wadded the paper and pushed it to the side.
Adam risked a glance over his shoulder. “N-not for m-much l-longer, if I have anyth-thing to s-say about it. When I g-get elected m-mayor, you c-can damn well be sure th-things are g-gonna change in this t-town.”
His best friend and campaign manager reached over to shake his hand. “I’m with you, buddy. All the way.”
Abby brought their plates, and they allowed good food to distract them from the jerk and the journalist on the other side of the room. Rain fell steadily outside the plate-glass windows and the bell on the door rang almost constantly, until there were only a couple of tables in the diner left empty. Much as he liked Tommy’s company and Abby’s teasing, Adam wished he’d taken fast food home tonight. In a place as small as New Skye, where most people knew him and his family, this kind of crowd almost invariably meant running into somebody who wanted to chat. And Adam really didn’t do chat.
As a prospective candidate, he was realistic enough to admit that running for mayor invited the intrusion of a whole town of people into his life, people who would believe they owned his time and attention. His goal was to clean up New Skye government, and if that was the price he paid, so be it. Let him get the stutter under control and he’d talk all day long.
Tonight, he just wanted to eat in peace.
A hand fell lightly on his shoulder. “Hi, Adam.”
He nearly groaned aloud. Then he looked up from his slice of cake and barely kept his jaw from dropping. Phoebe Moss?
“H-h-hi.” Somehow, he’d never expected to see her out in the real world.
But here she was, smiling at him, and then at Tommy. “This looks like the place to eat tonight. Jenna and I thought we’d have it all to ourselves.” She nodded toward the tall blonde beside her. “This is Jenna Franklin, my business partner. Jenna, Adam DeVries.”
“Hi, Adam.” Jenna smiled as she shook his hand.
“J-J-Jenna, g-good t-to m-m-meet you. Th-this is T-T-Tommy C-Crawford.”
Tommy nodded. “Nice to meet you. Enjoy your dinners—Abby’s cooking is some of the best.”
Phoebe’s eyes widened at the obvious dismissal. Her smile disappeared. “Um…it was good running into you. I’ll see you—” Tommy shook his head, and she stopped for a second, then cleared her throat and glanced quickly at Adam. “I’ll see you around sometime. Enjoy your cake.”
The two women moved away, and Tommy went back to his dessert.
Adam nudged his friend’s plate with the tip of his knife. “Wh-what k-kind of b-brush-off was that?”
Tommy took a bite of deep red cake frosted with buttery icing. “You want to be seen talking to your speech therapist in front of the whole diner? Especially with L. T. LaRue and a reporter for the newspaper just across the room? We picked Phoebe Moss to begin with ’cause she’s new to town, can’t know all that many people. But if you start having dinner together, I can see the headline now—Mayoral Candidate Seeks Therapy Before Election Bid. What a start for the campaign.”
“R-running f-for mayor means b-being r-rude?”
“Winning the mayor’s race means being careful.” Then he shook his head in mock sorrow. “Though I do admit, I hate giving a cold shoulder to women as pretty as those. Just goes against the laws of nature, you know?”
“P-pretty?” Adam had been so tense this morning, Phoebe Moss could have had two heads and he wouldn’t have noticed.
His friend stared back at him. “When’d you go blind?”
Looking around, Adam found Jenna Franklin first, at a table almost directly in his line of sight. Phoebe sat across from her, in profile to his perspective. Studying her now, he found details from this morning coming back to him, characteristics he hadn’t realized he’d noticed. She reminded him of the woman on the cameo brooch he planned to give his mother for her birthday tomorrow, with that wonderful hair drawn back into a knot at the base of her neck, a high forehead and straight nose, a slightly stubborn chin. Her skin was pale and smooth, her mouth soft pink. He remembered, with perfect clarity, her kind gray gaze.
“Y-you g-got it almost r-r-right,” he told Tommy.
“What do you mean?”
“Ph-Phoebe’s not p-p-pretty.”
“Not?”
Adam shook his head. “She’s b-b-beautiful.”
“DeVries!”
He gave Tommy a wry smile. “And r-r-right n-now she’s all that st-stands b-between me and t-total humiliation.”
To himself, he said, “And I hope to hell I can justify her effort.”
AFTER A HARRIED DAY SPENT trying to catch up with the work he’d missed on Tuesday as well as cover Wednesday’s quota, Adam arrived only ten minutes late for his mother’s birthday party at the Vineyard Restaurant.
Named for the grape arbor still maintained in back of the house, the elegant restaurant had only recently been converted by DeVries Construction from one of the town’s older homes. Adam took great satisfaction in the lustrous interior woodwork and, especially, the sliding pocket doors he’d installed to separate the front and rear parlors on both sides of the entry hall. To accommodate the sixty or so people attending tonight’s dinner, the two south parlors had been combined into one large room, where white-draped tables, fresh flowers and a violinist playing classical music set the refined tone that characterized every event his mother planned.
As Adam surveyed the crowd from an unobtrusive position near the bar, his brother clapped him on the shoulder with one hand and offered a glass of whiskey with the other. “I was beginning to wonder if you would show,” Tim said. “You and mom are usually the punctual ones in the family.”
Smooth as silk, a long sip of Maker’s Mark went down Adam’s throat. He lifted the glass in a belated toast. “Here’s t-to architects who ch-change their m-m-minds h-halfway through a p-p-project and then w-want to argue about who…who p-pays the c-cost of st-st-starting over.”
Tim returned the salute with his martini. “And to physicians who believe practicing medicine is a nine-to-five career, making life hell for the rest of us who know the truth.”
They stood with their backs against the wall, nursing their drinks until Tim spoke up again. “I heard on the news that LaRue won the housing project bid. Sorry about that.”
“Yeah, well.” Adam shrugged. “He c-can’t w-win all the t-time.” And he won’t, once I get to be mayor.
His brother eyed him sharply, but took Adam’s unspoken hint and changed the subject. “Trust Mother to turn her sixtieth birthday party into a royal reception.” He brushed a hand through his sandy hair, always worn a little long because he forgot to take time off work for a haircut. “You’d think she was the queen of England. Somebody needs to remind her about that little disagreement we had, back in 1776.”
“Sh-she l-looks the p-part.” Tall and graceful, with thick silver hair in waves around her face, Cynthia DeVries had been beautiful all her life, but never
