And the enclosed, intimate gazebo at the far end of the yard was exactly the same but for a couple of coats of white paint.
She found herself drawn to the structure in which she’d spent so much of her teenaged years, bypassing her roses and not stopping until she stood in the arch looking in at the overstuffed cushions that had supported her while she read countless books … and had also been the setting for many of her dreams.
Her hand went to the side of her neck, feeling oddly exposed at that one moment. It was almost as if someone was watching her.
“Hello, Penelope.”
She swiveled so quickly she nearly lost her footing on the wooden steps.
And Palmer DeVoe reached out to steady her …
BEAUTIFUL …
No matter how many times Palmer had anticipated this moment, this particular point in time when he’d finally come face to face with Penelope Weaver after so many years, he could never have imagined the completely visceral feelings that would roll through him like a thousand rippling Pacific waves. Need, want, fear emerged one by one, then were washed away by the next emotion.
In his mind’s eye, Penelope was still the fresh-faced young woman with the warm smile and deep dimples and slender body. His first sexual encounter, his high school sweetheart, and yes, he admitted, his first love.
Now she was an earthy, sexy, curvy woman who somehow reached even deeper inside him, searching for something he was afraid wasn’t there for her to find.
Her curly hair was a little shorter. Her face a little fuller. But her smile was just as warm. Her dark eyes just as probing.
Palmer still held her arm where he’d steadied her. They both looked down at where their skin connected. He lingered a bit longer, marveling at her softness.
Then, as if by mutual agreement, he removed his hand and she stepped beyond his grasp at the same time.
“I heard you were in town,” she said quietly.
Rarely in his memories of her did she speak. Instead, her image was like a series of snapshots of her in various poses, most of them under him.
Now, her voice flowed over him, intoxicating.
He nodded toward the gazebo behind her. “Now that’s a familiar place.”
She glanced over her shoulder and blushed. If he didn’t know better, he’d think that she’d been thinking about him, about them, when he’d walked up.
He hadn’t planned to stop; he’d merely been walking by—as he’d had on several prior occasions—when he’d spotted her standing there like a ghost from the past.
Penelope moved through the yard toward the back door of the house and he watched her go, the material of her dress hugging her in all the right places.
He’d known running into her at some point was inevitable. While he’d visited his hometown a couple of times in recent weeks, he was now living here. At least for the foreseeable future. Which meant facing a great number of people from his past.
“This isn’t a good time, Palmer,” she said quietly.
He squinted at her through the waning light. “I would have called, but …”
A sad attempt at humor that fell flat on its face, where it belonged.
He cleared his throat. “I hadn’t meant to stop. I was walking back from Main on my way to Foss’s bed-and-breakfast …”
She nodded. “I guessed as much.”
She looked at him in a way that made him feel she was sizing him up and that he came up short.
“You look good, Palmer,” she said simply.
“So do you.”
Her smile was self-conscious. “I don’t mean … physically.” She made a small sound. “It looks like you’ve done well for yourself.”
And he had, hadn’t he? He’d accomplished everything that he’d hoped to when he left Earnest for Boston. More.
Why was it, then, that he suddenly sensed he’d achieved nothing?
“Hello?” a man’s voice called from inside the house.
Penelope looked in that direction, apparently surprised.
Palmer grimaced. While he hadn’t asked for the information, many townspeople that he’d encountered seemed to deem it important to fill him in on Penelope and her actions. He’d learned that she was still single. That she owned a small shop down on Main, one of the few that had managed to stay open in the struggling town of four thousand. He’d walked by it a few times after closing and had stood staring inside at the colorful tapestries on the walls and displayed on easels.
In all the conversations he’d had, not a one of them had mentioned a man being in the picture.
But of course there would be. Why would he even think differently?
“Have you visited your father yet?” she asked, speaking to him rather than the man seeking her out.
He suspected she knew the answer to that. Just as he knew many secondhand details about her, she’d probably plucked the details of his movements since he’d been back from the same grapevine. Not that it was a state secret, but he was pretty sure that everyone knew he had yet to see his old man.
The back door opened and a familiar guy walked out. A guy who towered over him by several inches and had made it his business to stop by the industrial trailer that currently served as his offices. Sheriff Barnaby Jones had let him know in no uncertain terms that he intended to keep an eye on what was going on.
At the time, Palmer couldn’t help sensing that there was a certain trace of animosity in the sheriff’s attention.
Now he knew why.
Penelope hurried toward the man. “Barney! Hi.”
The sheriff’s gaze seemed a little too intimate for Palmer’s liking as he took in Penelope and complimented her on her dress. Then his attention fell on Palmer where he stood just inside the side garden gate. His expression changed.
“Barnaby, I’d like to introduce you to … an old family friend,” Penelope said. “Palmer DeVoe, this is Barnaby Jones.”
Palmer crossed to shake the other man’s hand. “I believe we’ve already met.”
“Yes, we have.” The sheriff seemed to say it in warning.
Penelope appeared to pick up on the undercurrents passing between them and stepped in.
“Barney and I are attending the fair in Lewisville,” she said, and then looked confused, as if she couldn’t understand why she’d shared that. “It was … nice to see you, Palmer. I hope you enjoy your visit. You haven’t been home for a while and I know everyone is happy to see you.”
Palmer
