But there were also things like Newsweek, Time, Mother Jones and the Onion.
She wasn’t surprised he was a lefty. Or a nature nut. She wished some of the publications gave insight into his character that she hadn’t already guessed. Okay, she turned to the books. There were several in a netted basket he’d rigged up on one side of the van. Without climbing in, she couldn’t see all the titles, but she saw a few. One caught her eye. Turning to Gold: The Life and Times of a Country Music Legend.
She recognized the title. It was about her favorite singer, Sammy Gold. The aging star had recently made a huge comeback, after recording his own version of a famous heavy metal ballad. Gold’s take on the song had outsold the original, and earned him the respect and dollars of a whole new generation of fans.
She, of course, had loved him long before that.
Carrie backed out of the VW and slid the door closed, feeling a little guilty for snooping, but not overly so. She hadn’t done more than peek. But her timing turned out to be impeccable, because she heard the distinctive sounds of bus engines in the distance even as she stepped an innocent-looking distance away from the VW and tried to act as if she hadn’t been snooping. The buses, three of them, pulled up along the side of the road in front of the firehouse, air brakes hissing. Their doors folded open, and the volunteers began streaming out, heading to their cars. It was clear there’d been no sign of Kyle today. The searchers had the usual hanging heads and disappointed faces that were somehow relieved at the same time. At least they hadn’t found a body.
She spotted Gabe the minute he stepped off the bus, and his eyes were on her almost as fast. The smile that appeared on his face the minute he saw her told her he was absurdly glad to see her, and then he turned to speak to someone behind him, pointing in her direction as he did.
The person behind him turned out to be her son, followed closely by Sadie, and the two met her eyes and waved. She frowned. What were they doing, hanging out with the stranger?
Even more oddly, Sadie turned to speak to the man right behind her, another total stranger. And he, too, glanced her way and lifted a hand in greeting.
Wait, wasn’t that the suit-wearing tourist she’d spotted at the soccer match? It was. Good Lord, had Sam and Sadie appointed themselves the unofficial Shadow Falls welcoming committee?
Before she had time to think more on that, all four came toward her, arriving in mid conversation as Sam was telling Gabe about how the falls here were nearly always in the shadow of the surrounding mountains, giving them—and the town—their names.
“Hey, Mom. You know Gabe. And this is Ambrose.”
“Ambrose Arthur Peck,” the man put in. “Of Manlin, Taylor & Strauss.”
“Oh. Of course, sure, I’ve heard of your firm.” Albeit, only because the financial advisors’ TV commercials ran on her favorite twenty-four-hour news station every hour, on the hour. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She extended a hand, her brain telling her that Ambrose was the one she ought to have her eyes on, not Gabe. But his handshake was wimpy, his skin damp, and his eyes never bored into hers in the way that Gabe’s did. Instead they met, then dodged, then met and dodged again. Jerky eyes, in constant staccato motion.
“The pleasure is all mine, Dr. Overton. I’ve heard wonderful things about you.”
“I’m afraid my son’s opinion of me might be slightly biased,” she said.
He smiled. “Oh, but it wasn’t just your son. The lovely Sadie and Mr. Cain joined him in singing your praises, as has anyone else I’ve asked about you.”
Her smile died. “You’ve asked about me?”
“Um….” He lowered his eyes. “I—I suppose a more suave sort of man wouldn’t have let on.”
She lifted her brows.
“I saw you at the game. Noticed the lack of a ring and thought I might ask you to dinner while I was in town.”
“Oh.” Carrie was a little embarrassed on his behalf, but flattered, too. Her gut reaction was to say no way, but her practical brain told her that he was far more likely to be a suitable date than a starving artist would. “Well, I haven’t eaten yet tonight,” she said.
“Oh, tonight. Yes, well, tonight. I um—”
“We’re having Gabe over tonight, Mom,” Sam said.
“Whoa, hold up now,” Gabe said, raising both hands, traffic-cop style. “You and I made those plans, Sam. Your mom didn’t.” Then he nodded at Carrie. “You do what you like. We can get together without you. Or, just pick another night to jam if you’d feel better not having a stranger in your house when you’re not home.”
The guy was considerate. And polite. And gorgeous, in that free bird, drifter sort of way.
Sam moved forward, gently closing a hand on Carrie’s forearm and tugging her off to one side, out of earshot of the two men. Leaning close, he whispered, “Please, Mom? That Ambrose guy is a dork, anyway.”
“Sammy!”
“I know, I know. You prefer dorks. I get that. But you get lots of chances to have dinner with guys like him. How many times am I gonna have a chance to play guitar with Gabriel Cain?”
She blinked and tipped her head to one side. “You say that as if he’s somebody important.”
Her son blinked at her in a way that only a son could. His expression was one she might use if she were standing in front of the Mona Lisa and someone suggested it would make nice refrigerator art.
“What?”
“Mom, he’s famous. Way more famous than Manlin, Taylor and Mozart.”
“Strauss,” she corrected. Then realized he’d been making a joke and acknowledged it with, “But that was good.”
“Gabe’s songs have been recorded by some of the biggest stars in the biz. Six of them have gone platinum.”
She lifted her brows, unable to stop herself from looking over her shoulder at the apparently unemployed hippie in the distance. Watching her, he smiled with one side of his mouth and lifted a hand just slightly.
She looked back at her son. “You’re kidding, right?”
“I bet everyone in town has at least one of his songs on their favorites list.”
“Everyone but me,” she said. “But then again, I prefer country music. So it’s safe to say he’s not a starving artist, then?”
Her son’s eyes had moved away from her and widened, and then he smacked his forehead and said, “Jeez, Mom.”
“What?”
She turned at the sound of a male voice behind her saying, “Not starving, anyway.”
She spun and had to tip her head back to meet Gabe’s eyes because he was significantly taller than she was. “That was probably rude.”
“Not at all. I was a starving artist for a long time. I don’t consider it an insult. And I like to think success
