I don’t own a single pair of high heels.”
She laughed, and the sound rang in the confines of that car like the peal of a bell from some country church steeple.
Keegan shifted the Jag back into gear, checked the rearview and pulled out onto the road again. “You hungry?”
“Starved,” Devon said, sucking in her cheeks in a comical effort to look emaciated. “Mom’s a terrible cook, and Rory won’t eat anything but trail mix.”
“I guess I saved you from a terrible fate—breakfasting at Casa de Idiot.”
Devon giggled again, and Keegan wondered why it made his vision blur for a moment.
They stopped at a pancake house, stuffed themselves with waffles. Keegan would have preferred to keep the conversation light, but he’d promised to explain why he hadn’t called Devon the night before, as agreed, and she pressed the issue.
He told her about Psyche. How they’d been friends since they were little kids, and now she was really sick. He’d gone to visit Psyche, he told Devon, and he’d been so upset when he left her, he hadn’t been able to think of much else.
Devon’s eyes rounded. “Is she going to die?”
Keegan swallowed. “Yes,” he said.
Devon slid out of the booth, rounded the end of the table and squeezed in beside Keegan. Laying her head against his arm, she murmured. “I’m sorry, Dad.”
Keegan’s throat closed. He blinked a couple of times.
“You want to cry, huh?” Devon asked softly.
He didn’t dare answer.
“Poor Daddy. It’s hard to be a man, isn’t it?”
He swallowed. Nodded.
“Do you wish you’d married Psyche?”
The question surprised him so much that he turned and stared down into his daughter’s—his daughter, by God—upturned and innocent little face. “No,” he said. “I don’t wish that.”
“Why not?”
He managed a smile. “Because I wouldn’t have you,” he told her. “And that’s something I can’t imagine.”
“Know something, Dad?”
“What?”
“I love you.”
He kissed her forehead, held her close against his side. “I love you, too, monkey,” he croaked. They just sat there like that, side by side in a restaurant booth, for a while. “You had enough of those waffles?” he asked finally.
She nodded. “Let’s hit the trail.”
He laughed. “We’re out of here.”
* * *
MOLLY PAUSED outside the bookshop, peering through the display window at the latest bestsellers. Two of her authors were represented—unfortunately, neither of them was Denby Godridge. She dreaded calling the arrogant old tyrant—smoothing his ruffled feathers would take a lot of emotional energy—but she would have to do it. And soon.
Lucas, sitting in his stroller, reached up and laid a hand on the glass, making a little-boy smudge. While Molly was scrambling for a tissue to wipe it clean, the bookshop door opened and a woman peeked out, smiling. She was blond and about Molly’s age, and warmth glowed in her eyes.
“Emma Wells,” the woman said, putting out a hand and holding the door open with one slender hip.
“Molly Shields,” Molly answered, shaking the offered hand.
“Come in,” Emma said. “I just made fresh coffee, and I promise, you don’t have to buy anything.”
Molly smiled. Since her arrival in Indian Rock she’d met exactly three people besides Lucas: Psyche, Florence and Keegan McKettrick. Her relationship with Thayer precluded friendship with all three of them, though Psyche had been kind. Molly was a woman with an active social life, a mover and a shaker, and she missed the buzz, the power lunches, the parties-with-a-purpose.
Since she’d boarded the bus in L.A., though, she’d become a person she didn’t know how to be.
“I’d like some coffee,” she said. “And I might even buy a book.”
Emma laughed and stepped back to admit her.
The shop was small and cozy, brightly lit. Two little dark-haired girls played in the children’s section, clomping around in high heels selected from a massive pile.
The sight did something strange to Molly. Filled her with a nameless, bittersweet yearning so strong that she clasped the handle on Lucas’s stroller hard to steady herself.
Meanwhile Emma crouched to smile at Lucas. “Hey, there, handsome,” she said. “What’s your name?”
“It’s Lucas,” Molly told her.
The little girls clomped over to inspect him.
“I’m Rianna,” the smaller one said. “And this is my sister, Maeve. We’ve got a dog, but he’s at the vet, getting neutered. He has to stay there till Tuesday.” She looked up into Molly’s face, her expression earnest. “Does Lucas like dogs?”
“I don’t know,” Molly said.
“Our dog’s name is Scrappers, and he doesn’t bite. Dad got him at the pound when Snowball had to go home with her real owners.”
Scrappers. Snowball. There was obviously a story here, but Molly couldn’t guess what it was.
She didn’t know any children. Was this the kind of thing they liked to talk about? She glanced hopefully at Emma, who was still on her haunches, admiring Lucas. Her pink skirt fluffed out around her in a spill of soft material. “That’s really nice,” she said.
Before Molly could figure out what was really nice, the conversation hit a snag.
“How come you don’t know if your own little boy likes dogs?” Rianna asked, clearly concerned.
“Lucas and I are…just getting to know each other,” Molly said awkwardly.
“Enough questions,” Emma told the child gently, straightening. Her expression was solemn as she regarded Molly. “How about that coffee I promised?”
Molly nodded gratefully. “Thanks,” she said.
“Do you take sugar and cream?”
“Black, please,” Molly answered.
Rianna and Maeve went back to their shoe pile.
Lucas fidgeted, wanting out of the stroller.
