She looked like Imogene. Different hair, stockier, older, but...
She was Imogene.
Mary sank down onto the stool behind the register, sliding her handgun back into the drawer. “I never thought I’d see you again,” she rasped out.
One side of the woman’s mouth quirked up in a sarcastic smile. “You’ll be thrilled to know I’m in town for a few days.” She turned toward the door, then looked over her shoulder. “I just wanted to let you know I’m around. We’ll talk soon, Stepmommy dearest.”
AMBER KNELT IN the sandy dirt outside her cottage, using the little trowel she’d brought out, trying to open a package of bulbs and to ignore the nervous feeling in her stomach.
“There she is, Daddy!” Davey’s voice drifted from the cottage next door, and she turned to see him walking beside Paul, nearly hidden by the huge bouquet of flowers he was carrying.
She watched them come in her direction. Davey was chattering about something, and Paul’s head was bent to the side, listening. Paul wore jeans and a polo shirt, but he managed to rock the plain, conservative outfit because of his impressively muscular frame. One of those triangle ones—broad shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist. Not that she was looking, really.
She hadn’t seen the pair of them at all yesterday, which had been just fine. After their late-night visit on Wednesday, she’d slept in and taken it easy. Stamina still wasn’t her strong point. And she had to admit she’d been disconcerted by the whole episode. Unable to figure out if Paul was cool and attractive or a complete basket case. Well, he was obviously attractive—Amber had a weakness for the handsome, haunted ones—but that didn’t matter. There was no way she was getting into any relationship, especially not with Paul. Not when she knew a secret he could never, ever find out about.
The pair of them came up her front walkway. “We brought flowers to ’pologize!” Davey thrust the big bouquet at her.
“Wow, thank you!” She buried her face in a mix of mums, sunflowers and minicarnations in fall colors. “I love flowers. That’s what I’m planting now.” She looked up at Paul. “But you didn’t have to.”
“We intruded the other night, kept you up late. It’s the least we can do.”
Davey sat down beside her and picked up the trowel she’d been using. He poked at the dirt a few times and then, when he saw her watching him, put it down. “I’m sorry.”
She blinked. “Don’t be sorry, buddy. Dig a hole for me. Dig a whole row of them if you want.”
“Really?” Davey looked at his father as if he needed a second vote of approval.
“If you’re sure,” he said. He sounded almost as surprised as Davey had.
“Of course! Hold these a second.” She handed the bouquet to Paul and then leaned over beside Davey. “Just dig a little hole, about as deep as the shovel is, like this.” She dug one to demonstrate and then handed the shovel to Davey. “We’ll put one of these lumpy brown balls in each hole, and cover them up, and next spring, they’ll grow into beautiful flowers.”
“Cool!” He got to work immediately.
“It’s the Tom Sawyer strategy,” she said to Paul as she retrieved the flowers. “Why do your own work if you can get someone else to do it for you?”
“You’d better tell him where to dig, or you’ll get a haphazard mess.”
She lifted a shoulder, curious about his apparently rigid set of standards for someone else’s garden. “Haphazard is fine. They’re daffodil bulbs.” She stood. “Let me get these into water. I’ll be right back out.”
Inside, as she found a vase and cut the stems, she found herself smiling. She did love flowers, and it was sweet of them to bring them over. She poked the flowers into the vase, arranging them until they looked balanced, and set them on her kitchen table.
A glance at the wall clock stole her smile. Twenty minutes until she had to make her call. And she shouldn’t worry, wasn’t supposed to be worrying, but she couldn’t help it.
She squared her shoulders and walked back outside, determined to enjoy every moment of rare November warmth and sunshine. Davey and Paul were still digging—holes in neat rows, she noticed—and a big dark pickup had pulled up in front of their cottage. As she walked down her porch steps, a silver-haired man got out and hurried around to help a woman climb down from the passenger seat.
“Looks like you have company,” she commented to Paul and Davey.
Davey looked over. “Grammy! Grampa! Over here!” He waved the shovel back and forth, flinging dirt onto Paul.
“They said they were coming for the weekend, but I didn’t know that meant Friday morning.” Paul stood and brushed himself off, a muscle tensing in his face. “Come on, Davey. Let’s get cleaned up and go see them.”
“I wanna dig more holes,” the child protested.
“They’re welcome to come over here and sit on my porch,” Amber offered, since they were already headed this way. “I’ll go inside and you can visit while Davey digs.”
“No, it’s okay,” Paul said, but the older couple had already reached her sidewalk and were headed toward the house.
She guessed, from Paul’s reaction, that they weren’t his parents, but Wendy’s. They were older than she would have expected given Wendy’s age, the man with fully white hair, the woman blonde but walking carefully, holding her husband’s arm. He wore beige slacks and a sport coat, while she was chic in white pants and a sweater that looked like cashmere. Country-club clothes.
“Look, Grammy, Grampa, I’m diggin’ holes!” Davey stood to greet them, gesturing with his shovel, flinging a little more dirt. He didn’t hug them.
“So you are,” the woman said, and leaned down so he could kiss her cheek. The
