“That’s good, Dad. Do I know her?”
“Probably not.” He cleared his throat, started for his motorcycle. “I should get moving. Have a good trip home.”
“Come see me sometime.”
“I just might. Felicity told me I can stop by her place anytime. She appreciates that it was a special place for us. She always was a nice, pretty girl. Mark says you two went out to the swimming hole. Your mother used to worry you boys would split your heads open or drown. I didn’t. I figured the worst that could happen was a few stitches or a broken wrist or toe or something. Nothing life-threatening. Kids need to take a few risks.”
“The attentive dad,” Gabe said with a grin.
“Mark already told me he’s doing things different with his kids than I did with mine. Hell, I hope so, although you two came out all right, no thanks to me. Your mother...” He cleared his throat. “She did her best.”
“She was the best, Dad,” Gabe said. He winked at his father. “You provided Mark and me a certain level of motivation.”
His father laughed. “You could say that. See you, son. Safe travels.”
He put on his helmet and climbed onto his old motorcycle. In a moment, he eased out of his parking space and cruised onto the main road. Gabe sighed. Some saw Mickey Flanagan’s unrealized potential. At that moment, Gabe saw a man in his late fifties who was enjoying his life and work. He couldn’t find it in him to judge his father and the demons he’d fought. A by-product of time, his own success and what it meant—and didn’t mean—or just being back in his hometown?
The Felicity MacGregor effect, maybe.
He’d have thought of her, anyway, but he recognized her Land Rover turning into the parking lot. She came to a stop in the spot his father had just vacated and hopped out, apparently unaware of his presence. She lifted the hem of what appeared to be a pretty, low-cut dress out of a Jane Austen novel. She had her hair pinned up, with corkscrew curls bouncing at her temples.
“Oh, Gabe,” she said, stopping abruptly. “I didn’t see you. I just passed your father. That was him on the motorcycle, wasn’t it?”
“In all his glory. We were visiting my grandfather.”
“I’m here to set up for the afternoon tea.”
Gabe smiled. “That explains the dress.”
“Mmm. Yes.” Spots of color appeared in her cheeks. “It’s not too revealing, is it? It’s about a half size too small, I think.”
“It’s fine. Perfect.”
She tugged at the bodice, hiking it up to cover more of the swell of her breasts. “I have a shawl I can put on when I’m in air-conditioning. Grace Webster hasn’t talked your grandfather into wearing one of the gentlemen’s Regency outfits, has she?”
“Not a chance.”
“You wouldn’t be interested—”
“No.”
She grinned. “Not even the top hat?”
“Is there anything I can do to help you set up?”
She shook her head. “I did most of the work upstream since I had the boot camp yesterday, too. None of the men signed up for the tea, by the way.”
“Imagine that,” Gabe said. “I bet a few will change their minds. Are all the women wearing Regency dresses?”
“I doubt it, but I brought dresses for anyone who wants to wear one. They’re fun. I did my hair the best I could, but I’ve never been good with a curling iron and gels and wax and whatnot.”
“You own a curling iron?”
“Present from my mother. She told me not to read any hints into it.” Felicity motioned to her Rover. “I wouldn’t mind a hand with some of the boxes if you have a minute.”
Gabe carried the largest of the boxes to the sunroom where the tea was being held. Felicity had collected a mix of china teapots, cups and saucers and plates from various people she knew as well as her own collection of dishes featuring Peter Cottontail and other Beatrix Potter critters. “My grandmother gave them to me,” she told Gabe. “She loved Beatrix Potter and got a kick out of sharing our name with Farmer McGregor. Not quite the same spelling and no one in my family’s had a farm in the last hundred years.”
“Details,” Gabe said, smiling. “It’ll be a great party.”
She returned his smile, her left-side corkscrew curls already unwinding.
Grace Webster—Dylan McCaffrey’s grandmother—rose from a rocking chair that faced the lawn and garden where Gabe had walked with his grandfather. In her nineties, Grace was frail but mentally sharp. She set a small pair of binoculars on a side table and started on about various birds she’d just spotted, but she quickly focused on the upcoming tea. As a former English teacher, she had more than a passing familiarity with Jane Austen.
Gabe decided to leave Felicity to her tea, but he didn’t get out of the room before Grace tried to get him into tights. “I’m sure they’d fit you,” she said.
He could just imagine. “Time for me to make my exit.”
Grace’s nonagenarian eyes twinkled. “What? It could be fun. We’re old. We’re not dead.”
“You’d make a good Mr. Darcy,” Felicity added.
“Rich, arrogant, damn good-looking. I could do that. Not doing the tights.” In fact, he wasn’t doing any of it. “Have fun at your tea. Goodbye again, Felicity.”
She curtsied. “Farewell, Mr. Flanagan.”
On his way out, he passed Maggie Sloan, who’d arrived with food. He offered her a hand, but she assured him she had everything under control. “You could look less relieved, Gabe,” she said with a laugh.
“They need a Mr. Darcy.”
“I’ve a surprise for that. Seize the moment, Gabe. Run.”
“I don’t need to be told twice. Good seeing you.”
And he was out of there.
Sixteen
To Grace Webster’s delight, her grandson surprised everyone at the tea—including Felicity—when he showed up in a partial Regency outfit, arranged by his wife and Maggie Sloan. Felicity thanked Dylan, who seemed to get a kick out of the entire experience. “I used to wear a hockey uniform,”
