Putting the bag at the bottom of the stairs, he noticed Barney. “Hey, there,” he said, crouching and extending his hand. “What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?”
She was about to warn him that Barney did not take well to strangers when the cat rubbed its face against the man’s hand. A tremor of envy coursed through her. It had taken months before she’d earned that kind of affection from the cat.
Blushing, Van Buren stood, pocketed his hands again. “Kids and animals…” he said haltingly, and shrugged. “What can I say?”
Taylor surely didn’t know what to say, and so she said nothing.
She caught him staring, and followed his gaze to see what had so thoroughly captured his attention. On the foyer table lay the church bulletin, where she’d circled the ladies’ auxiliary brunch in red. But why would he be interested in that?
“Is that my suitcase?” he asked, nodding at the bag near the door.
“Oh. Yes.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “I’m afraid I, ah, sort of messed things up inside, looking for some, um, identification. I hope you won’t mind that things aren’t quite as you left them.” Fact of the matter was, the muddled mess had driven her to distraction, and she’d dumped the whole thing out and repacked it, her way.
He shot her a sideways glance, narrowed one brown eye. “You didn’t do my crossword puzzle, did you?”
She grinned. “No. But only because I couldn’t find a red pen to match the one you’d been using.”
“That’s too bad,” he said, winking, “’cause I can’t figure twenty-seven across to save my soul.”
Taylor laughed. She was strangely drawn to this man, and didn’t quite know what to make of it. She glanced nervously at the face of the grandfather clock that stood beside the front door. She’d promised to pick up her uncle at noon. But first she needed to shower and—
“Nice place,” he said, nodding approvingly. “Very homey.”
“Homey” had been precisely the look she’d been going for when Taylor had begun decorating her house. Funny that no one before him had noticed.
“I, ah, have an appointment this morning, or I’d invite you to stay for coffee, to thank you for coming all the way over here.”
He unpocketed his hands, drove the right one through his hair, leaving wide finger tracks in the dark waves. “Oh. Sorry,” he muttered, grabbing his suitcase with one hand and the doorknob with the other. “Nothin’ worse than a guy who overstays his welcome.” He shrugged. “I’ll just be on my way.”
In the doorway, he turned slightly and smiled. “Nice meeting you.” He hesitated, as if he wanted to say more. “Well, guess I’ll hit the road, then.”
“Drive safely. You know how those Sunday-morning drivers can be.”
Chuckling, he nodded. “Yeah. Crazy.” He clumped down the porch steps and across the flagstone path, then dumped the suitcase unceremoniously into the back of his minipickup. Snapping off a smart salute, he slid in behind the wheel. “See you,” he said, slamming the driver’s door.
“See you,” she returned, waving. But her words were drowned out by the growl of his engine.
Taylor’s professional side kicked in, and again she wondered what might have caused his limp. He’d done quite a job trying to hide it, but it was there, nonetheless. Was he getting regular physical therapy treatments? Or was he beyond that sort of help?
Barney jumped onto the window ledge to watch him back down the drive, continued staring until the pickup was completely out of sight. Then he aimed a golden-eyed stare at Taylor.
“Don’t look at me like that. It isn’t my fault your new best friend is gone, is it?”
He leapt to the floor and pranced off, as if to say, “It most certainly is your fault.”
The phone rang, and Taylor picked it up. “It’s just me,” her uncle said, “calling to—”
“To make sure whoever was at the door hasn’t chopped me into little pieces and stuffed me into the garbage disposal?”
“Miss Rosie’s posies, Taylor. What a thing to say!”
“Sorry, Unc.” And she meant it.
“You can never be too sure these days, y’know.”
“I know.” She’d been hearing the “be careful” lecture since her mother’s death.
“What say we get to the brunch early, put in an appearance, fill our bellies and hotfoot it outta there?”
Laughing, Taylor said, “You’re one of a kind. I just have to shower and dress. See you in about an hour.”
“Remember…Sunday drivers…”
“Yeah. Crazy.”
From nowhere, a picture of Alex Van Buren flashed in her mind. Taylor swallowed a lump of regret. Why hadn’t she invited him to the church social? He’d certainly seemed interested enough when he noticed the bulletin…. “I’ll be careful,” she told her uncle, “so don’t worry.”
“I always worry,” he said.
And she knew it was true.
She hit every green light and didn’t get behind a single slowpoke. Her uncle was sure to think she’d been speeding. Rather than go through the rigmarole of explaining how she’d made the trip in record time, Taylor drove around his block a few times. It was a lovely sunny day, and she took advantage of the extra moments by taking in the summer foliage glowing on both sides of the street.
“Well, let’s get this nonsense over with,” Uncle Dave grumbled when he got into the passenger seat, “so I can go home and turn on the sports channel.”
“Nice to see you, too,” she kidded.
“Don’t get wise with me, young lady,” he teased right back. “You’re not too old to stand in the corner, y’know.” He buckled his seat belt and locked the door. “When was the last time you had your oil changed?” he asked from out of the blue. “And how’s the air pressure in your tires? Have you checked the windshield washer fluid lately?”
Taylor groaned inwardly. He could be such a worrywart. But he meant well, and she loved him like crazy for it. “I took care of everything last week, remember…the guy at the station told me I needed new wiper blades and—”
“Oh, yeah. Little whippersnapper was just tryin’ to rip you off. Good thing you set him straight. He’ll know better’n to mess with you again.”
She gave an affirmative nod. They drove in silence for a few minutes. Taylor’s mind wandered to her morning visitor. She couldn’t imagine what her uncle might be thinking…and didn’t dare ask.
The instant she pulled into a parking slot in the church lot, Uncle Dave got out of the car and tugged at his jacket sleeves. “Good golly, Miss Molly. There’s Mable Jensen over there. Quick! Hide me before I have to listen to another rendition of her hip replacement surgery.”
But it was too late.
“Yoo-hoo,” Mable called, waving a lace-trimmed hankie in the air. “Daaay-veeee! I’ll save you a seat inside….”
Shoulders slumped, he groaned. “I hate it when she calls me that.” Then, forcing a smile, he returned her wave.
“Ratchet it down a notch or two, Unc, or folks will get the impression you’re trying to show off.”
His brows drew together in confusion. “Show off?”
“The fact that you still have