like her.”
No one had a clue how Tristan felt about Jayne. “She and Rich weren’t right for each other.”
Staring at the soapy water in the sink, Grace shrugged. “Rich may have put Jayne behind him, but I can’t forget about her and stop caring that easily.”
“You didn’t know her long.”
“Length of time doesn’t matter. She was going to be my sister-in-law and the baby’s godmother. She even painted the kids’ rooms for me. I can’t help but think about her every time I’m in there.” Grace placed her hands on her belly. Worry filled her eyes. “And when I saw Jayne yesterday, she seemed…”
Tristan’s shoulder muscles knotted. “What?”
“Different,” Grace said. “Jayne’s lost weight. She’s cut her hair short. But most of all she looked so sad. I guess that’s normal under the circumstances. It’s only been a few months since the breakup.”
Seven months, one week and four days, Tristan thought.
“She probably shouldn’t look like her cheerful self after everything that happened, but I can’t help but worry about her.” Grace drew her brows together. “Her parents are dead. She has no siblings. Jayne has no one to look out for her except her three best friends, and they weren’t with her yesterday. She needs somebody, but it can’t be me.”
Rich’s oldest sister had been Tristan’s first crush years ago, but at this moment he loved Grace more than he ever had back when he’d been a kid. Her thoughtfulness had provided him with a valid reason to see Jayne Cavendish again. Not only a reason, but also permission from Rich.
Tristan could see if his attraction for Jayne was real or if he’d built her up in his mind because she was off-limits. He clutched the postcard as if it were a ticket to Shangri-la, even though his visit would probably be nothing more than a reality check for him.
“Stop worrying.” He squeezed Grace’s shoulder. “I’ll head over there this afternoon, return the postcard and find out exactly how Jayne’s doing.”
“Thank you.” Grace hugged him. Well, as much as she could hug given her beachball-sized belly. “And if you happen to know any nice single guys you could introduce her to…”
Tristan stiffened at the thought of Jayne with any of his friends. “One thing at a time, Grace.”
Two hours later, Tristan noticed a California State Patrol car parked on the side of the 405 freeway and a radar gun pointed his way. He lifted his foot from the accelerator and tapped the brake pedal. Getting pulled over for speeding would only slow him down.
He gripped the leather-wrapped steering wheel as he passed the black and white police car. The officer didn’t glance his way.
Good.
Tristan pressed down on the gas, making sure this time the speedometer didn’t ease into get-a-ticket territory. He wanted to get to Jayne’s.
She needs somebody, Grace had said, but it can’t be me.
It shouldn’t be him, either, but here he was, speeding—within safe limits, of course—to see Jayne.
Jayne Cavendish.
He remembered so much about her—the strawberry scent of her hair, the bubbly sound of her laughter and the warmth of her touch. Okay, one touch—a handshake—the very first time they’d met…
“Just because your marriage didn’t work out—” Rich Strickland maneuvered his four-wheel drive pick-up truck into a spot at one of Balboa Park’s parking lots “—doesn’t mean mine won’t.”
“True.” Still, Rich’s fast approaching wedding date bothered Tristan—bothered him enough that he’d almost said no when his friend had asked him to be the best man. “But you weren’t dating anyone when I left on assignment. I’m back a few months later, and now you’re getting married in a couple of weeks. I don’t understand the big rush.”
“No rush.” Rich removed the key from the ignition. “Jayne says when it’s right it’s right.”
Tristan’s concern ratcheted up three more notches. “Jayne says a lot.”
Rich sighed. “Look, you’re going to like her.”
Maybe. Probably not.
But Tristan would refrain from saying more until he got to know her. That was one reason he’d given the couple a photoshoot around town as a wedding gift—to spend time with the woman who’d made his friend want to take the leap into domesticated hell, aka marriage.
“Give me some time to get used to the idea.” Tristan stared at his blond-haired best friend. “I hate the idea of hitting the town without my wingman. That firefighter shtick you’ve got going is a real babe magnet.”
“If it’s any consolation, Jayne’s friends are really hot,” Rich said. “You might get lucky after the wedding.”
Tristan wanted Rich to be the lucky one. He hoped his best friend’s marriage turned out better than his had. Love, the forever kind at least, was as rare as a photograph of a rainbow’s end. Rich’s parents had found it, but few others. Tristan forced a smile. “That would be good.”
“You mean great.” Rich’s cellphone rang. He glanced at the number. “I need to take this. I’ll meet you by the fountain in the Rose Garden.”
With a nod, Tristan grabbed his camera pack, exited the truck and entered Balboa Park along with a busload of German-speaking tourists. The park was home to museums, several gardens, and the San Diego Zoo.
He crossed the footbridge to the popular Rose Garden.
A breeze blew. The sweet scent of roses wafted in the air.
Tristan preferred taking pictures of people, not scenery. Faces, and especially eyes, told a story in a way landscape couldn’t. A photographer took pictures of nouns—persons, places or things. A photojournalist captured verbs—action verbs—in a single image.
But the bursts of color coming from the circular tiered flowerbeds had him reaching for his camera anyway. His mother loved roses. He couldn’t pass up this opportunity to take pictures for her, especially with her birthday next month.
As he moved toward the fountain, Tristan zoomed in on a nearby blossom—a lush orange rose that reminded him of the sky at sunset.
Satisfied he’d captured the image, Tristan looked around. An arbor covered with white roses. A gray-haired couple holding hands next to a yellow rosebush. And…
Pink.
Tristan did a double-take.
A tall, graceful figure stood among the full round blossoms. Her shirt was the same pale pink as the petals. She should have faded into the background, but she didn’t. If anything, she seemed to be an extension of the flowers.
The play of light and shadow had him composing a long shot.
And what a shot.
