“As long as you realize it has for the last decade.”
“And for the record,” she told him tartly, “I didn’t eat butter because before Beryl and Kev joined us I intended having dessert. I wear cardigans because I like vintage. Not sleeping with a guy on the first date doesn’t make me a prude, and if you ever call me a book nerd again I’ll ram my mountain bike down your throat.”
Damn, but he liked this woman. “I get it. Librarians are people, too.” And because he couldn’t resist teasing her he added, “Next you’ll be telling me you have a vice.”
“I do.” She hesitated, long enough for his imagination to jump to the bait. “I don’t make my bed.”
Devin laughed. “Let’s try another date.”
Her eyes widened. “Why?”
“Admittedly, most of the time we engage in interplanetary warfare and yet …” Devin tucked a strand of loose hair behind her hair. “And yet, Heartbreaker …”
Rachel knew what he meant. There was something between them, an odd, unexpected connection. And that kiss … But it was wrong to use him as a means to Mark, and she couldn’t kid herself that that wasn’t the primary temptation. She shook her head. “I just broke up with someone I thought I’d marry. You’d only be a rebound.”
He grinned. “See, that’s what I like about you, you keep giving me firsts. I’ve never been the rebound guy before. What’s the drill?”
He was incorrigible … and far too appealing. Rachel wavered. He was also offering her another chance to find out more about him. Wasn’t that her goal? And a repentant Devin was more likely to reveal himself…. She was skirting dangerously close to her ethical boundaries. Was it fair to use him like this?
“Any sensible person would run a mile,” she hedged.
“I’ve had a million words written about me,” he said. “I don’t think sensible was ever one of them.”
Rachel remembered the other things written about him, things he hadn’t denied. This wasn’t about her. Or Devin. It was about protecting her son. “Maybe we could go out to formalize our peace treaty,” she suggested, “but no date. Strictly platonic.” Attraction only made things tougher. Her motives murkier. This way no one got hurt.
“Sure.” His lopsided, sexy-as-hell grin belied his easy acquiescence. “The Flying Dutchman opera is coming to town, isn’t it? I’ve been seeing billboards.”
“Next weekend, but the tickets are expensive.” Which was why she hadn’t booked. Most of her income went toward her mortgage. Rachel remembered who she was talking to when he laughed.
“Consider it part of the apology.”
She trusted his meekness even less than she trusted that sexy grin. “As long as we’re quite clear,” she stressed, “that I’m only using you to get to Wagner.”
“I think I can hold my own against a dead guy.” Devin’s expression grew serious. “So you’re not upset anymore?”
How did he know that she’d been … “Wait a minute! Did Trixie make you apologize?” I’ll kill her.
Devin frowned. “No one makes me do anything.”
But the apology hadn’t been his idea. Rachel stopped feeling guilty about her mixed motives.
“HI, MOM, it’s Rachel.”
“Rachel, are you in trouble again?”
Eighteen years later, it was still the first question her elderly mother asked.
“No, everything’s fine. I always call Sunday morning to see how you are.”
“Well, you know, bearing up.” Maureen sighed. “Still missing your father terribly, of course.”
“Did you get that book on heritage roses I sent you?” Rachel swapped the phone to her other hand and wiped her suddenly damp palm on her dress.
Maureen’s voice brightened. “Yes, it’s wonderful, particularly the section on English hybrids.” She rattled on about cuttings and placement, and Rachel stared out the window at her wild garden. “And Peggy and I are our club reps in the regional district’s floral arranging competition.”
“Sounds like you’ve got plenty going on.” Since her father’s death, her seventy-nine-year-old mother had taken up a multitude of new interests. Blossomed, in fact.
“Oh, and the most exciting thing? The council is recognizing your father’s years of service by naming one of the new benches in the park for him.”
Rachel caught her breath. “Well, it’s great to hear you’re doing so well.”
“Honey, did you hear what I said? Your father—”
“You know I don’t want to talk about him, Mom, and you know why.” She took a few deep breaths because otherwise she’d scream, He’s dead and you can stop pretending!
But it would do no good. “Please, let’s just concentrate on what you and I are doing, okay?”
Her mother sighed. “Okay. I’m sorry about your attitude, though.”
A familiar sense of betrayal tightened Rachel’s throat. “Listen, this has to be a short call today. I’ve got a roast in the oven that needs basting.” She always made sure she had a good reason for a short call. Because sometimes they were all she could cope with.
“Have you started your charity lunches again?”
“It’s not charity, Mom,” she reminded her patiently. “Just a handful of first year students desperate for a home-cooked meal.” She’d been inviting strays to her first semester Sunday lunches for five years. The event had become such a fixture around campus that staff and counselors would often send lonely scholars to see her in the library. Overseas students and out-of-towners for the most part.
“Well, I’m glad to see you’ve retained some of the values we taught you.”
“Take care, Mom.”
Hanging up, Rachel wiped her hands on her skirt again. Her jaw ached; she unclenched it. The weekly calls she’d initiated after her father’s death, following seventeen and a half years of estrangement, had been a mistake. Foolish to think that after an adult life spent in denial, her mother would break character and admit anything had ever been wrong—with anyone except Rachel, that is.
She gripped her apron in her fist and stared at it in confusion, then with an exclamation ran into the kitchen and opened the oven to a billow of smoke and heat.
Grabbing an oven mitt she hauled out the roasting pan and inspected the sizzling leg of lamb. There was a layer of scorched fat around the base, but nothing that couldn’t be saved. If only everything in life was so easily salvaged.
ON WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON Mark stood outside classroom 121 of the human sciences block waiting for the tutorial to finish. A classmate had mentioned this sociology tutor had handed out cake to celebrate her thirty-fifth birthday.
Through the door Mark could hear her voice … at least the tone of it, light yet authoritative. It gave him a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. The talking stopped, and a shuffle of chairs signaled the end of the tutorial. He moistened his lips and straightened, trying to get some oxygen in his lungs.
The door opened and students streamed out, the industrious ones first, looking at watches and picking up their pace to get to their next class, then the easygoing chatterers.
Heart kicking against his ribs, he nervously looked over every woman coming through the doorway. Too young … too young … too old.
“Excuse me.” Mark forced himself to approach the most likely candidate. “Are you Rosemary Adams?”