looked up, expecting to see Debbie’s cousin Max or perhaps even Tyler. Instead, she found herself tumbling end over end into the bluest pair of eyes she’d ever seen.
“Hello,” the visitor said.
Oliver, who had apparently escorted their guest from the front door, was clearly excited. “He sounds just like Crocodile Dundee when he talks, doesn’t he, Mom?” he crowed.
The dark-haired man was incredibly handsome—Amy recalled seeing his picture once or twice—and he smiled down at Oliver with quiet warmth. “We’re mates, me and Mick Dundee,” he said in a very thick and rhythmic down-under accent.
“Wow!” Oliver shouted.
The visitor chuckled and ruffled the boy’s hair. Then he noticed Ashley, who was standing shyly nearby, holding her beloved cat and looking up at the company with wide eyes.
“My name is Ashley Ryan,” she said solemnly. “And this is my cat, Rumpel. That’s short for Rumpelteazer.”
Amy was about to intercede—after all, this man hadn’t even had a chance to introduce himself yet—but before she could, he reached out and patted Rumpel’s soft, striped head.
“Ah,” he said wisely. “This must be a Jellicle cat, then.”
Ashley’s answering smile was sudden and so bright as to be blinding. She’d named Rumpel for one of the characters in the musical Cats: Tyler had taken her to see the show at Seattle’s Paramount Theater several months before his death. Ever since, the play had served as a sort of connection between Ashley and the father she had loved so much.
“Harry Griffith,” the man said, solemnly offering his hand to Ashley in greeting. He even bowed, ever so slightly, and his mouth quirked at one corner as he gave Amy a quick, conspiratorial glance. “I’m very glad to meet you, Ashley Ryan.”
Amy felt herself spinning inwardly, off balance, like a washing machine with all the laundry wadded up on one side of the tub. She reached out, resting one hand against the edge of the picnic table.
Harry’s indigo eyes came back to her face, and she thought she saw tender amusement in their depths. He wore his expensive clothes with an air only a rich and accomplished man could have managed, and Amy concluded that he was used to getting reactions from the woman he encountered.
It annoyed her, and her voice was a little brisk when she said, “Hello, Mr. Griffith.”
His elegant mouth curved slightly, and the ink-blue eyes danced. “I’m very glad to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Ryan. But since Tyler was one of my best friends, I’d be more comfortable having you call me Harry.”
“Harry.” The name came out of Amy’s mouth sounding like primitive woman’s first attempt at speech. “My name is Amy.”
“I know,” Harry answered, and, oddly, his voice affected Amy like a double dose of hot-buttered rum, finding its way into her veins and coursing through her system. Leaving her dizzy.
“S-sit down,” Amy said, gesturing toward the picnic table.
“I’d like that,” Harry replied. “But first I’d better tell you that there’s a man in coveralls out front, ringing your doorbell.”
Debbie’s cousin Max, no doubt. Although she knew intuitively that she wouldn’t need protection from a make-believe dishwasher repairman, Amy was relieved to have something to do besides standing there feeling as if she were about to topple over the edge of a precipice.
“Please,” Amy said. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.” As she hurried into the house, she couldn’t help remembering what Tyler had said, that she was meant to marry Harry Griffith and have two children by him. She was glad no one else could possibly know about the quicksilver, heated fantasies that idea had produced.
Sure enough, she found Debbie’s cousin peering through the glass in the front door.
She opened it. “Max? Listen, you really don’t need—”
“Can’t be too careful,” the balding middle-aged man said, easing past Amy with his toolbox in hand. Then, in a much louder voice, he added, “Just show me to your dishwasher, and I’ll make short order of that leak.”
“You do understand that the dishwasher isn’t broken?” Amy inquired in a whisper as she led the way to the kitchen.
He replied with a wink, set his toolbox in the center of the table, took out a screwdriver and went right to work.
Amy drew three or four deep breaths and let them out slowly before pushing open the screen door and facing Harry Griffith again.
He had already won over both the kids; Ashley was beaming with delight as he pushed her higher and higher in the tire swing Tyler had hung from a branch of the big maple tree a few years before. Oliver was waiting his turn with uncharacteristic patience.
Amy had a catch in her throat as she watched the three of them together. Until that moment, she’d managed to kid herself that she could be both mother and father to her children, but they were blossoming under Harry’s attention like flowers long-starved for water and sunlight.
She watched them for a few bittersweet moments, then went to the grill to check the salmon. The sound of her children’s laughter lifted her heart and, at the same time, filled her eyes with tears.
Amy was drying her cheek with the back of one hand when both Oliver and Ashley raced past, arguing in high-pitched voices.
“I’ll do it!” Oliver cried.
“No, I want to!” Ashley replied.
Rumpel wisely took refuge under the rhododendron beside the patio.
“What…?” Amy turned to see Harry Griffith standing directly behind her.
He shrugged and grinned in a way that tugged at her heart. “I didn’t mean to cause a disruption,” he said. “I guess I should have gone back to the car for the cake myself, instead of sending the kids for it.”
Amy sniffled. “Did you know Tyler very well?” she asked.
Harry was standing so close that she could smell his after-shave and the fabric softener in his sweater, and together, those two innocent scents caused a virtual riot in her senses. “We spent the better part of a year together,” he answered. “And we kept in touch, as much as possible, after high school and college.” He paused, taking an apparent interest in the fragrant white lilacs clambering over the white wooden arbor a few yards away. “I probably knew Ty better than most people—” Harry’s gaze returned to her, and her heart welcomed it “—and not as well as you did.”
Smoothly, one hand in the pocket of his tailored gray slacks, Harry reached out and, with the pad of his thumb, wiped a stray tear from just beneath Amy’s jawline. Before she could think of anything to say, the kids returned, each carrying one end of a white bakery box.
Harry thanked them both in turn, making it sound as though they’d smuggled an important new vaccine across enemy lines.
“I guess we’d better eat,” Amy said brightly. “It’s getting late.”
