Struck by an inspiration, Gracie checked for a wedding ring. To her relief, Helen wasn’t wearing one. Yes, indeed, Helen Monroe would be a more than even match for a man like Max Devereaux. With any luck she could keep her around for another couple of hours.
Gracie beamed at her. “More lemonade?”
“You’re not kicking me out?” Helen asked, clearly surprised.
“Heaven’s no,” Gracie assured her, thinking that there was another little matter about which Helen might prove helpful. “Now that you’re here, maybe you can fill me in on that house Kevin refuses to discuss with me.”
“House?” Helen repeated in the worst attempt at feigning innocence on record.
“Yes. It’s an old Victorian, right on the river just a few blocks from here. Kevin manages it, though he does a lousy job of it from what I’ve seen.”
Polished, sophisticated Helen Monroe actually squirmed ever so slightly. “I don’t really keep up with Kevin’s business affairs.”
Gracie sighed. “You’re not going to discuss it, either, are you?”
Helen smiled. “Sorry. Family loyalty and all that. I have no idea why Kevin’s keeping mum about that house, but I have to respect his decision.”
“And I suppose I should admire you for that,” Gracie conceded glumly. “I really want to know more about that place.”
“Have you met Aunt Delia?”
Gracie shook her head. “No, who’s she?”
“Actually, she’s Kevin’s great-aunt on his mother’s side, but all the rest of us claim her, too. She’s a wonderful woman. I’m amazed you two haven’t met.”
“I was only at Kevin’s the one time, and most of our conversation took place in the yard while he lazed in a hammock.”
“Yes, Kevin does love that hammock. He claims he does his best thinking there.”
“It must get chilly out there in winter or does his mind take a sabbatical?”
Helen chuckled. “I like you, Gracie MacDougal. You may be precisely the breath of fresh air this stale, dysfunctional family needs.”
“I told you, there is nothing going on between Kevin and me,” Gracie protested.
“That’s what you think,” Helen countered. Her expression turned gleeful. “In my experience, romance is all the more fascinating when neither party expects it to erupt into fireworks.”
Gracie thought of the flares and rockets that had already gone off. She couldn’t deny, at least not to herself, that the possibility of an entire, spectacular display was more than likely. That was hormones, though, not emotions. She might not be the most experienced woman on the face of the earth, but even she recognized the distinction.
She couldn’t prevent Helen or the rest of the town from speculating about her and Kevin, but she could turn the tables on her guest.
“Obviously you think you know me pretty well,” Gracie said. “However, I don’t know a thing about you. Tell me about yourself, Helen. Are you married?’
Helen’s expression sobered at once. “Widowed,” she said softly. “I married early and we were together for fifteen wonderful years before Henry’s tragic death.”
Regretting the impulse to snoop, Gracie said, “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
“It’s okay. Henry died three years ago and I’m getting on with my life slowly but surely. The last thing he told me before he died was that he didn’t want me pining away for him for the rest of my days.” She smiled ruefully. “Not that I ever did what he told me to.”
“This time, though, his advice was sound,” Gracie said. “You should take it.”
“I just don’t know if I’ll ever find anyone who could make me as happy as he did. He was a remarkable man.”
As if Gracie had planned it, the doorbell rang again, this time with a distinctive hint of impatience. Max, no doubt.
“Excuse me. I’m expecting company.”
“Your friend from France,” Helen guessed.
“My, my, word does travel fast, doesn’t it?” Gracie replied as she went to the door. Opening it, she found Max on the threshold, dressed impeccably as always, every hair in place. No one could have guessed that he’d been on a plane for hours before making the two-hour drive down from Dulles Airport.
“Gracie,” he said, his gaze surveying her from head to toe, his scowl revealing his reaction to her tight blue jeans, loose T-shirt and bare feet.
She had meant to change, but maybe this was better. He was seeing her as she actually was—or as she was rapidly becoming. And she provided a startling contrast to the well turned out woman watching with blatant curiosity from the archway into the living room.
Helen glided—Gracie had never actually seen it before, but Helen accomplished it—toward Max as Gracie made the introductions. She saw the unmistakable flare of interest in Max’s eyes. She’d seen him regard a work of art with much the same appreciation for its beauty. He was definitely a connoisseur of fine things.
“Helen Monroe, this is Max Devereaux. Max, Helen.”
“It is my pleasure,” he said, bending over her hand to brush a kiss across her knuckles with continental flare.
Max was the only American Gracie knew who could do that without looking absurd. Helen seemed pleased, but not unduly stunned by the gesture. Gracie nodded with satisfaction, pleased that she wouldn’t be a knock-over. Max needed a challenge in his life, especially one who wasn’t her. She smiled brightly at the pair of them.
“Lemonade, anyone?”
Max stared at her as if she’d lost her mind.
“Perhaps Max would prefer to have a glass of wine,” Helen suggested mildly. “A nice Bordeaux, perhaps?”
“Perfect,” he said, gazing at her with frank approval.
“I’m afraid my wine cellar is a little low on Bordeaux,” Gracie said without much regret. As if struck by a sudden brainstorm, she said, “Maybe you could show Max the best place in town to buy wine.”
Helen laughed. “You mean the only place. Max, I would be happy to take you, if you’re not too tired from your trip.”
Max demurred with
