Now, when he least expected it, here she was, in his hometown of all places. At least, he thought it was her. Same red hair. Same big green eyes. Same luscious mouth, which, as he watched, did intriguing things to the caramel apple she nibbled on. She paused now and then to lick her lips and delicately blot them with a paper napkin.
But some things about her weren’t like Annie at all. Her hair, for instance. The color was right, but Annie’s bouncy curls were wild and barely controlled, a tangle of deep-red silk a man could lose himself in. This woman’s hair had been slicked into a severe knot at the back of her head.
And the clothes were all wrong. Annie had worn tight jeans, a clingy shirt with a low neckline, a vest with rhinestone studs. Her fingers had been decorated with numerous rings, and she’d worn big, dangly earrings. This woman wore a loose turtleneck and a shapeless corduroy jumper, black stockings and loafers. Little gold studs in her ears.
The most dramatic difference between Annie and the mystery woman, however, was in the face. The features were the same, but the expression very different. Annie had smiled and laughed and teased all the time. This woman’s face was tight, with a cautious look to the eyes. And he saw something else in her eyes, too—a sadness that couldn’t be denied.
“See something you like?”
Wade jumped and nearly spilled his soft drink. His older brother Jeff had sidled up next to him, but Wade had been so fixated on the caramel-apple woman he hadn’t even been aware of the intrusion.
Wade couldn’t very well deny he’d been staring. “Who is she?”
“You don’t remember her?”
“You know her, then.” Dumb question. Jeff knew everybody. He’d gone to medical school, then into practice several years ago with their father, who’d been the town’s only doctor for decades. Sooner or later everyone came in to see one of the Docs Hardison.
“Of course I know her. She’s Milton Chatsworth’s daughter.”
Milton Chatsworth, their father’s best friend from college. Wade struggled to fit the memories into place. Milton had retired and moved his family to Cottonwood shortly before Wade had left town, but he remembered meeting him and his family at their fancy lake house.
Then the fuzzy picture snapped into focus. “I remember a scrawny, redheaded girl, all knock-knees and braces.”
“That’s the one. Don’t bother her, okay?”
“What’s her name?” Wade asked anxiously.
Jeff reluctantly complied. “Anne. She just graduated from law school at SMU, following in her old man’s footsteps.”
Wade hardly heard what Jeff was saying. He’d seized on the name, Anne. Annie. And Southern Methodist University was in Dallas, where he’d first met Annie.
He didn’t believe in coincidence. Had to be the same woman. And he wasn’t about to let her get away twice.
“Wade? Are you listening?” Jeff asked impatiently.
“Yeah, sure.”
“She’s got a lot to deal with right now. She doesn’t need any extra grief.”
That comment got Wade’s dander up. He turned his full attention on his brother. “Why do you automatically assume I’ll bring a woman grief? Maybe I could be the light of her life.”
Jeff sighed. “If you’d lose that chip on your shoulder for thirty seconds, you’d realize I’m looking out for your best interests, too. I know Anne Chatsworth, and she’s not your type.”
Wade allowed a slow smile to win over his face. His temper, always quick to flare, just as quickly died away. He was no longer sixteen, and he didn’t have to listen to his brothers or his father or grandfather anymore, telling him how to live his life. Just reminding himself of that fact eased the defensiveness he’d developed to survive as an average kid in a family of overachievers.
He looked his brother squarely in the eye. “I suspect you don’t know Anne as well as you think you do.”
With that he tipped his hat and turned toward Anne Chatsworth, intending to renew his acquaintance with her.
But she was gone.
“WOULD YOU THROW that nasty thing away?” Deborah Chatsworth said to her daughter as they walked along Livestock Lane, where the Future Farmers of America and 4-H Club kids displayed their prize animals in hopes of winning a blue ribbon for their trophy cases. “You don’t have to keep gnawing on it like a dog with a bone.”
Anne Chatsworth paused and looked at her half-eaten treat, then at her mother. “It’s a caramel apple. You’re supposed to gnaw on it.”
“Well, it doesn’t look very dignified.”
“We’re at a county fair, where people chase after greased pigs and the mayor lets himself be dunked in a tank fully clothed. Nobody’s worried about dignity here.”
“You can say that again.”
Attending the Autumn Daze Festival hadn’t been a number-one priority for Deborah. She’d tried to get out of it, but Anne’s father had insisted they go.
“I intend to run for town council next year,” Milton Chatsworth had said earlier that day when both his wife and daughter had been reluctant to fight the crowds of tourists. “How would it look if I didn’t attend the town’s biggest event of the year?”
Anne thought it was kind of cute that her father, after years of insulating himself from the townies, had decided to venture forth from his lake house and get involved. “Come on, Mom, let’s humor him,” Anne had said, and Deborah had finally agreed to come along.
Anne was glad she’d come. Getting out of the house these last few weeks had become a chore for her. She recognized the signs of perfectly natural depression and knew that getting out and distracting herself was the best medicine. So she’d made herself get dressed and come to the fair, to please her father, because she really loved both her parents despite their lofty self-images.
Once she’d arrived at the fair, she’d gotten caught up with it, fondly remembering the festivals of her teen years, when she’d run with a gang of other kids she desperately wanted to fit in with, stuffing herself with cotton candy, riding the Ferris wheel, listening to the bands that played, usually badly, at the bandstand.
Life had been simpler then, and for just these few hours she’d been able to recapture that less complicated time. In fact, today, for the first time in almost a month, she’d felt as if she might be able to get on with her life, instead of just going through the motions and pretending, for her parents’ sake, that she was okay.
“Now where do you suppose your father has gotten to?” Deborah asked.
Anne threw away the core of her caramel apple, thoroughly gnawed, and paused to stroke a cream-colored Shetland pony. “Maybe at the watermelon-seed-spitting contest?”
Deborah glowered at her daughter.
“Okay, I’ll be serious. I think he said he’d been asked to judge something—pies or pickles, something like that.”
Deborah looked exasperated. “The food is all the way on the other side of the square. I’m ready to go home, aren’t you? You look pale.”
“I feel fine, just a little tired.” Her physical stamina was alarmingly low.
“Stay here, then. I’ll go round up your father.” Deborah gave Anne a solicitous pat and headed off in her pumps, her figure still slender and straight despite her sixty-five years. Anne smiled and shook her head. Only her mother would wear heels to a county fair.
The pony enjoyed Anne’s attention, so she continued to pet it for a few minutes, its velvety nose soft against her palm.
“I’ve been looking all over for you.”