ANDREW RANG the doorbell again, then stood back to survey his grandmother’s guest house. In the dusk it looked like something out of a storybook—the kind of cottage you’d expect to find deep in a magical forest somewhere. It was two stories high, with dormer windows and vines growing up a trellis. It had been built almost fifty years ago, when both his grandparents had been young. Back then, they’d used it as mother-in-law’s quarters for Hannah’s mom—Andrew’s great-grandmother, a very independent and outspoken lady who’d lived to the impressive age of ninety-three. Andrew thought of his family enduring generation after generation in Montana. He had been the one who’d broken with tradition by moving away to Texas.
His gaze wandered back to the door. He was about to ring the bell a third time when at last the door swung open reluctantly. Cassie Warren stepped forward—and in the dusk she, too, seemed like someone from a storybook. Long red hair, a wariness in her hazel eyes, her skin beginning to take on the beguiling flush that highlighted her freckles.
“Before you apologize again,” he said just as she was about to speak, “no more apologies.”
She gave a shrug. “I constantly seem to be disrupting your life. I mean, when I called you at your hotel earlier, I could tell I’d woken you up—”
“I don’t usually fall asleep in the middle of the day,” he said. “Your doctor friend prescribed some pretty potent pain medication. But I’m glad you woke me.”
She treated him to a disbelieving glance. “Well, please come inside. I’ll warn you, though, I’m not the greatest cook—”
“You’re doing it again,” he said. “Apologizing.”
“Sorry,” she said, and then she laughed. It was a very pleasing sound. “Okay, okay,” she said. “Enough. It’s just not every day I maim someone.”
He proffered a bottle of white wine with his good hand. “Just to show there are no hard feelings,” he said.
She took it from him, surveying the label. “Very nice, indeed,” she murmured. “You have excellent taste, Andrew. Thank you.”
She stepped aside, and he entered the guest house. It looked a lot different than the last time he’d seen it. All the fussy details had been stripped away—carpet pulled up to reveal the pine floors, light curtains replacing the frilled drapes and valances, walls whitewashed over the yellow he’d never cared for.
“The place is better,” he said. “Your influence?”
“Hannah was open to suggestions,” she said diplomatically. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just finish up dinner. Make yourself at home.” She vanished into the kitchen, leaving him at loose ends. He wandered around, thumbing through a book without even reading the title, glancing at a painting without actually seeing it. Then he heard a bang and a muffled exclamation from the kitchen. He crossed to the kitchen doorway.
“Need some help?” he asked blandly.
Cassie had pulled something from the oven. It had landed on top of the stove, and now she was giving it a dour stare.
“Burnt,” she pronounced. “This means just ice cream for dessert, instead of ice cream and…apple betty.”
“Wonder why they call it that,” he said. “Apple betty.”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” Cassie muttered. “Who am I trying to fool, anyway? I hate to cook.”
“So why do it?” he asked. “You could have sent out for pizza, and I would’ve been just as grateful.”
“Right. Men say that, but they never really mean it. Deep down, they all want some beautiful, big-chested blonde who can whip up a batch of brownies to boot.”
It was an image that gave pause, to say the least.
Cassie sighed. “I didn’t mean all men. Just a lot of them—including my ex-husband. Not that he ever found the blonde of his dreams. He just always gave me the impression he was looking. And after hearing Gwen spill the beans, you know all about how my dad warned me against Jeff, and how I went ahead and married the guy anyway.” She gave another sigh, explosive this time. “What is it about you that makes a woman run off at the mouth?” Very purposefully, she got busy with some salad tongs and lettuce.
He liked watching her as she moved around the kitchen. She pulled a strainer from the cupboard and plopped it in the sink. He took it on himself to drain the pot of spaghetti over the strainer. It was a little awkward with his taped finger, but he managed. Cassie stood beside him watching.
“Don’t tell me you know how to cook,” she said.
“I do eggs,” he told her, “as long as they’re scrambled.”
A few minutes later everything was on the dining-room table. Cassie sat down, then jumped up. “I’ll be right back,” she said. She went up the stairs, and he heard the murmur of her voice.
A short while afterward a door shut rather forcefully and she came down again. She didn’t look happy. She looked peeved. “My son,” she said, “will not be joining us for dinner. You know one of the most aggravating things about parenthood? Sometimes you just give in, even when you know you should make a stand.”
Andrew tried to look sympathetic, but his experience with parenthood was pretty much nil. He and Cassie started in on the spaghetti. His bandaged hand did pose something of a problem. He tried twirling spaghetti noodles around his fork with his left hand.
“I should have thought about that,” Cassie said ruefully. “But, don’t worry—no more apologies.”
A little practice, and maybe he could get used to this left-handed routine. At least he got a taste of the spaghetti. “It’s good,” he said.
She gave an unexpected smile. “Surprisingly…it is, isn’t it?”
He wished Cassie Warren would smile more often, but she seemed to be a person burdened with unspoken concerns. Now and then she glanced in the direction of the stairs.
“You’re worried about the kid, aren’t you?” Andrew said.
“Zak hasn’t always been like this,” she said quickly. “As I already told you, it’s just been since the divorce. I thought he was getting better. But then, after losing Hannah—he really loved her, you know.”
“I can believe that,” Andrew said in a quiet tone.
Cassie folded and refolded her napkin. “You’d think I could figure out what to do with my own son,” she said. “My job is supposed to give me some expertise, after all.”
Right…the job that kept her busy even on Saturdays. “What do you do for a living?” he asked curiously.
“I work for Child Services,” she said. “That’s why I moved here last year—to take the job. I’m a field agent of sorts…a troubleshooter, too, you could say. Basically, I work with families who’ve been referred to court for one reason or another. I gather evidence to help decide what’s best for the children involved. It’s wonderful work—and terrible at the same time. I see things that break my heart. Impossible situations…and I have to make impossible decisions.” She stopped, and gazed at him with perplexity. “You ask a simple question, and I give you a dissertation. Trust me, I’m not usually like this. Here…have some more wine.” She refilled his glass.
“Sounds like your work means a lot to you,” he said. “Why apologize for that?”
She grimaced. “So I’m doing it again…apologizing.”
“It’s my guess,” he said, “that the ex-husband really shook your confidence.”
She seemed to stiffen at that. “Jeff Warren is not worth anyone losing their confidence. He’s a…he’s a damn SOB.” With that she