the goodies out the door before they’d even cooled, “let’s talk about Tate.”
“Let’s not,” Libby replied. She’d been a codependent fool to even think about accepting a date with him, considering that he’d probably begun the process of forgetting all about her as soon as she’d been forced to leave the university and come home to help look after her ailing father. She’d taken what courses she could at Blue River Junior College, which was really just a satellite of another school in San Antonio and had since closed due to lack of funding, but she’d only been marking time, and she knew it.
“You really loved him, Lib,” Julie said gently, taking Calvin’s stool at the counter and studying Libby with thoughtful eyes.
“That’s the whole point. I loved Tate McKettrick. He, on the other hand, loved a good time.” Libby sighed. She hated self-pity, and she was teetering on the precipice of it just then. She tried to smile and partly succeeded. “I guess it made sense that he’d be attracted to someone like Cheryl. She’s an attorney, and she was raised the way Tate and his brothers were—with every possible advantage. I didn’t even finish college. Tate and I don’t have a whole lot in common, when you think about it.”
Julie frowned, bracing her elbows on the countertop, resting her chin in her palms. Her eyes took on a stormy, steel-blue color, edged in gray. “I really hope you’re not saying you aren’t good enough for Tate or anybody else, because I’m going to have to raise a fuss about it if you are.”
Libby chuckled. “Julie Remington, making a scene,” she joked. “Why, I can’t even imagine such a thing.”
Julie grinned, raised her beautiful hair off her neck with both hands to cool her neck, then let it fall again. “OK, so I might have been a bit of a drama queen in high school and college,” she confessed. “You’re just trying to distract me from the fact that I’m right. You think—you actually think—Tate threw you over for Cheryl because she fit into his world better than you would have.”
Libby raised one eyebrow. “Isn’t that what happened?”
“What happened,” Julie argued, “is this—Cheryl seduced Tate. Oil wells and big Texas ranches can be aphrodisiacs, you know. Maybe she intended all along to get pregnant and live like a Ewing out there on the Silver Spur.”
“Oh, come on,” Libby retorted. “I might not admire the woman all that much, but it isn’t fair to put all the blame on her, and you damn well know it, Jules. It isn’t as if she used a date drug and had her way with Tate while he was unconscious. He could have stopped the whole thing if he’d wanted to—which he obviously didn’t.”
“That was a while ago, Lib,” Julie said mildly, examining her manicure.
“All right, so he was young,” Libby responded. “He was old enough to know better.”
The front door of the shop swung open then, and Chief Brogan strolled in, sweating in his usually crisp tan uniform. He nodded to Julie, then swung his dark brown gaze to Libby.
“Do I smell scones?” he asked.
“Blueberry,” Julie confirmed, smiling.
Brent Brogan, a fairly recent widower, was six feet tall with broad, powerful shoulders and a narrow waist. Tate had long ago dubbed him “Denzel,” since he bore such a strong resemblance to the actor, back in Denzel Washington’s younger years.
His gaze swung in Julie’s direction, then back to Libby. “The usual,” he said. “Please.”
“Sure, Chief,” Libby said, with nervous good cheer, and started the mocha with a triple shot of espresso he ordered every day at about the same time.
Brent approached the counter, braced his big hands against it, and watched Libby with unnerving thoroughness as she worked. “I would have sworn I saw that Impala of yours rolling down the alley last night,” he said affably, “with the headlights out. Did you get the exhaust fixed yet?”
“That was my car you saw,” Julie hastened to say.
It was a good thing Calvin wasn’t around, because that was a whopper and he’d have been sure to point that out right away. Julie’s car was a pink Cadillac that had been somebody’s Mary Kay prize back in the mid-’80s. Even in a dark alley, it wouldn’t be mistaken for an Impala, especially not by a trained observer like Brent Brogan.
Libby gave her sister a look. Sighed and rubbed her suddenly sweaty palms down her jean-covered thighs. “I had an appointment at the auto-repair shop,” she told Brent, “but then a pipe blew in the kitchen and I had to call a plumber and, well, you know what plumbers cost.”
Brent slanted a glance at Julie, who blushed that freckles-on-pink way only true redheads can, and once again turned his attention back to Libby. “So it was you?”
“Yes,” Libby said, straightening her shoulders. “And if you give me a ticket, I won’t be able to afford to have the repairs done for another month.”
The timer bell chimed.
Julie rushed to take the latest batch of scones out of the oven.
“I’m going to give you one more warning, Libby,” Brent said quietly, raising an index finger. “Count it. One. If I catch you driving that environmental disaster again, without a sticker proving it meets the legal standards, I am so going to throw the book at you. Is—that—understood?”
Libby set his drink on the counter with a thump. “Yes, sir,” she said tightly. “That is understood.” She raised her chin a notch. “How am I supposed to get the car to the shop if I can’t drive it?”
Brent smiled. “I’d make an exception in that case, I guess.”
Libby made up her mind to put the repair charges on the credit card she’d just paid off, though it would set her back.
Julie looked toward the street, smiled and consulted an imaginary watch. “Well, will you look at that,” she said. “It’s time to pick Calvin up at playschool.”
The pit of Libby’s stomach jittered. She followed her sister’s gaze and saw Tate walking toward the door, looking beyond good in worn jeans, scuffed boots and a white T-shirt that showed off his biceps and tanned forearms.
Scanning the street, she saw no sign of his truck, the sleek luxury car he sometimes drove or his twin daughters.
Libby felt as though she’d been forced, scrambling for balance, onto a drooping piano wire stretched across Niagara Falls. It was barely noon—Tate had suggested dinner, hadn’t he, not lunch?
Either way, she reflected, trying to calm her nerves with common sense, she’d said “Maybe,” not “Yes.”
Tate reached the door, opened it and walked in. His grin was as white as his shirt, and even from behind the register, Libby could see the comb ridges in his hair.
He greeted Brent with a half salute. “Denzel,” he said.
Brent smiled. “Throw those blueberry scones into a bag for me,” he said, though whether he was addressing Julia or Libby was unclear, because he was watching Tate. “I’d better buy them up before McKettrick beats me to the draw.”
Tate
