a basket case—whatever.”
“Poppycock,” Tricia said, with a dismissive wave. “Dysfunctional. Codependent. Those are just labels, buzzwords, and in my opinion they are overused in our society. You’re a smart, strong, talented woman, Carolyn, not some psychological train wreck of a person. Give yourself a little credit, will you?”
Carolyn gave a wavering smile. “And you, Tricia Creed, are a very good friend.”
“I’m also right,” Tricia said, smiling back.
Having tacitly agreed on that, they both went to work then.
After an hour or so, two vanloads of middle-aged women sporting red hats and purple outfits showed up, and a shopping frenzy ensued.
One of the ladies seemed particularly taken with the Weaver. “That’s lovely,” she said, looking up at the batik.
Carolyn, busy ringing up purchases at the register, heard the remark even over the cheerful din of oohs and ahhs bubbling up around the shop as the other red-hats examined the merchandise.
So, apparently, did Tricia.
A glance flew between her and Carolyn.
“Isn’t it?” Tricia said, edging over to stand alongside the woman who’d spoken first.
“I can’t see the price from here,” the woman said.
“I’m afraid the piece is already spoken for,” Tricia replied quickly, a pink flush rising to her cheeks. “The artist is very prolific, though. I’d be glad to give you her contact information if you’d consider commissioning something—?”
Carolyn frowned. The Weaver was spoken for? Since when?
Several people had admired the batik, but they’d all sighed and shaken their heads when they were told how much it cost.
Tricia gave her another look, as if she thought Carolyn might contradict her.
Carolyn pointedly returned her friend’s gaze, though she didn’t speak up. She simply turned her attention back to the task at hand.
It was almost lunchtime when the red-hat ladies climbed into their vans and left, leaving the shop pleasantly denuded.
Carolyn was about to ask Tricia why she’d said the batik was sold when the shop door opened again, and Conner strode in, with Brody right behind him.
Carolyn’s breath caught, though she tried to look as though she hadn’t noticed the man.
Not noticing Brody, she reflected, was like not noticing a meteor big enough to wipe out the dinosaurs.
Still, she had to try. It was a matter of principle.
Conner greeted Tricia with a resounding kiss and then picked her up and swung her around once, in a small, gentle circle, making her laugh ring out like church bells on Easter morning.
Distracted by these goings-on, Carolyn didn’t see Brody approach.
He was just there, all of a sudden, standing on the other side of the counter.
Carolyn started; every last nerve in her body jumped.
Brody favored her with a slow, unperturbed smile. Either he hadn’t heard the gossip about her coffee date with Bill—this option seemed highly unlikely given the nature of small towns—or he simply didn’t care.
“That picture up there,” he said, indicating the Weaver with a motion of one thumb. “Is that one of Primrose Sullivan’s?”
Carolyn cleared her throat, in a way she hoped was subtle, and nodded. “Yes, but—”
Tricia sidled over. Bumped against Brody from one side. “Are you in the market for art?” she asked.
Conner, standing a few feet away, stared at his wife with an expression of baffled wonder on his handsome face. Clearly, to him at least, Tricia was a brilliantly colored butterfly in a black-and-white world.
“I might be,” Brody said. “A lot of wall space is going to need filling, once my house is finished.”
Carolyn reminded herself to breathe. Told her heart to start beating again, pronto, and no more of that Bambi-on-ice business. After all, this was a perfectly ordinary conversation.
“Primrose would be thrilled if the Weaver found a home right here in Lonesome Bend,” Tricia said brightly. “You know how sentimental she is.”
Carolyn frowned at her business partner, confused. “Didn’t you say it was already spoken for? The Weaver, I mean?”
Tricia smiled. “I was lying,” she said, with no apparent qualms whatsoever.
Carolyn opened her mouth, closed it again. Frowned harder.
Brody, meanwhile, got out his wallet, extracted a credit card and set it down on the counter. “I’ll take it,” he said.
“Don’t you want to know how much it costs first?” Carolyn asked.
He gave her that smile again. She was powerless against that smile.
Did Brody know that?
“I reckon I can probably afford it,” he said easily.
Carolyn blushed, embarrassed and clueless when it came to the reason. “Okay,” she said, and stated the price.
Brody didn’t bat an eye. He glanced down at his credit card, and Carolyn recovered enough to swipe it through the machine and push the necessary sequence of buttons.
Conner and Tricia were in the kitchen by then. Carolyn heard their voices, and the sounds of lunch being assembled.
The credit-card machine spit out a slip, and Brody signed it.
“I’ll just get the ladder,” Carolyn began nervously. “I can have the picture down off the wall and wrapped in no time.”
Brody hadn’t moved, after putting away his card and wallet. “We’re on horseback,” he said.
Carolyn blinked. “You’re what?”
“Conner and I,” Brody said, and she could feel his grin like sunshine against her skin, even though she was still being very careful not to look at him directly. “We rode our horses into town.”
“Why?”
He chuckled, and she had to look at him then. He drew her eyes the way a magnet draws metal shavings. “It’s what cowboys do,” he said simply.
“Oh,” Carolyn said, wishing she could shrink, like Wonderland’s Alice after a swig from the drink-me bottle, or just fall down any old rabbit hole.
“It would be sort of awkward, hauling that big picture over to my place on a horse, so I’m hoping you’ll be so kind as to deliver it for me.”
She stiffened
