skittering. Tall, broad-shouldered and lean-hipped, with a workingman’s hands and a poet’s sad, farsighted gaze, Adam DeVries embodied the sum of all her romantic fantasies. His thick, neatly cut brown hair, his smooth, tanned face and strong chin, belonged on a movie poster…or a campaign flyer. How could she say no to a dream come true?
And there was that smile…
Still, had she allowed her physical and emotional reaction to a client to overwhelm her professional good sense?
No, she concluded, I didn’t. The smile hadn’t caused her to bend the rules. Her decision resulted from the moment before the smile. The moment when he’d said, “This time is for me.”
Phoebe knew exactly what he meant. She’d spent years trying to meet the expectations of other people, only to fail time and time again. Not until she’d begun to live for herself had she succeeded in dealing with her own stutter.
She wouldn’t deny Adam DeVries his chance to accomplish the same miracle.
And she wouldn’t consider the notion that he…and she…could possibly fail.
TUESDAY NIGHT, ADAM MET Tommy Crawford in the parking lot outside the Carolina Diner. “Th-thought you w-were g-gonna be l-l-late.”
Tommy shook his hand. “Me, too. My last client decided not to come out in the rainstorm to discuss insurance. These elderly Southern ladies do have certain…peculiarities.”
“D-don’t I kn-know it. T-try b-building a h-house f-f-for one of th-them.” Adam held the door and let Tommy go in ahead of him. “The rain s-slowed us d-down, too. I s-sent most of the c-crews h-home early.” Combined with his late start, that meant not much work got done today.
Tommy turned a hard right and slid into Adam’s usual booth. Just as Adam settled in, Abby Brannon appeared with two glasses of iced tea.
“Hi, guys. Isn’t the rain great?” Abby’s dad, Charlie, owned the Carolina Diner, but everybody in town knew that Abby was the real engine running the place. She flipped to a new page in her order book. “Tonight’s special is porcupine meatballs, and I baked a red velvet cake yesterday. You want to think, or you want to order?”
Since they’d been eating here since they were teenagers, along with most of the other kids who attended nearby New Skye High, neither Adam nor Tommy needed a menu. They both ordered the special. “With green beans,” Tommy said, “and macaroni and cheese.”
“I’ll h-have o-okra and ap-p-ples. L-looks like you’re g-gonna b-be b-busy t-tonight.”
Abby glanced around at the rapidly filling tables and brushed her brown bangs off her forehead with the back of her hand. “Rainy nights tend to bring folks out to eat. Unlike some people,” she said to Adam as she grinned and punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Some people eat out every night.”
“S-some p-people don’t c-cook.”
She winked. “You oughta find a nice woman who’ll solve that problem for you.”
He winked back. “I d-d-did.”
Abby rolled her eyes and walked away. Tommy laughed. “So why don’t you marry her and then you wouldn’t have to drive out for breakfast?”
Adam looked at his best friend. “M-me? M-marry Abby?”
“Why not?”
“B-because…” He narrowed his eyes and thought. “There’s always s-something Abby h-holds b-back. You kn-know? Y-you c-can’t qu-quite r-r-reach her.”
“She’s a busy lady.” They watched her bustle from table to table, serving drinks, clearing plates, taking orders. “But she’d be a sweet armful.”
“S-so y-you m-marry her.”
“Yeah, right.” Tommy shook his head. “I’m too much of a wiseass for Abby. Give me a woman with a good suit of armor. That way we won’t kill each other.”
“Campaign meeting, gentlemen?”
Adam looked up to find one of his worst nightmares standing beside the table—Samantha Pettit, reporter for the New Skye News. Surprise made words impossible. He glanced at Tommy.
His friend took over smoothly. “Hey, Sam. How’s it going? Sit down and have a drink.”
“No, thanks. I’m meeting an interview in a few minutes. But I saw you two sitting here and figured you must be planning election strategy.”
Adam had pulled himself together. “Election?”
Samantha flashed him a mocking smile. “I saw you’d filed papers for the mayor’s race, Adam.”
Tommy stepped in. “You just can’t keep a secret in this town. You want the first interview, Sam?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Well, when we’re up and running, I’ll give you a call.”
“You’re the campaign manager?”
“Who else?”
The reporter nodded. “I’ll remember. Keep me up to date on your schedule.” Behind Adam, the bell on the door jingled. “Gotta go.”
As she walked away, Tommy swore under his breath.
“W-what?”
“Her interview. She just sat down with L. T. LaRue.”
Adam’s gut tightened. “I g-guess they’re t-talking about him w-winning th-that public housing p-project.” The official announcement had only been made Monday, though the grapevine had predicted the city council’s decision several weeks ago. “D-d-dammit, I really w-w-wanted that c-contract for D-DeVries C-Construction. We would have d-d-done a g-g-good j-job for the p-people of this t-town.” He bounced his fist off the Formica tabletop. “LaRue will throw up s-something cheap and let s-somebody else d-deal with the hassle when the p-p-place starts f-f-falling apart.”
Tommy shrugged. “You don’t play footsie with Mayor Tate and the rest of the city council like L.T. does.” He kept an eye on the table across the room. “Don’t take ’em to dinner, pay for their golf rounds. Don’t cut ’em in on your deals, put an extra ten grand or so a year in their pockets. If you won’t play the game, son, I don’t know how you expect to get the prize.”
“J-just s-s-stupid, I g-g-guess. I thought a g-good plan, a low b-b-bid and a reputation for honest d-dealing would b-be worth s-something.”
“Your
